Page 65 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

“That’s a bloody tree. A tree. Absolute bananas!” He reached the chaise he and Bruno had dragged out of storage to replace the settee his over-enthusiasm with Georgia had damaged, and reached for the tea trolly parked beside it. “Have I no’ done enough, been attacked by trees and sap and murderous squirrels—now there’s a tree in my house.”

Georgia’s nervousness shifted to irritation, judging from the way she planted one hand on her hip. “You told me I might decorate for the season.”

“I thought ye meant a few bows here and there. A length of ribbon. No’—” He gestured expansively.

“You said boughs. You helped me cut them!”

Demon shrugged and settled down with a cup of tea. “Bows, boughs. Homophones.” The most recent London newspaper was folded atop the trolly. “Where’d this come from?”

“From London. And those are not homophones. They are not even homonyms—why am I trying to explain this to you?” With a huff, Georgia bent to scoop up the fallen candle and turned back to the tree.

“I dinnae ken,” he muttered vaguely, tossing the newspaper down. He didn’t want to know what was going on in London, or the rest of the world. Rourke and Thorne—damn their perpetual optimism!—kept him updated on the hunt for Blackrose, and that was all that mattered.

Instead of reading about Mother’s world, he eyed the tray of cookies. Was this what Mary had been crafting down in the kitchen? “What are these?” he asked, picking one up. “Is this a man?”

Georgia must’ve glanced over her shoulder. “It is a cookie. Made from gingerbread.”

He took a bite, and around the burst of sugar and spice, asked, “Why is it wearing pants?”

Because he was now addressing her, he saw Georgia roll her eyes as she continued to clip the candles to the outstretched branches of the small tree she’d set up in the alcove. Or someone had set it up. Had she convinced Angus to nail boards to the bottom? How had she managed to get it into the library without Demon noticing?

And where in cockthrobbing hell had she found all those decorations? He sipped at his tea, enjoying the way the heat spread through his limbs, and eyed her arse as she bent to rummage through the case at her feet.

When she rose, holding a sparkling glass ornament in the shape of a teardrop, his stomach clenched in recognition, and he was on his feet before he realized. “Georgia?”

“Oh, how would I know, Demon?” she blurted, not turning as she carefully hung the glass bauble on a sturdy branch. “I have never tried my hand at making gingerbread men before! Whenever Father permitted Danielle and I sweets, they were made by our Cook and delivered on a silver platter—there wasn’t a sartorial discussion! Perhaps pants are standard?”

That’s not been what he’d meant, but he wasn’t yet ready to consider what had caused the sudden nostalgia. So he popped the rest of the cookie in his mouth and sauntered across the room, holding the cup without the saucer.

“What are ye doing?” It was a poor conversation starter, because it was obvious what she was doing.

Georgia must’ve known that, because instead of answering, she thrust a string of cranberries at him. “Here. Hang this.”

He drained his tea and placed the empty cup on the mantel before examining the decoration she’d handed him. “No’ verra long, is it?”

"Said the disappointed prostitute to the bishop.”

Thank fook he’d finished his tea; if he hadn’t, he would’ve spit it all over her when she quipped something so naughty while looking so proper. He gaped at her and she winked in response.

“You are allowed to laugh, Demon.”

His lips curled wryly as he dragged the string of cranberries across his palm. “Where did an earl’s daughter hear such a joke?”

She blinked innocently and pressed her hand to her chest, affecting a shocked mien. “Would this be the same earl’s daughter whom you surprised this morning by wearing a sprig of mistletoe tucked into your belt?”

“I thought it would be festive.” He managed to keep a straight face.

“You thought I would kiss whatever was hanging directly below it.”

His grin turned sensual, remembering that evening. “And it worked.” But before things got too out of hand, he raised the string of Christmas decorations. “But ye havenae explained this.”

“Yes, well, I did try my hand at stringing cranberries this morning, and I was not entirely successful.”

The thought of Georgia hunched over a string of cranberries, her little tongue poking between her lips, made him want to smile. Instead, he turned to the tree and tossed the string over two of the highest branches.

She clucked and reached for the dangling end. “Some care, please, milord. I cannot have anything putting my tree at risk.”

Her tree? He cocked a brow. “I see ye put it out of the way of Rajah’s morning circuit, but I’m guessing the temptation of all this sparkle will be too much for him, and ye’ll find him in the branches.”

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