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

and failed. And with that revealing piece, she once again threw into question everything he’d believed about her.
    I am an unmitigated ass.
    He steeled his jaw. “Never bind yourself to any such man who’d try and kill that colorful part of who you are.” His words came out gruffer than he intended. For as soon as the words left his lips, an image slithered in of some faceless, nameless bastard who’d lay claim to her body and attempt to purge the happiness from her soul to be nothing more than a polished hostess. A lethal desire to end that imagined man for daring to possess any part of her burned through him. He staggered back and the cold momentarily sucked the breath from his lungs. For how else was there to account for this inability to draw air?
    Cara studied him in that silent, assessing manner of hers. Something sparked in her eyes—regret, sorrow, resignation, and then her expression grew shuttered.
    And he knew .
    Knew before she so much as uttered them, what the words poised on her lips would be.
    “My future has already been set for me.”
    His stomach muscles clenched. He couldn’t, not for eight more years of freedom granted by his father to travel and avoid that shrewish lady waiting for him, force out the question.
    She studied her palms. “My father has selected the perfect,” her lips twisted in a macabre rendition of a smile, “nobleman for my husband.”
    He had no place caring. Though no formal contract yet existed, another lady waited for him and Cara would exist as nothing more than the tart-mouthed beauty who’d ensnared his attention. Even knowing that as he did, he wanted to kill both her father and that lord who’d received her cold sire’s approval. A shudder wracked her lean frame and snapped him from the red haze of fury blinding his vision. “Come,” he said gruffly and held out his hand.
    Cara eyed his fingers a moment and then slid her palm into his. He folded his hand over hers and even through their wet gloves, a charge of heat penetrated through and shot pinpricks of desire running through him.
    Wordlessly, they walked the remaining way to the inn in silence.
    And before, he’d not wanted to leave this ramshackle inn for the future awaiting him. Now, as he opened the door and Cara slipped inside breaking that contact, he found himself not wanting to leave for the past that would remain behind here.

Chapter 8
    F rom where he stood at the hearth, William cast another glance at the stairs. The faint, aged contralto of the old innkeeper’s wife sounded behind him and he glanced back. A collection of greenery littered one of the inn’s tables and she quietly sang as she worked.
    Oh! how soft my fair one’s bosom,
    Fa la la la la la la la la
    Oh! how sweet the grove in blossom,
    Fa la la la la la la la la
    Oh! how blessed are the blisses
    He joined his baritone to her ancient voice.
    “Words of love and mutual kisses,
    Fa la la la la la la la la la.”
    Martha widened her eyes and stopped mid-song. Surprise sparkled in her eyes. “You know the Welsh song then, my—” She stopped just shy of that proper address.
    William winked. “I spent one Christmastide season in Wales and learned the lyrics to Nos Galan .”
    She nodded slowly, approval in that subtle movement. With a jaunty hum of the same tune, Martha returned her attention to her bough.
    He pulled out his watch fob and consulted the timepiece. Did the lady plan to sup in her rooms? Of course, that was the proper thing for a lady to do without the benefit of a brother or chaperone’s protection and he didn’t doubt Cara had lived the better part of her life conforming to be that proper English miss. Still, disappointment filled him at the prospect of not again seeing her.
    “I expect she will be down soon.”
    William spun about. “Hmm?”
    Martha sat with her head bent over the wreath while working the threading of her sewing needle with gnarled fingers. “I expect your lady,” she said not picking up her