Page 53 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

And he’d hated it.

This morning he’d received a reply from her father. The letter had angered him enough he’d punched the wall to the left of the mantel in his study, splitting the skin of his knuckles. The injury was hidden beneath the gloves he now wore, but each time he moved it pulled, reminding him of her father’s callous words.

Sir, your reputation was, if anything, not black enough. My daughter has ignored my careful instruction, and my infinite charity. She has chosen, yet again, her own ruin. At least in allowing you such disgusting, reprehensible access to her body, she will accomplish something beneficial to the family name. I expect my debt erased by the new year.

How in the ever-loving fook was Demon supposed to answer that?

The man was calling his bluff, the way his daughter had. And Demon was honest enough to admit that if Bonkinbone had capitulated and given access to his brother, it would’ve been too late: Georgia was ruined, and so was Demon.

It would’ve been bleeding impossible to let Georgia go, had her father responded in a more fatherly manner. It was going to be even harder to let her go in two and a half weeks.

“Demon?”

With a soft growl, he shifted his arse against the trunk and reached for another branch. “Putrescent tree,” he muttered under his breath. “Why am I doing this again?”

Proving she was listening, Georgia called out, “Because you are a very nice man.”

“I am no’ a verra nice man. I’m cursed.” Another branch fell. “Ask anyone.”

“I did,” she said blithely, “and yes, that is what they said. But I think they are wrong. You have cut enough from that side of the tree, I do not want it to grow lopsided in the spring.”

He told himself he wasn’t going to ask. He wasn’t. But he did. “The fook are ye talking about?”

Pushing to her feet, Georgia brushed herself off as she explained. “It will not do to take too many branches from any one tree, it might be hurt. So we move from tree to tree—”

Demon interrupted her as he jumped down, landing in front of her in a spray of snow and pine needles. The season’s first snowfall had been relatively light, but Bruno had said more was on the way.

“I ken how to cut pine boughs, Georgia,” he growled.

“Ah.” Her gaze went to his scars, and back to his eyes. “Then you were asking about being cursed.”

When he didn’t answer, she raised a gloved hand and rested it on his arm. “You are lucky to be alive, Demon. Gabriel. You have worked hard to recover from your injuries, and while you do not have a large staff, you are surrounded by people who care for you very much. I would call that lucky.”

He could hear the sincerity in her voice; hear she actually believed what she was saying. Surrounded by people who care for you very much. What were the chances she was speaking about herself?

Scowling, Demon turned away. “Dinnae call me that,” he muttered, stalking toward the next evergreen.

The last five days had been…different. He’d become used to having her in his life, slaking his desire with her. But since the morning he’d found her in such pain, he hadn’t approached her—hadn’t snapped his fingers. And he’d discovered he was content to merely spend time with her; dining together, reading in the library. He’d even considered asking her if she’d like to ride, once she was feeling better.

And all along, Demon waited for a sign she was ready to return to their love-making. The night in the library had been… He shook his head, trying to push that from his mind. Getting a cockstand in a tree wasn’t his idea of a good time.

This was her first outing since then, the promised Christmas-decorating-collection. He felt like a fool, but her excitement was impossible to miss.

“I finished the last of those chocolates,” Georgia said as she began dragging the bundles together for Angus to fetch later this afternoon. “Thank you again for fetching them for me.”

She knew Mrs. Kettel hadn’t made them, knew they’d come from someplace beside Endymion. “Ye’re welcome,” Demon grunted, swinging himself into the next pine, hoping she wouldn’t continue this line of conversation.

She did, because of course she did. “So you fetched them from Banchot? For me?”

He attacked a branch with the saw, refusing to answer.

“How was it? Going into the village?”

No one had pointed and laughed. No one had gasped and hidden their children from his view. There had been quite a lot more staring than he was used to, and the shopkeeper kept stammering and refusing to meet his eyes, although he’d plainly known who Demon was.

It wasn’t an experience he wanted to repeat anytime soon, but…it wasn’t as horrible as he’d been expecting.

“Demon—”

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