“You know I’ll never accept that,” was his stubborn and not unexpected reply.

She sighed now. “I know.”

“But I’ll make the effort you want and try to ignore you during the day—at least when my family is around.”

She almost laughed. It was damned hard, getting him to concede anything these days, at least on this subject. She supposed she was going to have to take what she could get—for now.

Chapter 6

WHEN JAMES ENTERED THE BREAKFAST ROOM THAT morning, it was to varied reactions. Those who hadn’t known that he’d arrived started cheerful greetings that sputtered to an end as they got a good look at his face. Those who did know of his arrival and what subsequently followed it were either tactfully silent, grinning from ear to ear, or foolish enough to remark on it.

Jeremy fell into the middle and latter categories when he said with a chuckle, “Well, I know the poor Christmas tree didn’t do that to you, though you did try valiantly to chop it down to size.”

“And succeeded, as I recall,” James grouched, though he did think to ask, “Was it salvageable, puppy?”

“Minus a few of its feathers is all, but those pretty little candles will dress it up so as not to notice—at least if someone other than me finishes the task. I’m much better at hanging the mistletoe.”

“And making good use of it,” Amy noted with a fond smile for her handsome cousin.

Jeremy winked at her. “That goes without saying.”

Jeremy had turned twenty-five not too long ago and had turned out to be a charming scamp. Ironically, he so resembled his Uncle Anthony that he was nearly a mirror image of Anthony in his younger years. But then rather than taking after his own father, Jeremy had gained the cobalt blue eyes and black hair that only a few of the Malorys had possessed, those who took after the ancestor rumored to have been a Gypsy.

The mention of mistletoe and the use it was most noted for put James back into his sour mood, because he knew he wouldn’t be doing any kissing under the festive greenery this year himself, not with his wife refusing to come to Haverston with him because of her sour mood. Bloody hell. He would get this settled between them, one way or another. Taking his frustration with the situation out on Anthony hadn’t helped—well, perhaps it had a little.

Warren, still staring at the splendid black eye and several cuts on his face, remarked, “Hate to see what the other fellow looks like,” which James supposed was a compliment of sorts, since Warren had personal experience of his fists from numerous occasions himself.

“Like to congratulate the other fellow myself,” Nicholas said with a smirk, which got him a kick under the table from his wife.

James nodded to Reggie. “Appreciate it, m’dear. My feet wouldn’t reach.”

To which she blushed that her kick had been noticed. And Nicholas, still wincing, managed a scowl, which turned out rather comical looking, considering the two expressions didn’t mix all that well.