Page 36 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

Since his hands were up as if to protect himself, Georgia waggled the book at him. “See, you do have an impressive vocabulary hidden behind all that creative cursing. What could you possibly have against Mr. Dickens’ classic—”

“Useless spunk-puffin! Complete obtuse balderdash. Syrupy, maudlin, scum-ridden balderdash.” Demon thrust a finger toward the book. “Ye might as well give directly to charity and save yerself the hours it takes to be beaten over the head with his puerile message—the result is the same, and ye were bright enough to ken it without Dickens’ help.” Shaking his head, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Besides, I dinnae do Christmas.”

Well, that was shocking enough for Georgia to raise her brows and lower the book. “You do not do Christmas?”

With a muttered, “Bah,” Demon turned away and stalked toward the opposite side of the room, where he pretended interest in the shelved books.

Since Georgia knew the books in that section of the library were devoted to dry religious sermons, she doubted very much he was considering reading them. She hummed the opening bars of a holiday tune as she slid A Christmas Carol back onto the shelf.

It was true; in her time at Endymion, she’d seen no evidence of Christmas preparation. She hadn’t thought it was because the estate lacked the funds, but rather because there was no call for it. No call for celebrations of any sort.

Life at Endymion was simple and quiet, yes, but that also meant there was no excitement, no celebrating life at all. She’d been here a short time, but even she could recognize that.

So… “No Christmas?”

Across the room, she saw Demon’s shoulders stiffen, clasping his hands behind his back and bending to peer at the titles on the shelf.

Christmases at Bonkinbone were always formal, of course, but beautiful. The food would be sumptuous, the decorations gorgeous, and the greenery… Georgia sighed in happy memory, almost able to smell the evergreen. It was the one time of year Father didn’t begrudge her bringing “plants” into the house.

The grand staircase would be decked with boughs and red ribbons, and above all the mantles as well. There’d be holly clusters and bright berries and even mistletoe hidden above doors, although Father would never allow his guests to notice.

She looked around the library.

This was the coziest room at Endymion, and even it lacked decoration. Demon evidently wasn’t one for decoration, and poor Mrs. Kettel and Mary had enough tasks to shoulder. But perhaps Georgia could do something…

“Well?” Demon barked from across the room. “Are ye going to stand there all night, or are ye going to find me something to read?”

“How do you feel about Wuthering Heights?”

Scoffing, he turned. “Anything’s better than Christmas.”

“Anything?” When he didn’t respond, Georgia raised a brow. “How about a poke in the eye with a sharp stick?”

“Better.”

Well, now he was just being obtuse. Her eyes narrowed as she cast about, looking for inspiration. Her eyes landed on the fireplace, and she blurted, “How about being burned?”

“How about being stuck beneath a collapsed hunk of metal in my own train car as the chair atop me burns, melting my skin?” he challenged, ignoring her blanch as she realized how she’d hurt him. “I can up the stakes too, Lady Georgia.”

“Christmas is better than that.”

Did his lips twitch, perhaps reluctantly? “Find me a damn book.”

In a library like this? Gladly…

Chapter 8

Demon folded the letter and slid it into the pocket of his jacket as he walked. Thorne lacked the ability to get to the point; his letters were often long and rambling, full of gossip he knew damned well Demon had no interest in.

Arsehole likely did it on purpose.

This letter included an update on Rourke’s twins—as if Demon had a care for basic geometry or grammar school—and younger brother, Bull. In the last six months, the lad and twins had made the poor bastard’s life infinitely more complicated, although—Demon had to admit—apparently more pleasant.

He’d only torn the letter open before he’d reached his study because he’d hoped it would contain Thorne’s thoughts on Demon’s ultimatum to Bonkinbone. But the Earl might not have even received the letter yet, so it was too soon to expect a response.

Instead, Thorne’s letter had been about his search for the missing agents, the ones Blackrose hadn’t been able to eliminate over the last few years. Interesting, yes, but not what Demon had been hoping for.

So now he scowled as he checked his pocket watch and rounded a corner in the upstairs corridor. 3:08 in the afternoon. Damnation, that would mean Rajah…

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