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Chapter One
London, December 18
He didn’t deserveher.
Devon Hart watched his wife as she sat at her escritoire, writing letters in her neat, cursive handwriting. All morning she’d bustled about the house, issuing orders to the staff in her crisp, efficient voice. In a single day, she’d arranged for their belongings to be packed for their journey, kept the children occupied, tempered their excitement about spending Christmas in Scotland—while continuing to manage their home.
Why was it that she always knew exactly what to do and did it with such ease?
How the devil had he managed to get so lucky? Lady Atalanta—the jewel of the ton—could have had her pick of the men, but she’d chosen him. And since she’d given him two beautiful children, his life was complete. She had restored his belief in the world, such that he was able to venture out in public and weather the stares of strangers.
And now this. A family Christmas in the Highlands. A trip he’d never have contemplated before, but Atalanta had conquered his aversion to company with her encouragement, love, and gentle persuasion. She was like water—clear and pure—following her own path and capable of eroding the most belligerent of boulders—such as him—and smoothing away their hard lines.
She was his everything.
As if she sensed his eyes on her, she set her pen aside, looked up, and smiled.
“Is all well, my love?” she asked.
He nodded, unable to speak lest his voice betray the ripple of emotion.
“Have you packed the toys you made?” she continued. “The children at Glendarron will love them.”
“A few crudely-fashioned wooden boats and soldiers?” He shook his head. “I doubt it.”
“Of course they will!” she laughed. “Most children prefer Christmas gifts that have been made with love rather than some trinket purchased at a shop. And in her letter, your sister Delilah said the children are very much looking forward to the party.” She gave a mischievous smile. “I must sayI’mlooking forward to seeing Fraser dressed as the Yule King, handing out the gifts to the children. Delilah says he gave her quite a fright the first time she saw him in the costume. But their children are made of sterner stuff and said he looked wonderful.”
Fraser MacGregor, Devon’s brother-in-law. Tall, handsome, titled, and with the sort of merry disposition that illuminated every room he entered. By Delilah’s account, he was the best husband, master, and landlord, and his tenants and employees adored him. What would they think when they set eyes on Devon—the brother-in-law with a face like a monster?
Devon let out a sigh. “I doubt the children will be able to say the same about the Beast of Belgravia.”
A flicker of pain crossed his wife’s expression. She rose from her chair and placed her hand on his face. Then she caressed his cheek, her fingertips tracing the outline of the scar that bisected it.
“Why must you continue to take that horrible name to yourself?” she asked, an undercurrent of sorrow in her voice. “Don’t you know I care nothing for your scar? I love you more than anything in the world—why can you not love yourself as you are loved by others?”
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “Sometimes the melancholy overcomes me. I cannot smile all the time.”
“I know,” she replied. “The light in our hearts will always be balanced by the dark. But you must take care not succumb to self-pity.”
He flinched as her words pricked at his conscience.
She stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his cheek. “You have much to be thankful for,” she said. “You are loved—so greatly. Your brother and sisters love you. Our children adore you. As for myself…” she sighed. “I cannot imagine a world without you in it.”
He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, and her eyes crinkled into a smile.
“You have yet to tell me what you want for Christmas,” she said. Her lips parted, and he caught sight of the tip of her tongue, flicking out and running along her lower lip. His blood warmed with need, and his breeches grew uncomfortable.
The minx—she always knew just how to arouse him.
“That particular gift, I can bestow on you throughout the year,” she said, a glint of wickedness in her eyes, “though we could indulge in a little variety as a Christmas surprise.” Her hand slipped inside his jacket and moved toward the waistline of his breeches.
“Perhaps my husband would like a small gift this afternoon as an appetizer for his Christmas meal…”
Sweet Lord! In the drawing room?
Yes—he was a lucky man, indeed.
The door flew open with a crash, and a wail rose up.
