Once Upon an Irritatingly Magical Kiss by Bree Wolf

Chapter Seven

The Place of Another

Despite the emotional upheaval that made her heart beat frantically in her chest, Christina felt herself breathe more easily as her gaze swept over the rows upon rows of books in the library. After discarding her slippers, she had snuggled into the armchair, pulled up her legs and rested her head against the soft upholstery. Warm light streamed in from the windows, casting a soft glow around the large, vaulted room.

Christina breathed out a sigh of relief, feeling her muscles relax and her mind quiet. Always had the library been her favorite place in the world, ever since she had been a child. Although she had given up writing down her own musings and imaginings long ago, Christina still enjoyed diving into another’s. Few books remained in her father’s library that she had not yet read for she enjoyed being carried off to another world, to see the world through another’s eyes, to experience things far removed from her own, comparatively cloistered life.

Indeed, it felt good to retreat from the world every once in a while. Her grandmother had been correct to suggest it. Her heartbeat slowly calmed, and she felt the tension of the past few moments slowly leave her body. A familiar smile came to her face as her gaze continued to sweep across the long rows of books, and her mind began to urge her to tiptoe across the carpet and snatch a volume from the tall bookshelf across from her.

“Only a page or two,” Christina whispered to herself as her legs slipped off the armchair, her stockinged feet coming to rest upon the floor. “No more than a page or two, then I’ll return to the drawing room.” A soft giggle drifted from her lips as she rose to her feet, leaving her slippers behind, and stepped toward the promise of retreat her eyes were fixed upon. She had taken no more than a few steps when a soft creak had her whirl around, eyes snapping to the door.

Her heart jumped into her throat, and she felt her body tense as the door swung open, revealing none other than Mr. Sharpe.

For a seemingly endless moment, Christina simply stared at him, certain that he was some kind of mirage. Perhaps her mind was torturing her with the image of him, punishing her for retreating into the library on her sister’s wedding day. She ought to be out there, congratulating Leonora and assisting her and her husband in tending to their guests. Instead, she had fled, all thoughts focused upon herself and that sense of powerlessness that always came over her when she thought of Lady Hartmore’s intention to see her daughter married to Mr. Sharpe.

That same feeling seeped into her bones even now as she looked into those bright green eyes of his. A small smile lingered upon his lips, and her gaze swept over him, taking note of his slightly tousled hair and his less than perfectly tied cravat. In fact, it looked as though he had been tugging upon it repeatedly, unfamiliar with wearing such a piece of clothing.

Lifting her chin, Christina fought down that overpowering sense of inevitability—as though she had no say in who would win her heart—and steered her thoughts toward more worthwhile emotions. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him in a way that would have made a true gentleman immediately retreat from the room.

However, Mr. Sharpe was not a gentleman, true or otherwise, was he? Christina had known this long before this day, and so it came as no surprise that instead of leaving, the blasted man closed the door and stepped toward her. “I came here in search of a moment of solace,” he told her in a tone of voice that made her doubt his every word. “And you?”

Christina lifted her chin another fraction as he continued to move toward her, for the way he was looking at her stirred a deeply unsettling feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Leave!” she instructed haughtily. “You are not to be here! If we are found together—” She clamped her lips shut, momentarily thrown by the way the right corner of his mouth curved upward as though…as though… “This is not proper!” she shot at him, trying her best to ignore the slight flutter coming to her heart.

The man’s smile deepened as his gaze dipped down to touch upon her shoeless feet. “You seem to be the expert on such matters, or am I wrong?” Leisurely, he strolled closer, his gaze sweeping over her in a way that made Christina shiver. “May I ask you a question?”

Christina’s gaze narrowed as she regarded him curiously, upset with herself for wanting him to speak. Why was it that she cared what he thought? “If you must.”

Again, that irritatingly endearing smile danced over his lips. “Do you ever not say what you think?”

Christina felt her nostrils flare. “Oh, believe me, I am holding back. If I were to say what I thought then—” Her sense of decorum fought with an almost desperate need to lash out at him, tearing at her and making her indecisive. Christina hated being indecisive!

“Why is it that you seem to hate the very sight of me?” Mr. Sharpe asked rather unexpectedly, another stride carrying him closer, close enough that Christina could see flecks of gold dance in his green eyes.

Christina huffed out an exasperated breath. “How dare you ask me that? You know very well why!” Staring at him, she shook her head. “Have I not made my sentiments on this subject abundantly cl—?”

“You have, indeed,” Mr. Sharpe interrupted her, another step bringing him ever closer, his eyes fixed upon hers, something daring and challenging twinkling in their depths. “Yet why this hatred? I can understand your displeasure with my presence here in London as well as my intentions of offering marriage to your friend; however, the way you’re looking at me right now tells me that there is something else that fuels you.”

Christina swallowed as he looked down at her in a way no one else ever had before. It was as though he could see inside of her and knew precisely what she thought and felt.

“Something you refuse to admit to,” Mr. Sharpe continued, now barely an arm’s length between them. “Tell me now,” he dared her, that irritating smile once more upon his lips as though he knew precisely what she would do. “Tell me what you’re thinking of when you look at me.”

Christina swallowed hard, desperately trying to recover her voice. “When I look at you,” Christina told him, hardening her voice as much as she could, surprised to find it a task far from ease, “I see a man undeserving of my friend. I see—”

Mr. Sharpe scoffed. “For how much longer do you intend to hold onto that excuse?” he teased, leaning closer as his gaze drilled into hers as though he could dig out the truth despite her lack of cooperation.

“Excuse?” Christina snapped, welcoming the wave of anger that washed through her at his condescending words. “You might not possess any sense of loyalty, which, of course, is not surprising considering your upbringing; however, Sarah is my dearest friend. She is almost like a sister to me, and I will do whatever I must to ensure that—”

“Whatever you must?” Mr. Sharpe echoed, his lips stretching into a teasing smile. “That reminds me; you still owe me an answer.”

Christina frowned. “An answer? An answer to what?”

He chuckled. “Do you not recall our conversation the other day?” The smile upon his face told Christina that he recalled every detail of it, and she could feel a slight flush steal onto her cheeks. “Perhaps you do,” he mused, his eyesight clearly impeccable.

Ignoring the urge to rush from the room, Christina squared her shoulders and held his gaze, refusing to be intimidated by a man of low birth. “You have no right to be here. This is my sister’s wedding day, and I doubt that anyone in my family has invited you. Leave! Leave this house! Leave London! Go back to where you came from!”

Holding her gaze, Mr. Sharpe slowly shook his head from side to side. “Not until you’ve answered my question,” he whispered, making his words sound much more intimate than they otherwise would have. His gaze continued to linger, daring her to answer him, stating loud and clear that he would not move unless she did. “Answer me, and I shall leave. Not London, mind you, but this room.”

Christina did her best to cast him an exasperated look, one meant to hide the irritating flutter in her chest. “Very well then. What was your question?”

Grinning at her, the blasted man chuckled. “As though you don’t remember,” he whispered in that low tone yet again.

Of course, Christina remembered. After she had all but fled his side that day at the ball, his question had continued to echo in her mind, keeping her awake night after night for a reason she did not dare dwell upon. “I’m afraid I do not,” she said, and even to her own ears her words sounded hollow.

Mr. Sharpe’s grin deepened, and Christina’s breath caught as he moved closer still, his eyes fixed upon hers as though they could hold her in place. He inhaled a deep breath, and the moment between them stretched from one heartbeat into another and another. “How far would you go?” he asked, echoing his words from the other night. “Would you take her place?”

Christina knew what her answer should be. She had known it then and she knew it now. All of a sudden, though, her voice deserted her. The words simply would not come, would not leave her lips and put him in his place. Why? Why could she not simply say it?

Angry at herself, Christina opened her mouth, determined to say something, to reply, to give an answer that would make it unmistakably clear that she despised him…when Mr. Sharpe suddenly closed that last bit of distance between them.

Christina inhaled a sharp breath at his sudden nearness, completely taken aback, only to feel her heart all but still in her chest a moment later when his arms swung forward, and his hands settled almost possessively upon her waist. “What are you—?”

“Would you sacrifice yourself to save her?” Mr. Sharpe asked, and his breath fell against her lips. “Would you take her place…at my side?”

Christina could not stop her breath from quickening as she stared up at him. She felt his warm breath mingling with her own, and she knew that she ought to stop him. She ought to step out of his embrace. She ought to chide him for taking such liberties. She ought to—

“It seems I have found a question without an easy answer,” he chuckled, and his hands upon her waist tightened, pulling her closer against him.

Christina held her breath. “Release me!” A wave of relief swept through her at the rediscovery of her voice. “I demand that you release me this instant!”

He grinned at her. “And I demand an answer.” His head lowered toward hers, his eyes not veering from her own. “Would you?” he whispered. “Or is there a reason why you’re not answering me? Are you stalling yet again? Are you so enjoying my company that you’re hoping if you refuse to answer,” his gaze briefly dropped from hers to touch upon her lips, “that I will kiss you?”

Christina’s eyes widened as shock slammed into her. Indeed, what was most shocking was not the threat—or perhaps the possibility—of a kiss, but instead to have the truth revealed to her in such an unexpected way. Yes, Christina had been on the brink of a kiss before. However, never before had she been indecisive. She had always known without thought what she had wanted. Or rather what she had not wanted.

Now, however, she had to admit—at least to herself—that the thought of kissing Mr. Sharpe was irritatingly appealing. She should not want his kiss. She should not, and yet somehow, someway, inexplicably so, she did.

Before either one of them could make up their mind to act, the door to the library was suddenly flung open and in poured a small group of guests, their voices echoing through the vaulted room that Christina found herself momentarily wondering how she had not heard their approach. Perhaps, the truth was, that she had simply been too caught up in the moment. Whatever the reason, it did not change what was.

And what was was that Lady Christina Beaumont, daughter to the Earl of Whickerton, found herself in an intimate embrace with a gentleman—scratch that, man!—his head lowered to hers for a kiss, her slippers discarded a few paces away, and a group of onlookers staring at them as though they were on display at the museum.

Indeed, the day could not have gone worse, or could it have? What were they to do now?