'Twas the Night After Christmas Read Free Page A

left him cold.
    “You summoned me, my lord?” she said in that smooth, cultured voice that had kept him intrigued with her longer than with his other mistresses. She had several appealing qualities, including her quick wit.
    And yet . . .
    Bracing himself for the theatrics sure to come, he rose and rounded the desk to press a kiss to her lightly rouged cheek. “Do sit down, Eugenia,” he murmured, gesturing to a chair.
    She froze, then arched one carefully manicured eyebrow. “No need. I can receive my congé just as easily standing.”
    He muttered a curse. “How did you—”
    “I’m no fool, you know,” she drawled. “I didn’t get where I am by not noticing when a man has begun to lose interest.”
    Her expression held a hint of disappointment, but no sign of trouble brewing, which surprised him. He was used to temper tantrums from departing mistresses.
    His respect for Eugenia rose a notch. “Very well.” Picking up the document on the desk, he handed it to her.
    She scanned it with a businesswoman’s keen eye, her gaze widening at the last page. “You’re very generous, my lord.”
    “You’ve served me well,” he said with a shrug, now impatient to be done. “Why shouldn’t I be generous?”
    “Indeed.” She slid the document into her reticule. “Thank you, then.”
    Pleased that she was taking her dismissal so well, he went to open the door for her. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Eugenia.”
    The words halted her. She stared at him with an intent gaze that made him uncomfortable. “That’s the trouble with you, my lord. Our association has always been one of business. Intimate business, I’ll grant you, but business all the same. And business doesn’t keep a body warm on a cold winter’s night.”
    “On the contrary,” he said with a thin smile. “I believe I succeeded very well at keeping you warm.”
    “I speak of you, not myself.” She glided up to him with a courtesan’s practiced walk. “I like you, my lord, so let me give you some advice. You believe that our attraction has cooled because you’re tired of me. But I suspect that the next occupant of your bed will be equally unable to warm you . . . unless she provides you with something more than a business arrangement.”
    He bristled. “Are you suggesting that I marry?”
    Eugenia pulled on her gloves. “I’m suggesting that you let someone inside that empty room you call a heart. Whether you make her your wife or your mistress, a man’s bed is decidedly warmer if there’s a fire burning in something other than his cock.”
    He repressed an oath. So much for this being easy. “I never guessed you were such a romantic.”
    “Me? Never.” She patted her reticule. “This is as romantic as I get. Which is precisely why I can offer such advice. When we met, I thought we were both the sort who live only for pleasure, with no need for emotional connections.” Her voice softened. “But I was wrong about you. You’re not that sort at all. You just haven’t realized it yet.”
    Then with a smile and a swish of her skirts, she swept out the door.
    He stared bitterly after her. Sadly, he did realize it. Leave it to a woman of the world to recognize a fraud.
    Matrons might panic when he spoke to their innocent daughters, and his exploits might appear so regularly in the press that his Waverly cousins kept clippings for their own amusement, but his seemingly aimless pursuit of pleasure had never been about pleasure. It had been about using the only weapon he had—the family reputation—to embarrass the family who’d abandoned him.
    Leaving his study, he strode to the drawing room, where sat his pianoforte, his private defiance of his father. He sat down and began to play a somber Bach piece, one that often allowed him to vent the darker emotions that never saw the light of day in public, where he was a gadabout and a rebel.
    Or he had been until Father’s death. Since then his petty rebellions had