Free A Christmas In Bath by Cheryl Bolen Page A

dog's neck. "I know the lad will be happy with it."
    Jonathan's brows hiked. "Is not little Gregory too small for a pup?"
    "Oh, this isn't for my son. It's for young Archie." It was impossible for Gregory to prevent a note of pride from slipping into his voice whenever he said my son .
    "Ah, the urchin's Christmas present!" Jonathan said. "What lad wouldn't love a furry little beast to call his own?"
    Gregory nodded. "Especially a lad who's never had anything—not even a home. At present, Glee's having a small bed moved into the mother's chamber so their little family can be together at Christmas. Like ours."
    "Yes. Like ours."
    * * *
    She knew she was going to see Jonathan on Christmas Day. He had promised to call on her so they could go together to the morning church service, and she had already planned what she would wear. She would wear one of her old dresses. To please him.
    But how would she make it through this Christmas Eve without seeing him? No day had ever seemed longer. It was nearly four in the afternoon—and nearly dark, which was customary this time of the year.
    As she sat by the lamp table in the drawing room rereading his unfinished essay for the tenth time, there was a knock upon the front door. Since their two servants were free of duties on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, she went to answer the knock herself. It could not be Jonathan because she had heard no carriage wheels in the street.
    There stood Jonathan. Even though he was dressed warmly in a great coat and muffler and thick leather gloves, he looked as if he were freezing. His cheeks and nose were so red with cold, she feared he would suffer frost bite. Her eyes widened with concern. "You walked?"
    "Are you not going to invite me in?"
    "Oh, my dearest! You'll take your death of cold. Please, come in."
    After closing the door to the harsh winter elements, he divested himself of his outer garments. Then she noticed he set down a bag. "Come, love, and stand by the fire," she said.
    They went to the drawing room, strode to the fireplace, and faced each other, his heated gaze lazily moving to her jiggly bits , which were more prominent in this dress, another she had received from Sally Sedgewick.
    "I have a desire to take you in my arms and kiss a path to those lovely shoulders." His eyes held hers with intensity.
    "The door is closed."
    He then did exactly what he'd spoken of, and she thought she had never enjoyed anything so much. Thank God for Sally's dresses! They had certainly brought out the man in him.
    And the woman in her.
    When he finished, he took her hand. "I have what I hope may be good news."
    Her brows arched.
    "I've a special license, and the vicar has promised to marry us the day after Christmas. Our wedding trip shall be to Sutton Manor—which we will have all to ourselves."
    "That is wonderful news!"
    "If you do not mind, my mother—who has come from Sutton Manor—has offered to take our list of desires and find us a house here in Bath whilst we honeymoon."
    "I have only one desire, and I think you must know what that is."
    "Oh, god, Mary, how am I to stand waiting for two more days?" His gaze went from her to the hearth where he had placed the bag. "I must think of something else, or I'll go mad with want."
    He reached down and lifted the bag.
    "What is that?" she asked.
    "It's your Christmas present."
    Her face collapsed. "But I have nothing for you."
    "How can you say that? You've given me the most precious of all gifts. And when you see your present, you'll know how much your gift is also a present to me."
    Her brows lowered. "What can you mean?"
    "Let us sit upon the sofa."
    They sat very close together, then he reached into the bag and withdrew a slender book bound in soft green leather.
    "Oh, you're giving me a printed copy of your essays! How delightful." She took it, eagerly opened up to the title page, and she went deadly still as her eye ran along the printing, then teared up. "It's not your writings."
    "No, love. As