The Christmas Secret by Julia London

pleasantly shrewd and saw through a man’s flirtations.
    She was not like any other woman he’d known, really. She was, Henry mused, refreshingly unique. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss the woman like he’d never wanted anything in his life. But he’d kept from it, reminding himself that he was a guest in this house, that he was indebted to Donnelly for what he was learning and would not compromise Donnelly’s sister as his thank-you. No, Henry would have to keep his desires and his regard for her tucked away, a most precious souvenir of his time in Ireland.
    At the appointed time of two that afternoon, Henry arrived at the main house dressed in formal coattails. A new candle was burning in the window of the salon, and a wreath of holly had been hung on the door. As he stepped into the foyer, he could smell something that made his mouth water.
    “Welcome!”
    He turned toward the voice of Lady Donnelly. She swept out of the grand salon. She looked radiant, her smile glowing. “ Nollaig Shona duit, ” she said happily, gesturing to the salon.
    “Merry Christmas,” he responded, hoping that was the appropriate response, and followed her into the salon. A blazing fire chased the chill from the room. Erin was standing on a small stool, arranging some boughs of holly on the hearth’s mantel. She was even lovelier than he’d thought before, in her gown of ruby velvet, and a shawl hung loosely from her arms. She’d put her hair up for the occasion, and it was held in place by several small pins, tipped in rubies, that caught the firelight and glittered at him.
    The room itself was twinkling with the light of dozens of candles. But even with the smell of beeswax, Henry could smell apple cider.
    “Mr. Bristol, I did not see you enter. Nollaig Shona duit!” Erin called out to him and hopped down from the stool.
    “Nully hun a dit,” he tried, and Erin laughed.
    “The Gaelic is a bit cumbersome, aye? Happy Christmas, sir. Would you like some wassail?”
    Henry glanced at the bowl. “Wassail,” he repeated skeptically.
    “Mulled cider,” she clarified. “It’s an English drink. When Keira’s cousin, Lily Boudine, was sent to live with the Hannigans many years ago, she insisted that she have her Christmas wassail. It seems we’ve all adopted it. It’s rather good. You haven’t had mulled cider?”
    “No,” he said. “We drink egg nog during the Christmas season. It’s a drink made of milk and egg and, if one is fortunate, a bit of whiskey.”
    Erin grinned. “Then I think you will like our wassail very much.”
    “I need no further invitation.” He watched her cross the room. Or rather, he watched her hips and slender back cross the room. She poured him a cup and offered it to him.
    Henry sipped and made a sound of pleasant surprise. The drink was potent. “Mulled,” he said, “is an interesting choice of word to describe this.”
    Erin laughed. “There, you see? Something festive.” She twirled about, her arms outstretched. “What do you think?”
    “Beautiful,” he said sincerely. He could not tear his gaze from her, the flush in her cheeks, the bright glimmer in her eyes. How was it, he wondered, that she grew more comely every day?
    “I meant the décor,” she said.
    Henry smiled. “Only adequate in comparison.”
    Erin laughed, but she was blushing, and she nervously touched the small cross that hung just above an enticing décolletage. “More wassail?”
    “That seems a bit dangerous. Perhaps later.”
    Erin filled a cup for herself, then inclined her head and held out her cup. “A very happy Christmas, Mr. Bristol.”
    He touched his cup to hers.
    “Here we are!” Lady Donnelly called behind them, sweeping into the room and hurrying to the window. “Eireanne, you will not believe me when I tell you that the O’Shayshave come! They swore they’d not cross the threshold of Ballynaheath again.”
    “Surely you did not believe Margaret O’Shay could possibly keep away,