To Wed His Christmas Lady (The Heart of a Duke Book 7) by Christi Caldwell

her. She parted her lips in silent shock.
    He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. Of their own volition, her lashes fluttered and then drawing in a deep breath, she let him in. “It was my mother’s.”

    William stilled, his thumb pressed to Cara’s full, lower lip.
    It was my mother’s.
    Not is. Was . Pain dug at his belly, as with the glimmer of sadness in her expressive eyes, Cara’s dogged tenacity in collecting her belongings now made sense. As though unnerved by the thick silence between them, she stepped away.
    She unfurled her small hand. The crimson ruby stood vivid on her kidskin gloves. “The clasp is broken.” To demonstrate as much, Cara fingered the intricate and clearly damaged clasp. He studied her head bent over the piece. “It was my mother’s,” she repeated, the murmur so very soft, the winter wind carried with it nearly all sound. “She died when I was seven.”
    At the faint tremble of her fingers, the evidence of her stoic grief, pressure weighted his chest, making it difficult to draw breath. How could this woman, a mere stranger two days ago, and one he’d not much liked upon first meeting, have caused this dull ache, as though her pain was his?
    Her eyes grew distant and by the sad, little smile on Cara’s lips, her mind danced back to those times when she’d been happy. “My father insisted I don only diamonds.” She gave her head a wry shake. “I despise them. I could not understand why anyone would wish to wear those clear, colorless stones. Not when there are far more vibrant and interesting gems.”
    The wind tugged at her bonnet strings and knocked it backwards on her head. With the burden of her necklace in her hands, she attempted to right it. William reached for it.
    Cara recoiled. “What are you doing?” She eyed him warily.
    Ignoring her, he unfurled the long, red ribbons and carefully lifted the velvet bonnet. He set it atop her riot of golden curls. His movements slowed by the chill in his fingers, William retied the strands underneath her chin.
    “Th-thank you.” Was the tremble to Cara’s words a product of his touch or the winter cold?
    The rules of propriety rang in his ears, urging him for the first time since he’d entered this inn to turn on his heel, escort Cara safely back, and then leave as fast as his mount could possibly carry him. “Then how did your mother come by the ruby?” he asked, instead, his tone gruff. How much easier it had been when she’d been nothing more than the materialistic, grasping lady who valued her personal belongings before the lives of her servants.
    “Oh, it was her mother’s,” she said with a matter-of-factness that raised a smile. “My mother said I should wear it and always remember there is far more beauty in being colorful than in…” She let her words trail off and looked past him.
    William captured her hand in his and raised it. “Than in what, Cara?”
    She unfurled her palm, displaying that cherished piece. He stared at the crimson heart. “Than in being a colorless piece that inspires no emotion in anyone.” She spoke of herself. Is that truly how the lady saw herself? How could a woman who’d charge into a dark hall to challenge a person she’d believed laughed at her, or stalked off in the midst of a storm to rescue her own possessions, not see the strength of her own spirit?
    “Forgive me,” he said quietly.
    She opened and closed her mouth several times like a fish floundering on shore.
    “Again, Cara, are you surprised I am capable of an apology?”
    Cara shivered and then hugged her arms to her once again. “I am surprised any man would be capable of such.”
    He frowned. As with that admission, and the story of her heart pendant, she let him inside a world she’d lived. A world where her father had sought to quash her spirit and churn her into a cold, vapid lady whose sole purpose was the match he’d no doubt make from her. By her bold actions at the inn these two days, the man had tried