Miss Mistletoe by Erin Knightley

could she possibly tell him that there were many nights that she had lain awake at night, thinking of him? Or that she sometimes woke with his name on her lips?
    He cursed and raked both hands through his hair, looking very much as if he wanted to throw something. “You’re lying. I know what it is to kiss someone you don’t care about, and that wasn’t it. You care for me, I know you do. Why are you denying it?”
    Did he think she didn’t want to walk blithely into a fairy tale, where everyone lived happily ever after? Did he think that because she chose to stand by her father, she was somehow immune to the desire to love and be loved?
    She stopped dead at the thought. She knew he didn’t love her—why had the words even crossed her mind? He saw her as a convenient solution to every peer’s need to marry. If one must choose a bride with a dowry, isn’t it best that one at least like the bride in question? Yes, Finn liked her and yes, they clearly were attracted to each other, but he certainly didn’t love her.
    And even if he did, how would that change her responsibilities to her father? The answer was, it wouldn’t.
    She straightened her shoulders, meeting his frustrated gaze straight on. “I do think of you as a friend, or at least I did until you barged into my home, trying to make me chose between you and my father. Now, I’m not sure how I feel about such a selfish man. It was my hope that, if you had to come here, you would see how important my duties are. That my father genuinely needs me, and I am happy to be by his side.”
    The anger had drained from Finn’s eyes, and she tried not to flinch at the sadness that seemed to replace it. “Is that what you think of me? That I am a selfish bastard who wants to yank you from your invalid father’s side for little more reason than my own amusement?”
    She swallowed, trying not to feel as though she were convicting an innocent man. “I think,” she said quietly, “that it is time for you to return home.”
    Her words hung heavy on the humid air between them. From the look on his face, she knew that her words had finally gotten through to him.
    * * *
    He left without preamble, claiming an urgent business matter that had slipped his mind. His thanks were sincere and kind to her father, brusque and brief with Cece, and then he was gone.
    Sitting by the fire in the drawing room, Cece tried to ignore the pain his abrupt departure caused. He had only been carrying out her wishes. So why did she feel as though her heart had been plucked from her chest and stomped beneath his feet?
    “My memory is not what it once was,” Papa said, startling her from her reflection, “but I believe I finally know why the name Edgerton is so familiar.”
    Cece’s heart sank, taking her breath with it. “You do?”
    “It was a difficult time for me, five years ago, when I realized how rapidly my vision was deteriorating. But still, even with my distraction, I recall the story your mother’s sister relayed to me. A minor scandal, easily nipped in the bud, but one that concerned my daughter.”
    Embarrassment and shame filled her empty chest. “I’m so sorry, Papa.”
    His bushy white eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head. “For what, daughter? For the impulsive actions of a girl in the throes of her first love? For not reminding me of your indiscretion when Edgerton first wrote? Or for not trusting me with the truth of your feelings?”
    “For all of it and more. I never wished to lie, but I just felt so foolish about the whole thing.” She brushed away the tears that came unbidden to her eyes, taking care not to sniffle or otherwise give away the extent of her tender feelings.
    “I may be old and blind, Cecelia, but the language of love does not require sight.”
    Her head came up with a start. Love? She didn’t love Finn anymore. She desired him, she cared for him, and yes, she had once fancied herself a girl in love, but that was years ago. She was no longer