Free His Christmas Pleasure by Cathy Maxwell Page A

She wouldn’t marry a man like Lord Villier. She wouldn’t.
    Harrison, their butler, rapped on the door her father had left half open when he’d left. “My lady,” he said, speaking to Abby’s mother, “you have a caller.
    It’s Lady Barnes.”
    Both Abby and her mother smiled their delight. Lady Daphne Barnes, or Jonesy, as she expected family to call her based upon nothing more than her whim, was her mother’s oldest sister. She’d been widowed for a decade and was dearly loved by both of them.
    “She’s waiting in the sitting room,” Harrison informed them.
    “Have the Madeira prepared,” her mother said, knowing what Jonesy liked.
    “And tea,” she added, following Abby, who was already on her way to throw herself on Jonesy’s common sense and shrewd wit.
    “Yes, my lady,” Harrison said.
    Jonesy had seated herself in the center of the settee before the fire and was busy unwrapping colorful Indian scarves from around her neck as she made herself comfortable.
    The sitting room was one of Abby’s favorite rooms in the house. It was designed for receiving visitors, with guests walking from the front hall through a paneled vestibule into the well-lit spaciousness that spoke louder than words of her father’s wealth. Huge windows draped in gold brocade overlooked the back garden. Thick, patterned carpets in green, blue, and gold covered the floor. Upholstered chairs and settees were positioned in front of two elegantly carved marble fireplaces, one at each end of the room, that provided a friendly warmth against the cold.
    “I’m so happy you are here,” Abby said in greeting as she entered the room, her mother at her heels. If there was one person who could sort this all out, it was Jonesy. Always unconventional, always bold, always daring. Abby so wished she was like her.
    “I’m happy I’m here as well,” Jonesy said, pointing at a place on her cheek where Abby could place a kiss. She had a deep, almost manly voice. “I have so many questions for you. Of course, I’ve been driving around the block for the past half hour and more waiting for himself to leave.” “Himself” was her favorite pet name for Abby’s father. Jonesy swore that her father had more pride than Banfield, and that was saying quite a bit.
    The doorbell rang again.
    “You are going to be busy this afternoon,” Jonesy predicted.

    “I wonder why. We rarely have visitors. You know that,” her mother said. A maid entered with a tray of wine, tea, and biscuits. Her mother nodded for the tray to be placed on a side table.
    “Your daughter is a participant in the most spectacular goings-on at any ball of the last three years and you wonder why? Really, Catherine. I vow your banker has turned you quite provincial.”
    “What are you talking about?” her mother asked.
    “Did not our Abigail give London’s most eligible bachelor and Lady Dobbins’s cicisbeo a set down at Banfield’s ball last night, or did my ears hear wrong? I’m so sorry I had to miss it. Tortured, really. I would have adored the scene. And were you there when Lady Dobbins had a complete crisis over her Spanish lover’s attraction to Abigail? They said she tore apart Banfield’s supper room, sobbing hysterically and vowing to throw herself into the Thames if he did not come immediately to her. Of course, he didn’t.
    The fellow has that much sense. He can glean more out of her and her odd husband by keeping her on pins and needles.”
    “Tore apart the supper room?” her mother echoed in disbelief, even as Harrison ushered in Lady Honoria Gilbertson and her daughters Miss Jane and Miss Nanette, who were eighteen and nineteen, respectively. The Montrosses knew them from church but had never received a call from them before.
    “Yes,” Lady Gilbertson answered, jumping into the conversation without preamble. “She was knocking over tables and throwing food.”
    “And supposedly drinking a barrel of wine at the same time,” Jonesy quipped.
    Lady