A Seduction at Christmas by Cathy Maxwell

pleasant thoughts were abruptly ended as he spit a mouthful of porridge at her. It hit the side of her chin and the bodice of her neck.
    Fiona came to her feet. “That is disgusting,” she said, taking up the closest thing at hand, his neckcloth, and wiping herself clean. This was her best day dress. She didn’t want it ruined.
    Holburn laughed with triumph. “I don’t like porridge,” he reiterated.
    “Right now, I don’t like you,” Fiona returned.
    “The feeling is mutual,” he countered, and would have said more except that she put the neck cloth to good use. She stuffed the whole thing in his mouth as he prepared to crow again over his actions.
    His brows came up in surprise. He tried to spit the neck cloth out but she’d stuffed it well into his mouth. He wasn’t going to make another noise.
    “Your rudeness earned you that,” she informed primly. “And you can go without your breakfast, too.” She picked up her bowl and spoon and left the room.
    Tad wanted to follow. “Sit,” she said and the dog reluctantly went back to his duties.
    The truth was, Tad wasn’t that good of a watch dog. He was more of a lover than a fighter, but the duke didn’t need to know that.
    Grace anxiously waited in the other room. “What happened?” she whispered.
    “The beast spit porridge on me,” Fiona said, irked beyond common sense. She found a cloth and began dabbing at the stains on her bodice. Her hands seemed covered in the sticky gruel andshe could feel it dry on her face. She moved over to the last of the fresh water in the bucket.
    “I can’t believe I stayed up all night to clean his clothes,” she complained bitterly. “Or saved his life. I should have tossed him to the Irishmen. Then perhaps he’d have a little bit more respect.”
    She turned to see Grace standing with her hand to her forehead. “What is it?” Fiona asked her friend.
    Grace dropped her hand, coming over to her to say, “Let him go, Fiona. This is too dangerous. He’s too bold for you.”
    From beyond the curtain came the sounds of Holburn’s frustration. The cot bounced on the floor as he tried to free himself.
    Fiona walked over to peek through the curtain. Her knots were holding.
    Dropping the curtain, she said to Grace, “I might have agreed with you earlier. However, his spitting the porridge has made me angry. Holburn needs to be taught a lesson so he doesn’t continue to carry on like a spoiled toddler. And I’m just the woman to do it, ” Fiona announced, raising her voice on those last words and directing them in the duke’s direction.
    He made an angry, muffled response.
    “Wait,” Grace said slowly, the worry lines across her forehead easing. She held up a hand as if begging a moment’s tolerance. “You are enjoying this.”
    “I am not,” Fiona answered, ducking under the clothes line to carry the porridge bowl to the cabinet.
    “You are ,” Grace insisted, following. She shook her head. “Fiona, you must be careful.”
    “I am being careful,” Fiona answered. “And I will have my five hundred pounds.”
    “I don’t know about that,” Grace said.
    Fiona turned to her. There was a funny note in her friend’s voice. “What are you saying?”
    Grace shook her head. “Nothing. Then again, matters are complicated between men and women. I might be wrong, but I think you are interested in more than just the five hundred pounds.”
    Heat warmed Fiona’s cheeks. “There can be nothing between me and the duke. You are being fanciful.”
    “Am I?” Grace smiled with a certainty borne of experience. “Well, we shall see. In the meantime, I have a rehearsal. I’m afraid I can’t return until after tonight’s performance. Will you be all right?”
    “Of course I will,” Fiona answered, almost anxious to see Grace gone. Her friend was too wise in the ways of the world. She understood more than Fiona had yet comprehended for herself.
    “Don’t let him frighten you,” Grace advised. “Keep him