Read 'Twas the Night After Christmas for Free Online Page A

relative, Mother had deliberately cut him out of her life. And now that he had inherited everything, she was suddenly eager to pay attention to the son she’d ignored for years.
    To hell with that! He was not going to yield, no matter how gray Mother looked, and no matter what some officious companion with a penchant for meddling—
    A knock at the door interrupted his pacing. “What?” he barked.
    “I have your tray, my lord,” a muted voice said from beyond the door.
    He’d forgotten entirely about that. “Set it down and go away!”
    A moment of silence ensued. Then the same voice said, “I can’t.”
    “Oh, for the love of God . . . ” He strode to the door and swung it open, then halted.
    There before him stood the very woman who’d brought him here under false pretenses. “It’s you, ” he spat.
    Though she blinked at the venom in his voice, she stood her ground. “May I please come in, my lord?”
    He considered slamming the door in her face, but a deeply ingrained sense of gentlemanly behavior prevented him. Besides, he wanted to hear what she had to say for herself.
    With a curt nod, he stood aside to let her pass, taking the opportunity to get a good look at her. He still couldn’t believe she was so young. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, far too young to be a widow or a paid companion.
    And far too attractive, though he hated that he noticed. Despite what everyone thought of him, he did not run after every creature in petticoats. He’d gained his reputation as a rogue in the years when he was determinedly embarrassing his family, and those days were waning.
    But the rogue in him wasn’t dead, and it noticed that she had the sort of voluptuous figure he found attractive. She was a bit short for his taste but her evocative features and the red curls she wore scraped into a bun made up for that. Even with her spectacles on, she had the look of a fresh-faced country girl—eyes of a fathomless blue, a broad, sensual mouth, and a smattering of freckles across ivory skin. The odd mix of bluestocking and dairymaid appealed to him.
    She dressed well, too. Her gown of green Terry velvet was out of fashion and too sumptuous for her station, so since servants’ clothes generally were castoffs from their employers’ wardrobes, it must once have been Mother’s. Given that it fit her like a glove, she was obviously good with a needle.
    That would serve her well in her next post, he thought sourly, though he still hadn’t decided if he would dismiss her.
    As she set the tray down on a small table by the fire, he snapped, “I suppose you’ve come to beg my pardon.”
    She faced him with a steady gaze. “Actually, no.”
    “What?” he said, incredulous. “You brought me racing here from London by lying about my mother’s illness—”
    “I did not lie,” she protested, though her cheeks grew ruddy. “Granted, she isn’t ill in the conventional sense—”
    “Do enlighten me about the un conventional way to be ill. I must have missed that lesson in school.”
    At his sarcasm, she tipped up her chin. “Anyone can see that she has been ill with missing you, her only family.”
    He let out a harsh laugh. “Has she indeed? I suppose she’s been shedding crocodile tears and weaving a sad story about how I fail to do my duty by her.”
    Mrs. Stuart’s pretty blue eyes snapped beneath her spectacles. “On the contrary, whenever we discuss you, she excuses your refusal to visit or answer her letters, not to mention your wanton disregard for—”
    “Her well-being? Does she complain of how I treat her?”
    The fractious female cast him a mutinous glare. “No.”
    That surprised him, though he wasn’t about to let on. “Thenthere you have it.” He turned toward the writing desk, where sat a decanter of brandy and a glass.
    “But I’m not blind,” the woman went on, to his astonishment. “I see how your lack of attention wounds her, and I hear her crying when she thinks no one is