Page 4 of The Iron Duke's Flaming Christmas
She gaped at him. “What… what did you just say?”
He laughed again. “I said that Christmas is an utter waste of time, and the season should not be celebrated at all. People pay too much heed to it, madam.” He stared at her. “Your orphans are better off without the gifts. They must face up to the harsh realities of life, as we all do, without pointless sentiment.”
Her jaw dropped further. She looked so shocked that he had to suppress a smile. Clearly, no one had ever criticized the Christmas season to her. She was one of those true believers, who subscribed to the erroneous belief that the season made life better, or whatever nonsense it was. A fantasy.
My life was ruined on Christmas Day. The greatest love of my life was taken away from me, and it was all my fault. I hope and pray the whole season becomes obsolete one day.
Her face suddenly darkened. “You are so rude, sir,” she stated, raising her chin, her green eyes flashing dangerously. “You are not a gentleman! How can you speak in such a disparaging way about the celebration of our Lord’s birth, especially when it gives such joy and wonder to people, especially children?”
His jaw tightened as he gazed at her. He wasn’t used to people giving him a tongue-lashing like this. But then, the woman clearly had no idea who he was at all. Why should she? He was merely a stranger on a horse who had come upon her at night.
She took a deep breath. “For shame, sir. You could at least help me retrieve the gifts, since it was you who surprised me, coming out of the darkness like an apparition, and made me drop them.”
She kept rambling on, scolding him, but Ian wasn’t listening any longer. Instead, he was noticing the furrow between her brows and the way her neck tilted, just so, exposing the smooth alabaster paleness of her skin.
He shook himself, trying to focus. She was still scolding him. He suppressed a small smile. Usually, he would make mincemeat of anyone who dared to speak to him in such a manner, tearing shreds off them. But this beautiful young woman, who was raging at him so earnestly, with the furrow between her brows, was fascinating him.
“Do you always speak your mind in such a way without recourse as to who you are addressing?” he asked suddenly, staring at her intently.
She took another deep breath. “Yes, I do, when it is warranted, sir. And I do believe it is warranted in this instance. I believe in calling a spade a spade.”
“Do you, now?” he asked, in an amused voice.
“I do,” she asserted, as if she were making a declaration of war, raising her chin and staring him directly in the eye, a challenging look in her own green eyes. “I speak plainly when it is required. I do not flatter merely for the sake of it.”
Ian shook his head incredulously. She was clearly a villager, judging by the state of her apparel and the way she spoke. No well-bred lady would be walking these hills in the dark carrying parcels, anyway. A lady would be confined to a carriage.
And yet, she had the demeanor and confidence of a queen, in the way that she held her head and looked him straight in the eye.
No woman has spoken to me that way since Mary died.
That sobering thought jolted him out of his trancelike state. Quickly, he mounted his horse, flicking the reins, and taking off without a backward glance.
His heart was pounding hard, and no matter how hard he tried, the vision of the beautiful young woman with the flashinggreen eyes, giving him the tongue lashing of his life, would not fade.
***
Selene stood there on the hill in the darkness, watching the rude stranger thundering away on his horse. She shook her head, unable to quite believe the encounter, nor how dismissive he had been toward her. He hadn’t even taken his leave in a proper fashion—he had merely jumped onto his horse and took off without a word.
A flash of anger pierced her heart, as she gazed down at the strewn parcels, all completely saturated, immersed in slushy snow. She and Emma had worked tirelessly for over an hour to collect them. The villagers who had given them had donated from the heart and didn’t have much to give at all. And the rude stranger had dismissed all of it.
She sighed, bending down, picking them up and placing them back in her basket. She would try to salvage what she could. Another wave of anger overtook her. He hadn’t even offered to help her.
Her heart thumped uncomfortably as she recalled the rider. The clouds had cleared in the sky, exposing the moon, and she had managed to see him quite clearly. A tall, broad shouldered, muscular man, with intense dark eyes, so deeply brown they were almost black.
A strong, square jawline, aquiline nose, and thick, wavy dark brown hair beneath his hat. He had been wearing a long, black cape.
For some reason, she had noticed his large hands, and had the shocking thought of what they might feel like if he placed them upon her. It made her shiver in a delicious way.
He was so commanding and handsome. The handsomest man who I have ever seen in my life.
Irritated, she shook the thought away. He was also the rudest man she had ever encountered in her life, and manners and character meant so much more than appearance.
She had never been one of those girls who turned to liquid at the sight of a handsome face and ignored the man’s character. She had always thought such girls to be foolish and entirely weak-willed.
He was obviously wealthy and high class. He spoke like a gentleman and the horse he rode was an expensive steed that must have cost a small fortune. But clearly, he had never learned any manners. His manners were worse than most low born farmer’s sons.
“Ahoy there! Do you need assistance, girlie”
