Read Online 'Twas the Night After Christmas by Sabrina Jeffries - Free Book Online
Authors: Sabrina Jeffries
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fine for so short a period.”
“Good,” his mother said with a hint of belligerence. “Because I think a tree would make the holiday truly lovely.”
Casting him a shuttered glance, Mrs. Stuart sipped some wine. “I agree. It sounds like a perfectly charming custom.”
“And an expensive one, given its short duration.” Which wasprobably the point. He faced his mother. “How much will this cost me, anyway? You’ll need baubles and candles for your precious tree, not to mention—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Pierce. I have all that already. The baubles, as you call them, are the same ones I store in the attic every year.”
That caught him entirely off guard. He’d expected her to disguise a request for funds by saying it was for her precious tree. “You want nothing purchased for this tree?” he persisted, ignoring Mrs. Stuart’s smug smile.
“Certainly not. The point is to perpetuate the traditions of one’s family. My glass ornaments come from your grandmother, and the other decorations are fruit and nuts, all of which can be found here on the estate, even the candles.” She brightened. “Oh, and paper cutouts! We must do those. Don’t you remember, Pierce? We used to cut tiny little angels—”
“I remember,” he said bitterly. “Trust me, I remember only too well.” When the two women lapsed into an awkward silence, he added, “But in case you haven’t noticed, Mother, I’ve grown too big for angels. Devils are more my style.”
“Ah, but I don’t think devils are a good idea for a Christmas tree,” Mrs. Stuart put in, as if to draw his fire.
He turned toward her with a challenging glance. “And why is that?”
She didn’t waver. “Well, for one thing, pitchforks are exceedingly difficult to cut out.”
He blinked, then gave a rueful laugh. Damn the woman, but she made it hard to stay annoyed. And when she stared athim with a silent plea in her eyes, he relented for the moment.
Relaxing back against his chair, he took a sip of wine. “You’d feel differently if you’d ever tried cutting out a tiny halo, Mrs. Stuart. Or stars, for that matter. Mine always ended up round, which goes against every rule of star artistry.” He leaned close to say in a confiding tone, “Apparently, they’re expected to have points.”
“Are they?” she said brightly. “Then clearly I shall have to stick to moons. Those are allowed to be round.”
“Ah, but would you put a moon on a Christmas tree?” he asked. “The three wise men following the moon doesn’t have quite the same effect.”
“And it’s not in the Bible besides,” she said, clearly struggling not to smile.
“I wouldn’t know,” he drawled. “That’s not a book I’m terribly familiar with.”
“A fact that you regularly demonstrate to the world,” his mother said archly.
He stiffened. He’d almost managed to forget she was there. “Yes. I do.” He stared her down. “Every chance I get.”
He was on the verge of pointing out that if she’d wanted some say in his behavior, she should have stayed to see him grow up, when Mrs. Stuart broke in. “In any case, since his lordship won’t be here to join us in decorating the tree, I will be eager to assist you, my lady.”
“That would be lovely,” Mother said.
“And then perhaps his lordship could come back for a day or two to see it when it’s all done,” Mrs. Stuart said in that managing voice females sometimes used. The one that didn’t work on him.
“As I said before, that’s impossible.”
His mother looked crestfallen. “You used to enjoy the season.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that she’d put an end to all that by making holidays synonymous with being unwanted. But he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
“Do whatever you wish with your tree,” he muttered, now thoroughly annoyed again. He drenched a chunk of beef in gravy and devoured it. “Just leave me out of it. My days of relishing such mundane pleasures are
“Good,” his mother said with a hint of belligerence. “Because I think a tree would make the holiday truly lovely.”
Casting him a shuttered glance, Mrs. Stuart sipped some wine. “I agree. It sounds like a perfectly charming custom.”
“And an expensive one, given its short duration.” Which wasprobably the point. He faced his mother. “How much will this cost me, anyway? You’ll need baubles and candles for your precious tree, not to mention—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Pierce. I have all that already. The baubles, as you call them, are the same ones I store in the attic every year.”
That caught him entirely off guard. He’d expected her to disguise a request for funds by saying it was for her precious tree. “You want nothing purchased for this tree?” he persisted, ignoring Mrs. Stuart’s smug smile.
“Certainly not. The point is to perpetuate the traditions of one’s family. My glass ornaments come from your grandmother, and the other decorations are fruit and nuts, all of which can be found here on the estate, even the candles.” She brightened. “Oh, and paper cutouts! We must do those. Don’t you remember, Pierce? We used to cut tiny little angels—”
“I remember,” he said bitterly. “Trust me, I remember only too well.” When the two women lapsed into an awkward silence, he added, “But in case you haven’t noticed, Mother, I’ve grown too big for angels. Devils are more my style.”
“Ah, but I don’t think devils are a good idea for a Christmas tree,” Mrs. Stuart put in, as if to draw his fire.
He turned toward her with a challenging glance. “And why is that?”
She didn’t waver. “Well, for one thing, pitchforks are exceedingly difficult to cut out.”
He blinked, then gave a rueful laugh. Damn the woman, but she made it hard to stay annoyed. And when she stared athim with a silent plea in her eyes, he relented for the moment.
Relaxing back against his chair, he took a sip of wine. “You’d feel differently if you’d ever tried cutting out a tiny halo, Mrs. Stuart. Or stars, for that matter. Mine always ended up round, which goes against every rule of star artistry.” He leaned close to say in a confiding tone, “Apparently, they’re expected to have points.”
“Are they?” she said brightly. “Then clearly I shall have to stick to moons. Those are allowed to be round.”
“Ah, but would you put a moon on a Christmas tree?” he asked. “The three wise men following the moon doesn’t have quite the same effect.”
“And it’s not in the Bible besides,” she said, clearly struggling not to smile.
“I wouldn’t know,” he drawled. “That’s not a book I’m terribly familiar with.”
“A fact that you regularly demonstrate to the world,” his mother said archly.
He stiffened. He’d almost managed to forget she was there. “Yes. I do.” He stared her down. “Every chance I get.”
He was on the verge of pointing out that if she’d wanted some say in his behavior, she should have stayed to see him grow up, when Mrs. Stuart broke in. “In any case, since his lordship won’t be here to join us in decorating the tree, I will be eager to assist you, my lady.”
“That would be lovely,” Mother said.
“And then perhaps his lordship could come back for a day or two to see it when it’s all done,” Mrs. Stuart said in that managing voice females sometimes used. The one that didn’t work on him.
“As I said before, that’s impossible.”
His mother looked crestfallen. “You used to enjoy the season.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to point out that she’d put an end to all that by making holidays synonymous with being unwanted. But he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
“Do whatever you wish with your tree,” he muttered, now thoroughly annoyed again. He drenched a chunk of beef in gravy and devoured it. “Just leave me out of it. My days of relishing such mundane pleasures are
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