Christmas Contract for His Cinderella by Jane Porter

Author:Jane Porter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2019-09-06T13:02:03+00:00

* * *

By the time he arrived home, the children were in bed, asleep—he knew, because he checked in on them and they were all in their beds, tucked in against the night’s chill. Marcu went to Monet’s room and knocked on the door, wanting to see how things had gone while he’d been away.

It took her a few moments to come to the door and he wondered if she’d also gone to bed. He was just turning away when her door opened and she peeked out, her long dark hair tumbling free over her shoulders, her eyes lovely and luminous in her pale oval face.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, feeling guilty for disturbing her, and yet it wasn’t that late, not even quite nine.

“No, I was just in bed reading.”

“How was everything here? I didn’t hear from you so I hope things went smoothly.”

“Very smoothly,” she answered. “We get along very well. So well, that the time just flies by.”

There was something in her cheerful answer that sounded a little forced. “What did you do to pass the time?” he asked.

“We made cookies, and played in the snow.” She smiled brightly up at him, still holding the door close so that all he could see of her was her head and part of her shoulder. “We had lots of fresh air. I’ve put your winter coats and boots to good use.”

“You’re making me suspicious,” he said.

“Why?”

“You seem determined to be happy—”

“But I am happy,” she interrupted. “I really enjoy your children. We have a lot of fun together.”

And that’s when he spotted a bit of sparkle behind her shoulder. It was a gleam of light, reflecting off something silver and shiny and then he took a breath and smelled fragrant pine.

Marcu reached above her head and gave the door a push, forcing it open. In her sitting room on the table near her hearth stood a shimmering tree with white lights and colorful glass ornaments. It was small but beautifully decorated and the fresh smell filled her room, making him immediately feel nostalgic.

For a moment he couldn’t speak, and then he drew a slow, measured breath, fighting to remain in control. “I thought we agreed there would be no decorations, no tree, none of this nonsense—”

“I didn’t agree,” she interrupted hotly, arms crossing over her chest. “I never agreed, because I completely disagree with you—”

“That doesn’t matter. Your opinion doesn’t matter. You’re here to do what I tell you.”

“Wrong. You’re here because you trust me to take care of your children, and I am.”

“I don’t celebrate Christmas, Monet.”

“Fine, but must you deprive the children? Are they no longer allowed to experience the beauty of it? I understand you are grieving, and they also continue to grieve, but you are turning their loss into a greater punishment. You are taking the loss of their mother and turning it into the loss of all hope and beauty—”

“Rubbish!” he snapped, silencing her again, his voice growing louder, his temper hotter. She was trying his patience and he didn’t like it.

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