What A Lady Needs For Christmas

by Grace Burrowes

  She made the appeal as much for him as for herself, because Edward Valmonte wasn’t given to meanness. He was a charming flirt, frivolous, and also—Joan had bet her future on this—harmless.

  “I’m glad you understand what’s in the balance here, Joan. And don’t forget the harm to your sisters’ reputations if it becomes known you took up with Mr. Hartwell to avoid the scandal of your behavior with me. Then too, from what I hear, dear Mr. Hartwell is looking for funds—perhaps he knows fancy dresses cost a fortune, and they are what his new wife needs to be happy.”

  Was that what Society thought of her, that she required dresses to be happy?

  And what did it matter what Society thought—what did Dante think?

  Joan withdrew a pencil and small sketch pad from her reticule. “Place your order—yours and Fergus’s. I won’t be having anything.”

  “Stay with Lady Joan,” Edward instructed his pet, and the dog shifted to sit at Joan’s feet when Edward rose.

  Joan’s lucky dress would not work on a woman of Lady Dorcas’s dimension, but the dress Joan had been considering for Dora’s Christmas gift might. Full sleeves and generous skirts, but along softer lines than most women were wearing lately. Pastels, of course, a fairy-tale blue with not pink, but—

  What? What would flatter Dorcas’s coloring and provide an eye-catching contrast without being a trite red or black?

  Edward returned to the table and kept his bullying, threatening mouth closed.

  “The bodice is always the biggest challenge,” Joan muttered. “Get that, and the neckline, skirts, and hems fall into place.”

  “If you say so.”

  “The foundation color isn’t much of a challenge. Dorcas will look lovely in blue, but the contrasting and complementing shades…”

  She wasn’t about to ask his opinion.

  The sketch took about fifteen minutes to complete, and when it was finished, Joan wasn’t satisfied. Edward, however, was wreathed in smiles.

  “There, you see? You think you must wait for inspiration, but you’re wrong. Mater artium necessitas and all that. I’ll expect more invention from you when you return to Edinburgh.”

  Necessity was the mother of desperation, in Joan’s opinion, and desperation was conducive to stupidity rather than invention. She’d been desperate to hear somebody rhapsodizing over her designs.

  And now somebody was.

  “The hems need work, but nothing too fancy,” she cautioned. “Peach and a soft, understated light brown for contrast. Think of a roe deer on a sunny winter’s day.”

  Edward stroked Fergus’s head absently, and Joan shifted her skirts aside, lest his hand touch her clothing.

  “Brown, blue, and peach? That’s different.”

  “Different is what gets a woman noticed, provided it isn’t too different. Dorcas has a lovely bosom, an excellent complexion, and a pretty laugh. She can afford to take small risks with her wardrobe.”

  Why couldn’t Edward, the man who was to marry Dorcas, see this?

  “When can you have a finished design to me?”

  Giving him the sketch had been a mistake, for now, like an ill-trained dog, his bad behavior and unreasonable expectations had been rewarded.

  “You finish it. Ask her what she thinks of your creation, modify the details and palette to suit her preferences. You can do that much.”

  He was so absorbed with the sketch, he didn’t even react to the insult. God help Lady Dorcas.

  “You know, Edward, I might tell your wife I’ve designed her wedding dress at your insistence.” Joan liked that idea exceedingly. “Tell her you weren’t talented enough, that you made an offer you couldn’t live up to. I might even tell your mother you’ve threatened me with ruin if I don’t yield to your schemes.”

  He folded the sketch in exact thirds and tucked it away, and with it went a piece of Joan’s happiness, a piece of her integrity.

  “You’re welcome to take tea with Mama any time you please. Provided she hasn’t overindulged in the Madeira, she will likely applaud my enterprise, for it’s all that stands between her and economies she’s incapable of exercising. And as for Dorcas…”

  He picked up his dog, setting the beast on his lap, pouring cream from the small pewter pitcher into a saucer, and letting the dog lick from the plate.

  “Dorcas,” he went on, “would never have allowed herself to be private with a bachelor, much less take spirits with him in quantity. She’d find my willingness to maintain silence on your behalf for a few silly dresses generous. Her own silence I cannot guarantee.”

  As the dog lapped at the cream, Joan came to a daunting realization. Edward Valmonte was frivolous by nature, but circumstances had made him desperate, and like any beast backed into a corner, he’d become capable of viciousness.

  Joan was his last, best hope of solving whatever problems he considered so dire, and he would go to any lengths to see his scheme come to fruition.

  The dog kept licking, though not a drop of cream remained.

  Edward set the empty saucer out of reach of Fergus’s tongue.

  “There’s a good fellow.” He rose with the dog in his arms. “A half-dozen more sketches will do for now, and you should know, Dorcas and I will attend Lady Quinworth’s New Year’s ball. I could hardly turn down an invitation from the family of one of my oldest and dearest friends, could I?”

  He leaned in to kiss Joan’s cheek, but she pulled back.

  “You haven’t paid your bill yet, Edward. I’ll wish you good day.”

  Not happy Christmas. Joan would never wish him or Lady Dorcas that again.

  She tugged on her gloves and left without a backward glance.

  ***

  Joan hurried out into the gloom of a midwinter afternoon, though Aberdeen was so far north, the daylight was all but gone. She paused on the corner and pulled her scarf up around her chin.

  The tea shop glowed merrily as a few snowflakes danced on a chilly breeze, shoppers bustled all about, and down the street, a charity choir mangled Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus.”

  While behind the cheerfully decorated window of the tea shop, Edward lounged with his tea, his little dog, and Joan’s sketch. For Christmas she’d given Edward exactly what he wanted and did not deserve, while she’d given her husband lies and looming scandal.

  Dante was at that very moment likely back at the hotel, glasses perched on his nose while he wrestled with some column of figures. He toiled not for his own gain, but because he managed his children’s legacy, and felt responsible for the people he employed.

  While Edward fed cream to his terrier from a porcelain dish.

  Fergus had apparently had enough indulgence, for Edward rose, donned his greatcoat, and left the shop. He set Fergus down when they reached the stoop, and Fergus lifted a short back leg right at the top of the steps.

  As if to give the dog privacy, Edward glanced about at the passersby, his gaze lighting on Joan less than four yards away.

  “You waited for me,” he said, coming down the steps. “You needn’t. Shouldn’t you have a maid or some footmen with you?”

  His concern was ludicrous—Joan’s maid was in the bookshop—and his dog was done turning the snow yellow.

  Edward scooped up his dog, and right there in the busy street, kissed Joan’s cheek. “You forgot to wish me happy Christmas, Joan.”

  The air was thick with coal smoke overlaid with wet dog, but what nearly gagged Joan was the additional scent of Edward’s cologne—though she’d once found it pleasing.

  “You’ll bring me those sketches,” Edward said. “I’ve been a good boy, and a little Christmas token between intimate friends isn’t too much to ask.”

  Against her cheek, the cold leather of his gloves made a tactile contrast to his soft words and presuming kiss.

  “I am not your friend, intimate or otherwise. And you may call me Mrs. Hartwell.” Of that, she was dead certain.

  In the soft light from the tea shop windows, something flicker
ed in Edward’s eyes. Regret, or remorse? “You will bring me those sketches.”

  Behind the window, people were laughing and talking, gobbling up sweets, and making holiday plans. All that good cheer, all that noise and merriment, had only made it easier for Edward to trespass on honor and long acquaintance.

  With a sense of inevitability, Joan took in a breath and prepared to negotiate with Edward a time and place where she might pass over the sketches without drawing the notice of her family.

  Or her husband.

  But something happened. She took in a steadying breath of cold Scottish air, and felt…

  The bodice of her dress.

  She, who was too skinny for fashion, felt the bodice of her dress confining her breasts and her breathing. While Edward stood there, one supercilious eyebrow arched in anticipation, Joan felt for the first time a sense of being confined by her fashionable attire.

  Because Dante laced her up snugly, because he fed her sweets, and because she was apparently to have a child.

  “I will not provide any more sketches, Edward, not without compensation, not without an acknowledgment of my work. Now you, Lady Dorcas, and your little dog may have a happy Christmas.”

  She might have slapped him, so stunned was his reaction—so satisfying.

  “I assume you understand what ‘no’ means, Edward, but let me explain something further. I am married, and my husband will be the father of my children. I cannot have a parasite like you threatening my family’s future, and if that means you tell all the world that I spread my legs for you, then be prepared for them to hear also that you lured me into your trust, plied me with drink at least, and otherwise behaved like a man who holds his intended in no esteem whatsoever.”

  “You can’t do that,” he said, taking a step closer. “I’ll tell everybody you begged me for attention, and I felt sorry for you. A woman of your modest endowments and excessive height doesn’t get many offers.”

  Fergus whined, as if Edward clutched him too tightly.

  “You make odd noises,” Joan said evenly. “Your breath stinks, and you say stupid things when engaged in your petty attempts at seduction.” And the best part? “Your wardrobe lacks style and imagination. Why Fergus puts up with you, I do not know.”

  She flounced away—flouncing was supposed to be great fun, wasn’t it?

  “Where are you going?” Edward called as Joan strode off toward the bookshop. “This isn’t finished! I have those sketches, and I will not keep silent!”

  “I’m going shopping for a Christmas present for my husband,” Joan called back, though a lady never raised her voice. “And for all I care, you can run back to your mama and tell her whatever lies you please.”

  ***

  When traveling alone, Dante bought himself a second-class ticket and looked for a compartment full of the weary, downtrodden, or cup shot. Though the stink of such company might be trying, they tended to be quiet enough to let him do some reading.

  The return to Balfour was undertaken in a first-class compartment, which Dante and his wife had to themselves.

  More’s the pity.

  “You’re quiet,” he observed. He wanted to ask her what she’d sketched for Valmonte in that same tea shop, but he already knew: Joan sketched dresses. Occasionally, she’d sketch a dress worn by her mother or her sisters, but the occupant of the dress was often an afterthought, chosen to better exhibit the garment itself.

  Joan put down the book she’d been reading, some old novel. “I’ve been thinking. Have you ever been to Paris?”

  Why, yes, of course. Every crofter’s son who came of age toiling in the mines went larking off to Paris at the first opportunity.

  “I don’t speak French.” He read it well enough, because he needed to understand contracts written in French.

  “That’s no matter, they all speak English.”

  No, they did not. Many of the French understood English, but just as Dante was loath to exhibit his poor pronunciation before the French, they hoarded up their English abilities for their own purposes—and for their own entertainment.

  “You’ve been, I take it?”

  “Many times. I would love to show you Paris.” Her enthusiasm for the journey did not show in her gaze, which was fixed on a bound edition of one of Dickens’s dolorous epics.

  “We’ll go someday, then.” Someday when the mills were adequately financed, Margaret’s situation was settled, Hector wasn’t vibrating with a restlessness that boded ill, and Joan wasn’t having assignations with skinny viscounts.

  “Might we go soon?”

  Her simple question held controlled desperation, the ladylike version of panic, and abruptly, Dante could not abide the deception that had joined them in their private compartment.

  He put an arm around his wife, closed his eyes, and spoke as gently as he could. “Why did you meet Valmonte in Aberdeen, Joan? He’s engaged, you’re married. To me.”

  The shock of his question rendered her smaller against his side.

  “Edward is an old friend. We shared a cup of tea.”

  Joan had not shared anything with Valmonte, except her time and her sketch. Perhaps she’d been anxious that news of her meeting might get back to her husband, but then, why meet in a public tea shop and sit in the very window?

  Dante honestly did not want to accuse his wife of infidelity, not even in his thoughts.

  “I don’t care for him,” Dante said. “He doesn’t mind his tongue in the gentlemen’s retiring room, and he lets his mother run roughshod over him. The family business seems to fall entirely to the uncle, while Valmonte minces about town, having tea with other people’s wives.”

  She picked up her book. “I can hardly avoid his company. He and Lady Dorcas will be at Mama’s New Year’s ball. They’ll show up at all the best entertainments, and you and I will be invited to his wedding.” She came to a pair of pages that hadn’t been cut. “Were you spying on me, Dante?”

  They were to exchange prevarications, which was usually the way of it when a marriage faltered.

  “I’m interested in opening offices in Aberdeen. Any time a port city acquires rail access, trade there booms, and Edinburgh has become quite expensive. I was acquainting myself with the commercial real estate available in Aberdeen, and happened to see you.”

  He fished out his penknife, appropriated her book, and slit the pages cleanly free of each other.

  She accepted the book back, but didn’t open it. “So you’ll be spending time in Aberdeen, while the children and I remain where?”

  He’d been thinking of establishing Hector in Aberdeen, though Joan didn’t seem upset to relocate her husband there.

  “The Glasgow property is home to the children and Margaret. I prefer it for its proximity to the mills.”

  For what fine lady didn’t aspire to live within walking distance of a trio of wool mills?

  Joan stared at her book for the next thirty miles of their journey, while Dante kept his arm around her and pondered what he might have said, should have said, and didn’t say.

  “Maybe this spring,” Joan said as the train lost momentum on the approach to some way station, “I’ll pop over to Paris and do some shopping.”

  The hell she would.

  “Long journeys at this point are probably not well-advised. Do you know yet if you’re expecting a child?”

  A child would bind them together, and as the train hurtled toward the cold, dark mountains, Dante accepted that he wanted to be bound to Joan. Not only legally, but morally, emotionally, intellectually, financially, all the ways a true couple became entangled.

  “I’m not certain. My digestion has been tentative, but that’s to be expected amid so much upheaval.”

  Upheaval, indeed.

  “In the interests of giving you some peace amid this upheaval, we might consider separate quarters upon our return to Balfour House.”

  The train bumped over some junction in the tracks, jostling everybody aboard, the way that question t
o Joan jostled all of Dante’s dreams for a shared future off their marital rails.

  He could not lie down night after night beside a woman who was dishonest with him.

  “Separate quarters might be for the best,” Joan said. “I appreciate your gentlemanly consideration.”

  She cuddled closer, her book apparently forgotten, while Dante stroked her arm and nearly choked on his consideration.

  ***

  Tell him, tell him, tell him.

  That Dante would suggest separate sleeping quarters not ten days into the marriage was a sign of consideration, and yet, like pretty clothes that only drew attention to a woman’s plainness, to Joan, the effect wasn’t considerate at all.

  “Thank God,” Dante muttered as the train slowed on the approach to Ballater. He tucked his lap desk into a satchel apparently made for it and reached for Joan’s book. “I can carry that if you don’t want to put it in your reticule.”

  A mundane bit of thoughtfulness. Their marriage would be full of thoughtfulness and devoid of trust.

  “I’ll carry it.” They decamped for the platform when the train pulled into the Ballater station. Dante fussed with the lone porter over their baggage, and soon, they were in the frigid darkness, awaiting the arrival of a sleigh to take them back to Balfour house.

  “Come along,” Dante said, tossing the porter a coin to mind their trunks. “We can get something to eat over at the inn.”

  “An inn?” Joan had never taken a meal at a country inn, and the prospect sounded dubious from a gustatory standpoint. “Are you hungry?”

  “And cold,” Dante said, his breath puffing white in the night air.

  Down the street, laughter burst from a two-story granite structure festooned with lanterns and wreaths.

  “Very well.” How difficult could it be, to sit beside her husband while he downed an ale and a meat pie? Joan dutifully tucked her gloved hand over his arm and prepared to march off, when a ripping sound stopped her.

  “I’m caught,” she said, freeing herself from Dante’s escort and stifling a curse. “My hem is caught, and I can’t—”

  She couldn’t turn to inspect the damage because she was caught. Her favorite aubergine dress, the one with the lavender lace and flounces about the hem, the one she considered her prettiest for everyday and travel, was doomed to catch, snag, and be injured by circumstances. One curse wouldn’t be enough; one language worth of curses wouldn’t be enough to express her sheer frustration.