Warmth Of Christmas Quotes

All four of us gasped at the same time—the tree reached the ceiling and curled down at least a foot! What were we to do now?

The light of the Christmas star to you. The warmth of home and hearth to you. The cheer and goodwill of friends to you. The hope of a child-like heart to you. The joy of a thousand angels to you. The love of the Son and God's peace to you.

If the Angels won, the entire Earth would be nothing but one giant Christmas frickin' morning, a choking wave of happiness and warmth and caring and sharing taking over everything.

Snowflakes swirl down gently in the deep blue haze beyond the window. The outside world is a dream. Inside, the fireplace is brightly lit, and the Yule log crackles with orange and crimson sparks. There’s a steaming mug in your hands, warming your fingers. There’s a friend seated across from you in the cozy chair, warming your heart. There is mystery unfolding.

Christmas! The very word brings joy to our hearts. No matter how we may dread the rush, the long Christmas lists for gifts and cards to be bought and given--when Christmas Day comes there is still the same warm feeling we had as children, the same warmth that enfolds our hearts and our homes.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty.

I love making homemade Christmas decorations and gifts. As I set out the decorations I’ve made, I get nostalgic remembering sitting at the table so long ago and making them. With each stitch I knit or photo I place, I have the joy of thinking about the gift and the person I made it for.

As a child, we sang those precious songs at church and school. At home, we sang along with the singers on the Lawrence Welk Christmas show, and there used to be so many Christmas specials—Andy Williams and Perry Como. I loved the bouncing ball on the Mitch Miller sing-along show. And of course, we watched “The Ed Sullivan Show” weekly and loved his Christmas special. I never grew tired of them.

The Frays had never been a religiously observant family, but Clary loved Fifth Avenue at Christmas time. The air smelled like sweet roasted chestnuts, and the window displays sparkled with silver and blue, green and red. This year there were fat round crystal snowflakes attached to each lamppost, sending back the winter sunlight in shafts of gold. Not to mention the huge tree at Rockefeller Center. It threw its shadow across them as she and Simon draped themselves over the gate at the side of the skating rink, watching tourists fall down as they tried to navigate the ice. Clary had a hot chocolate wrapped in her hands, the warmth spreading through her body. She felt almost normal—this, coming to Fifth to see the window displays and the tree, had been a winter tradition for her and Simon for as long as she could remember. “Feels like old times, doesn’t it?” he said, echoing her thoughts as he propped his chin on his folded arms. She chanced a sideways look at him. He was wearing a black topcoat and scarf that emphasized the winter pallor of his skin. His eyes were shadowed, indicating that he hadn’t fed on blood recently. He looked like what he was—a hungry, tired vampire. Well, she thought. Almost like old times. “More people to buy presents for,” she said. “Plus, the always traumatic what-to-buy-someone-for-the-first-Christmas-after-you’ve-started-dating question.” “What to get the Shadowhunter who has everything,” Simon said with a grin. “Jace mostly likes weapons,” Clary sighed. “He likes books, but they have a huge library at the Institute. He likes classical music …” She brightened. Simon was a musician; even though his band was terrible, and was always changing their name—currently they were Lethal Soufflé—he did have training. “What would you give someone who likes to play the piano?” “A piano.” “Simon.” “A really huge metronome that could also double as a weapon?” Clary sighed, exasperated. “Sheet music. Rachmaninoff is tough stuff, but he likes a challenge.” “Now you’re talking. I’m going to see if there’s a music store around here.” Clary, done with her hot chocolate, tossed the cup into a nearby trash can and pulled her phone out. “What about you? What are you giving Isabelle?” “I have absolutely no idea,” Simon said. They had started heading toward the avenue, where a steady stream of pedestrians gawking at the windows clogged the streets. “Oh, come on. Isabelle’s easy.” “That’s my girlfriend you’re talking about.” Simon’s brows drew together. “I think. I’m not sure. We haven’t discussed it. The relationship, I mean.” “You really have to DTR, Simon.” “What?” “Define the relationship. What it is, where it’s going. Are you boyfriend and girlfriend, just having fun, ‘it’s complicated,’ or what? When’s she going to tell her parents? Are you allowed to see other people?” Simon blanched. “What? Seriously?” “Seriously. In the meantime—perfume!” Clary grabbed Simon by the back of his coat and hauled him into a cosmetics store that had once been a bank. It was massive on the inside, with rows of gleaming bottles everywhere. “And something unusual,” she said, heading for the fragrance area. “Isabelle isn’t going to want to smell like everyone else. She’s going to want to smell like figs, or vetiver, or—” “Figs? Figs have a smell?” Simon looked horrified; Clary was about to laugh at him when her phone buzzed. It was her mother. where are you? It’s an emergency.

I hate Christmas. Everything is designed for families, romance, warmth, emotion and presents, and if you have no boyfriend, no money, your mother is going out with a missing Portuguese criminal and your friends don't want to be your friend anymore, it makes you want to emigrate to a vicious Muslim regime, where at least all the women are treated like social outcasts. Anyway, I don't care. I am going to quietly read a book all weekend and listen to classical music.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely and Scrooge never did.

In another Christmas story, Dale Pearson, evil developer, self-absorbed woman hater, and seemingly unredeemable curmudgeon, might be visited in the night by a series of ghosts who, by showing him bleak visions of Christmas future, past, and present, would bring about in him a change to generosity, kindness, and a general warmth toward his fellow man. But this is not that kind of Christmas story, so here, in not too many pages, someone is going to dispatch the miserable son of a bitch with a shovel. That's the spirit of Christmas yet to come in these parts. Ho, ho, ho.

Christmas is a blanket that warms our cold hearts.

No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty.

Merry Christmas!' someone shouted. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. 'Merry Christmas!' 'Merry Christmas!' 'C-cookies for ever'body!' Sammy hollered. And looking both ways, they all fled across to the light, and the warmth, and the books, and the mystery.

Great and terrible was the year of Our Lord 1918, of the Revolution the second. Its summer abundant with warmth and sun, its winter and snow, highest in its heaven stood two stars: the shepherds' star, eventide Venus; and Mars- quivering, red. But in days of blood and of peace the years fly like an arrow and the thick frost of a hoary white December, season of Christmas trees, Santa Claus, joy and glittering snow, overtook the young Turbins unawares. For the reigning head of the family, their adored mother, was no longer with them.

The cold seemed less relentless now. The small circle of white light from my bedside lamp and its hint of the dawn to come seemed to drive the worst of the chill away and the hot tea did the rest, as I lay and read further into the life of the young woman in the bravado coat.

There was a moment when any hope within me froze solid and I was finally emptied of all energy to fight the cold. And at the very point of that very surrender, when I became convinced that I must bow to a world that would be forever frigid, God cupped the hands of my soul and poured in the warmth of Christmas.

With the music of our singing in the background, I looked at the church candles and thought about the surreal connection between images and memory. The peaceful and joyous candles flickering there during the Christmas ceremony projected warmth, comfort, and familiarity – even though thy emitted the same kind of fiery energy as the flames caused by the war.

The familiar warmth from the church saturated his heart. Was this what Mom meant by Christmas joy?

It was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when they flung the door open. In the fore-court, lit by the dim rays of a horn lantern, some eight or ten little field-mice stood in a semicircle, red worsted comforters round their throats, their fore-paws thrust deep into their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth. With bright beady eyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggering a little, sniffing and applying coat-sleeves a good deal. As the door opened, one of the elder ones that carried the lantern was just saying, "Now then, one, two, three!" and forthwith their shrill little voices uprose on the air, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed in fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snow-bound in chimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the miry street to lamp-lit windows at Yule-time.

We are far from liking London well enough till we like its defects: the dense darkness of much of its winter, the soot on the chimney-pots and everywhere else, the early lamplight, the brown blur of the houses, the splashing of hansoms in Oxford Street or the Strand on December afternoons. There is still something that recalls to me the enchantment of children—the anticipation of Christmas, the delight of a holiday walk—in the way the shop-fronts shine into the fog. It makes each of them seem a little world of light and warmth, and I can still waste time in looking at them with dirty Bloomsbury on one side and dirtier Soho on the other.

Right now I am like the unborn baby in the womb, knowing nothing except the comforting warmth of the amniotic fluid in which I swim, the comforting nourishment entering my body from a source I cannot see or understand. My whole being comes from an unseen, unknown nurturer. By that nurturer I am totally loved and protected, and that love is forever. It does not end when I am precipitated out of the safe waters of the womb into the unsafe world. It will. It end when I breathe my last, mortal breath. That love manifested itself joyously in the creation of the universe, became particular for us in Jesus, and will show itself most gloriously in the Second Coming. We need not fear.

I am Sally Skellington, the Pumpkin Queen." There is warmth in my chest now, heat and fury and anger. "But I was born in Dream Town." The words feel like their won conjuring, a spell, a ritual or bedtime riddle to cast things into the stars and make them true. I feel suddenly awake and alive, a woman who isn't simply a rag doll, but a ruler who has traveled to all the realms, even the human world, to set things right. Who feels a spark, a wrath growing inside her.

We are entrusted, you must know, with the revision of the English Dictionary. On the evidence of the Liverpool find of Christmas cards, in which occurred such couplets as: Just to hope the day keeps fine For you and your this Christmas time, and: I hope this stocking's in your line When stars shine bright at Christmas-time I hold that "Christmas-time" was often pronounced "Christmas-tine", and that this is a dialect variant of the older "Christmas-tide". Quant denies this, with a warmth that is unusual in him.' 'Quant is right.

THE HOUSE OF PAIN Unto the Prison House of Pain none willingly repair, — The bravest who an entrance gain Reluctant linger there, For Pleasure, passing by that door, stays not to cheer the sight. And Sympathy but muffles sound and banishes the light. Yet in the Prison House of Pain things full of beauty blow, — Like Christmas-roses, which attain Perfection 'mid the snow, — Love, entering, in his mild warmth the darkest shadows melt, And often, where the hush is deep, the waft of wings is felt. Ah, me ! the Prison House of Pain ! — what lessons there are bought ! — Lessons of a sublimer strain Than any elsewhere taught, — Amid its loneliness and gloom, grave meanings grow more clear, For to no earthly dwelling-place seems God so strangely near !

It was Christmas Day and Danny the Car Wiper hit the street junksick and broke after seventy-two hours in the precinct jail. It was a clear bright day, but there was warmth in the sun. Danny shivered with an inner cold. He turned up the collar of his worn, greasy black overcoat. This beat benny wouldn't pawn for a deuce, he thought.

But I did know that nobody ever asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Had any adult with the power to fulfill my desires taken me seriously and asked me what I wanted, they would have known that I did not want to have anything to own, or to possess any object. I wanted rather to feel something on Christmas day. The real question would have been, "Dear Claudia, what experience would you like on Christmas?" I could have spoken up, "I want to sit on the low stool in Big Mama's kitchen with my lap full of lilacs and listen to Big Papa play his violin for me alone." The lowness of the stool made for my body, the security and warmth of Big Mama's kitchen, the smell of the lilacs, the sound of music, and, since it would be good to have all my senses engaged, the taste of peach, perhaps, afterward.

Fine old Christmas, with the snowy hair and ruddy face, had done his duty that year in the noblest fashion, and had set off his rich gifts of warmth and colour with all the heightening contrast of frost and snow.

They had been married for three days. Lauren stirred, moving closer to him for warmth. Careful not to disturb her, he drew the satin quilt up around her shoulders. Reverently he touched her cheek, tracing its elegant curve. Lauren had brought joy to his life and laughter to his home.She thought he was beautiful. When she looked at him, he felt beautiful. Somewhere in another part of the big house a clock began chiming the hour of midnight. Lauren's lashes slowly flickered open, and he looked into her enchanting blue eyes. "It's Christmas," he whispered. His wife smiled up at him, and her answer made his throat tighten. "No," she said softly, laying her fingers against his jaw. "Christmas came three days ago.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather

Later, after Christmas carols and a nightcap of mulled ale in front of the fire, Mole reflects on how much he has missed the warmth and security of what he once had known, all of those “friendly things which had long been unconsciously a part of him.

Charm is essential. In the last two years I’ve got to know a good many prominent politicians and they’ve all got it. Some more and some less. But they can’t all have it by nature. That shows it can be acquired. It means nothing, but it arouses the devotion of their followers so that they’ll do blindly all they’re bidden and be satisfied with the reward of a kind word. I’ve examined them at work. They can turn it on like water from a tap. The quick, friendly smile; the hand that’s so ready to clasp yours. The warmth in the voice that seems to promise favours, the show of interest that leads you to think your concerns are your leader’s chief preoccupation, the intimate manner which tells you nothing, but deludes you into thinking you are in your master’s confidence.

My rib cage clenched all of the organs and muscles within it. It pulsed, full of life and warmth and gummy bears and glitter. This was... I don't know how to explain it—it was like Christmas morning when you were a kid. It was everything I’d wanted. Each of his thumbs curved over the shells of my ears. "That's my girl." His girl. After all the crap that I'd gone through today, there couldn't have been three better words to hear. Well, there were three other words I'd like to hear but I'd take these from him. That didn't mean that he was the only one who knew how to give. He'd given enough. My bones and heart knew that there was nothing for me to fear. I loved him and sometimes there were consequences of it that were scary, but it—the emotion itself—wasn't. I knew that now. What kind of life was I living if I let my fears steer me? This was a gift I’d forgotten to appreciate lately. For so long I’d been happy to just be alive but now...now I had Dex. I had my entire life ahead of me, and I needed to quit being a wuss and grab life by the balls. In this case, I’d take his nipple piercings. “What’cha thinkin’, Ritz?” I held my hands out for him to see how badly they were shaking. “I’m thinking that I love you so much it scares me. See?” Dex's thumbs tipped my chin back so that I could look at his face—at his beautiful, scruffy face. "Baby." He said my name like a purr that reached the vertebrae of my spine. "And even though it really scares the living crap out of me, I love you, and I want you to know that. Everything you've done for me..." Oh hell. I had to let out a long gust of breath. "Thank you. You're the best thing that ever yelled at me." He murmured my name again, low and smooth. The pads of his thumbs dug a little deeper into the soft tissue on the underside of my jaw. "If all the shit I do for you, and all the shit I'd be willin' to do for you doesn't tell you how deep you've snuck into me, honey, then I'll tell you." He lowered his mouth right next to my ear, his teeth nipping at my lobe before he whispered, "Love you." The feeling that swamped me was indescribable. He gave me hope. This big, ex-felon with a temper, reminded me of how strong I was, and then made me stronger on top of it. "Dex," I exhaled his name. He nipped my ear again. "I love you, Ritz." The scruff of his jaw scraped my own before he bit it gently. "Love your fuckin' face, your that's what she said jokes, your dorky ass high-fives and your arm, but I really fuckin' love how much of a little shit you are. You got nuts bigger than your brother, baby." I choked out a laugh. Dex tipped my head back even further, holding the weight on his long fingers as he bit the curve of my chin. "And those are gonna be my nuts, you little bad ass." Fire shot straight through my chest. "Yeah?" I panted. "Yeah." He nodded, biting my chin even harder. "I already told you I keep what's mine.

He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas. External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often “came down” handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

Winter had stripped the garden and grounds to their bones. Dead grass crunched beneath Michael’s boots as he and Ada walked toward the ruin. Easy to see why Christmas would be necessary at this time of year. Warmth and green seemed like far memories. But the holiday could provide a welcome break from the relentless gray and chill.

He wipes away the tear streaming down my cotton cheekbone to my chin and looks at me like his own chest is about to fracture. And for a moment, I'm certain they should just bury us both here, at the center of the graveyard. Married and died on the same day. Unable to contain the unspeakable, awful, wondrous emotion breaking against our eyelids. The dreadful residents of Halloween Town applaud, tossing tiny dwarf spiders at our feet as we leave the cemetery, and the warmth in my chest feels like bats clamoring for a way out of my rib cage. Trying to break me apart. I am now Sally Skellington. The Pumpkin Queen. And I'm certain I will never again be as happy as I am right now.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect.

Come here, Sophie Windham.” She went into his arms, a perfect bundle of woman and baby and warmth, and everything Vim’s sojourning heart had ever wanted to come home to. She was home, she was… Not interested in a permanent position as his wife. He’d almost considered asking her to be his mistress, but Sophie was too dear, too worthy of his respect for him to proffer such an arrangement. “I’ll

Now she had words to dull her senses. English words, a new name, and covering it all like a warm blanket, a new life in amazing, immoderate, pulsating America. A sparkling new identity in a gilded immense new country. God had made it as easy as possible to forget him. To you, I give this, God said. I give you freedom and sun, and warmth, and comfort. I give you summers in Sheep Meadow and Coney Island, and I give you Vikki, your friend for life, and I give you Anthony, your son for life, and I give you Edward, in case you want love again. I give you youth and I give you beauty, in case you want someone other than Edward to love you. I give you New York. I give you seasons, and Christmas! And baseball and dancing and paved roads and refrigerators, and a car, and land in Arizona. I give it all to you. All I ask, is that you forget him and take it.

I vote you read and we fellows will listen in rapt silence.” “And thus Kit is indoctrinated into the conspiracy to which all males belong,” Sophie muttered. “And you ladies don’t have conspiracies of your own?” He brought the child to his shoulder and started rubbing Kit’s little back. The sight sent odd tendrils of warmth drifting through Sophie’s insides. “We women are cooperative by nature; that’s different from conspiratorial.” She

He ducked down under the wooden slats used to separate the stalls in the barn and crawled into the adjacent stall where he began rubbing the belly of the chestnut mare. "Lay down, Lady. Please . . . it's awful cold tonight. Please lay down." The mare complied as she always did to the soothing tone in his voice. Drawing the blanket up tightly around him, he lay down beside the horse, moving in close to her side. He was careful to place his frozen feet near enough to her for warmth, but not so near that she'd protest. "They had a real purty tree, Lady, with candles. Bet it didn't look as purty from the inside, though. Weren't no snow on the inside." He snuggled in closer to the warm beast. "Merry Christmas, Lady," he whispered. The mare nickered and moved her head in closer to the boy as he drifted off to sleep, the scent of hay and livestock surrounding them.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often “came down” handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

Wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, Christina paced in the guard tower above the main gate of Roxburgh Castle. For two days she had maintained her vigil. … Awhile later, a guard entered with an armload of fuel. “Twill be dawn in a couple of hours, m’lady. Ye really ought to try to sleep.” “Nay, not when I could see my son any moment.” “They could be another day, mayhap two.” He placed a square of peat onto the coals. She held her hands out to the warmth. “What are two days out of three and ten years?

Gabriel Duke. You are a complete hypocrite." "A hypocrite? Me?" "Yes, you. Mr. I-Know-a-Hidden-Tresaure-When-I-See-It. You said you know how to spot undervalued things. Undervalued people. And yet you persist in selling yourself short. If I'm the crown jewels in camouflage, you're a..." She churned the air with one hand. "... a diamond tiara." He grimaced. "Fine, you can be something manlier. A thick, knobby scepter. Will that suffice?" "I suppose it's an improvement." "For weeks, you've been insisting you haven't the slightest idea what it means to give a creature a loving home. 'I'm too ruthless, Penny. I'm only motivated by self-interest, Penny. I'm a bad, bad man, Penny.' And all this time, you've been running an orphanage? I could kick you." "I'm not running an orphanage. I give the orphanage money. That's all." "You gave them kittens." "No, you gave them kittens." "You sent them gifts at Christmas. Playthings and sweets and geese to be roasted for their dinner." "It was the only business I could attend to on Christmas, and I don't like to waste the day. All the banks and offices are closed." She skewered him with a look. "Really. You expect me to believe that?" He pushed a hand through his hair. "What is your aim with this interrogation?" "I want you to admit the truth. You are giving those children a home. A place of warmth and safety, and yes, even love. Meanwhile, you are stubbornly denying yourself all the same things." "I can't be denying myself if it's something I don't want." "Home isn't something a person wants. It's something every last one of us needs. And it's not too late for you, Gabriel." She gentled her voice. "You could have that for yourself.

After sending Bella a Christmas card for years with no response, a few years before I'd decided to add something more personal- one of Mum's recipes. I had included various Christmas recipes each year since, from gingerbread to chocolate and cranberry brownies- Bella's favorite as a child. I saw these as a reminder of the good times we'd shared and hoped she'd feel the same. Just writing down those recipes reminded me of Mum in her kitchen- the soft, wobbly fold of flour into butter, the grit of sugar, the heady fragrance of chocolate, sweet vanilla and the warmth of ginger.

Little Moments that bloom in Christmas hue. How beautiful the night shines in the hue of dreams, as if lulling along a distant breeze, wrapped in a cold warmth of a solitary winter's eve! To me, Christmas is always about a bunch of happy moments, simple yet ornate in a colour of joy, something that connects our hearts to all that is pure and pristine, all that is beautifully simple and soulfully happy. And if we look closely, we can find those moments, every day in our regular lives, from sipping on our early morning coffee to munching on our midnight snack, from taking a moment to gaze at the sunset to simply sitting silent listening to our soul, beautiful unfiltered unadulterated moments that often go unnoticed yet remain forever warmed up in the cold embrace of our heart, frozen in a niche of a dream called Life. After all, Life is a beautiful dream. La vie est un beau rêve Stay in Love.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge! A squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret and self contained and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shrivelled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue; and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas. External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, nor wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely; and Scrooge never did.

Let me up.” She pushed at his shoulder, which was about as effective as pushing at Goliath’s shoulder when he was at his oats. “Vim, Kit’s awake.” “He might go back to sleep.” The little thread of hope in his voice was almost comical. “He never goes back to sleep.” “I’ll get him.” Vim kissed her nose and lifted away, taking with him warmth and a world of unfulfilled wishes. Sophie was just getting up her nerve to toss the covers aside when Vim came back to the bed, the baby snuffling quietly against his shoulder. “Make room. My Lord Baby is coming aboard for a progress on his royal barge.” “Is he dry?” “The royal wardrobe is quite in order, for now.” Vim climbed on the bed and arranged himself on his side, the baby propped against the pillows between the two adults. “He’ll be hungry soon enough,” Sophie said, taking a little foot and shaking it gently. Kit grinned at her and kicked out gleefully, so she did it again. “He likes a change of scene.” Vim was smiling at the baby as he tickled the child’s belly. Sophie would not have thought to bring the baby to bed with them; she would not have thought to kiss Vim’s nose before she left the bed. She would not have thought she could fall in love with a man because he put aside his lovemaking to tend to a baby, but as she watched Vim smiling at the child, enjoying the child, she realized she’d gotten one stubborn, long-despaired-of wish to come true: she’d fallen in love. She tarried for a few moments, listening to Vim speak nonsense to the child about navigating the treacherous waters of pillows and blankets; then she climbed out of the bed and went to build up the fire. ***

Sophie Windham, put that child down and come here.” “You are forever telling me to come here,” she replied, but she put the baby on the floor amid his blankets. “And now I am going away, so humor me.” He held out his arms, and she went into his embrace. “I will not forget you, Sophie. These few days with you and Kit have been my true Christmas.” “I will worry about you.” She held on to him, though not as tightly as she wanted to. “I will keep you in my prayers, as well, but, Sophie, I’ve traveled the world for years and come to no harm. A London snowstorm will not be the end of me.” Still, she did not step back. A lump was trying to form in her throat, much like the lumps that formed when she’d seen Devlin or Bart off after a winter leave. She felt his chin resting on her crown, felt her heart threatening to break in her chest. “I must go to Kent,” he said, his hands moving over her back. “I truly do not want to go—Kent holds nothing but difficult memories for me—but I must. This interlude with you…” She hardly paid attention to his words, focusing instead on his touch, on the sound of his voice, on the clean bergamot scent of him, the warmth he exuded that seeped into her bones like no hearth fire ever had. “…Now let me say good-bye to My Lord Baby.” He did not step back but rather waited until Sophie located the resolve to move away from him. This took a few moments, and yet he did not hurry her. “Say good-bye to Mr. Charpentier, Kit.” She passed him the baby, who gurgled happily in Vim’s arms. “You, sir, will be a good baby for Miss Sophie. None of that naughty baby business—you will remain healthy, you will begin to speak with the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ you will take every bath Miss Sophie directs you to take, you will not curse in front of ladies, nor will you go romping where you’re not safe. Do you understand me?” “Bah!” “Miss Sophie, you’re going to be raising a hellion.

Tinker Bell, meanwhile, was drifting with purpose up to the highest leafy branches of the jungle. Her light glowed warmly off the leaves below, the droplets seeping off their thick veins, the sweet sap running down the trunks of the trees. It made the whole clearing look... Well, like it was touched by fairies, Wendy thought with a smile. All her life she had looked for fairies in more mundane places, experiencing a rush of hope and warmth whenever a scene even palely imitated the one before here now. Candles at Christmas, fireflies in the park, flickering lamps in teahouses. The sparkling leaded glass windows of a sweets shop on winter afternoons when dusk came at four. A febrile, glowing crisscross of threads on a rotten log her cousin had once shown her out in the country: fox fire, magical mushrooms. And here it was, for real! Tinker Bell was performing what appeared to be a slow and majestic dance. First, she moved to specific points in the air around her, perhaps north, south, east, and west, twirling a little at each stop. Then she flew back to the center and made a strange bowing motion, keeping her tiny feet daintily together and putting her arms out gracefully like a swan. As she completed each movement, fairy dust fell from her wings in glittering, languorous trails, hanging in the air just long enough to form shapes. She started the dance over again, faster this time. And again even faster. Her trail of sparkles almost resolved into a picture, crisscrossed lines constantly flowing slowly down like drips of luminous paint. Wendy felt a bit like John, overwhelmed with a desire to try to reduce and explain and thereby translate the magic. But she also felt a lot like Michael, with an almost overwhelming urge to break free from her hiding place and see it up close, to feel the sparkles on her nose, to run a hand through the sigils not for the purpose of destruction but form a hapless, joyful desire to be part of it all.

Vim?” “Sweetheart?” The whispered endearment spoken with sleepy sensuality had Sophie’s insides fluttering. Was this what married people did? Cuddled and talked in shadowed rooms, gave each other bodily warmth as they exchanged confidences? “What troubles you about going home?” He was quiet for a long moment, his breath fanning across her neck. Sophie felt him considering his words, weighing what to tell her, if anything. “I’m not sure exactly what’s amiss, and that’s part of the problem, but my associations with the place are not at all pleasant, either.” Was that…? His lips? The glancing caress to her nape made Sophie shiver despite the cocoon of blankets. “What do you think is wrong there?” Another kiss, more definite this time. “My aunt and uncle are quite elderly, though Uncle Bert and Aunt Essie seem the type to live forever. I’ve counted on them living forever. You even taste like flowers.” Ah, God, his tongue… a slow, warm, wet swipe of his tongue below her ear, like a cat, but smoother than a cat, more deliberate. “Nobody lives forever.” The nuzzling stopped. “This is lamentably so. My aunt writes to me that a number of family heirlooms have gone missing, some valuable in terms of coin, some in terms of sentiment.” His teeth closed gently on the curve of her ear. What was this? He wasn’t kissing her, exactly, nor fondling the parts other men had tried to grope in dark corners—though Sophie wished he might try some fondling. “Do you think you might have a thief among the servants?” He slipped her earlobe into his mouth and drew on it briefly. “Perhaps, though the staff generally dates back to before the Flood. We pay excellent wages; we pension those who seek retirement, those few who seek retirement.” “Is some sneak thief in the neighborhood preying on your relations, then?” It was becoming nearly impossible to remain passively lying on her side. She wanted to be on her back, kissing him, touching his hair, his face, his chest… “Or has some doughty old retainer merely misplaced some of the silver?” Vim muttered right next to her ear. “You’ll sort it out.

Sophie?” He knocked, though not that hard, then decided she wasn’t going hear anything less than a regiment of charging dragoons over Kit’s racket. He pushed the door open to find half of Sophie’s candles lit and the lady pacing the room with Kit in her arms. “He won’t settle,” she said. “He isn’t wet; he isn’t hungry; he isn’t in want of cuddling. I think he’s sickening for something.” Sophie looked to be sickening. Her complexion was pale even by candlelight, her green eyes were underscored by shadows, and her voice held a brittle, anxious quality. “Babies can be colicky.” Vim laid the back of his hand on the child’s forehead. This resulted in a sudden cessation of Kit’s bellowing. “Ah, we have his attention. What ails you, young sir? You’ve woken the watch and disturbed my lady’s sleep.” “Keep talking,” Sophie said softly. “This is the first time he’s quieted in more than an hour.” Vim’s gaze went to the clock on her mantel. It was a quarter past midnight, meaning Sophie had gotten very little rest. “Give him to me, Sophie. Get off your feet, and I’ll have a talk with My Lord Baby.” She looked reluctant but passed the baby over. When the infant started whimpering, Vim began a circuit of the room. “None of your whining, Kit. Father Christmas will hear of it, and you’ll have a bad reputation from your very first Christmas. Do you know Miss Sophie made Christmas bread today? That’s why the house bore such lovely scents—despite your various efforts to put a different fragrance in the air.” He went on like that, speaking softly, rubbing the child’s back and hoping the slight warmth he’d detected was just a matter of the child’s determined upset, not inchoate sickness. Sophie would fret herself into an early grave if the boy stopped thriving. “Listen,” Vim said, speaking very quietly against the baby’s ear. “You are worrying your mama Sophie. You’re too young to start that nonsense, not even old enough to join the navy. Go to sleep, my man. Sooner rather than later.” The child did not go to sleep. He whimpered and whined, and by two in the morning, his nose was running most unattractively. Sophie would not go to sleep either, and Vim would not leave her alone with the baby. “This is my fault,” Sophie said, her gaze following Vim as he made yet another circuit with the child. “I was the one who had to go to the mews, and I should never have taken Kit with me.” “Nonsense. He loved the outing, and you needed the fresh air.” The baby wasn’t even slurping on his fist, which alarmed Vim more than a possible low fever. And that nose… Vim surreptitiously used a hankie to tend to it, but Sophie got to her feet and came toward them. “He’s ill,” she said, frowning at the child. “He misses his mother and I took him out in the middle of a blizzard and now he’s ill.” Vim put his free arm around her, hating the misery in her tone. “He has a runny nose, Sophie. Nobody died of a runny nose.” Her expression went from wan to stricken. “He could die?” She scooted away from Vim. “This is what people mean when they say somebody took a chill, isn’t it? It starts with congestion, then a fever, then he becomes weak and delirious…” “He’s not weak or delirious, Sophie. Calm down.

Something about providing her with food and warmth soothed whatever masculine ego I possessed

As the campfire radiated warmth in the opening of the lean-to, Red Macalister crouched before the burning logs. He added more wood to the blaze, then rocked back on his boot heels, studying the flames, and decided the fire would do for the next few hours to ward off the cold winter night. He glanced up at the black sky dotted with diamonds. A clear night.

To his credit, Cain had resisted as best he could, but it was as if she were the sun, spreading her glow and warmth over him. Without him ever meaning for it to happen, he found himself caught up in the centrifugal force that was Julia. He'd been swept up by the happiness he felt when he was with her, the feeling of belonging, which was something he hadn't felt in a good long while. It was like an elixir he was fast coming to crave.

The real question would have been, “Dear Claudia, what experience would you like on Christmas?” I could have spoken up, “I want to sit on the low stool in Big Mama’s kitchen with my lap full of lilacs and listen to Big Papa play his violin for me alone.” The lowness of the stool made for my body, the security and warmth of Big Mama’s kitchen, the smell of the lilacs, the sound of the music, and, since it would be good to have all of my senses engaged, the taste of a peach, perhaps, afterward.

Long before the arrival of Old Man Winter skies overhead are cool and silent as most of our songbirds have taken their leave travelling to warmer destinations in the south. Days grow shorter, night falls early, and even though the last few wisps of sun glow pink and gold along the horizon they bear no warmth in these briefest days of our longest season.

Would he kiss her as he had on Christmas day? His lips met hers and she gripped her skirts while his lips slid along hers in a slightly different manner than under the kissing bough. Her skin prickled and her trembling increased, spurred by the warmth of his breath as it caressed her cheek. How did one not expire from such sensations? A sudden giggle made her jerk away and cover her mouth.

Those first few seconds were heaven, and it was no different with Caleb. And then it really hit her. Another man. Not-her-husband, was inside her. His thick, proud, powerful member was thrusting within her warmth, pushing past her lips and sliding up and in, inch by inch as she moaned and quivered. And then Marisa’s hand was pulling her closer, and she looked to the side and met her friend’s wide, wild eyes, filled with naughtiness and pleasure, and she bucked and laughed and moaned.

The warmth of his hold, the masculine scent, and the sigh he released that was full of what sounded like happiness, made it easier to sink into him. To let him take my weight and know instinctively it wasn’t all physical but mental too.

I am drunk with the idea of oranges. I put the bag inside my coat, as if I want to absorb their warmth. They aren’t heavy at all, and I feel that this is going to be the best Christmas of my life. I begin thinking of how I am going to present my gift.

Finally, it is my turn. It is 8 o’clock, and I have been waiting for six hours. It doesn’t seem like a long time because my mind has been flying from the oranges in front of me to my brother and then back to the oranges. I hand over the money I was going to spend on the movie and watch each orange being thrown into my bag. I try to count them, but I lose their number. I am drunk with the idea of oranges. I put the bag inside my coat, as if I want to absorb their warmth. They aren’t heavy at all, and I feel that this is going to be the best Christmas of my life. I begin thinking of how I am going to present my gift. I get home and my father opens the door. He is amazed when he sees the oranges, and we decide to hide them until dinner. At dessert that night, I give my brother the present. Everyone is silent. They can’t believe it. My brother doesn’t touch them. He is afraid even to look at them. Maybe they aren’t real. Maybe they are an illusion, like everything else these days. We have to tell him he can eat them before he has the courage to touch one of the oranges. I stare at my brother eating the oranges. They are my oranges. My parents are proud of me.

Warmth filled Philippa. Nobody had ever worried about her before. Nobody had ever stepped in to save her. The fragile seedling of optimism that had unfurled when she’d decided to trust Blair sprouted a few more leaves. If she was lucky, if she was right, that seedling might grow into a great tree that would shelter her for the rest of her life. She still felt like she launched herself into the void, but with every moment, her hope of a safe landing strengthened.

I wouldn’t do that if I were you. We don’t need that kind of trouble,” the stranger warned. Her snarl of frustration cut through the din of conversation in the bar, garnering the attention of more than a few patrons. But the warmth of the hand encircling her wrist distracted her, reminding her why she’d come this far from home in the first place. She didn’t want to spend Christmas alone this year. She raised her eyes to the newcomer to discover sex on legs standing next to her. At least six feet of broad, muscular male stood less than a foot away from her and just ripe for the picking.

Even if one is doing nothing more than eating Chinese food with one's Muslim and Jewish friends (don't order the pork lo mein), being together on the longest nights of the year, as the cold sets into the ground and makes it crunch, the warmth inside is infectious and transcendent.

The Christmas Key The key hangs untouched For 364 days For the day after Christmas Is the day I put it away It’s getting on to the Yule Tide The one that comes every year Where smiling eyes are all around And hearts that count are here Each year is more of a struggle Still we reach the journeys end To find that we’re not just family We are also the best of friends The holiday gift is not a package No price tag to cut and hide It’s a celebration of a birthday Shared with loved ones by your side We remember the unforgettable Give thanks to all that’s new Once again, savor the innocence Of a child’s dream come true One more memory to add to the last Of love, warmth, and joy One more feeling of what was That still touches this little boy When the day is over The memories are locked away And the key put back in its place

What has put that look on your face, Sophie?” “What look?” She laid the child in the cradle where Vim had set it near the hearth. “Like you just lost your best friend.” “I was thinking of fostering Kit.” And just like that, she was blinking back tears. She tugged the blankets up around the baby, who immediately set about kicking them away. “Naughty baby,” she whispered. “You’ll catch a chill.” “Sophie?” A large male hand landed on her shoulder. “Sophie, look at me.” She shook her head and tried again to secure Kit’s blankets. “My dear, you are crying.” Another hand settled on the opposite shoulder, and now the kindness was palpable in his voice. Vim turned her gently into his embrace and wrapped both arms around her. It wasn’t a careful, tentative hug. It was a secure embrace. He wasn’t offering her a fleeting little squeeze to buck her up, he was holding her, his chin propped on her crown, the entire solid length of his body available to her for warmth and support. Which had the disastrous effect of turning a trickle of tears into a deluge. “I can’t keep him.” She managed four words around the lump in her throat. “To think of him being passed again into the keeping of strangers… I can’t…” “Hush.” He held a hanky up to her nose, one laden with the bergamot scent she already associated with him. For long minutes, Sophie struggled to regain her equilibrium while Vim stroked his hand slowly over her back. “Babies do this,” Vim said quietly. “They wear you out physically and pluck at your heartstrings and coo and babble and wend their way into your heart, and there’s nothing you can do stop it. Nobody is asking you to give the child up now.” “They won’t have to ask. In my position, I can’t be keeping somebody else’s castoff—” She stopped, hating the hysterical note that had crept into her voice and hating that she might have just prompted the man to whom she was clinging to ask her what exactly her position was. “Kit is not a castoff. He’s yours, and you’re keeping him. Maybe you will foster him elsewhere for a time, but he’ll always be yours too.” She didn’t quite follow the words rumbling out of him. She focused instead on the feel of his arms around her, offering support and security while she parted company temporarily with her dignity. “You are tired, and that baby has knocked you off your pins, Sophie Windham. You’re borrowing trouble if you try to sort out anything more complicated right now than what you’ll serve him for dinner.” She’d grown up with five brothers, and she’d watched her papa in action any number of times. She knew exactly what Vim was up to, but she took the bait anyway. “He loved the apples.” This time when Vim offered her his handkerchief, she took it, stepping back even as a final sigh shuddered through her. “He

Louisa?” The gentleness in his voice was unnerving. “Are you unharmed?” She nodded, but it was a lie. If Joseph hadn’t come along, then that crowd would have seen far, far worse than a disarranged dress or Grattingly dusting dirt off his satin-clad arse. “You’re shaking.” Sir Joseph handed her a handkerchief. “Next come the chills. Sometimes I’d cast up my accounts too. Once, to my unending horror, I cried. Fortunately, only my horse witnessed that indignity.” “Grattingly has been trying to kiss you too?” “Good girl.” How could a man put such approval and warmth into two stupid words? “Care for a nip?” “Your special brew?” He passed her his flask. “Nothing else is quite as effective. I have to ask again, Louisa: Are you unharmed?” “I’ll have some bruises. Did you follow us in here?” “I did not. I came here for the warmth and quiet.” He

For God’s sake, you are as bad as Louisa.” Joseph took his gaze from Harrison’s fancy town coach—and what was a mere portraitist doing with such a rig?—and surveyed Moreland’s features. “I beg your pardon?” “Your affianced wife, Louisa. She’s incorrigible. The girl has loving family on every hand, every hand, and yet she must make her own way. Has always had to forge her own path and I suspect she’s met her match in you, so to speak.” The duke was trying to communicate something, while Joseph was trying to make out the crest on Harrison’s coach. “Your presence here is still not well advised, Your Grace. Hanging felonies will likely be committed.” Moreland thwacked a riding crop against gleaming field boots. “Listen to me, young man: You have no father, no brothers, no uncles, not even a damned third cousin to see you through this. If a prospective papa-by-marriage is all you’ve got, then by God, that’s what you’ll take.” There was something heartening and familiar in the way Moreland delivered a scold. Warmth, unexpected and welcome, bloomed in Joseph’s chest. “Your Grace, may I say first, thank you, and second, you are as bad as Louisa yourself.” “Where do you think she came by it? One wonders what you’ll have to say to Arthur if he ever bestirs his bones to leave his carriage.” The

While she was making a pretense of choosing another poem, something warm settle on the back of her neck. Vim’s hand. He’d said nothing. His body hadn’t shifted. He still held the child in the crook of his arm, but he was touching Sophie too. His thumb was making slow circles on her nape, sending a melting warmth down her spine and up into her brain. “Read more slowly, Sophie. I think Kit’s dropping off.” She nodded carefully so as not to dislodge the wondrous gift of his hand on her person. When she read again, she could barely focus on the words, so drunk was she with the sensation of Vim Charpentier’s touch on the bare skin of her neck. She’d wished for things from him before he left, things no decent woman admitted to wanting, things she could never have asked for in words. And this slow, sweet touch was part and parcel of what she’d wished for. ***

A week later, as he stood on the terrace of Zach’s house with a beer in his hand, Ryan wondered if there was a more fucked up man in the world. The door behind him opened. “You’ll catch a cold,” Hannah said. For a few seconds before she closed the door, he could hear the sounds of laughter and the voices of his family. It wasn’t any special occasion. Old habits just died hard. When Christmas was approaching, they all tended to gravitate toward Zach’s house. December was an unofficial family month in the Hardaway clan. “I never do,” Ryan said before taking another sip. “But you should go inside. It is cold.” Looping her arms around his neck, Hannah pulled him down and kissed him on the lips. “Don’t stay out here long, all right? You’ll freeze your balls off. That would be a shame. I’m rather fond of them.” He chuckled and smacked her on the bottom lightly. “Go inside.” Laughing, she left. Ryan returned to sipping his beer and wondering what the hell was wrong with him. The terrace door opened and closed again. “You’ll catch a cold,” Jamie said. Setting the bottle down, Ryan turned his head. He smiled. “I won’t if you come here and warm me up, Jamie bear.” Jamie rolled his eyes, his nose scrunching up adorably, but walked over and let Ryan pull him into his arms. He was warm, so warm, and smelled amazing, like all of Ryan’s favorite things in the world. Ryan buried his nose in Jamie’s hair and said, “You should probably go inside. It really is cold out here.” He didn’t want Jamie to go. “I’m good,” Jamie said, leaning back into Ryan’s chest for warmth. Ryan rubbed his hands up and down Jamie’s arms, covered only by a soft cashmere pullover. “You sure you don’t want me to go grab your jacket?” “I’m not cold, really,” Jamie said. “Why are you hiding from everyone?” “I’m not hiding.” Jamie didn’t say anything for a while. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, “Are you freaking out because of what happened?” Ryan sighed. “I told you: I’m not freaking out.” At least not about what Jamie thought. “Right,” Jamie said, his tone skeptical. “Then what’s the problem? You’ve been a little weird since…” “Since I helped you out?” Jamie let out a laugh. “Yeah. Since you helped me out. If you aren’t freaking out, why have you been looking at me oddly?” “I have?” Ryan said, stroking Jamie’s arms after a freezing blast of wind made Jamie shiver. “You have.

His expression was bleak, but then, Sir Joseph’s expression was usually bleak. He was not a classically handsome man—his features were saturnine, his brows a trifle heavy, his nose not quite straight, though bold and a bit hooked. He yet managed to be attractive to Louisa for she had seen him smile. Just the once, he’d smiled at his small daughters one day in the church yard, but Louisa had never forgotten the sight. His smile, full of warmth, humor, and affection, made him very attractive indeed.

He shifted his hold, cradling Louisa by her derriere and hefting her up over him, so she straddled him on the rug. “I am marrying a brute.” She cuddled into the warmth of his chest and felt his arms come around her. “You sound pleased to contemplate it.” Modesty

Joseph.” He turned to see Louisa silhouetted in a doorway. She was attired in a plain green velvet day dress, her dark hair in a simple bun at her nape. Her expression went from surprised to smiling—brilliantly, magnificently smiling. “My lady, good morning.” He could not help but smile back. He was calculating how much of a bow his hip and knee could tolerate, when she launched herself at him. “Please tell me you are unharmed. Please tell me all is resolved and you sustained no injury.” Footman be damned. Joseph brought his arms around his intended. “I am unharmed.” He was at risk for being suffocated and knocked on his backside, but that did not matter. It did not matter in the least. “And all is well?” She was asking something more, something he’d figure out just as soon as he let himself enjoy for a moment the warmth and feminine abundance of Louisa Windham in his embrace, her clove scent winding into his brain and her smile scattering his wits. “All is—” “You won’t have to hare off to the Continent? We won’t have to?” “Grattingly stoved a finger, I’m told, and the demands of honor are met. There will be no hasty departure for France.

Eve was beside herself. Whatever this is, Deene had best appreciate—why are you staring at me like that?” He closed the door and stepped closer. The room was unusual, built with a small balcony overlooking a conservatory that might have been added as an afterthought, hence its relative warmth and humidity, and the lush scent of foliage blending with all the other fragrances wafting through the house. “Looking at you like what?” “Like… you just lost your best friend? Won’t it be wonderful to go home to Flint Hall, Elijah?” Elijah was better than my lord, and because she seemed to need it, he lied for her. “Wonderful, indeed. Have you told your parents yet that you’re going to Paris?” He had the sense she was waiting for him to leave Morelands first, unwilling to have his support even tacitly. “Not… not yet.” She set the perfect little gift down. “Louisa says I must, and she grasps tactics with an intuition I can only admire. I wish…” Her gaze went to the elegant little parcel. “I wish…” While Elijah watched, Jenny lost some of that distant, preoccupied quality that had characterized her since they’d finished their paintings. She gazed on that parcel as if it held secrets and treats and even a happy ending or two. Once they completed the twenty-minute walk back to Morelands, they’d have no more private moments ever. He’d leave for London at first light; she’d sail for Paris, probably before the New Year. “What do you wish, Genevieve?” Because whatever it was, he’d give it to her. His heart, his soul, his hands, passage to Paris—passage home from Paris. How he wished she’d ask him for that, but passage home was something she could only give herself. “Will you make love with me, Elijah? You’re leaving tomorrow, I know that, and I shouldn’t ask it. I shouldn’t want it, but I do. I want you, so much. Please?

She felt his fingers splay on her back, sending little rays of warmth up her skin. “May I?” he asked. Oh, she knew what he was asking. He wanted to kiss her, but it was so much more than that. He might as well have asked, may I steal your heart?, because that was what he was doing. The French Fox had captured her, taken her captive. He waited for her response, patient as no untried youth could ever be. She found that her heart still pounded from anxiousness, but also from the elation and the thrill of being in a man’s arms—a handsome man. A man she desired. “Yes, you may,” she answered him, eager for the feel of his lips on hers. She did not wait for him to kiss her. She rose on tiptoes and bridged the gap between them, pressing her lips softly to his, feeling the shock of heat flare between them.

Joseph tipped his face up and saw a sprig of mistletoe some wag had hung over a signboard. On the square, a seasonal street chorus launched into a jaunty version of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.” And that gladdened his heart yet more. Before common sense or some other overrated commodity could stop him, Joseph brushed his lips to Louisa’s cheek, treating himself to a goodly dose of cinnamon, cloves, and female warmth. “Happy Christmas, Louisa Windham.” He stole that Christmas kiss for himself—he’d been an exceedingly good fellow in the previous year—though he expected at least a scolding for his troubles. “Rascal.” Louisa ducked her face and led him off down the street, not the least daunted, bless her. “I’m out of practice. When my brothers were underfoot, no one was safe from their infernal kisses this time of year. They will soon be visiting and I can assure you by the New Year, you’ll have to be much quicker to catch me under the mistletoe.” As

What did you say?” “You heard me.” “I heard what you said.” She was shivering, despite the warmth of his body so near to hers. “But it makes no sense.” His grip on her shoulders softened to a caress. “Campion, you must know I want to marry you.” She frowned. “Why on earth would I know that?” His sigh this time was long-suffering. “I told you I loved you.” “Even in Croxley, there are disreputable young men with wild oats to sow. When a fellow wants to tumble a woman, he tells her that he loves her.” Her tone was dull. “It’s part of the game.” “What a cynic you are, my darling,” he said with a huff of derisive amusement. “And while some men might do that, I don’t.” “Why should I think you any different from every other rake in London?” “Come, Campion, I don’t believe you mean that. You know I’m different. If you didn’t know I’m different, you’d never have given yourself to me.” His voice developed an edge. “Even if you imagined I was trifling with you at first, you must know by now that you have my heart. If you don’t, then for a clever woman, you haven’t been very clever. I’m not a fickle man, nor do I take what we did lightly. I’m utterly in love with you. I’ve hardly kept it a secret.” “I was trying so hard not to lose my head,” she said unsteadily. His proposal echoed through her mind like a thousand clashing cymbals. Had he really asked her to marry him? To the invisible stars, she’d whispered a wish for Lachlan to love her forever. Could they have granted her request? “And in the process, you tortured me with endless uncertainty. You’ve never told me you loved me.” His

He lowered his head to hers. Their lips a breath apart. “Are you certain?” she found herself saying. “If you kiss me – everything changes.” “And don’t you think it’s about time?” He grinned. And tilting her chin up, pressed his lips to hers. And Susannah, lost in that wonderful consuming last first kiss, in the warmth and press of his body wrapped around hers, had one single joyous thought shining above everything else. She had been right this whole time. One kiss did change everything.

I have not danced the waltz in several years, and what memories I have of it are few and dim. Perhaps you’d take pity on a lame soldier and see whether he can recall it?” He expected her to laugh. On his bad days he was lame, and most days he was at least unsound, as an old horse might be unsound. He had not danced the waltz since being injured, had never hoped to again because it required grace, balance, and a little derring-do. Also a willing partner. Louisa put her bare hand in his and rose. “The pleasure would be mine.” Her lips quirked as she stood, but she didn’t drop his hand. “You must not allow me to lead.” He’d watched a hundred couples dancing a hundred waltzes, and had enjoyed the dance himself when it was first becoming popular on the Continent. The steps were simple. What was not simple at all was the feel of Louisa Windham, matter-of-factly stepping quite close, clasping his palm to her own. “I like to just listen for a moment,” she said, “to feel the music inside, feel the way it wants to move you, to lift your steps and infuse you with lightness.” She slipped in closer, so close her hair tickled Joseph’s jaw. Her hand settled on his shoulder, and he felt her swaying minutely as the orchestra launched into the opening bars. She moved with the rhythm of the music, let it shift her even as she stood virtually in his embrace. What he felt inside was a marvelous sense of privilege, to be holding Louisa Windham close to his body, to have the warm, female shape of her there beneath his hands. Her scent, clean and a little spicy, was sweeter when she was this close. She wasn’t as tall in his embrace as she was in his imagination. Against his body, she fit… perfectly. And with the sense of privilege and wonder, there lurked a current of arousal. Louisa Windham was lovely, dear, smart, and brave, but she was also a grown woman whom Joseph had found desirable from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He waited until the phrasing felt right, closed his fingers gently around hers, then moved off with his partner. She shifted with him, the embodiment of grace, as weightless as sunshine, as fluid as laughter. “You lead well,” she whispered, her eyes half closed. “You’re a natural.” He was a man plagued by a bad knee and a questionable hip, but with Louisa Windham for a partner and the music of an eighteen-piece orchestra to buoy him, Joseph Carrington danced. The longer they moved together, the better they danced. Louisa let him lead, let him guide her this way and that, let him decide how much sweep to give the turns and how closely to enfold her. She gave herself up to the music, and thus a little to him, as well, and yet, she anchored him too. Dancing with a woman who enjoyed the waltz this much gave a man some bodily confidence. He brought her closer, wonderfully closer, and realized what gave him such joy was not simply the physical pleasure of holding her but the warmth in his heart generated by her trust. She was dancing with a lame soldier, with a pig farmer, and enjoying it. All too soon, the music wound to a sweet final cadence, but Louisa did not sink into the closing curtsy. She instead stood in the circle of Joseph’s arms and dropped her forehead to his shoulder. “Sir Joseph, thank you.” What

Louisa considered pleading a headache, but withdrawing from the table would only fuel gossip, and perhaps reflect poorly on Sir Joseph, who did not deserve such censure. She could retreat into silence, though, and so she did. Something warm covered the hands she’d linked in her lap. Looking down, she saw Sir Joseph’s scarred fingers stroking slowly over her knuckles, once, twice. He was unobtrusive about it. The person sitting opposite him and even on his other side would not know he’d made such an overture. Louisa turned her hand palm up, and for an instant, Sir Joseph linked his fingers with hers and squeezed gently. “Fortran et haec olim meminisse…” “Juvabit.” Louisa finished the half-whispered quote. Aeneas, trying to instill fortitude in his men, suggesting that some day it might cause a smile to recall even moments such as this. Sir Joseph squeezed her fingers again, the shock of it warring with pleasure. Nobody attempted to offer Louisa comfort or reassurance after one of her social missteps. Her family would rally in their way, but to cover up her mistakes, not to console her for them. Joseph Carrington, without a single word, offered consolation and understanding. Before Louisa could acknowledge his kindness, the moment was over, his hand gone, and the lovely warmth easing through Louisa’s middle her only proof the exchange had occurred.

She adores me. Said almost as much in plain English.” Saying the words out loud sent warmth cascading through Elijah’s chest. He studied his work more closely, relieved to find that even on a deliberate critical inspection, the sketch still struck him as having that ineffable something that made an image art, and an accurate likeness a portrait. The boys were the dominant elements of the sketch, and yet, there was Genevieve Windham in all her beauty at the center of it. Her words came back to him as he noted details he didn’t recall sketching. You’ve caught the love. Like he’d contracted a rare, untreatable condition. Which… he… had. His first commission of a juvenile portrait was going to be a resounding success because he’d caught the love. Lady Genevieve adored his work, him, and the pleasure they could share, and looking at the image he’d rendered of her, Elijah realized he adored her right back. Alas

She always spoke about "the people away" and how important it was to remember them and to keep in contact. She knew from listening to some of them when they came on summer holidays that at Christmas their thoughts turned to home and they loved to be remembered at that time. For others the cards was even more important; it provided the only link they had because they never made it home. I visualized my mother's Christmas cards as so many messengers winging their way to scattered family members all over the world from the nest from which they or their parents had all flown. She was the warm glow at the heart of our Christmas, but that warmth stretched much further than our house.

Nick could still see the mud smeared over Matt’s eyebrow. Could still remember the warmth of his hand as Nick helped him out of the pit. He’d looked tired, worn down, a little startled still, covered in mud, but God had he been beautiful.

Because of the fifty-one previous years of his life, he had a number of complexes. He had a Napoleon complex, a southern complex, a baby-of-the-family complex. He had both a superiority complex and an inferiority complex, and, because he was born on Christmas Day, a Christmas baby complex.

Irish blessing to serve as grace tonight before the waiters bring our food. ‘The light of the Christmas star to you, the warmth of home and hearth to you, the cheer and goodwill of friends to you, the hope of a childlike heart to you, the joy of a thousand angels to you, the love of the Son and God’s peace to you.’” “Amen,

From home to home, and heart to heart, from one place to another, the warmth and joy of Christmas brings us closer to each other. ~Emily Matthews

Let the warmth of expectation kindle in your heart the desire to welcome His love into your daily life.

The warmth of a home and hearth to you The cheer and good will of friends to you The hope of a childlike heart to you The joy of a thousand angels to you The love of the Son and God’s peace to you. ​— ​IRISH CHRISTMAS BLESSING

Snowflakes collected on his exposed neck, sending shivers down his spine, but Luke didn’t care. The warmth of Cassie’s lips permeated all the way to his soul. And he would have stood in the snow, tangled up in her kiss, until spring.

I did not know why I destroyed those dolls. But I did know that nobody ever asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Had any adult with the power to fulfill my desires taken me seriously and asked me what I wanted, they would have known that I did not want to have anything to own, or to possess any object. I wanted rather to feel something on Christmas day. The real question would have been, “Dear Claudia, what experience would you like on Christmas?” I could have spoken up, “I want to sit on the low stool in Big Mama’s kitchen with my lap full of lilacs and listen to Big Papa play his violin for me alone.” The lowness of the stool made for my body, the security and warmth of Big Mama’s kitchen, the smell of the lilacs, the sound of the music, and, since it would be good to have all of my senses engaged, the taste of a peach, perhaps, afterward.

To the ruddy warmth of the Christmas log and the Christmas home spirit—" he cried—"to the home-keeping hearts of the country-side! Gentlemen—I give you—A Country home and a Country Christmas! May more good folk come to know them!

In the soft quiet of the days before Christmas, we find warmth not from a fireplace, but in the close embrace of loved ones. The true magic of the season lies in simple acts of kindness, shared laughter, and the heart's gentle whisper that the best gifts are not under the tree, but in the moments we create together!

God was good like that. Offering bits of light to dark places and warmth where there was only cold.

Down the entire length of the waiting line, as if Annie’s fit was a kind of wildfire, other children began to scream and shake. A few parents had to drag their possessed children away, giving up their places, which caused the children to scream even more. The people who remained in line looked at Caleb and Camille and Annie as if they had personally ruined Christmas for all time. It was, Caleb realized, amazing. “Hurry up and take the photo,” Caleb said to the bored elf and there was a flash of bulbs, the click of the captured image, and Caleb quickly ran toward Santa, plucked the child out of the terrified old man’s lap, and hugged his daughter, feeling the radiating warmth of her unhappiness now happily in his possession

If he had a wife, he’d have warmth in his bed, to be sure. But if he had a wife, he’d have a wealth of other problems. Like having a wife.

you know time is getting closer when you feel a tug on the heart when a little bead of moisture rolls down the cheek when your breath contains just a little more warmth all to remind how fortunate our life and times truly have been "Merry Christmas

Gabriel Duke. You are a complete hypocrite." "A hypocrite? Me?" "Yes, you. Mr. I-Know-a-Hidden-Tresaure-When-I-See-It. You said you know how to spot undervalued things. Undervalued people. And yet you persist in selling yourself short. If I'm the crown jewels in camouflage, you're a..." She churned the air with one hand. "... a diamond tiara." He grimaced. "Fine, you can be something manlier. A thick, knobby scepter. Will that suffice?" "I suppose it's an improvement." "For weeks, you've been insisting you haven't the slightest idea what it means to give a creature a loving home. 'I'm too ruthless, Penny. I'm only motivated by self-interest, Penny. I'm a bad, bad man, Penny.' And all this time, you've been running an orphanage? I could kick you." "I'm not running an orphanage. I give the orphanage money. That's all." "You gave them kittens." "No, you gave them kittens." "You sent them gifts at Christmas. Playthings and sweets and geese to be roasted for their dinner." "It was the only business I could attend to on Christmas, and I don't like to waste the day. All the banks and offices are closed." She skewered him with a look. "Really. You expect me to believe that?" He pushed a hand through his hair. "What is your aim with this interrogation?" "I want you to admit the truth. You are giving those children a home. A place of warmth and safety, and yes, even love. Meanwhile, you are stubbornly denying yourself all the same things." "I can't be denying myself if it's something I don't want." "Home isn't something a person wants. It's something every last one of us needs. And it's not too late for you, Gabriel." She gentled her voice. "You could have that for yourself.

But I did know that nobody ever asked me what I wanted for Christmas. Had any adult with the power to fulfill my desires taken me seriously and asked me what I wanted, they would have known that I did not want to have anything to own, or to possess any object. I wanted rather to feel something on Christmas day. The real question would have been, "Dear Claudia, what experience would you like on Christmas?" I could have spoken up, "I want to sit on the low stool in Big Mama's kitchen with my lap full of lilacs and listen to Big Papa play his violin for me alone." The lowness of the stool made for my body, the security and warmth of Big Mama's kitchen, the smell of the lilacs, the sound of the music, and, since it would be good to have all of my senses engaged, the taste of a peach, perhaps, afterward.