Page 28 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

Demon raised a brow.

Another, more pointed look at the chair, then back to him.

She was expecting him to seat her, wasn’t she?

Demon’s second brow had been obliterated by the flames, so he doubted she could tell when it joined the first. He therefore planted a forearm on the table and watched expectedly.

Her lips thinned in disapproval.

“Yer food’s getting cold,” he offered unhelpfully.

With a sigh, Georgia gestured to the back of her chair. “Are you not even going to pretend to be a gentleman?”

Absolutely not. This was his home. He dined with a book and his elbows on the table and his feet bare. He wasn’t going to change his feckless varlet ways just because some lady pushed her beetle-headed way into his life!

Which is why he was surprised to discover that his body, without orders from his brain, had pushed him away from the table and was standing.

Georgia seemed to sense she wasn’t going to get much more than that, so she inclined her head gracefully. “My lord,” she murmured, as if flattered…

And then she sat her own damn self down.

Standing there, his bare toes curling into the rug, Demon felt foolish. He hadn’t intended to stand…

A mark of respect…you show me your true opinion of me…

Was that true? He was unwilling to show her respect? Turd on a broomstick, why would he respect her, if she was just a cunny to fook for the next month?

The thought made his stomach clench, his anger spiking at the thought of not respecting her.

Ye dumb cabbagepatch, make up yer bloody mind!

Slowly, he sank back into the chair, and was scowling—this time at himself—when he scooped up the fork once more.

“What is this?”

When he glanced at her from under half-lowered lids, it was to see her poking—very genteelly—at Mrs. Kettel’s specialty.

“It’s haggis,” he growled.

To his surprise, Georgia dropped her fork. “The cat?”

“What?”

“Is this…” She gulped and reached for her serviette. “Are we eating your pet cat?”

Pet cat…? “Rajah?”

She waved her fingers dismissively, still staring at the plate. “The Bruce. Punkin. Haggis.”

Haggis. Demon felt his lips curl. Mary called the animal Haggis, didn’t she? He chuckled. “Nay, woman, it isnae the cat. It’s haggis.” He chuckled again. “Mrs. Kettel’s signature dish. Ye’re fortunate indeed.”

Her eyes were wide as Georgia stared at him, her attention discomforting. His expression slowly hardened, and he shifted in his seat. “What’s yer problem?”

When she didn’t answer, her gaze on his lips, he scowled. “I ken it isnae pretty, but tastes fine. Good, even.”

Her tongue flicked over her lips. “I know what haggis is.”

“Good.” He gestured with his fork. “Eat.”

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