Page 16 of The Earl's Christmas Gift

Yesterday, he might have brushed her off.

But that was before.

Before he went into the library and saw Alexandria.

Before he kissed her.

Before he made love to her.

Before he bared his soul to her.

All this bloody time, he’d let himself believe that he was doing them a service by conducting their marriage more as a business arrangement than a love affair. But the only thing he’d done was hurt the one person on earth that he was charged to protect. And while he didn’t yet know if he could ever forgive himself for that, he was determined to make up for his past shortcomings every day and every night going forward.

Alexandria deserved a husband who waspresent. A husband who cared. A husband who treated her as a queen. She was his wife, damnit. He’d wanted her from the first moment that he laid eyes on her, and then when he’d gotten her…when he’d gotten her, he had treated her like an object. Like a…like a manor, or a horse, or a painting. Something to be collected and kept. Another box to be checked off. But she wasn’t a box. She was…she waseverything. And he was a damned fool for not recognizing her worth earlier.

“I suppose Ihavefound the holiday spirit,” he mused, patting the parcel he was carrying under his arm. As he’d sat in bed, watching Alexandria sleep, it had belatedly occurred to him that with Christmas Eve just a few days away, he only had one present for her: a pair of gloves that he’d bought in London. And while gloves were quite useful, they were hardly romantic. “My wife and I have recently reconciled. This is for her.”

“Might I inquire as to what it is?” the elderly woman asked.

He told her, and she clapped her hands, jostling the basket she was carrying.

“Oh, how splendid! I’m sure that Lady Chesterfield will love it.”

An eerie trickle of awareness went down his spine. “I did not tell you my wife’s name.”

“Didn’t you? How odd, it must have been a lucky guess. Mistletoe?” she said brightly, opening the wooden lid on the basket to reveal individually wrapped bouquets of shiny green mistletoe dotted with white berries.

Duncan took a step back, then another, as recognition dawned. “You,” he said accusingly, pointing his finger at her. “I’ve met you before. In Mayfair. What are you doing here?”

“You dropped the first mistletoe that I gave you.” Reaching into her basket, she carefully pulled out a bouquet. “I thought you might need another. Although I must say, it sounds as if you’re on the right track. Maybe we didn’t need the sleigh, after all. But it is nice to let the rein–er, horses out for a run now and again.”

He stared at her. “You, ma’am, belong in bedlam.”

“Most likely,” she agreed. “Take a mistletoe, dear. Hang it in the doorway, and give your lovely wife a kiss that will sweep her right off her feet.”

To Duncan’s disbelief, hedidtake the bouquet. It suddenly seemed rude not to. Clutching it in his fist, he glanced out at the street as a passing carriage went by. When he looked back, the old woman was gone…and on the ground where she’d stood was a single sprig of mistletoe.

* * *

The sleigh flew along the icy road, the horses setting a brisk pace as their driver urged them on with a flick of his whip and a hearty shout.

“Ho, here we go!” he cried with no small amount of delight when he abruptly steered the sleigh off the road and into a field, kicking up dust clouds of snow and giving Alexandria cause for concern.

Where in the world were they going? She’d assumed any ice sculpture display would be found in the village, and while she hadn’t a compass on her, she thought it would be safe to assume that wherever the sleigh was headed, it wasn’t into town.

“Pardon me,” she called out, clinging onto a bronze railing that divided the front of the sleigh, where the old man sat upon a raised dais, from the wide cushioned bench seat that extended above her head. “Pardon me, but could you tell me when we’ll be there?”

“What?” he shouted, cupping a hand behind his ear.

“I said, could you–never mind.”

He couldn’t hear her. Along with the sound of rushing air and snow, the bells on the harnesses had grown strangely loud, almost as if they were building to a crescendo.

Jingle, jingle, jingle.

Jingle, jingle, jingle,

Jingle, jingle–

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