Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight

by Grace Burrowes

  “You’re staring, Joseph. This is not well done of you.”

  “You stared at me without my shirt.”

  “That’s different.” Rather than belabor the illogic of her observation, Louisa tried to cross her arms over her breasts. Joseph prevented it with gentle implacability.

  “Lady Jenny must make you a new set of stays, Louisa. Ones that won’t lace up quite as snugly. This will be my first request of you as your espoused husband.”

  Still he did not take his eyes off her breasts, and Louisa felt his regard like a visual caress. “My dresses won’t fit if I use looser stays.”

  “But, dearest affianced Wife, you will be able to breathe.” He sat up, crossing his legs to perch at Louisa’s hip. “The Creator has generously seen to a very attractive distribution of your feminine assets, and we can have an entire new wardrobe made if you wish, but I would have my wife able to breathe—particularly if she’s to shout at me on occasion.”

  He laid his hand on her sternum, his touch warm, his palm slightly callused. The sensation of it, the immediacy of the contact on such an intimate body part had Louisa closing her eyes. For long, quiet moments, she focused only on his hand as he learned the shape and feel of her breasts, and she learned of pleasures new and strange.

  “Should I be enjoying this?”

  He didn’t stop touching her. “One hopes you are. I certainly am.” His tone was contemplative, almost detached. Through the haze of her growing arousal, Louisa felt a spark of determination that he should not remain so thoroughly in possession of his wits.

  Without warning, she reached up and explored his chest with her hand. Joseph’s fingers went still in the process of lazily circling her left nipple then resumed their progress.

  He had nipples too. If they were susceptible to half the sensations being stirred in the comparable part of Louisa’s anatomy…

  “I am marrying a bold woman.” Joseph grabbed her hand, kissed her knuckles, then placed her palm directly over his heart. “I adore bold women.”

  Taking him at his word, Louisa levered up and kissed him. She’d learned something from him: holding back just a little in a kiss made the pleasure flare hotter.

  And then holding back wasn’t possible. She was aware of Joseph lowering her to the carpet with their mouths still fused, aware of his hand trailing down over her belly, and aware of clinging to his shoulders even when her back was securely supported by the floor beneath the hearth rug.

  “Spread your legs, Louisa.”

  The words were a growl as Louisa felt the wet, hot pleasure of Joseph’s mouth close around her nipple. His hand on her knee gently reinforced the meaning of his command, and then his fingers drifted through the curls on her mons.

  When had her skirts pooled around her waist?

  Louisa winnowed her hands in his hair, wondering if this was the real reason she’d come hurrying through the night to her fiancé. Instead of sending a note, she’d been greedy, sensing she could at least have shocking intimacies with him, even if the worst were to happen tomorrow.

  The idea that Joseph might not survive the duel intertwined with the conflagration of need rising in her body to create a spiraling urgency.

  “Joseph, I want more. I want to be closer.”

  He said nothing but passed his fingers over an intimate part of her anatomy in such a way as to provoke shocks of sensation that radiated up from her womb. There was pleasure in his touch, but it sparked an awful unrest too.

  “Again, please.”

  He kissed her. “As often as you like.”

  The damned man was everywhere—his chest pressing against Louisa’s breast, his mouth consuming hers, his hand… He’d thrown a leg across Louisa’s thigh, anchoring her as she undulated her hips in counterpoint to what he was doing with that hand.

  She was suffocating with all his touches and breathing hard too. “I can’t… I don’t know…”

  “I do know. Be patient. You’re close.”

  He increased the pressure a lovely, blessed trifle, and things inside Louisa shifted. What had sought to move away from the man beside her could only cling to him, and inside her, what had been straining to fly apart came together more and more tightly in wrenching spasms of pleasure. She thrashed, sank her nails into muscular male flesh, and heard herself letting go of sounds halfway between sighs and moans. All the while, Joseph showered her with a pleasure so intense it bordered on unbearable.

  When the sensations ebbed, Louisa was lying on her side amid a puddle of rumpled, disarranged clothing, plastered to Joseph’s chest, her leg hiked over his hips, and her face mashed into his throat. Odd bits and phrases of Latin finally made sense to her, while her emotions—her very body—made no sense at all.

  “This is part of being married?”

  Joseph’s hand stroked slowly over her hair, and Louisa thought for a moment he hadn’t heard the question—or maybe she hadn’t spoken aloud.

  “It is part of you being married to me.”

  There was an implication in his words Louisa was too scattered to parse. Insights—into old passages of verse, into her siblings’ marital devotion, into her own parents’—floated in the haze that passed for her thoughts. “Can one do this repeatedly? Successively? Nine times in a row?”

  “One can if she’s female and has some time on her hands. We fellows would find ourselves challenged to keep that sort of pace—though the attempt would certainly be pleasurable in the right company.”

  His tone suggested Louisa was the right company for him, which did nothing to restore her composure. “Why doesn’t anybody tell a young lady about these things?”

  “Young men all over England are whispering to their sweethearts about things like this. Perhaps the old fellows are too, if they’re lucky.” 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 requiring more self-discipline and clothing than Louisa could lay claim to at that moment, she settled comfortably on her fiancé. Through his clothing, his arousal created an intriguing pressure against her sex, one that evoked memories of the sensations she’d just enjoyed.

  “I generally do not like surprises, Joseph Carrington.”

  “I am duly warned.”

  “I liked this one. I’m falling asleep.”

  She felt him kiss her crown. “You’ve earned your rest. When you’re sufficiently revived, I’ll escort you home.”

  Louisa sighed gustily, closed her eyes, and took in a big whiff of contentment and prospective husband. She’d thought honor and a thriving property were the greatest assets Sir Joseph brought to the marriage, but she’d been wrong.

  In addition, he brought kindness, intelligence, and a generosity in matters of passion that took Louisa’s breath away. She even ventured to hope that Joseph Carrington, among all men, might someday have the capacity to understand her.

  As Louisa drifted off to sleep, she prayed he also possessed a great deal of luck and a steady, accurate aim. If he could manage all that—and if her youthful indiscretions remained in the past—then their marriage would exceed her most fervent imaginings.

  ***

  “Your Grace, need I remind you that dueling is illegal?”

  Joseph kept his voice down, though Grattingly had yet to arrive, and the corner of Hyde Park the Duke of Moreland had found his way to was very secluded. “Illegal, is it? What a pity. The pleasures of leaving one’s duchess and one’s cozy bed in the dark of night and freezing one’s parts off aren’t to be missed. You look passably rested, Carrington.”

  “I am.” Joseph climbed off his horse, gratified to feel not a twinge of stiffness in his leg, even in the chill of a wintry dawn. If he survived the morning, he’d make it a point to linger half naked with his lady on hearth rugs before roaring fires often and
at length.

  “Listen, Carrington.” With a lithe grace appropriate to a man half his age, Moreland swung down from his glossy bay gelding. “One doesn’t want to butt in, and if you insist, I’ll toddle along directly, but I received a note from my youngest son yesterday.”

  “Lord Valentine?”

  His Grace nodded and stroked a gloved hand down the horse’s neck. “I believe your second approaches.”

  Joseph followed the direction of the duke’s sight to see an elegant town coach tooling up the slushy lane. “Harrison. I told him to bring a damned hackney.”

  “For God’s sake, man, my own coach awaits just past those trees.”

  “And if I bleed all over your fancy coach, Your Grace?”

  “Don’t be an ass. Valentine sent you a warning. Sent it by pigeon and by post, so take heed: Grattingly’s pistols, at least the ones he was using ten years ago, pull left. They’re heirlooms, so Valentine is of the opinion he’ll still be using them.”

  “Lord Valentine’s warning reached me yesterday, Your Grace. I appreciate your ensuring I received it.”

  “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 fancy coach had drawn to a halt, and at the mention of “Arthur,” Joseph comprehended whose crest he’d been admiring. “Did you send for him?”

  “Me?” His Grace’s look of innocence was a work of thespian brilliance. “Wellington’s ability to gather intelligence is rivaled only by that of my duchess. I would certainly never attempt to involve a peer of the realm in such shady dealings as these.”

  “Of course not.”

  Wellington alighted from his coach, caught sight of Moreland, and smiled hugely. “Your Grace! A fine day for an outing, though our purpose here is hardly in keeping with the approaching Yule season. Carrington, good day.”

  Moreland and Wellington indulged in a riot of ducal bonhomie while Joseph saw with relief that a hackney was disgorging the soberly attired person of Elijah Harrison. A second man alit from the cab, dressed in somewhat finer style than Harrison.

  “Splendid,” Moreland said. “Lord Fairly is joining us to ensure the medical necessities can be tended to.” Fairly was tall, blond, and carrying a black bag Joseph did not allow his gaze to dwell on.

  “My lord. Harrison.” Joseph bowed to the stranger, though perhaps the bow included that ominous little bag too. “My thanks for joining us. Your Grace, may I make known to you—”

  “No need for that,” Moreland interrupted. “Fairly’s a family connection of sorts. Wellington, I’m pleased to introduce David, Viscount Fairly, and, Harrison, I believe we’re all familiar with you as a fixture in the dim corners of various clubs. Sir Joseph, if your opponent would see fit—ah! The rascal is going to post after all.”

  There was a benefit to having a pair of dukes invite themselves to one’s first duel in many years. Moreland took control of not just the introductions, but inserted himself into the discussion of where the field ought to lie and how many more minutes they should wait before the sun climbed over the horizon. Wellington dogged Grattingly’s seconds at every turn, leaving Fairly to chat Joseph up.

  “Nervous?” Fairly put the question quietly, though they were downwind of Grattingly, suggesting the doctor wasn’t a complete fool.

  “Would I admit such a thing to a stranger?”

  “You don’t have to. There’s tension about your mouth and eyes, your breathing is shallow, and you’ve been pushing the snow around with the toe of a riding boot that deserves better treatment.”

  Joseph turned to regard the man. “If your medical acumen is commensurate with your powers of observation, perhaps my nervousness is misplaced.”

  “I can also tell you that Grattingly’s breath reeks like a gin whore’s when the fleet has docked. He’s very likely still the worse for drink from last night’s excesses.”

  “Which makes him unpredictable.”

  Fairly nodded and said nothing more.

  Moreland came churning across the snowy ground. “I believe all is in readiness, unless that buffoon’s seconds can talk him into a last-minute apology.”

  Wellington flanked Joseph’s other side. “I’ve conferred with the family, Joseph. Your opponent is a weasel who discredits vermin throughout the realm. Do as honor compels you, and even his fellow weasels will not lament the loss.”

  Joseph looked about himself to see at least three titles, possibly four if Harrison’s dubious antecedents could be counted, all out in the cold dawn air to risk their reputations at his behalf.

  “Gentlemen, I have never enjoyed defending a lady’s honor more. Who’s to give the count?”

  “That honor falls to me,” Harrison said. “Grattingly’s second has the pistols.”

  A look passed among the men surrounding Joseph.

  Joseph asked the ticklish question. “Somebody has inspected them?”

  Harrison looked grim. “I have.”

  “Well,” said Moreland, “I have not. Arthur, come along.”

  A-duking they did go, over to the folding table where Grattingly’s matched pistols sat in an open velvet-lined box.

  “To the naked eye, they look sound enough,” Harrison muttered. “I could think of no reason to use another pair that wouldn’t get us both called out all over again.”

  “Would that be another pair of pistols or dukes?”

  As Joseph offered his rejoinder, Moreland’s foot slipped, sending His Grace careening into His Other Grace, and the both of them pitching forward. The folding table collapsed, and the pistols tumbled out of their cozy box and into the snow.

  “Oh, well done,” Fairly said softly. When Joseph cast him a curious look, the man shrugged. “I don’t hold with using antique weaponry for such serious matters. Appearances are well and good over the drawing room mantel, but this is not a drawing room affair.”

  The seconds conferred, and while Grattingly sputtered curses and cast Joseph withering looks, both dukes repaired to their coaches and brought forth boxed sets of dueling pistols.

  Things moved along quickly from there. Grattingly chose Moreland’s set of Mantons, Joseph took his place back-to-back with his opponent, and Harrison began the count.

  The snow, Joseph later concluded, saved his life—if Their Graces hadn’t already done so. Harrison’s voice rang out, tolling the steps, but one shy of the turn, Joseph heard the snow beneath Grattingly’s feet crunch off-rhythm, two steps where there should have been one.

  A shot to the back was marginally less likely to be lethal than a shot to the chest, so Joseph did not emulate Grattingly and turn early. Grattingly’s pistol discharged before the count ended, and Joseph felt the bullet whistle past his ear.

  When Joseph turned, Grattingly was o
n one knee, his right arm still extended with the smoking pistol dangling from his grip.

  “Foul!” Harrison called from the direction of the coaches. “Foul on Mr. Grattingly for firing early.”

  “He slipped!” Grattingly’s second called, but the man’s words lacked conviction.

  Wellington’s crisp voice cut across the frosty silence. “Take your shot, Sir Joseph.”

  Joseph aimed, inhaled, exhaled partway, and when he should have taken his shot—a clean bullet through Grattingly’s black heart—there arose in his mind an image of Louisa Windham curled onto his chest in sleepy abandon. She had given Joseph permission to teach Grattingly a lesson—and only to teach him a lesson. Joseph adjusted his aim and fired.

  The pistol went sailing from Grattingly’s hand, while a few yards away, Moreland accepted a tenner from Wellington.

  ***

  “I owe Your Grace a new set of pistols.” Joseph kept his gaze from where Grattingly’s hand was being wrapped in bandages by the physician. No blood had been drawn, but Grattingly’s middle finger had been dislocated when the gun had been shot from his grasp.

  “Consider this set a wedding present,” Moreland said. “You’ll come back to the house for some breakfast, won’t you?”

  Breakfast. Joseph envisioned himself at his desk in his drafty library, tea getting cold at his elbow, cold eggs on a plate with some cold buttered toast completing the picture.

  “Breakfast wouldn’t go amiss. Does one invite one’s seconds and any chance-met dukes to breakfast after a duel?”

  Moreland’s white brows rose. “Arthur will take Harrison and Fairly to the club for a beefsteak. Let them listen to his glorious tales of India and Spain. I’m sure you’ve heard him prosing on as many times as I have.”

  Wellington was not particularly given to prosing on, but Joseph wasn’t inclined to argue with his prospective father-by-marriage. He was, however, inclined to get his arse out of the freezing dawn air before the cold made his leg seize up into uselessness.

  Moreland signaled to his coachman. “I’ll tend to the civilities. You’d best be having a nip. You look a trifled peaked, and we mustn’t be alarming the ladies with unnecessary dramatics.”