Aunt Gertrude's Red Hot Christmas Beau: Christmas Belles by Cerise DeLand

Author:Cerise DeLand [DeLand, Cerise]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: W. J. Power
Published: 2020-01-30T16:00:00+00:00

Men like Harlow had always intrigued her. Her husband, often indomitable, had been one such similar creature. She’d loved him madly—and pricked him often when he was too hoity-toity for his own good. Though he had discovered her in London as she trod the boards in a few very poor plays and swept her away to marry him, she credited his instincts about her character and the rightness of their mutual love more than his impetuosity. But as with others, his sense of superiority could scrape against any humility he’d acquired through trial or error. His arrogance could get the better of him. And it was no wonder.

Privileged from birth, men of great titles and estates were reared from their first breath to hold power. Those who had enough intellect and charisma kept it easily. They did right by most, starting with their family and extending to those who worked for them. But every once in a while, another mortal challenged all they held dear. Disaster drew nigh, more often to the one lower on the social rung. Some noblemen matured from the confrontation. Others did not…and they withered, destroying all in their path.

Harlow should be among the former.

But she feared the latter.

At the door to the parlor, she paused. She disapproved of men who sulked. Would that she could strip off her corset. She’d welcome a whalebone to prod the man into action. A bottle of brandy might substitute. But she rejected the idea. Alcohol would not cure his problem. Only smother his wounds.

She knocked. Loudly. Twice. He did not answer, but it was her house and so she entered.

Facing him, she noted his body was lax. His black and silver hair wild from his constant raking. His eyes were hooded and sad, but alight from the flames in the hearth. “Are you finished feeling sorry for yourself?”

“No! The carnage on the battlefield always looks grim afterward.”

“Especially if you haven’t figured out how you made such a muck of it.”

He winced. “Spar with me, will you?”

She swished her skirts aside as she took the matching Chippendale chair opposite his own. “I’d rather join you.”

“Why? Do you have a list of woes?”

“You don’t live to my age—or yours—and not acquire a few.”

He shifted in his chair, his rueful eyes darting to hers. “Tell me yours.”

Ah. Well. That was a long list. “We haven’t time for all of those.”

“No?” He was in an argumentative mood. “Tell me your three most grievous sins.”

“Woes are different from sins,” she pointed out. “I venture to say, Harlow, that you have woes. Not sins.”

“Theo would disagree with you.”

She brushed her palm along the soothing silk of her gay emerald Christmas gown. “I doubt he said that.”

“You know him well, do you?” It was a challenge.

“I’ve met him a few times over the past decade. Socially, but nonetheless, I do believe I know a few aspects of his character, yes.” She also knew of his son from the woman who had loved him since she was eighteen.

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