What A Lady Needs For Christmas

by Grace Burrowes

  “Joan is my sensible sister. I hadn’t foreseen that she’d cause anxiety,” Tye said, putting the baby to his shoulder and rubbing the child’s small back. “She is doomed to fail with her little fashion venture, and it distracts her from finding a husband, another venture at which she does not seem destined for success.”

  “Joan’s dresses are striking,” Hester countered loyally. “You’re putting the child to sleep.”

  Tiberius slowed his caresses to the boy’s back. “Joan’s dresses are striking on her. That’s not entirely a good thing when men seek agreeable, biddable, retiring qualities in their spouses.”

  “They seek broad hips and empty heads,” Hester sniffed. “Most titled men are dense beyond belief when it comes to seeking a marriage partner. Joan is not in the common mode and deserves a man who can appreciate it. Perhaps she’ll find a prospect at this house party.”

  No, she would not; not if Tye had anything to say to it.

  “Balfour has invited mostly family, but also a few Scots with interests in trade. He’s of a mind to mix business with pleasure, and shift some of the earldom’s investments from shipping to local ventures.”

  The child let out a sigh so great as to shake his entire body.

  “That’s it, then,” Hester said. “He’s down for the nonce. The maids won’t thank you.”

  Tye would not admit it, even to his wife, but the pleasure of holding the sleeping child was worth all the dark looks and long-suffering mutterings of the nursery crew.

  “Joan should have found somebody by now in London, Paris, or Edinburgh,” Tye said, leaning back so he could wrap an arm around his petite countess. “If she can’t snag some prancing dukeling or German prince, then I’ll not have her yoked to a cit with more money than manners.”

  Hester nestled against her husband in a most agreeable fashion. “I am the daughter of a mere baron, Tiberius. I would caution you against such rigid expressions of fraternal concern.”

  “I do not want to see my sister hurt,” Tye said against his wife’s hair. She was blond, a surprising contrast to her big dark husband, and she always felt just right in his arms. “If one of Balfour’s upstart business prospects thinks to entice Joan to the altar in a weak moment, I’ll soon have him thinking otherwise.”

  The countess rubbed her cheek against her husband’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

  ***

  A foul, foul stench pervaded Edward Valmonte’s awareness, more foul than usual the morning after his lordship had overindulged.

  “Go away,” Edward muttered at the source of the odor.

  Fergus yipped, which happy sound ricocheted around in Edward’s head like so many stray bullets. Waking up to hot, smelly terrier breath ought to number among the biblical plagues.

  “I said”—Edward rolled over to bury his face in clean linen—“get the hell away from me.”

  Another yip, which bore a warning quality.

  “I don’t care how deep the snow is. If you tee-tee on Mama’s carpets again, she will have you made into a fricassee.”

  After she’d done worse to her firstborn son. The woman had no sense of her proper place in the scheme of things. Fergus was mostly a very good fellow, much like Edward.

  “Yip! Yip!” The dratted pestilence followed up with enthusiastic licking about Edward’s ear, which made Edward smile and rather put him in mind of Lady Joan’s breathy—

  “Shite.” The worst curse Edward could manage under his mother’s roof, and still inadequate for the combination of woe and queasiness that welled up from within. “Shite and dog breath and tee-tee in the front hall.” He sat up, cradling the dog to his chest. “I am in such trouble. Fricassee will be too good for me.”

  The outer door to the adjacent sitting room banged open loudly enough to make Edward wince. One instant too late, Edward understood that Fergus had been trying to alert him to Mama’s approach.

  “One hopes you are awake, though Kyle says he has not attended you.” The Viscountess Valmonte’s heels drilled into Edward’s meager store of composure as they clattered against parquet floors. “And”—her ladyship barreled right into Edward’s bedroom—“you had best be up and about, for we’re expected to take tea with Lady Dorcas and her family in light of the day’s developments.”

  Mama was no respecter of Edward’s privacy, as if he were still a boy in dresses.

  “I’m not decent, your ladyship. You will please allow a fellow a few moments with his valet of a morning.” Against Edward’s chest, Fergus was a warm, reassuring little ball of canine loyalty. He gave a short bark, doubtless agreeing with his master.

  “It’s past noon, young man.” Mama’s scolds were all the more effective for being delivered with a hint of a French accent. “And I am sorry to inform you, your lady wife will not take kindly to allowing animals of any description into her bed.”

  She clapped her hands, the ultimate insult to Edward’s throbbing head and roiling belly. “Kyle! His lordship has need of you!”

  What Edward needed was to apologize to Lady Joan Flynn before the woman’s brother sent his seconds to call.

  “Mama, please leave. I must have peace and quiet, a pot or two of black tea, and somebody to take Fergus for a stroll in the mews.”

  “I’m here, your ladyship.” Kyle bowed to the viscountess, Edward’s shaving kit in the man’s pudgy hand, a towel over his arm as if he were some damned waiter. “We can be ready in less than an hour.”

  We? As if Kyle were Edward’s nanny, getting him ready for an outing to the park.

  “Excellent. When you are finished with Edward, you can see to the dog. Lady Dorcas deserves her day to preen and gloat, and of course, his lordship must show himself as her devoted swain.”

  Lady Dorcas Bellingham—Lady Dorcas-Rhymes-with-Orcas, according to a zoological wit at Edward’s club—was not a bad sort, though she was prodigiously fond of sweets, and rather an armload to wrestle about on the dance floor. She had an agreeable dimness to her mental faculties, and a nice smile.

  “I am not her devoted swain.” Edward fumbled about beneath his pillows for his nightshirt. “Kyle, procure a fellow a pot of tea, if you don’t mind.”

  Edward set Fergus down, got a nightshirt more or less on, and mentally prepared himself for the ordeal of standing upright. The bed was elevated two steps for warmth, though what good did warm covers do a man when he broke his neck tumbling from bed in the morning?

  “You look positively bilious, Eddie. Were you up late sketching? I must say, those drawings in the sitting rooms are quite the cleverest efforts I’ve seen from you to date.” Mama seemed to look at him for the first time, while Fergus bounded off the bed and turned an encouraging pair of bright black eyes on Edward.

  “I was up quite late.” Joan had been sketching—at first—beautiful, flowing, ingenious sketches that provoked Edward to equal parts envy and admiration. And curiously enough, the sketches were apparently still here. “Mama, you really ought not to be in my bedroom.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve nothing to display I haven’t seen before. We’ll be stopping by the salon on our way to Lady Dorcas’s, and I cannot afford to indulge your penchant for dawdling. Lady Dorcas could cry off, despite the announcement.”

  Edward was focused on navigating the steps, but it didn’t do to ignore Mama’s nattering entirely. “What announcement?”

  “Coyness doesn’t become you, Eddie. The announcement of your engagement to Lady Dorcas. Brilliant match, if I do say so myself.”

  Edward’s ears began to roar, and his stomach rebelled against his mother’s words, even as his headache escalated to a point past agony.

  “I never proposed to Lady Dorcas Bellingham. She and I cannot be engaged.” Though a dim recollection of Mama chattering about productive discussions, and Uncle nodding approvingly suggested Edward’s objection was too little and too late.

  Mama regarded him with her head cocked to the side, making her look like a small, puzzled French bird—a bird of prey.r />
  “Don’t be tedious. Bended knee and dramatic declarations are hardly necessary among the better families. The girl has pots of money, and she has the look of an easy breeder. Get dressed, lest we be late for a call on your intended. The announcements went out this very morning, and if we’re quick about it, we can have you married before the New Year.”

  Oh, God.

  Oh, Joan.

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  As his mother fled the room in another tattoo of heels, Edward was indeed sick, barely missing her ladyship’s prized Axminster carpets, while Fergus looked on with sympathetic eyes.

  ***

  How soon after conceiving could a woman turn up queasy?

  Joan knew of no treatise she could read on the subject, and she had no doting auntie to whom she might discreetly put the question. Tiberius’s wife, Hester, was a good sort—witness, she’d taken on the care and handling of Tiberius—but Joan could not test her sister-in-law’s loyalties with such an inquiry.

  “He works all the time,” Miss Hartwell muttered, biting off a length of green thread. “Dante, that is. For Christmas, I wish my brother would be given the gift of the occasional afternoon or morning spent at leisure.”

  “What about you?” Joan asked, wondering if another chocolate might settle her digestion. “Do you spend the occasional afternoon or morning at leisure? Sometimes example is the best teacher.”

  Miss Hartwell regarded her hoop, which sported a pair of doves amid a riot of green-and-gold leaves. “As if Dante would be guided by my example in anything. Charlie can occasionally make him laugh.”

  The train was slowing, perhaps in deference to the thickening snow.

  “Maybe your brother won’t be guided by your example, but he might be tempted by it.” Just as Joan might tempt Mr. Hartwell with the lone piece of marzipan remaining in the box of chocolates.

  He’d sampled that marzipan with the same focus he’d brought to reading his reports or to stacking luggage. Joan could not imagine what such a man would do with a morning’s leisure, much less how he could need one.

  While Joan needed for her belly to settle, and for Edward Valmonte to magically acquire unfailing discretion.

  “We’re coming to Aberdeen,” Margaret said, putting down her embroidery and going to a window. “The children will want to leave the train, lark about for five minutes, catch a chill, and generally get in the way.”

  Something was afflicting Miss Hartwell’s spirits, for she struck Joan as a sanguine lady, and yet her litany was nearly a complaint.

  “Fresh air sounds lovely. Shall we bundle the children up and get off for a few minutes too?” Gray, bleak granite structures flashed by the windows, a few draped in pine roping, some sporting wreathes on doors. In the occasional window, lone candles tried to shed light amid a thickening gloom.

  “Darkness will soon fall,” Miss Hartwell said. “So yes, let’s get off the train, stretch our legs, and chase the children about.”

  They retrieved the children from the part of the car partitioned off for sleeping cots. Charlie had been lecturing a doll about reading reports, and Phillip had countered that dolls didn’t read reports.

  “You can have that argument outside,” Miss Hartwell said, “provided you’re bundled up to your noses. The day has done nothing but grow colder and darker.”

  True enough. Joan assisted with dressing the children—Phillip stood still, while Charlie’s mouth and all fourteen of her limbs were in constant motion—then wrapped herself in her velvet cloak.

  By the time the children and both women were appropriately attired, the train had come to a halt at the back of yet another gray stone building, this one larger than many of the others. Miss Hartwell gave the children a final stern admonition about running off—running anywhere—and turned to open the door.

  A man stood directly outside in his kilt, the fellow tall enough to be higher than eye level with Miss Hartwell, even when she had the advantage of the train’s height. His age was hard to determine, but likely fell between thirty and thirty-five.

  A gust of frigid air accompanied the moment of silence while Miss Hartwell and the fellow stared at each other, then Charlie tore a hand free from Joan’s grasp.

  “Hullo, Hector!” She launched herself at the man, who caught her easily.

  “Hullo, ma bonnie wee lass! Did ye save me a kiss?”

  The next instant was full of the sort of impressions designed to make Joan feel like an interloper: fellows named Hector should be short, skinny, wear too much pomade in their hair, and eschew kilts.

  This Hector had the sort of cliffs-meeting-the-sea features that were the embodiment of sternness in repose. A sloping brow, deep-set eyes, and a prominent nose came together with a determined jaw to form a countenance that would have looked well on an opinionated conservative bishop or a Highland chieftain. Dark hair—no pomade—did nothing to lighten Joan’s impression of the man.

  And yet, his waistcoat was bright, even loud plaid, along the lines of the Royal Stewart tartan.

  Charlie’s greeting effected a transformation, bringing merriment to blue eyes, and a broad smile to Hector’s face. His affection for the child and hers for him was unabashed and charming.

  “We saved you chocolates, too,” Charlie said. “Or Lady Joan did. You mustn’t eat too many sweets, or you’ll get a bellyache. Did you miss me?”

  “Fair t’broke ma heart for missing ye,” he said, setting Charlie down but keeping her hand in his.

  He was difficult to understand, having a thick Scottish burr—not heart, but hairt. Untangling his speech didn’t spare Joan from noticing the way Hector glanced at Miss Hartwell as he flattered the child.

  Fair to broke my heart for missing ye.

  Oh. Dear.

  Mr. Hartwell’s man of business—or whatever Hector was—had directed his sentiment at least in part at Mr. Hartwell’s sister. Miss Hartwell was busy rewrapping Phillip’s scarf about his face and likely missed the innuendo entirely.

  Or was polite enough to pretend she had.

  “Shall we step out for a few minutes?” Joan suggested.

  Hector’s smile faded as he treated Joan to a visual inspection. “Hector MacMillan, ma’am. I haven’t had the pleasure…”

  “Well, move aside, Hector,” Miss Hartwell scolded. “We’re letting all the heat out of the parlor, and the children aren’t getting any fresh air.”

  His expression, if anything, grew more shuttered. “My apologies.”

  Miss Hartwell got the introductions wrong, presenting Joan to Mr. MacMillan first, which was three kinds of a blunder. Joan offered her gloved hand, which Mr. MacMillan took in his bare fingers without bowing.

  “I don’t recall that a guest was to join the party.”

  “I’m not a guest,” Joan said as Margaret bustled off after the children, and two young ladies with the harried countenances of nursery maids hopped down from cars farther along the platform. “I’m a charity case. Mr. Hartwell and I became acquainted over the past few weeks in Edinburgh. When I needed to journey north on short notice, he offered the hospitality of traveling with his family.”

  “Don’t insult my guest, Hector,” Mr. Hartwell said, climbing down from the second car. “Lady Joan helped Margs with the children, and for that we must all be grateful.”

  Mr. Hartwell shook hands with Mr. MacMillan, then slapped the fellow on the back and offered him a dented silver flask. Not only did the temperature drop and the light fade as one journeyed north, but apparently manners also grew less formal.

  “A wee nip, Lady Joan?” Mr. Hartwell asked when Mr. MacMillan had declined the proffered libation.

  Joan had an older brother, and she and her sisters had been duty bound to sneak a nip from his flask. The memory was not happy, for Mary Ellen had snorted the contents of the flask into her nose, and accused Joan of trying to poison her loudly enough for Mama to hear.

  Mama had made them finish the flask, though she’d diluted the contents
with water.

  Why had Joan not taken that lesson in the evils of strong spirits to heart?

  “No, thank you. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. MacMillan. I’ll see how Miss Hartwell is getting on with the children.” Those children had run down the platform, trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues and narrowly missing collisions with other travelers.

  The men moved away, back toward the second train car as the wind snatched at terms like “profitability” and “rate of return” and “damned Sassenach.”

  Joan qualified as a Sassenach—a rather cold, miserable Sassenach. She was no longer on the swaying train, and the brisk wind blew the coal smoke away from the platform, and yet, even standing still in the frigid air, Joan’s stomach was still unsettled.

  Perhaps she was a damned Sassenach after all.

  ***

  “Charity cases don’t wear velvet cloaks that cost more than my grandda’s entire harvest of wool would have brought in a good year.”

  Hector was a master of the casual observation.

  I see you haven’t made notes on these reports yet.

  How interesting, that you’re now in correspondence with the very English earl who damned near tried to shoot you on your own grouse moor.

  Margaret appears a wee bit wroth with you.

  “And yet, Lady Joan had no way to travel home to see her family, dirty weather was closing in, and Margs seemed in need of some company,” Dante observed with equal casualness. “They’re getting on well enough.”

  Hector paused before climbing into the second parlor car—the one with the decanters, but lamentably lacking in that marzi-whatever confection.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Margaret try to catch a snowflake on her tongue.”

  Another observation. Down the platform, Lady Joan, Margaret, and the children were holding hands in a circle, everybody’s face turned skyward, while some sort of silly game got under way and a queer sensation tugged at Dante’s chest.

  “Into the train with you,” he said. “I have questions about Balfour’s holdings, and if we’re quick, we can snatch the box of chocolates and nobody will notice.”