X enia Arbuckles’s heart was full as she walked along the riverbank on that sunny day.
Her best friends, Owen Bishop and Simon, Viscount Kinnerton, strolled beside her, their presence as familiar as the cobblestone streets of Kinnerton they had roamed since childhood.
She’d loved Simon since she first saw him at age nine.
Owen’s practical joker personality had repelled her affection some, as she was the victim of many of his pranks back then, so she hadn’t fallen for him until six months later.
Now she was twenty-two and her work in her parents’ bakery occupied much of her time, but she stole away as often as she could for strolls by the river with her friends.
She noticed Simon’s well-tailored coat hugging his tall frame with meticulous care, the cravat tied just so, and his boots somehow appearing pristine despite the dirt road beneath them. “Simon, must you always appear as if attending a ball at Almack’s?” she teased.
She’d never been to Almack’s Assembly Rooms, but her cousin Sarah had, and had written paragraph after paragraph about it.
Xenia hadn’t had a Season—bakers’ daughters couldn’t afford the expense of months in London, and for what purpose?
No one would wish to marry her. After Sarah found a husband, she’d sent some of her gowns to Xenia, who wore them to the local assemblies, but that was as close as she would ever come to a Season.
Simon looked down his nose at her, feigning haughtiness, his hazel eyes holding a glint of amusement as he regarded her playful challenge. “One must maintain a certain decorum, Xenia. Even when in the company of old friends.”
“But look at Owen here.” She gestured toward their friend as he walked on her other side.
Owen’s appearance starkly contrasted Simon’s.
He’d taken off his coat and held it by one finger over his shoulder.
His rolled-up shirtsleeves revealed forearms sculpted by the blacksmith’s forge he worked over, as his father and grandfather had before him.
Owen laughed heartily, the sound resonating in the open air, and he shrugged. “I’ve no one to impress other than Zee here, and she has a fondness for my arms.” He flexed one arm, his white linen sleeve tightening over the bulge of his biceps.
“See, Simon? There’s much to be said for the appeal of a man whose sole focus isn’t his appearance,” she teased.
When they reached their usual spot, she settled beside Simon on the grassy bank, taking in the gentle ripple of the river.
Owen sat close by. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, the warmth of nostalgia flooding through her as her thoughts drifted to memories of summers past. The laughter and splashes, Simon’s scholarly advice, mixed with Owen’s boisterous tales, all made up their friendship over the years.
She remembered the day Simon had defended her honor against a group of unruly village boys, his stance noble even at the young age of twelve. Owen had always packed an apple for her when she joined them fishing at this very spot.
With a soft sigh, she glanced at Simon, noting how the afternoon light played upon his features, casting shadows across his defined jawline. He sat with an effortless grace, his black hair catching hints of sunlight, his eyes deep and thoughtful.
Where Simon was the embodiment of refined elegance, Owen was the epitome of rugged vitality.
His broad shoulders and muscular arms, forged by countless hours at the anvil, spoke of his labor.
With his brown hair tousled from the breeze, he exuded a raw strength that made Xenia’s heart quicken.
Yet, beneath that brawny exterior lay a gentleness that had always drawn her to him.
There was something in his brown eyes she couldn’t resist.
The juxtaposition of the two men beside her—the viscount and the village blacksmith—was as compelling as it was curious. Each held a piece of her affection, a portion of her heart, for reasons as unique as their appearances.
Lately, she wondered why neither of them had courted her.
They had flirtations with the local girls, she knew from hearing her friends talk—well, gossip.
They’d kissed a few, and more. Simon would probably marry an heiress or a member of the nobility, but Owen was free to choose anyone.
Yet they’d never even tried to kiss her.
It hurt to be singled out as undesirable, for that was the only reason she could think for them to avoid her.
She watched Owen as he plucked a smooth stone from the riverbank and tossed it across the water. “Owen, I can’t believe you still practice throwing stones.”
“I’m not practicing, Zee. I have perfected the skill. It’s all in the wrist, and I’ve got the strongest wrists in Kinnerton.” His eyes twinkled with laughter.
“Strong wrists indeed.” Simon rose and brushed off the seat of his breeches, as if to accept an unspoken challenge.
Simon tossed his stone with a deft flick of his wrist. It danced across the water’s surface, skipping thrice before sinking into the murky depths. He turned triumphantly toward Owen. “Your turn. Care to wager on your throw?”
Owen’s eyes narrowed playfully as he selected another stone. His arm swung in an arc, graceful and precise, sending the stone skimming fluidly over the river, beating Simon’s count by one.
As the two men bantered and laughed, Xenia’s gaze shifted between them.
The ease of their friendship was so enjoyable to watch, yet she couldn’t put aside how they treated her.
She’d been kissed and caressed by several young men in the village, but none whose companionship she enjoyed like these two. Didn’t they desire her?
“Zee?” Owen’s voice pulled her from her reverie, his brow furrowed in gentle concern. “You’ve gone quiet on us.”
Shaking away her smoldering thoughts, she smiled brightly, masking the struggle within. “Just admiring the competition. It’s not every day one gets to witness such... expertise.”
Their laughter mingled once more with the sounds of the flowing water, but beneath Xenia’s cheery exterior, a seed of determination had taken root. The time for waiting on these two had come to an end. One of them was going to kiss her before they left the river’s edge.
Yesterday was her twenty-second birthday, and she wasn’t going to wait any longer for one of these two to declare his love for her. No more would she remain a passive observer in her own romantic destiny. It was time to take control, to grip the reins of fate firmly in her hands.
Their competitive jests gave way to hearty laughter over something one of them said, but her attention was on the rush of her decision coursing through her veins.
She stood and took a deep breath, feeling the fabric of her chemise brush against her breasts as she moved.
It was like the sensation of a hand gliding down her side, teasing the edge of possibility.
Her pulse quickened, and she balled her fists at her sides, gathering the strength to act.
“Gentlemen, I have been giving some thought to the village gossip, and I’ve decided it’s high time we put an end to their idle chatter.”
“Oh? And which tidbit are we putting to rest?” Simon’s eyebrows arched with curiosity.
“The talk among the young ladies is always about which of you two would make the better husband, the better... lover.” She let the word hang between them, sweet and tantalizing, like ripe fruit on the vine. “But I find myself more intrigued by something simpler. Which of you is the better kisser?”
The words floated out, light as air, yet they landed with a weight that altered the mood.
Simon’s face was a study in contrasts. A wave of astonishment quickly doused the initial flicker of humor in his eyes.
His jaw tightened, his usual composed manner wavering as if she had asked him to dance naked in the town square.
“Xenia...” The hand that had been resting casually by Simon’s side now clenched and unclenched. He drew back slightly, not unlike a gentleman stepping away from a challenge he hadn’t anticipated, watching her with an intensity that seemed to glide down the length of her being.
She could see Simon wrestling with the notion.
There was vulnerability there, a crack in the armor she had never seen before.
And in that moment, she realized how much this game meant—not just to her, but perhaps to him as well.
He watched her as if waiting for her to retract her boldness and restore the innocent friendship they had always known.
Owen’s laughter broke the silence, a rich and hearty sound. He met Xenia’s challenge with a roguish grin, his eyes alight with mischief as he stood with easy confidence. “Well now, I’ve never been one to shy away from a bit of friendly competition.”
His stance was relaxed as he stood, yet there was a new, palpable energy about him. “Let’s see then, shall we?” He winked at her with an audacious charm.
* * *
Simon watched Xenia as she stood there expectantly, and the desire to close the distance between them, to savor the sweetness he’d tasted on her lips, swelled within him.
He shifted uncomfortably, his thoughts betraying him, wandering down a path that led to forbidden pleasures.
The pact he had made with Owen loomed over him like a chaperone at a ball.
They had sworn an oath, boys masquerading as men, that neither would court Xenia, fearing the chase would fray the seams of their friendship.
Yet here he sat, yearning stirring in his chest. Simon’s gaze lingered on Xenia, her blue eyes reflecting the vast sky above, unruly black hair escaping her bun to dance in the wind.