Page 12 of The Mistletoe Duke

“Can’t sleep?” he asked in an amused tone.

She had no idea why he was amused, so she sniffed. “I came for a book.”

“Of course.” He waved at the decanter on the table at his elbow. “A whisky may help.” Before she could demur, he poured her one. “Sit. Please. I would like to talk to you.”

She should go. Really, she should. But for some reason, she didn’t want to. With a sigh, she sat, as he asked, and lifted the tumbler to her lips. The liquor burned her throat and she coughed.

Jonathan grinned. “Good, isn’t it? It comes from Ian’s distillery.”

She forced a smile. Though she’d never met Sara’s husband, she’d heard wonderful things about him and his whisky. “Helps, having a brother-in-law with his own distillery, does it?”

His grin widened. “I am never without friends.”

“I can imagine.”

He went back to staring at the fire, which prompted her to ask, “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

“Ah. Yes. But first, why haven’t you been at dinner?”

She blinked. Dinner? “Dinner is a family event.”

He frowned. “You’re family.”

Oh dear. “No, Jonathan,” she said with a sigh. “I’m not. I know my place.”

“Do you eat dinner with Mother at home?”

“Of course…but that’s different.”

“How is it different?”

She had no idea why this conversation seemed to be annoying him. This was the way of the world, after all. “For one thing, she hates to eat alone and she claims that Mawbry puts her off her food.”

He laughed at that, but it was more of a snort, and he tried to hide it. “So if we want you to come to dinner, it must be a command?”

“Something like that.” She proffered a smug smile, but it might have been a result of the whisky, which—now that she’d had another sip—was quite warm and pleasant.

“Well, I expect you at dinner tomorrow night then.”

Meg started and she frowned at him. “Bollocks,” she said.

It surprised her when he threw back his head and laughed. “Do you speak that way to my daughters?”

“Only when the three of us are alone.” My, this whisky was something. She lifted the tumbler and observed the colors. “Does one always tell the truth when one drinks this?”

He nodded. “Pretty much.”

They sat in silence and sipped whisky and stared at the fire, until Meg recalled what he’d said earlier and asked, “You wanted to talk to me?”

“Ah yes.” He sighed heavily and scrubbed his face with his palm and she had a flash of worry.

“What is it?” What was so difficult to say?

“I just wanted to ask you…”

“Yes?” Now her curiosity was running wild.

“I… Just…” He turned to her, his expression sincere and unbearably adorable. “Are you happy?”