A Christmas Promise Read Online Free PDF Page B

thought turned her a little colder.
    “I have your father’s permission to call on you,” he said. His face looked even harsher now that he was closer and the light from the window was shining full on it. And his eyes looked bluer.
    Yes, of course. What foolish words. Why else would he be there? She knew that this moment must be as difficult for him as it was for her, but she would not make his task easier. Oh, she would not. He could never in a million years earn the fortune that Papa had worked for all his life and that was to be given him with only one encumbrance—her. Let him feel at least a moment’s discomfort.
    “I have the honor of asking you to be my wife,” he said.
    “Yes,” she said at last. “Of course. And my answer is yes. Of course.” She was proud of the chill contempt in her voice. She would not add the words “my lord.” All the training of her school years and the years before that at home with a governess prompted her to do so and to drop into that curtsy she had neglected on his entrance. The occasion called for the words. But she would not say them. He was not her lord. Not yet, at least.
    He looked at her with his harsh, set face as if he did not quite know how to proceed. She felt a moment of triumph and no sympathy for him at all. And no discomfort on her own account. She did not care if ten minutes passed without another word being exchanged between them.
    “Then I am a fortunate man,” he said, making her another bow and reaching out his right hand.
    It was a slim, long-fingered hand, well-manicured. The hand of an aristocrat. She looked at it for several moments before finally placing her own in it. But it was a warm and surprisingly strong hand, she thought as it closed about hers. And then he was lifting her hand to his lips—warm lips—and her eyes traveled over their hands and upward to his eyes. They were very blue and very cold and held hers as steadily as hers held his.
    He hated her as she hated him, she thought. Good. That was good. Let him suffer for Papa’s money.
    “I understand,” he said, “that your father wishes the nuptials to be celebrated next week. Will that suit you, ma’am?”
    “Of course,” she said. As if it would make any difference to anything if she said no. “If we wait any longer, my father will be dead. Even as it is, he may not live long enough.”
    The flicker in his eyes showed that he was somewhat taken aback by the frankness of her words. “I am sorry about your father’s health,” he said. “It must be distressing to you.”
    How could he know anything about her or what distressed her? He cared for nothing but getting his hands on Papa’s fortune. Papa would not have been so rash with it or so hasty and unconsidered in his plans for her future if he were not dying. “We must all die sooner or later,” she said.
    “Yes.” If it was possible for him to look colder, he looked it as he uttered the one word. “Next week it will be, then, ma’am. I have plans to spend Christmas in the country, but all will depend upon your father’s health, of course.”
    “He will not last nearly so long,” she said, and she held herself still and frozen, speaking as a matter of simple fact what the past months and weeks had shown her to be the harrowing truth. Papa was already living on borrowed time. Only his strong will would keep him alive until after the wedding. She was quite sure that he would live that long. But not many days longer.
    “Well, then,” he said, taking a step back and clasping his hands behind him. His eyes swept over her from head to foot. “Everything seems to have been settled satisfactorily. Shall we proceed to your father’s study? He wishes to see us both after this interview is over.”
    He removed one arm from his back and was about to offer it to her, she knew. But she swept past him to the door, waiting for him to reach past her to open it only because it would have been too vulgar a breach of good manners to