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His Vengeance Was Sweet Judith Easton knew that even the spirit of Christmas wouldn't stop the Marquess of Denbigh from settling the score with her. For the beautiful young widow had injured Denbigh's rigid pride years ago by jilting him for another man. Now that Judith was free from her nightmare marriage to that other man, the bold and handsome Marquess made no secret that he had her in his sights and wanted her in his arms. But how could she trust the tender words on his lips when she could sense the hardness of his heart? And after she had made so grievous a mistake in love once, how could she ever trust her own heart's desire again? The marquess slowed his pace, and Judith followed suit. She turned to him and fixed her eyes on the top button of his greatcoat as his gloved hands cupped her face. She lifted her hands and rested her palms against his chest. And she lifted her eyes to his and then closed them as his mouth came down to cover hers. He was the man she had feared for so long. She tried to remember the impression she had had of his face until now-harsh, the eyes steel-gray, the lips thin. It was he who was kissing her, she told herself. Was this the face of love? The face of hate? And did she, in this moment of abandoned ecstasy, any longer care?