Page 89 of The Duke's Bartered Mistress

They sat in silence, watching the landscape trundle by. While the gentle rocking and clack-clack-clack of the wheels over the rails should have been soothing, Demon felt tension growing once more between his shoulder blades.

“Demon,” she announced, somewhere near Leeds, “I forgot to tell you that I wrote to Sophia with your news. I did not have time to receive a reply, but I hope you do not mind…”

He merely grunted in response, imagining Rourke’s reaction to discovering Demon had been made a duke. Who in their right mind would’ve ever expected that?

“I also wrote to my father and told him I would be returning to London soon,” she added quietly, and this time she was the one to squeeze his hand.

Well, he had to grunt in response to that as well, because what could he say?

Love, yer father thinks ye’re a whore.

That cocksucking shiteweasel isnae good enough for ye, Georgia. Ye should move into my townhouse.

Marry me, Lady Georgia Stoughton. Stay with me, no’ because yer father demands it, but because ye want me.

That last? Laughable.

They sat in silence for a dozen more miles, watching the landscape slowly changing as they rolled ever closer to his doom.

Finally, she took a deep breath, shifted in her seat, and said in a falsely cheerful voice, “Well, today is the last day of December.” The last day of our bargain. “How do the Scots celebrate the new year? Hogmanay, you called it?”

She was offering him a distraction—any distraction—and he took it. “Hogmanay is the first of the new year, but the celebrations start today—hell, in most places they started last week. Mrs. Kettel is irritated at me for dragging her away before she could plan a feast for tonight.”

“What do you do tonight?”

She seemed genuinely interested, and he was grateful for the chance to think of something besides what was going to happen at that blasted ball. He found himself relaxing, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand.

“Tonight’s first footing, aye? The tradition is that if the first man who steps over yer threshold in the new year is dark haired and brawny, he’ll bring good luck. More so if he’s carrying traditional gifts of coal, whisky, and baked goods.”

Smiling, she shifted so she was facing him more fully and reached to cover their joined hands with her other one. He wished they weren’t both wearing gloves. To hell with propriety!

“Coal representing warmth, baked goods representing prosperity, and the whisky being self-explanatory, I suppose.”

Cockthrobber, how her smile could warm him! Demon lifted her hands to his mouth and brush a quick kiss across the kidskin.

Now she reached up to touch the skin at his temple—nay, she was brushing back one of the still-felt-too-short locks of his hair. But she didn’t remove her hand, and her fingers rested against the skin of his cheek.

Against his scars.

But while he couldn’t stand the thought of others even looking at them, he welcomed her touch. And although he might’ve once sworn that twisted skin had no sensation remaining, he could feel her touch in his very soul.

“But why the dark-haired man, Demon?” she murmured, her attention on what her fingers were doing. “The other gifts make sense.”

His lips twitched. “There were plenty of times throughout Scotland’s history, lass, when a blond-haired, ax-wielding stranger stepping over yer threshold meant more than a little bad luck.”

Her gaze flashed to his in confusion, but understanding dawned and she grinned. “Vikings, I suppose? Although any ax-wielding stranger on your doorstep likely means bad luck.”

“Unless it’s the village blacksmith, come to show off his work.”

His bantering caused her to—well, not to laugh, but to do that thing where she blew air from her nose as she smiled. A snort? Nay, nothing so unladylike.

She made his blood fire, made his heart sing.

And other, less poetic responses. He shifted as his cock hardened.

“Besides that,” she agreed. “Tell me about more Hogmanay traditions.”

Since she was still touching him, he untangled his fingers from hers and slid his arm behind her back. When he pulled her to him, she plastered herself against him quite nicely.

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