“A competition.” She smiled, a sly, pert thing he wanted to kiss from her lips.
Damn Edmund.
Jane held a bundle of mistletoe high. “The best mistletoe.”
“And the prize?” Mr. Dour asked.
Jane’s crafty smile widened.
Dread pooled in George’s belly.
“Why,” she said, “a kiss of course.”
Comfort, interests, kissing.Damnation and hell and all the demons of Hades.
He couldn’t have Jane, but he felt with every bone, muscle, and hair of his body, he didn’t want anyone else to have her either.
As the men laughed and set to their task, Jane sat primly next to her friend, Miss Clarke.
George gripped the arms of his chair.
“Georgie? George? You look like you’re about to combust.” Edmund’s voice was a fly in his ear.
George ignored it. All his attention must be centered on controlling the one command rampaging through his mind.Take her.Vague, that. And primal. And right. It’s all he wanted.
But he held tight, his fingers becoming stone claws on the chair’s arms.
Mr. Dour stood first. “Afraid that’s the best I can do.” He presented it to Jane with a concise movement. “I’m not pleased with how asymmetrical it is, but that’s nature for you.”
“Thank you,” Jane said. “It’s lovely.”
Mr. Quillsby presented his next. “Lots of ribbon.” He shoved it at her while looking away, his cheeks red. “You said you liked the color red earlier. Lots of red ribbon.”
Jane’s smile stretched genuine across her face. “How thoughtful! I love it. Thank you, Mr. Quillsby.”
Mr. Newburton appeared at her side, a bloody masterpiece dangling in a slender white ribbon from his fingers. “The white is to match the berries. Do you know our soap must be packaged so that it catches the eye and pleases the visual sense, as well as the olfactory ones? Too many colors and the eye does not know where to rest. If we keep to green and white alone, we see the beauty of contrast.”
“Fascinating,” Jane said. “It’s perfection itself.”
“So, who wins?” Lord Devon drawled. “Do not keep us in suspense.”
Jane pulled her bottom lip through her teeth. A simple movement. Barely worth noting.
George noted it with every bit of his body. “Wait. You’ve not seen my entry yet.” He stood with as controlled movements as he could muster, walked with a precise, controlled pace to the table, and scanned its contents. Ah, there—a veritable bounty of berries. He picked up the mistletoe and strode toward Jane. He snagged her gaze and refused to give it back as he walked, plucking a berry from the branch with each measured step.
By the time he reached her, he’d stripped the branch bare. He threw it to the floor and knelt before her. “Hold out your hand.”
She did. It trembled slightly, a reflection of her quickened breathing.
He released the berries into her palm.
She looked at the berries there, rolled them around, then lifted a curious gaze to him.
He leaned close to her ear as he raised to his feet and whispered words heknewhe should not say.
“I’ll not bother with the excess frills. I just want the kisses.”
He turned and left, feeling like instead of berries, he’d just poured his soul into her palm.
