Her wide, blue eyes blinked, the smallest of furrows appearing between her trim brows. He watched as her throat worked, and noted, for the first time, what a slender, pale, elegant throat it was. She wore a small gold cross there, and the cross itself sat tucked rather neatly right in the notch at the base. Why that should attract his attention, he couldn’t say, but attracted he was, and it took all his power not to lower his eyes to that maddening cross to examine it further.

Much safer to stay with her eyes, swirling with confusion, distaste, and a hint of, dare he say it, interest. Fascinated by him, was she? Well, if she stopped attempting to have him beheaded at every waking moment, she might truly have something to be interested in.

And those eyes the color of a fair sky in winter might look a little less cold and a little less indignant.

Merciful heavens, was he finding attractive features in Elinor Asheley? He might have to speak to that Perry uncle of theirs, if the man was in holy orders. Clearly, Hugh Sterling had been overpowered by a demon.

No, that wasn’t fair. Elinor Asheley was an attractive woman, as any man with eyes would attest. It was only the snarling manner of her nature that kept anyone from feeling the need to do so.

Or the ability to.

“Well, Miss Asheley?” he pressed, not entirely sure why he was doing so. He only knew that her answer mattered in some way.

Somehow.

Elinor wet her lips carefully, then straightened. “A person can change, certainly, and redemption is possible. For some.”

He almost smiled at her caveat, but somehow, he managed to avoid it.

“The only question I have,” she continued, her eyes flashing with an intriguing light as they stayed on his, “is the quality and sincerity of that change. What is to prevent a person from changing yet again? Perhaps into something far worse.” She quirked a daring brow, her lips forming an impetuous line.

Oh, she was clever, and this time he had to smile, just a little. “Or into something far better.”

The furrow between her brows deepened into an outright scowl, despite the fact that all of the other women in the room were nodding in agreement with him. Or perhaps because they were nodding in agreement.

Hugh raised a brow back at her, echoing hers to him.

He watched the fiery woman inhale, then exhale with would-be calm before pasting a bland smile on her face.

“Mr. Partlowe,” she said suddenly, “you’re an educated man.”

Her brother-in-law seemed surprised to be addressed and looked up from his focused work on the boughs in his lap.

“I like to think so,” he carefully replied.

Elinor raised the bunch of mistletoe in her lap, tilting her head in question. “When did the hanging of mistletoe begin?”

Mr. Partlowe thought for a moment. “Well,” he eventually began, “the practice of gathering mistletoe at all in England started in the second century by ancient druids, as far as we know. At the beginning of winter, they gathered the plant from what they considered to be the sacred oak. It was seen as a symbol in that culture, one of harmony, hope, and peace.”