What A Lady Needs For Christmas

by Grace Burrowes

  How could a woman be more pregnant? Twins perhaps? She couldn’t know that. He resisted the urge to pry her fingers apart and kiss her knuckles, as if asking for her to hand her troubles into his keeping.

  “Tell me.” Because a grown woman needed real comfort, not the nursery maid, kiss-it-better variety.

  “He has my sketches.”

  Such torment inhabited those four words, that for Joan, they had to be of greater import than if the conniving bastard had got her with child.

  “Explain yourself, my lady. You’re not Michelangelo, that your every doodle and scrap of drawing paper can be attributed to you simply on the basis of your style.”

  Her chin came up, and her green eyes sparked with irritation. “I sign my drawings, of course. I’m proud of them, and they’re quite good.”

  These drawings also had the ability to put the lady back on her mettle.

  “Are they naughty drawings?” Though how could Joan execute naughty drawings when she was loath to study even her own unclad form in the mirror?

  “They are not naughty. They’re dresses, ladies’ fashions, and they’re brilliant. I wanted to impress him, to talk him into taking on my designs for his house of fashion. I wouldn’t get public credit, of course, but everybody would know, sooner or later, and that would be enough.”

  So Edward Valmonte might be the weasel whom Dante needed to hunt down. Joan probably trusted his lordship from long acquaintance, trust being a necessary predicate to any seduction, and Valmonte had motive for stealing the drawings.

  Valmonte’s family enjoyed ownership of a mercantile enterprise for two reasons. The viscountess was of French extraction, and financial practicality in the French was an eccentricity affectionately tolerated by their English neighbors.

  The second reason Lord Valmonte could own a house of fashion was that it was considered an artistic undertaking, and his involvement in it that of tolerant patron and dilettante.

  While Lady Joan, by virtue of her birth, would content herself with the backhanded credit for her talent given to her through polite—and not entirely kind—innuendo.

  Dante ranged an arm along the back of the sofa.

  “You’re saying the scoundrel who took advantage of you has proof that you were private with him, if proof he wants.”

  Joan perched on the sofa lady-fashion—her back so straight it did not touch the sofa’s upholstery.

  “I recall now, sitting beside him before his mother’s tea service, wondering if Lady Valmonte would join us—the invitation had come from her—but because I was too eager to show my work to somebody who might appreciate it, I did not wait for her.”

  “Such a great sin, wanting to share your enthusiasm with somebody who could reciprocate it.”

  His irony penetrated her fog of self-castigation, for she turned to regard him.

  “Is your offer of marriage still open, Mr. Hartwell?” She might have been asking the coal man if he’d come around Tuesday next, the same as he had been for the past twenty years. And yet, her eyes were tormented with the sort of hopeless bewilderment Dante experienced when the foreman had told him he’d grown too big—too strong?—to work the mines.

  “Are you still willing to consummate the union and be a wife in every particular?”

  Not that it mattered, for he wasn’t about to cast Joan on the mercy of her dim-witted brother, her fluttery mother, or her grouchy father. He wasn’t sure he trusted those sisters of hers either.

  “Of course. I want children, Mr. Hartwell.”

  “I’m familiar with the condition, my lady. I mean no offense when I report to you that a husband likes to think of himself as more than simply his wife’s captive stud.”

  The language was crude—and so honest—he wasn’t sure she could comprehend his point.

  Her chin dipped, her spine remained straight. “You said something the other day, in the nursery, that caught my attention.”

  His kisses apparently had not. Well, they’d have time to work on that.

  “And?”

  “You said that couples will sometimes row and spat to gain each other’s notice. I think my parents have elevated this practice to a high, noisy, painful art. They’ve done better lately, but that’s how they go on—good patches and rough patches.”

  Her words reminded him of a comforting truth: Joan Flynn was a bright woman, and nowhere near as self-absorbed as others of her station could be. She took an interest in her surroundings, and wasn’t too proud to share her embroidery stitches with Margaret or play marbles with the children.

  “I suppose many couples find themselves in a similar pattern,” Dante said, for he and Rowena had played their contentious games for years, though the arrival of children had reduced the volume of the marital noise considerably.

  “I don’t want us to be among those couples. I want us to be civil, Mr. Hartwell, more than civil, if possible. My family will worry, and I wouldn’t want them to think—”

  Oh, blast. She’d been doing so well with this honest entreaty routine.

  “You don’t want them to think that you’ve chosen beneath yourself out of an aging spinster’s desperation, or as a result of a moral lapse. You want them to think that we’re smitten with each other.”

  Honesty was a fine thing, also lowering as hell sometimes.

  He took her hand and found it cold.

  “Here is the great wisdom of taking me as your spouse, Joan Flynn. I will not judge you for having some pride. I have pride too. I will not judge you for finding yourself in a predicament you didn’t see coming. I’ve landed in predicaments too. We’re starting off with honesty between us, and that’s no small gift. Assure that the honesty will be ours to keep, and our marriage will fare well enough.”

  He kissed her fingers then moved closer, slipping his arm around her shoulders.

  She unbent slowly, curling down to rest her forehead at his throat. “We’re not smitten.”

  At least she sounded forlorn.

  “Smitten is for young fools putting a poetic label on their mating urges. What I want from you, Lady Joan, is a genuine interest in my children and my family. You’ll show Margs how to go on among the tabbies, you’ll take Charlie in hand when she’s to make her come out. You’ll do your best with me and my rough manners and make a gentleman of wee Phillip.”

  “I can do that. You’ll marry me?” She wanted so little in this bargain, while he was probably gaining entrée to any ballroom or house party the length and breadth of the realm.

  “I will marry you, but there’s one other understanding we need to reach.”

  She relaxed against him, nearly cuddled into him, her fears apparently relieved. “I can’t help my family, but they mostly mean well.”

  “None of us can help our families, and I mean well when I raise this last topic: I expect fidelity between us. If we’re to have a chance of making our marriage a cordial union, then we’ll have none of that polite adultery your set finds so congenial.”

  The quality of her cuddling changed, became considering. “I am not a great proponent of polite adultery, or impolite adultery, if there is such a thing.”

  There were many ways to trample a wedding vow, though he couldn’t expect her to know that.

  “Your word, Lady Joan. Not a little slip, not a flirtation that gets out of hand, not a carriage ride that just happens to go nowhere slowly with the curtains pulled shut on the prettiest of summer days.”

  She patted his lapel. “They propositioned you, didn’t they? The same hostesses who’d barely give you their gloved fingers in the receiving line groped you under the table and left notes in the pockets of your cape.”

  They’d done more than that, revealing themselves to be a lot of bored, pathetic, aging schoolgirls whose morals would put mongrel dogs to shame.

  “We will be loyal and faithful, Joan, or we’ll not be married at all.”

  “We will be loyal and faithful.” She kissed him on the mouth, a soft, sweet, unlooked-for gift that
boded well for the vows they’d just exchanged. Dante had encircled her with both arms and begun mentally arranging for a special license, when a cold, imperious voice cut across the library from the doorway.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, taking liberties with my sister’s person?”

  ***

  Tye hadn’t raised his voice for two reasons. First, Balfour’s house was rapidly filling with relations, neighbors, friends, and all manner of ears that would eagerly report the news of any Flynn family altercation.

  For the Flynn family had been having altercations at house parties for as far back as Tye could recall.

  Second, Joan was the one taking most of the liberties.

  She was the sister closest to Tiberius in age, the most proper, and the most independent, which meant she was the most like him—and the one he fretted over the most as a result.

  “You will not raise your voice at Lady Joan,” Hartwell said, standing and assisting Joan to her feet. Then, with a bemused look, he added, “my lord.”

  Cheeky bastard—cool, cheeky bastard whose manners didn’t desert him easily.

  And yet, Tye would put the facts before Hartwell anyway, out of simple decency.

  “Now see here, Hartwell, I’ve already explained that Joan has suffered a disappointment, and while no man likes to hear that he’s being trifled with, the ladies can’t be blamed for finding consolation—”

  “Tiberius, please hush.” Joan kept her hand in Mr. Hartwell’s as she delivered her rebuke. “Mr. Hartwell is not a consolation.”

  “I’m not?” Hartwell’s smile was indulgent, and…tender?

  Tye did not exactly resent when his countess was right, but the accuracy of her surmises in certain areas did confound him.

  “Mr. Hartwell had best not have been providing you consolation, Joan Flynn, or I’ll provide him a demonstration of my pugilistic theories. You are the daughter of a marquess, while he…he is a stranger to your family.”

  The look Joan turned on Hartwell was unreadable. “Mr. Hartwell is not a stranger to me. He is, in fact, a friend. A good friend.”

  Hartwell nearly preened at this declaration.

  “Friends don’t compromise each other.” Hester would laugh herself silly over that nonsense. She’d gone to great lengths to compromise Tiberius not so long ago.

  Hartwell said nothing. He also allowed Joan to keep his hand in hers, of which the lady herself seemed unaware.

  Joan’s nose tilted up in a posture reminiscent of their mother. “If sitting beside each other compromises two people, then I delight to inform you that your countess has designs on Baron Fenimore.”

  Fenimore, great-uncle or third cousin or some Highland relation to the MacGregor’s, was older than Arthur’s Seat. Hester had spent the evening beside him because he was more likely to nap than bother her with small talk.

  “You and Hartwell were cuddling,” Tye said, having acquired a happily married man’s expert grasp of the topic. “You are not the cuddling sort, Joan Flynn.”

  Hartwell was trying not to smile. Too late, Tye realized what he’d said.

  “And you are, Tiberius?” Joan countered, coming closer and towing a silent Hartwell with her. “You, who were the despair of our parents through at least ten social Seasons? Hester practically had to drag you to the altar by your…your hair, and nobody quite knows how she managed that.”

  Sisters and their illogic were the very devil. Tye advanced on Joan, hands on hips.

  “I happen to love my countess, that’s how she inspired me to marry her. You love your fabrics and clothing and all that folderol. You do not love him.”

  Hartwell brushed his fingers over Joan’s knuckles. The caress was presuming as hell, but also seemed to steady Joan.

  “I love to make pretty clothes, Tiberius, and I love to feel soft, pretty things in my hands. You love your horse. I don’t see that this diminished your regard for Hester.”

  More nonsense, though Tye did adore Flying Rowan. Hester was fond of him too.

  “You are trying to distract me, and it won’t work. What the hell were you doing, practically sitting in Hartwell’s lap, Joan? The next time you engage in such folly, it could be Mama or Quinworth who comes through that unlocked door. Do you want to be engaged to this man?”

  Hartwell cocked his head, as if waiting for Joan’s reply. That little relaxed gesture sent a trickle of foreboding down through Tye’s middle.

  “Joan, we don’t know him, we don’t know who his people are,” Tye tried again. “He hasn’t presented himself or his situation to me or to Quinworth to assure us that he can provide for you. Accost Hartwell under the mistletoe if you’re in need of a diversion, but don’t lurk behind closed doors with a man you don’t intend to marry.”

  Tye knew better than to lecture any sister of his, but his concern was real. Hartwell had no pretensions to gentility. He was one of the rising buccaneers of industry, brash and bold about their wealth, and not at all respectful of the contribution the aristocracy made to the stability and sound functioning of the realm.

  “Fine, then, Tiberius,” Joan said, her smile naughty and proud at once. “I will only lurk behind closed doors with the man I do intend to marry.”

  She kissed Hartwell on the cheek without benefit of mistletoe, and made an exit from the library worthy of the marchioness herself. In Joan’s absence, the only sound was the soft roar of the peat fire and the ticking of a longcase clock over in the corner.

  Tye was torn between the need to sprint after her, and the urge to applaud.

  “Before you start reeling with righteousness, two things,” Hartwell said. “Maybe three.”

  “I should, first, kill you,” Tye suggested, because Hartwell was owed at least a warning. “Second, I should bury your parts in a hog wallow; and third, I’ll send Joan back to France.”

  Hartwell’s smile was downright cheery. “You are welcome to try, my lord. You’ll fail, on all three counts.”

  Yes, he probably would. Hester disapproved of violence, and this time of year, the hog wallows were frozen solid to a depth of several feet. Whatever Joan had sought in France, she’d come home, having decided she wouldn’t find it amid the gaiety of Paris.

  “I might fail,” Tye said. “Because homicide would put rather a damper on Balfour’s holiday gathering, and my manners have not deserted me to that extent, we’ll never know. You will speak with my father.”

  Provided Tye had first evacuated Balfour’s guests from within eavesdropping distance.

  “Two things.” Hartwell said again, quite calmly. “First, I can provide for Joan more than adequately. Not on the scale your family enjoys, but she’ll never know cold or hunger or be left to fend for herself when she needs allies.”

  Hartwell’s assertion bore an accusation an older brother could not miss.

  “I have been as conscientious in my family duties as I know how to be, Hartwell, and though I love Joan dearly, you try telling her what to do.”

  “That was probably your first mistake, but I’ve no doubt your countess has disabused you of that tactic.”

  Hester loved it when Tye tried to order her about. She usually laughed herself silly, even before she started imitating him.

  “Leave my countess out of this. I notice that while Joan was defending her actions with you, you did nothing to take up for her.”

  Except allow her to shamelessly cling to his hand.

  “That’s the second thing. Joan needed to be the one to tell you—you would not have believed me, and she doesn’t need me to speak for her, in any case.”

  “You are a widower,” Tye said, recalling some of the social intelligence Hester had passed along during one of their late night…chats.

  “I lost my wife three years ago,” Hartwell said. Nothing more, no manly gazing off into the fire, or sniffing into a handkerchief. Nothing sentimental about Hartwell’s pronouncement at all, which suggested to Tye that the woman’s death had, indeed, been a loss to her husband
.

  “Joan has been off somehow,” Tye said, stalking past Hartwell to spear another chunk of peat onto the fire. “She arrived here early, dragging your entire party with her, no luggage, no lady’s maid. Even my father—not the most devoted student of human nature—has noticed that Joan is unusually quiet.”

  “You are absolutely correct that Joan is coping with disappointment,” Hartwell said. “Most women are by the time they’re her age, but Joan has been honest with me. She believes we can have a respectful, cordial union, and I hope she’s right.”

  Joan had not been honest with her very own devoted, loving brother. She was apparently determined to marry Hartwell, true enough, but she was not in love with the man.

  Tye used a length of wrought iron to jab the fresh peat to the back of the flames. “If you break her heart, I will kill you—socially, financially, emotionally. In every sense save for the criminal, I will end your life. My countess would expect no less of me, and it’s the least I owe Joan.”

  “I believe you mean that.”

  Tye set the poker aside and replaced the screen over the hearth.

  “Always nice to know prospective family has some basic English comprehension skills. When you meet with my father, they’ll come in handy.” With Mama, language skills were of no help whatsoever. “What was the third thing?”

  “The third… Ah, yes. A drink, to celebrate the coming nuptials.”

  Balfour owned a distillery and served a whiskey that put angel choruses to the blush. Other breweries were blending their whiskies these days, mixing this barrel and vintage with that.

  Tye preferred the old ways. And yet, he was enough of a new husband to understand the wisdom Hartwell had shown in this exchange with Joan. Joan had made her choice, and she’d stood by it, even to the point of having the last word with a brother who prided himself on his elocution and rhetoric.

  And here Tye had thought her passion was limited to fabrics and stitchery.

  “A drink would be appreciated. You’ll want to pour from the decanter under the sideboard—plain, a bit dusty, and full of treasure.”

  Hartwell located the decanter and set out two glasses.