Page 82 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

“Endymion is special,” she whispered, then turned back to him with a smile. “And you deserve special, Demon. Gabriel. I know I should not presume…”

In a flash, he’d grabbed her fingers, enclosing them in his larger hand as he pulled her closer. “Presume away,” he croaked.

“I would help you, if you would accept me,” she whispered, her gaze darting between his eyes. “I so admire what you have accomplished, but I wish I could do more.”

She was beautiful. She was sweet, and half-innocent, and the daughter of an Earl.

And the first thing ye did to her was finger her arse.

That memory—and having her in his arms—made him warmer than any fire. “Ye’ve helped.”

Perhaps she felt his erection, straining against his trousers, because her grin was wry. “That is not what I meant.”

“It’s enough,” he growled, and lowered his lips to hers.

Noxious cock-weasel! Ye’re fooked.

Because no matter how undeserving he might be, he was fairly certain—somewhere along the line—he’d fallen in love with this bartered paramour of his.

One week ‘til Hogmanay.

Chapter 18

Christmas at Endymion was nothing like Christmas at Bonkinbone. It was equally subdued, certainly, but not cold and formal.

In fact, the day was like any other, except Georgia awoke in Demon’s arms.

And really, the things he did with his lips and hands first thing in the morning! Well, Georgia started her holiday very merry indeed.

Later, Demon tracked her down in the conservatory where she was tending to her rose clippings. He began asking her questions, listening quietly to her answers, and before she knew it he was helping her lug potting soil around, dig holes, and get dirt under his nails. He even had a smudge of it across his forehead. The dear man looked positively adorable.

Sharing her love of green growing things with him was the Christmas present she hadn’t realized she wanted.

Of course, the fact that he drew a bath for her afterward to clean up was fairly delightful as well.

Dinner was delicious, the roast duck Mrs. Kettel had promised beautifully succulent. Georgia had helped the housekeeper set the table with the fine linens Demon had been hiding. She’d even decorated the place settings with holly and berries and ribbon, so between the colors and the light from the candles in the candelabra, the whole room fairly sparkled with Christmas cheer.

Of course, they still dined informally—a habit she was coming to appreciate—but they didn’t read tonight. Instead they shared memories of holidays past, mostly trying to top one another with horror stories.

“So then the puir woman—”

“Wait, wait!” Georgia interrupted, laughing. “How many glasses had she had by this point?”

Demon might not have enjoyed the excitement of the holiday season, but his stories were certainly much more fun than the memories of Christmas dinners at Bonkinbone, where Georgia and Danielle had rarely spoken above a whisper as they listened to Father and Uncle William’s conversation.

Chuckling, Demon poured himself more of the sweet red wine and settled back in his chair, the remains of his pudding in front of him. “Well, at least four since I started counting. My mother’s friends can hold their whisky, ye ken. So she’s flirting with the dumb sod, aye?” Demon puckered his lips and flopped his hand about, as if this was how he imagined a lady to speak. “’Ooooh, yer lordship, how absolutely divinely clever of ye to say such a thing!’”

Still giggling at his impression, Georgia propped her chin on her hand, knowing Father would have a conniption at such an informal display. “What had His Lordship said?”

Demon waved dismissively. “Och, who remembers? I dinnae recall him being witty or particularly well-groomed.” His nose wrinkled. “Or sweet-smelling.”

“What happened?”

His grin flashed within his beard. “So she bends closer, puckering her lips”—he suited action to words, making the rest of the sentence difficult to understand—“and got too close to the candle.”

Georgia’s gasp was part giggle, as she jerked upright. “Oh no!”

“Och, aye! Her hair caught on fire, and it took her a whisky-soaked minute to realize it.”

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