To Wed His Christmas Lady (The Heart of a Duke Book 7) by Christi Caldwell Read Free Book Online Page A

enjoyed by him these years were nearing an end.
    “She was a bit cold.” Martin withdrew a stained kerchief and dabbed his brow. “But then, all ladies are a bit cold, and there is something to be said for those spirited creatures.”
    “Is there?” He infused a droll edge that earned a chuckle from the other man.
    “Oh, of course. In your youth, you just don’t realize it.” He nodded toward his wife who’d moved on to cleaning another table. “My Martha is a spirited one. In her earlier days, she could out bellow the gruffest of men to enter these doors.”
    “There is a difference between spirited and unkind,” William felt inclined to point out. And there was nothing redeeming in a woman who’d send her servant out into this fierce blizzard.
    “Perhaps.” Martin rocked back on the legs of his chair and hooked his fingers into the top of his pants. “But I always think there is more to a person than what is first seen upon the surface.”
    He bit back the retort. He’d not disabuse the innkeeper of his more hopeful thoughts. In actuality, William belonged to a world of cold, condescending nobles and had relished every moment of freedom from that same glittering society. His parents and siblings had proven the exception rather than the proverbial rule where the peerage was concerned.
    “Martin, come along. The guests abovestairs require their meals.”
    The innkeeper settled his chair back upon the spindly legs and climbed to his feet with a sigh.
    William touched the bridge of his imagined hat. “Good evening to you, Martin.”
    “My—”
    “William,” he cut in. “Just William.” For he’d embrace this last strand of obscurity afforded him before he was thrust back into the world he’d spent years running from. As the man hurried off, a twinge of sympathy pulled at him. He did not envy the innkeeper his dealings with that shrew abovestairs.

    Cara walked in a circle, surveying her rooms. She rubbed her hands back and forth over her arms to drive back the chill that still lingered from her trek through the snow. Her efforts proved futile. With her sharp gaze, she took in everything from the cracked wash basin and pitcher to the scratched and scraped hardwood floor. She surveyed the thin, threadbare carpet at the foot of a too-lumpy bed. Perhaps it was not as uncomfortable as it appeared. Cara crossed over and sat on the bed. She placed her hands on the edge and shifted back and forth, testing the lumpy mattress. With a beleaguered sigh, she closed her eyes a moment and then in a move that would have earned a stiff recrimination from her father, flung her arms out and sprawled backward, with her head hanging off the edge of the bed. She glowered up at the cracked plaster ceiling with water marks hinting at wear to the roof.
    Drip. Drip. Drip.
    In the dimly lit space, she sought out that grating fall of water. A cold, wet drop landed on her nose. She followed the path up to the ceiling where a puddle of moisture pooled on the peeling paint. Cara slid her eyes closed. With the disastrous course of her day, why should she expect anything else? Another drop landed on her forehead and she rolled onto her side, disabusing the fates of the further pleasure of tormenting her.
    Her teeth chattered noisily in the quiet space, punctuated by the gusting wind beating against the window. She drew her legs close to her chest and huddled in a ball and, because it was far easier to focus on a stranger who despised her than a father who did not care, she ran through her meeting with that brute in the taproom. His antipathy had been palpable and really should not matter. After all, no one liked her. And on most days, she did not even like herself. And yet… A blasted sheen of tears blurred her vision and she blinked them back.
    Foolish signs of weakness, gel. Her father’s thunderous admonishment echoed off these foreign walls.
    She shivered and burrowed into the thin coverlet adorning her bed. “M-material