Free The Christmas Secret by Julia London Page A

with an unmarried woman of his acquaintance that he’d strolled into the soiree her parents had been hosting one summer evening and carried her off, straight to a church altar and a priest. They were now, according to Mary Chambers, happily married and expecting their third child.
    Eireanne wondered if this was the way such bold things were begun, with a single bold touch. If so, she liked it.
    “I cannot miss this festive occasion, if only to see after Mr. Hannigan,” Mr. Bristol remarked.
    Eireanne laughed. “ Go maith. ”
    Mr. Bristol arched a brow. “French?”
    “Gaelic,” she said, and her smile deepened. “It means ‘good.’ ”
    He touched his knuckle to her cheek and stroked it. “ Go math. ”
    Eireanne laughed at his pronunciation. “Have a care, Mr. Bristol, lest someone mistakes you for an Irishman.”
    He grinned. His hand slid down her forearm, his fingers stroked hers a moment. “I think there are far worse things that could happen to a man,” he muttered and leaned close, his lips so near hers that she believed she could feel them. Eireanne’s eyes fluttered shut . . . and she felt his lips on her cheek. He kissed her cheek, as if it that was perfectly natural. And he lingered there, while her blood sizzled beneath his lips. “Far worse things,” he said again and smiled, gesturing to the path before them. “There is the paddock. Shall we?”
    “Yes,” she said, and with a ridiculously broad grin, she stepped forward, stumbled on a rock or some impediment, and quickly righted herself. And then she floated beside him, to the paddock, said good day to him there, and floated back to the house, her head full of Christmas and a pair of shining brown eyes.

Chapter Five
     
    On Christmas Eve, after the family returned from church services, Henry was invited to a quiet family meal that, for once, did not include the Hannigan clan. The house had been decorated with wreaths and boughs of holly, bound together with red ribbons, as well as sprigs of mistletoe. It seemed an intimate family gathering, and Henry felt a bit conspicuous in their midst, but Mrs. Sullivan assured him he was most welcome. However, the evening was not lively as he’d envisioned, and he wondered if this was what Erin considered “festive.”
    After the meal, when they had repaired to the salon, Lord Donnelly lit a single candle, which Eireanne placed in the large front window.
    “It is to light the holy family’s way,” Mrs. Sullivan explained to Henry.
    When the candle had been placed, a footman carried a platter of food—duck and potatoes, left over from supper—to the window and placed it on the table near the candle.
    “For Mary and Joseph,” Mrs. Sullivan added. “And any other weary traveler on this night.”
    “Ah,” Henry said.
    “When I was a child, I was always very cross with Mary and Joseph,” Erin said. “I believed Mary and Joseph had come and eaten all our food.”
    Donnelly laughed at that. “I have enjoyed some of my finest Christmas feasts in the wee hours of Christmas morning, all for the sake of your amusement, muirnín. I did not know you’d missed the point of it all.”
    “What traditions do you practice, Mr. Bristol?” Lady Donnelly asked.
    Henry grinned. “None that require the leaving of a perfectly good slice of duck breast on a plate,” he said, and they laughed with him. “And nothing as endearing as this,” he added. “Up until the last Christmas, my brother and father and I looked forward to the hunt for the wild turkey more than anything, I think.”
    “A turkey!” Mrs. Sullivan said. “What sort of ritual is that?”
    “It is a ritual for three proud men who refuse to be bested by a turkey,” Henry said. “You’ve never seen a turkey as big as this, I’d wager. When he spread his tail, it was four feet across. His snood,” he said, gesturing to his nose at the point where the flesh of a turkey’s snood would hang, “was six inches long. He was the finest