Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight

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by Grace Burrowes


  I regret my passing without issue means you are now burdened with the deuced title, as you referred to it, but I think you’ll find the barony comes with more blessings than you might have anticipated.

  Be kind to Penelope, please. For all her youth, she was a good wife to me. She’s been left well set up, consistent with my wishes and her desserts. I trust you will not allow the fortune hunters to exploit her generous nature while she grieves my passing.

  The seat of the barony is a lovely place I had occasion to visit just a few years past. Don’t wait until grouse season to see it for yourself. My dying wish, Joseph, is that you collect your newly acquired lady wife and make a journey North to what is now your family seat. Yorkshire in spring is glorious, a perfect complement to a new marriage.

  Trust me on this, dear boy. Wear the title with pride and honor, and I shall ever be,

  Your loving relation,

  Sixtus Hargrave Carrington

  Damned if it didn’t hurt like blazes.

  It hurt to think Joseph would never again hear the old fellow’s raucous, irreverent laughter, it hurt to think there would be no more holiday epistles exchanged between two relics of an old and not very illustrious family. It hurt to think Amanda and Fleur, in some way, had lost what little family remained to them, as well, regardless of the lack of any blood tie.

  And it hurt to know that after centuries of carefully mapping generation after generation of Carringtons, with the elders from age to age charting which branch of the family might yet revive the title and when that happy day might arrive, only one Carrington remained standing—a lame pig farmer with more money than was decent.

  “Joseph?” Louisa had come into the library without making a sound. Joseph held out a hand to her, drinking in the sight of her in red velvet with gold trim, white lace at her wrists and across her bosom.

  “My dear.” When she took his hand, he pulled her in closer, wrapping her in his embrace and resting his cheek against her hair. “You are a vision.”

  She wound her arms about his waist. “You are quite handsomely turned out yourself, which is fortunate. Mama and Papa will inspect us, so we must be properly put together and graciously cheerful.”

  “Cheerful.” What a notion. “Sixtus Hargrave Carrington is gone.” And when had marriage meant a man had no control over his moronic mouth? “I hadn’t meant to tell you until after the holidays.”

  She hugged him closer. “I am sorry for your loss, and I know you dread assuming the title, Joseph, but it need not be a burden.”

  “Dread.” He considered the term. “That is not putting it too strongly. I must vote my seat, I must wade through all the courtesy invitations. I must leave cards all over creation when I arrive to Town. My daughters must now have a come out—”

  She kissed him into silence. Put her mouth right over his and didn’t desist until he was kissing her back.

  Joseph felt her sigh against his throat.

  “You will be in a position to steer the course of events in the Lords, Joseph. You are a caretaker by nature, and better you should have the responsibility than some gouty old marquis concerned only with protecting his own privileges and oppressing the Catholics.”

  “But Town, Louisa?”

  “We’ll have family there. Maggie’s husband bides there frequently. Sophie’s husband will soon be invested. His Grace’s influence will put you on any committee you choose, and you and I will host the most scintillating political dinners seen in ages.”

  A shaft of light pierced the gloom of Joseph’s mood. “You aren’t in the least daunted by this, are you?”

  “I have no gift for small talk, Joseph, but the political types haven’t either. You and I both have a complement of brains, and your common sense is the equal of anybody’s. We shall contrive.” She was confident in her complement of brains and well she should be. While Joseph was by no means as confident of his own intellectual gifts, in this, he was confident of his wife.

  He purely hugged her, drawing in her clove-and-citrus scent and silently thanking heaven that this woman had consented to be his spouse.

  And then he recalled his dependents in Surrey.

  Could a baron weather the scandal of multiple bastards any more easily than a lowly pig farmer could?

  “Shall we stay home, Joseph?” Louisa was cuddled close, close enough that while Joseph was lamenting a fate most men would have celebrated riotously, Joseph’s body had begun celebrating something else entirely. “We can plead mourning, and it will be the truth.”

  “I would as soon not cast a pall on anybody else’s holiday.” Still, he did not turn her loose. “My cousin was old, he welcomed his own passing, and he had a long, jolly life. We’ve acquired another fortune, by the way. Best be about picking out that charity, Louisa.”

  She went still against him, her hand pausing in a slide over his backside then resuming its journey. “Shall we be a bit late, Joseph?”

  At first he didn’t comprehend her question, but she followed it up with a soft, friendly kiss on the mouth and a little squeeze to his fundament. An image popped into his mind, of Louisa’s back pressed to the wall, her skirts hiked up all around, and Joseph’s cock buried in her sweet heat.

  She was tall enough to make it workable, provided he could—

  His leg would never withstand the languid joining he wanted to offer her.

  “Drawers off.” He let his hand slip over her breast as he eased from her embrace and locked the door. Her smile was an entire Christmas of female good cheer in a single expression, and it brightened more as Joseph settled into a chair and started undoing his falls.

  “We will be more than a little late if you leave me by my lonesome over here, Wife, waving my parts in the breeze for your amusement.”

  His parts weren’t entirely ready to receive callers, but as Louisa slid off her drawers and tossed them onto the desk, the knocker was definitely going up.

  “I had wondered about this.” She eyed him where he sat. “How does one…?”

  “You put a knee on either side of my hips for starters, as if you’re straddling my lap. I expect some kissing will follow, and very likely some marital intimacies.”

  Louisa hiked her skirts and climbed into the chair, positioning herself exactly as Joseph had suggested. “Or perhaps,” she whispered in his ear, “we could recite poetry to each other.”

  She beamed at him, not at all at a loss to contemplate an impromptu coupling by the fire in a reading chair. Her gaze held mischief and tenderness and a hint of determination, as well.

  “My dearest wife, you are poetry.”

  Which should have sounded like fatuous rot, but as a cloud of velvet and Louisa eased over Joseph’s lap, it was the truth as he knew it. She moved on him like poetry, breathed through him like poetry, and brought him comfort more intimate than any words ever had.

  Their joining was unhurried and a profound consolation. Joseph held off his own completion until Louisa had found hers at least twice and possibly a third time—he wasn’t sure about those last few happy shudders—and then he let pleasure flood his awareness as he spilled his seed deep in his wife’s body.

  When the tide ebbed, his face was pressed to Louisa’s fragrant bosom, her fingers were stroking gently through his hair, and Joseph’s body felt better than it had in… better than it had ever.

  “I haven’t dissuaded you from attending Their Graces’ open house, have I?” She spoke with her lips against his temple, their position making Joseph feel a protectiveness from her embrace she probably didn’t intend.

  “Your parents haven’t seen us since the wedding, Louisa. They’ll fret if I don’t show you off to them soon.”

  He wanted to show her off. Wanted the entire realm to marvel at his wife, and yet, he did not hustle her away to retrieve her drawers. When Louisa did gain her feet, Joseph passed her his handkerchief and took his time putting himself to rights.

  Louisa turned to face him as he rose awkwardly from the chair. “Is
my hair a fright?”

  Such a tedious, wifely question—though in his previous marriage, Joseph could not recall being asked such a thing even once. Joseph liked the inquiry nonetheless. They’d been married a week, and already Louisa assumed she could rely on Joseph to be honest with her about something so personal.

  He liked that she made the assumption he’d be honest with her. Had he been worthy of her trust, he would have liked it even more.

  ***

  The carriage ride to Morelands went more slowly than it might have otherwise because a light snow was falling, obscuring the ruts that identified the frozen road. Louisa wondered if every couple arriving “fashionably late” detained themselves with similar sport.

  Except it wasn’t sport. Joseph had been so… tender with her, his touch reverent, his kisses a benediction upon her flesh.

  My dearest wife, you are poetry. The words landed in her heart like a rose tossed from a gallant to his lady, but a thorny rosy.

  “What are you thinking, Louisa?”

  She slipped her hand into his, and he squeezed her fingers. “I am thinking a man with a title is at once held up to public scrutiny more than his untitled neighbor, and yet above scrutiny too.”

  “You are not philosophizing fifteen minutes after I’ve loved you witless, Louisa Carrington. My pride will not allow it.”

  “Fifteen minutes after I loved you witless, Joseph Carrington.”

  He kissed her fingers. “Not a wit to be found between us. An enviable state.”

  Though a temporary one. Louisa recalled her intention to give her husband the truth for Christmas, and now Christmas was almost upon them. Before her courage could desert her, she posed a question.

  “Joseph, are you amenable to a short journey tomorrow?”

  He hadn’t lit the coach lamps, so Louisa had the blessing of darkness in which to make her query. “On Christmas Day, Louisa? Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise. We can easily get there and back in time for Christmas dinner.”

  He was quiet for so long Louisa wondered if he was going to answer, but then he patted her hand. “Weather permitting. I cannot make myself available to you on Boxing Day, though, and I hope you haven’t beggared your pin money to procure me this surprise.”

  “I have not.” Though she hoped offering to spend her dower funds on his private charity might allow her to broach other, more difficult matters involving a small red volume of verse.

  “Shall we take the girls on this journey, dearest Wife?”

  “I think not. They’ll want to take the puppies, and I cannot recall a sanguine experience involving both a puppy and a traveling coach, much less two puppies, two little girls, and a traveling coach.”

  The carriage slowed to turn up Morelands’s drive. “Then I shall enjoy having you to myself, Louisa Carrington. I have a small token to give you in honor of the holiday—very small.”

  “Can I see the stars with it?”

  She heard him chuckle in the dark. “You did not see them earlier, did not soar among them in my arms?”

  “I have married a fanciful man—a fanciful baron.”

  “None of that, Louisa. You promised we’d keep quiet until the Regent has done something official.”

  The reproof was casual, nothing in it hinting that Joseph was as burdened as he’d been when Louisa had found him in the library. That he’d trust her with this secret, rely on her to protect his privacy this way was… a gift. It bespoke a marital bond that had flourished in a short time, a bond another man might never have built with her.

  She loved him for it. Loved him for raising his wife’s by-blows and not even inquiring into their paternity. Loved him for defending the honor of a lady who had both father and brothers arguably better suited to the task. She loved him for introducing her to Lady Ophelia and for naming his daughters for his maiden aunts.

  She loved him for being himself, for raising the happiest pigs in the realm, for taking on a title as a weighty honor, not an excuse to live an idle and selfish life.

  “Why the sigh, Louisa?”

  “I am cataloguing your virtues. The list is lengthy.”

  The carriage slowed on the grand circular driveway before the Moreland mansion. Torches lined the walk, and the falling snow looked like so many tiny stars against the illumination.

  “Put at the top of your list that I had the great good sense to marry you when I had the chance, would you?”

  He meant it. For that alone, Louisa would somehow find the courage to tell him that a stupid, schoolgirl tantrum might land the newly minted baron and his family in the middle of a nasty scandal.

  Tomorrow—she would find the courage tomorrow.

  Sixteen

  “I thought Louisa was looking splendid. For pity’s sake, St. Just, leave some bacon for the rest of us.” Maggie, the Countess of Hazelton, glared at her brother, who obligingly held up a strip of crispy pork, from which she took a ladylike nibble.

  “Mags, you missed his fingers,” Valentine said from her other side. “I agree with you. Lou was in splendid good looks, except when her gaze fell upon her spouse, and then she was positively radiant.”

  “Matrimony becomes all of you Windhams,” Anna, the Countess of Westhaven, remarked as her husband topped up her tea. Westhaven set the teapot down and patted her hand right there in front of all his hungry, gossipy siblings.

  “Were anyone to ask my opinion—” he began.

  “Which we have not,” Sophie pointed out.

  “—I would have said it’s Sir Joseph who was in fine form. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Louisa so competently partnered at the waltz.”

  Valentine paused in the act of snitching bacon from St. Just’s plate. “They did look splendid. He has that tall, dark, and handsome business going for him that others have enjoyed to such good advantage.”

  Valentine’s wife, Ellen, lifted her teacup in salute across the table, which his lordship acknowledged with a section of orange.

  “It’s a fine thing when Sir Joseph must arrive late and leave early rather than enjoy the hospitality of the household overnight like the rest of us,” Maggie said. “But then, they are newly wed.”

  “That has little to do with it,” Valentine said. “Westhaven, stop goggling at Anna long enough to send that teapot around.” As the teapot started working its way about the table, he went on. “Lou was going to take Sir Joseph on a tour of the charity of her choice today, and they needed to make an early start of it.”

  “There’s a worthy charity hereabouts that Her Grace and Sophie haven’t already endowed handsomely?” Westhaven asked.

  “Not here,” Vim, Baron Sindal, said from Sophie’s side. “Louisa told us it’s over in Surrey, not that far, but the snow might make the going tedious.”

  Westhaven did not stop ogling his countess, but he did pause with his teacup halfway to his lips. “A charity in Surrey?”

  “A home for Peninsular orphans whose English relations cannot see fit to take them in.” Rather than elucidate further, Sophie peered into the teapot. “Empty. May you lot all find a lump of coal among your presents today.”

  Sindal passed her his teacup.

  “Our sister lives to castigate us,” St. Just said, spreading a liberal portion of butter on his toast. “We mustn’t deprive her of her few pleasures.”

  “And what would you know of my vast and varied pleasures?” Sophie asked, but then she frowned over at the earl. “Westhaven, one cannot find that look at all encouraging over one’s breakfast. Anna, kiss him or find some handy mistletoe and offer the man some holiday—”

  “I know of only one charitable establishment in Surrey that caters to unfortunate children from the Peninsular excursion.” Westhaven pushed back his chair. “Sir Joseph has cause to know of the same establishment, but I fear Louisa has not yet been apprised of her husband’s lamentably close connection to it. If we hurry, perhaps we can catch Louisa and Joseph before they depart.”

  Amid a few
soft curses, “oh dears,” and a muttered “heaven help us,” the mood at the table abruptly shifted.

  “Go with your brother,” Emmie, the Countess of Rosecroft, said, laying a hand on St. Just’s arm. “We were going to call on Louisa today in any case.”

  “Ladies”—Westhaven’s gaze swept the table—“perhaps you’ll follow in the coach. Valentine, St. Just, I’ll meet you in the stables in ten minutes.”

  A general scraping of chairs followed, leaving only two people at the table: the handsome, blond Baron Sindal, whose greatest honor was to be married to Lady Sophie, and the darkly attractive Earl of Hazelton, who’d won Lady Maggie’s hand in marriage.

  “We can’t leave Carrington to deal with the rabble on his own,” Hazelton remarked. “Wouldn’t be sporting.”

  “And worse yet, we’d have to listen to our brothers-by-marriage tell the tale for years to come, their heroics growing with each rendition.”

  “Can’t have that.” Hazelton’s dark brows twitched up. “One wonders whom they’re rescuing, Joseph or Louisa.”

  “Or both?”

  Both men rose, crammed their pockets with cinnamon buns, and headed directly for the stables.

  ***

  Joseph looped an arm around his wife as the coach lumbered along. “You still won’t tell me where we’re going?”

  “It’s a surprise.” Her smile was smug, pleased with whatever this surprise was and pleased with herself.

  “I’m coming to enjoy surprises.”

  Louisa said no more and cuddled into his side. She had started his Christmas morning off with a lovely surprise, her hand wrapped around his burgeoning erection while he’d spooned himself around her.

  And then he’d had the pleasure of surprising her, taking her gently and oh, so slowly from behind…

  “What is that smile about, Joseph Carrington?”

 

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