Page 84 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

“I wasnae, and now I ken what to get ye—” For Hogmanay. Next Christmas. For your birthday. When was his birthday?

She wouldn’t be here for any of those. She’d be leaving him in a week, her obligation fulfilled, to return to her father.

Leaving a piece of her heart behind.

Oh, if only he saw her as more than a way to erase her father’s debt!

He cleared his throat. “I got ye a first edition of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. It’s in the library under the tree.”

Her hand fluttered up and her fingertips pressed against the wildly beating pulse at the base of her throat. “That is…thank you, Demon. What a special gift. I shall treasure it always.” Even though he wasn’t looking at her, she forced a smile. “Why not open my gift to you? It is not nearly as dear as what you chose, but…”

He was already unwrapping it, the rough calluses on his hands tearing at the fine tissue paper. Those hands had done so many things—horrible things, wonderful things—and deserved so much better than he’d received.

When her meager gift was laid bare he stopped still, staring down at it, and she realized she held her breath.

Finally, he lifted the small piece of embroidery. “This is for me? Ye made this?”

Georgia was blushing again. “I—I noticed you use scraps of paper to mark your places in your books as you read. This is not much thicker, but I thought it might be useful.”

“And these are rose vines.” His finger traced one of the climbing vines. “That’s what I was cutting when ye…”

“Yes,” she whispered, even though he hadn’t asked.

He finally looked up, met her eyes…and she would swear his were brighter than usual, somehow. When picking threads for her project, she’d chosen greens that matched his eyes, and doubted she’d ever look at a shoot of new growth again without remembering him.

“I’ve never…” He swallowed, then glanced back at the bookmark. “Thank you. Nae one has ever…”

This time when he trailed off, her stupid brain leaped at the chance to filling in the blanks.

Had a bookmark before.

Given me a gift before.

Realized I could mark my place with something besides another book or possibly a used handkerchief or once, a sandwich.

Had someone care enough about me to make me something.

Loved me.

Georgia swallowed, torn between the urge to get up, comfort him, or pretend interest in her food. She didn’t want to make too much of the gift, although it was obvious it meant something to him; far more than she’d anticipated in the hours she spent working on it.

When the dining room door opened, they both turned, perhaps grateful for the distraction.

Georgia gasped when she saw who stepped through. The man was elderly—

No, no, that didn’t do him justice.

He was half-dead—

No, even that wasn’t a strong enough description.

Georgia had heard the phrase one foot in the grave. This man, with his gaunt face and gnarled fingers, looked as if he had both feet in the grave, along with one arm and most of his torso, and someone had just handed him a shovel to dig faster.

Of course, it was likely his limbs would fall off from the weight.

His hair was gray and hung around his shoulders in lanky strings; his hat—and in fact all of his clothing—had been made for a bigger man; he shuffled so when he walked that she doubted his feet were even coming off the floorboards…and he carried a silver platter with an envelope on it.

“Ah, Bruno!” Demon called, carefully placing the bookmark beside his plate, his tone as jovial as he could manage. “Supper’s done already? Dinnae fash about cleaning up this mess.”

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