A Match Made in Mistletoe

“At least you don’t insult me by pretending to misunderstand.”

Giles sighed and turned toward the sideboard. “Would you like a drink?”

“No.”

“She doesn’t want me.” Giles poured another brandy. He had a grim inkling he might need it. “She wants you.”

“That’s right.”

Moving deliberately, pretending that a row with his best friend wasn’t imminent, he turned. “You know, old pal, that overweening confidence might get you into trouble.”

“You’d like to think so.”

Actually Giles offered the advice without self-interest. Or not much. He’d never had a chance with Serena. Even less after today. He shrugged. “Just warning you.”

Paul stepped closer, his shoulders straight and his hands forming fists at his sides. “And I’m warning you—stay away from the woman I intend to marry, or bloody well take the consequences.”

Despite the confrontation’s seriousness, Giles gave a derisive snort. “You might have been able to beat me in a physical contest when we were boys, Garside. But I wouldn’t be too sure that’s the case now.”

Anger narrowed Paul’s eyes. “You’re proving a pest, Hallam. I saw you go riding with Serena this morning, and I’ll wager you chased her into the church the day before. Nobody in their right mind would believe that you’ve turned into a musty, fusty antiquarian. Credit me with some intelligence.”

Unfortunately, he did. People might see the large, benevolent baronet, and mistake his easygoing nature for stupidity. Giles had never made that error.

Despite wisdom counseling retreat, he taunted his rival. “How do you explain her sudden interest in my company?”

“That’s simple. She’s trying to raise the stakes before she says yes to marrying me. No woman likes to be won too easily. In her opinion, a little jealousy will do me good.”

The hell of it was that Paul was right.

“Serena is

as pure as the day we met,” Giles said curtly. Paul didn’t need to know that was thanks to Giles dredging up some barely maintained strength of character.

“Of course she is.” Paul brushed the statement aside. “She knows as well as I do that we’re meant to be together.”

“So why are you worried?” Giles stifled the unworthy impulse to tell Paul how Serena had begged for his kisses.

But then she’d made it clear that Paul Garside was her choice. Not much of a triumph for Giles, after all.

“I’m not worried. I just don’t like to see you making a fool of yourself.”

“So kind,” Giles said drily.

“You’ve always had an eye for her. I can’t blame you. She’s a pretty girl.” Paul sounded a little more conciliatory. For a second there, Giles had worried that his best friend meant to thump him. Or worse, shoot him at dawn.

That would spoil everyone’s Christmas.

“Nothing’s set in stone,” Giles said, risking a return of his friend’s belligerence.

But Paul’s temper had subsided, and he was again his affable, supremely assured self. “The engagement has been planned since she was in the cradle.”

“These last years in London, you haven’t behaved like an engaged man.”

Paul’s laugh was short. “A man has a right to enjoy his freedom. None of those women meant anything. I intend to be a faithful husband. So if you’re hoping to sniff around a betrayed wife, you’re wasting your time. Serena will have no cause to complain of my straying.”

Giles bit back his own temper. Something inside him, probably the sour residue of failure, screamed that this practical marriage left Serena shortchanged. Paul was fond of Serena—might actually love her. If he did, he wouldn’t confess that to a friend. Even less to a rival.

“She deserves to be happy.”