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“Brilliant,” he repeated in a daze. “And…when ye say it works…?”

“Havenae been attacked by a bat yet today, milord!”

Demon hummed. “Could that be, Mrs. Kettel, because ye work indoors during daylight?”

“Could be, could be!” She winked and rapped her knuckles against the helmet again. “Could also be because of the helmet. Bats cannae find me.”

“Aye, I’m certain that’s it,” he muttered. “Well, I shall look forward to the non-dangerous mutton this evening, and—”

Before he could take his leave, his housekeeper interrupted. “Actually, milord, I had something to ask ye.”

Her uncharacteristic hesitation stayed his steps. “What is it, Mrs. Kettel?”

With the statuesque cat standing behind him—where “statuesque” meant “as still as a statue” and not “built like a statue,” because what kind of mendacious wank-weasel would build a statue of a fat, stubborn cat?—Demon watched his housekeeper fiddle with the withered onion on her belt.

“Is it the sheep?” he prompted, trying to hurry her along. He was on his way out to the stables. “The bats?”

“It’s Lady Georgia,” she blurted.

Demon’s gut clenched. “What is it? Is she well?” Nay, he’d seen her only a few hours before, when he’d gone to her room. She couldn’t be hurt or ill. She must be… “Has she told ye she regrets coming to Endymion?” Regrets the contract she’d negotiated. The contract he found both a curse and a blessing. “She misses her home?”

But Mrs. Kettel was shaking her head. “Nay, milord. She…” Locking her gaze on the middle of his chest, she blurted out, “She wants Christmas.”

“Well, she cannae have Christmas. It belongs to everyone.”

“Nay, I think…” His housekeeper sighed. “She wants to celebrate Christmas here. She wants us to celebrate Christmas.”

His answer was bold, blunt, and immediate. “Nay.”

“She seemed determined to convince ye, milord.”

“Then I shall tell her the same thing.”

He was turning on his heels when her quiet comment stopped him. “It might be fun, milord. We havenae celebrated since—since…”

“Since I returned, aye,” he growled, swinging around to face her. “But I am the baron, Mrs. Kettel, and I do no’ care to celebrate Christmas.” Scowling, Demon flapped his hand through the air, gesturing at the peeling wallpaper and dusty corners. “Fripperies and useless decorations and-and cheer.”

To his surprise, his housekeeper set her chin mulishly and met his eyes. “Good food and laughter and joy, master. That’s what all that means.”

Joy.

Had joy been missing from his life?

Aye, certainly. But since Georgia’s arrival…

Ye’re getting regular cunny. That sensation is satiation, no’ joy.

Nay, not just the sex. It was her. Absentmindedly, he scratched his chest, where the scars had long ago ceased to bother him. So why was he feeling so itchy today?

“It could be fun, milord,” said Mrs. Kettel quietly, watching his expression. “We have no’ had much fun in the last few years, and neither have ye.”

“Ye’re saying ye and Mary and Bruno and Angus want Christmas as well?”

She shrugged lightly. “Mary and I would enjoy it. ‘Tis hard to tell with Angus, and the boy likely willnae notice a difference, but he used to enjoy my mulled cider when I made it for Hogmanay.”

Hogmanay. When Georgia would be leaving Endymion, her father’s debt repaid.

Leaving him.