Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight

by Grace Burrowes

  Lionel was in truth trolling for any prospects, any prospects at all that would clear his debts, muzzle his parents, and get his older brothers off his back. The Windham sisters were certainly suitable for a marquis’s son, but suitable and desirable were worlds apart.

  “The other two sisters are prettier,” Lionel observed, taking another swallow of brandy.

  “They ain’t such bluestockings, either,” Grattingly said. “They’re golden and cheery and don’t spout the Bard at a fellow when he’s trying to flirt his way through a dance.”

  “Yes, but Lady Genevieve is intolerably sweet, the milk of human kindness oozing from her every word. I’d run screaming from her in less than a year, lest she expect me to visit orphanages or some such rot. A man would be lucky to swive her once a week in the dark while she recited Paternosters in his ear.”

  Grattingly guffawed obligingly, though it was nothing more than the truth. “The little one might make a nice armful, and she’s friendly.”

  Lady Eve Windham was a pretty, lively little thing, who could often be seen taking pity on pudgy, aging university boys like Grattingly or impoverished younger sons.

  “One hears Lady Eve was invalided some years back,” Lionel said, finishing his—Grattingly’s—drink. “Though the nature of her indisposition remains a mystery. An invalid wife is a curse not to be contemplated, regardless of how robust her curves are at present, particularly if her little indisposition is sporting about on some ducal property in the shires.”

  “Hadn’t heard about that,” Grattingly said. Lionel watched while the man’s gaze settled on the Windham sisters standing like three goddesses outside the card room door. They were pretty enough, well dowered enough, wellborn enough that all three ought to have been snatched up years ago.

  If Lionel had to marry Louisa Windham, then he supposed he could simply gag her when it came time for the marital intimacies. Gag her and blindfold himself—stranger things had been done in the name of securing a succession—or staying out of the sponging house.

  “More brandy, Grattingly.” He shoved the empty glass at the fellow, who scampered off in the direction of the sideboard. When Grattingly moved, Lionel could see another man who’d been sharing Harrison’s poorly lit corner.

  Joseph Carrington sat with his leg propped on a stool, rubbing at his thigh with both hands. In the low light, the poor bastard’s features had a fiendish cast, all darkness and shadows, almost as if his injury were making him furious.

  Perhaps it was. Carrington limped his way through life and would likely never know the pleasure of being able to bamboozle a well-dowered woman to the altar just by waltzing her down the room.

  ***

  The Duke of Moreland had a conspiratorial streak, one his daughters shamelessly exploited. He loved his political machinations, loved his plotting and scheming in the halls of Westminster, loved pulling strings to make the Lords dance to his tune without him being identified as the piper.

  So when he went riding in the park of a morning, he was only too happy to extend his escort to both Louisa and Jenny, provided a groom was brought along, as well.

  His Grace drew up under an oak that was still shedding the occasional reddish-brown leaf. “There’s young Mannering, out in last night’s attire. Not well done. Ladies, you will forgive me if I ride on and spare you an introduction?”

  Louisa spoke for both herself and Jenny. “Ride ahead, Your Grace. Jenny and I will take a turn on the Lady’s Mile.”

  The duke saluted with his crop and cantered off, leaving Jenny and Louisa to exchange a smile.

  “He’s introduced us to any number of young swells still half-seas over from last night’s carousing,” Jenny observed. “What do you suppose he wants to whisper in Lord Mannering’s ear?”

  “Maybe he just wants to give us a chance to gallop with only a groom in tow,” Louisa said, “and I intend to take him up on it.”

  She tapped her horse stoutly with her heel and set off toward the Serpentine. Jenny fell in beside her, and when they reached the stretch beside the water, they raced their mounts at a pounding gallop for a few hundred yards before coming back to the walk.

  “A good gallop is not enough,” Louisa said, patting her gelding stoutly, “but it’s better than nothing.”

  “Especially when the days start growing shorter,” Jenny said. “And the mornings can be so very brisk. Who is on that black over there?” A big black horse was passaging its way along a path through the trees ahead, the rider a picture of relaxed elegance.

  “I believe that’s Sir Joseph. I wasn’t sure he’d bestir himself to come up to Town with Christmas right around the corner.” Louisa watched for a few more moments while Sir Joseph collected the horse into the more difficult trot-in-place known as piaffe.

  “They’re quite an accomplished pair.”

  “Good God.” Louisa fell silent as the horse shifted into a controlled rear, a slow rebalancing of its weight down, down onto its haunches until the front end lifted and balanced in a breathtaking display of strength and control.

  “Can St. Just teach his horses to do that?” Jenny asked in subdued tones. “I don’t even know what it’s called.”

  “That is a pesade,” Louisa said, “and no, St. Just’s horses can’t do it because they’re too young to have the requisite strength—and our brother likely lacks the patience to teach the maneuver.”

  “It’s very difficult?”

  “I suspect it takes years.”

  The horse dropped from its impressive pose, and Carrington thumped the beast on the neck with a gloved hand. Jenny applauded, which had Carrington’s head coming up and his gaze slewing around.

  “My ladies, I wasn’t aware we had an audience. Good morning.”

  Sir Joseph’s voice always took Louisa aback, the rasp of it, the lack of smoothness. One could not forget that voice, try though one might.

  “Sir Joseph, good morning,” Louisa replied. “My compliments to your horse. That’s the same one you had at the Christmas meet, isn’t it?”

  “The selfsame. Sonnet, say good morning to the ladies.” The horse tucked a foreleg back and bowed his glossy head without any visible cue from the rider.

  Jenny’s smile could not have been brighter. “How marvelous! Louisa, we must expand your list to include Sonnet. He’s tall, dark, and handsome, and possessed of both good manners and the ability to dance.”

  “A list?” Sir Joseph petted his horse again, but this time it seemed to Louisa to be more of a caress down the gelding’s crest. “Are you looking for a new mount, Lady Louisa?”

  Jenny snorted, the wretch, then turned it into a coughing fit.

  “I am not. Genevieve, we’ve had our gallop, so why don’t you rescue His Grace from Lord Mannering? I’ll catch up in a moment.”

  Jenny went docilely enough—Mannering was likely in need of rescuing from one of His Grace’s harangues about the dignity of the yeomanry—but at a gesture from Louisa, Jenny also took the groom with her.

  Sir Joseph watched her canter off, his expression unreadable. “Mannering is in want of a wife.” He did not sound pleased about this.

  “How can you know such a thing?”

  “Men gossip,” Sir Joseph muttered darkly. “And our gossip is worse than women’s gossip because we do not limit ourselves to scandal broth. We must exchange our on-dits over brandy, port, and worse.”

  Scandal broth—a cup of tea by any other name. “Shall we walk the horses in the direction of His Grace’s last known whereabouts?”

  “As my lady wishes.”

  Louisa turned her gelding to amble along beside Sir Joseph’s, wondering as she did why His Grace would be accosting a young man admittedly in need of a wife. “Why would Mannering bruit his marital intentions about in the clubs?”

  “Because he, like most men of his age and ilk, permits himself to become a trifle disguised of a night.” Sir Joseph’s gaze fixed on his horse’s mane. “It’s said his mother will not permit him sufficient
funds to afford the usual Town amusements. So he’s willing to marry, at which time he’ll have a larger allowance and at least the attentions of a new wife to divert him.”

  “What you mean,” Louisa said slowly, “is that he can’t afford a mistress.”

  Sir Joseph’s lips pursed as the horses crunched dry leaves underfoot, and a sad, sinking feeling stole through Louisa’s bones. The holidays were a sentimental time, was the trouble. Her melancholia had nothing to do with her unmarried state and the caliber of fiancé her parents might be fruitlessly recruiting for her.

  “Shall I answer honestly, Lady Louisa?”

  “If you do, perhaps you might call me simply Louisa. I should not have broached the topic of Mannering’s personal life.”

  He didn’t ask her to explain why she’d offer such a familiarity, perhaps because he understood no amount of formality would obliterate the blatant curiosity of her question. The desperation of it.

  “Tell me about this list your sister alluded to.”

  “Must I?”

  “No.” He steered his horse around a rut in the path. “I think I can guess. You’re tiring of the whole ruddy business and ready to give up.”

  She could laugh and dismiss his surmise, tease him about his own situation, change the subject altogether.

  Or she could meet honesty with honesty. “Blunt speaking, sir. You’re not wrong. I’m trying to convince my family to allow me to retire from the field so my sisters can shop for husbands in earnest.” Convince was a polite description of inchoate begging, though Louisa would beg if it improved her sisters’ chances of finding mates.

  “But your doting parents are determined to continue the siege, aren’t they?”

  There was no judgment in his tone. If anything, he sounded like he was commiserating, despite the fact that his lips were compressed into a flat line again.

  “I think they’re wavering.” At long last, they seemed to be wavering—though His Grace’s tête-à-tête with Mannering did not bode well.

  Sir Joseph said nothing, which gave Louisa a chance to study him in sidelong glances. His expression was serious, though not a scowl. As Louisa’s horse shied halfheartedly at a small puddle, she noticed that Sir Joseph’s mouth was more full than she’d pictured it, his lips shaped into a male version of the classically graceful bow.

  How lovely. An attractive mouth on a growling man.

  “What would make it better, Lady Louisa? What would give you the resolve not to compromise, not to let weariness guide you to a choice you might regret?”

  Lady Louisa. He was not going to trespass on the strength of her casual invitation, and—worse luck—he was not going to turn the subject or pretend he saw an acquaintance he must speak to on some distant path. Unflinching courage was an overrated commodity.

  “One hardly knows what might make it more bearable. Do I detect a similar weariness on your part, Sir Joseph?”

  “Perhaps, but I also have children to consider, and that helps.”

  She eyed him curiously. “Does that mean you can hold your nose and point to a potential wife with an adequate dowry?” And what sort of wife would he point to?

  Those full lips quirked. “To the contrary. It means I cannot make a cavalier choice regardless of how disenchanted I might be with the whole business.”

  “Disenchanted.” She tasted the word and found it… sadly appropriate. “Not all the young men are disenchanting.”

  “I suppose not, nor are all the young ladies, but the process itself is still unappealing on some level.”

  They’d reached the point where His Grace had separated from his daughters, and there was no sign of the duke. “Papa has gone off somewhere. If we can’t find him, I’ll simply make my own way home.”

  “Not without an escort, Louisa Windham.”

  Now he used her given name, now when his tone was as stern and uncompromising as the duke’s when discussing the Regent’s financial excesses. “I did not mean to imply I’d go anywhere in Town without a proper escort. What do you know of Lord Lionel Honiton?”

  She lobbed the question at him in retaliation for his peremptory tone, also because he’d give her an honest answer.

  “I know he’s vain as a peacock, but other than that, probably no more given to vice than most of his confreres.” This was said with such studied detachment, Louisa’s curiosity was piqued.

  “Many young men are vain. Lionel is an attractive man.”

  “Perhaps, but you are equally attractive, Louisa Windham, more attractive because you neither drape yourself in jewels nor flaunt your attributes with cosmetics, and I don’t see you lording it over the ladies less endowed than you are.”

  He was presuming to scold her, and yet Louisa couldn’t help feeling a backhanded sort of pleasure at the implied compliment. “Beauty fades,” Louisa said. “All beauty. If Lord Lionel is vain, time will see him disabused of his beauty soon enough.” Unbidden, the memory of Sir Joseph reciting Shakespeare came to Louisa’s mind: “That time of year thou mayst in me behold, when yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang on boughs which shake against the cold…”

  “So it will.” Sir Joseph held back a branch for Louisa to pass. “While yours will never desert you.”

  “Are you attempting flattery before breakfast, Sir Joseph?”

  His lips quirked up at her question, a fleeting, blink-and-she’d-miss-it suggestion of humor. “I am constitutionally incapable of flattery. You are honest, Louisa Windham, loyal to your family, and possessed of sufficient courage to endure many more social Seasons than I’ve weathered. To a man who understands what matters most, those attributes grow not less attractive over time, but more. Will I see you out riding again some morning?”

  Now he was changing the subject, after calling her brave, loyal, and honest. He’d told the truth, as well—he had no talent for flattery. None whatsoever.

  “I take it you prefer to ride early in the day?”

  “Of course. The fashionable hour provides no real opportunity for exercise, and the Sunday church parade is even worse. Then too, there’s something to be said for showing old Londontowne at her best, for seeing it when ‘all that mighty heart is lying still.’”

  She cocked her head. “Is that Coleridge?”

  “Wordsworth. ‘Composed upon Westminster Bridge.’ It makes a pastoral study of even a dank and teeming metropolis, so great is the poet’s ability in that regard.”

  A line of poetry for Louisa was like a shiny lure to a raven, even a line casually tossed off by Sir Joseph Carrington. Maybe especially a line from him. “I don’t think I know this poem, and I’m more than passingly familiar with Wordsworth.”

  While Sir Joseph sat on his black horse, the leaves shifting quietly against the frozen earth, and sunlight glittering on the Serpentine, he recited for Louisa a sonnet. The poem he gave her described a fresh, sparkling morning in London as something beautiful and precious, even to a man in love with nature and the unspoiled countryside.

  When Sir Joseph fell silent, Louisa felt as if the hush of a great city at dawn enveloped them, and in the ensuing beats of quiet, she realized three things.

  First, Joseph Carrington’s voice was made for poetry. Like a violoncello switching from lowly scales and droning exercises to solo repertoire, when he put his voice to poetry, Sir Joseph spoke lyrically, even beautifully.

  The second thing she noticed was an inconvenient and utterly stupid urge to cry. Not because the beauty of the spoken word moved her to tears—though occasionally it could—and not because the poem itself was so very lovely. It was a short, pretty sonnet about a single impression of the city gained on a clear autumn morning.

  Louisa’s ill-timed lachrymose impulse was the result of the third realization: no man had ever recited an entire sonnet to her before, and likely no man ever would again.

  ***

  Sir Joseph waved the grooms away, muttering the same thing he always muttered at well-intended stable lads, the first thing his commanding of
ficer had taught him on the Peninsula. “A cavalryman looks after his own mount.”

  The grooms went off to tend to the myriad chores no doubt piling up elsewhere on the pretty little property gracing a corner of bucolic Surrey.

  “You will get coal in your stocking for Christmas,” Sir Joseph groused at his horse. “You allowed me to sit there, blathering to a woman—a lady—about domes and ships and whatnot. When a man recites poetry to a beautiful, intelligent woman, he ought at least to be mentioning roses.”

  He ran his stirrup irons up the leathers, loosened the girth, and glowered at his horse. “Stand, while I try to find a headstall of sufficient size for that empty noggin of yours. Daffodils would have been an improvement—daffodils and lonely clouds.”

  He stalked off, finding the halter on its customary hook while Sonnet stood, docile as a lamb in the barn aisle.

  “Lambs wouldn’t have gone amiss either, though nobody reads Blake except eccentrics.”

  The horse lowered its head and started rubbing against Sir Joseph’s jacket. After a few moments of this, Joseph stepped back. “Filthy beast. I’ll smell like horse for the rest of the day.”

  And that had been part of the problem. Sitting there beside the Serpentine, the early morning light finding coppery highlights in Louisa Windham’s dark hair, Joseph had caught a whiff of her citrus-and-clove scent. Even a brief poem had allowed him a few moments to wallow in that unusual, Christmassy fragrance.

  “She tolerated my recitation,” he said, undoing the gelding’s bridle. “At least it was a short poem about towers and theatres.”

  Sonnet tried to rub again, this time against Sir Joseph’s hip.

  “Wretched animal, are you trying to knock me on my backside?” He scratched behind the horse’s ear, which only served as a reminder of Lady Opie. “She would not have cared what poem was read to her.”

  Provided she got her slops.

  Louisa Windham looked to Sir Joseph like a woman who also enjoyed her victuals. She was… Curved. Very nicely curved. Sir Joseph leaned his forehead on the horse’s neck.