Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight (19 page)

“Grattingly, the hour grows late. My thanks for your hospitality, but I must be leaving.”

Lionel rose and—there being no servant on hand—attired himself in gloves, scarf, hat, and greatcoat, and all the while, Grattingly watched him.

“Did your housemaid take the footman with her when she left?”

“Quite possibly. I don't suppose you'd like to step around to The Velvet Glove?”

He would—Lionel liked swiving as much as the next fellow—but he took in his companion's stained cravat, his thick fingers wrapped around the neck of the decanter, the way the man's mouth went slack at the thought of visiting a brothel.

Those fingers had been thrust into Louisa Windham's bodice, and those slack lips had been aiming for her mouth when Grattingly had been detailed merely to embrace the woman or slobber churlishly over her hand. “Afraid I can't. Perhaps another time.”

Grattingly saluted with the decanter. “Suit yourself. And best of luck with those other plans.”

He waggled his fat fingers in a parting wave, and Lionel took his leave. The night air was frigid but fresh, considering all the coal fires gracing myriad London hearths. From some nearby street, a vendor chanted cheerfully about roasted chestnuts and Christmas blessings, and at the end of the block, a Christian rang a bell and importuned passersby to Remember The Less Fortunate.

Somehow, Lionel himself had become less fortunate, though he hadn't quite sunk to the level of Grattingly—Grattingly, whom it was time to cut.

Grattingly's dishonorable behavior—and what could be more dishonorable than compromising a young lady of good birth then firing early upon her champion in the subsequent duel?—had cost Grattingly the company of even those fellows too poor to afford their own drink.

Lionel turned his steps toward the Earl of Arlington's mansion, several blocks away in Mayfair proper. The women at The Velvet Glove were delightful, inventive, and generous with their time. They were also professionals who expected hard coin at the time services were rendered.

Until Lionel's other plans bore fruit—or pawning paste jewels became profitable—the free food and drink at a Mayfair ball would take precedence over the more enjoyable offerings to be had of an evening. As snow began to fall through the darkness and both the vendor and the Christian fell silent, Lionel sent up a small prayer that his other plans bore generous fruit, and soon.

Through the long day of travel, Joseph had kept Louisa company inside his capacious traveling coach. Each time they stopped to change horses, he'd insisted she have a hot cup of grog, and she'd insisted the bricks in the floor of his traveling coach be reheated while she did.

The distance wasn't long—Louisa had often ridden it in a day—but they'd gotten a late start, and freezing and melting had made the roads miserable. As darkness had fallen, Joseph had given her the option of putting up for the night at a decent hostelry rather than pushing on.

“Will Amanda and Fleur fret if we don't arrive until tomorrow?”

“Amanda and Fleur had best be sound asleep at this hour,” he replied as a maid set their meal out on a small table in their sitting room. “Their governess will answer for it if I find otherwise.”

This was the cavalry officer in him, a part of her husband Louisa had had occasion to study in the progress of their journey. With her, Joseph was polite and deferential, never demanding.

With others, he was also polite and never unreasonable, but like Louisa's father and brothers, he expected to be
obeyed
by those in positions of service. Before God, she had vowed to obey him, as well, though she hoped, for a new wife, the Almighty—and Sir Joseph—made allowances for a period of adjustment.

Joseph sat back a half hour later, having demolished a substantial meal and two servings of plum pudding. “Shall I have a bath sent up?”

“I bathed within an inch of my life yesterday. Some warm water will do.”

“Then perhaps I will have a bath… if you don't mind?”

Louisa paused with her teacup halfway to her lips, searching her husband's gaze for a clue as to the slight innuendo she'd heard in his words.

“Of course you should. I stayed tucked up in the coach the live long day with hot bricks and my favorite books, while you were freezing your attributes off in various inn yards.”

One corner of his mouth kicked up. “My attributes? I suppose they are attributes, if I'm to be saddled with a title.”

“Does this truly bother you?”

For all they'd been in company for much of the day, they'd conversed little. Joseph had been nose-down in a ledger book of some sort, while Louisa had been reading a French tome on social philosophy and enjoying the novelty of traveling without a lady's maid glued to her elbow.

Joseph hunkered to poke up the fire. “The prospect of a title daunts me. I hardly know how to organize my own affairs, Louisa. What business have I taking a seat in the Lords?”

“If more fellows in the Lords had that degree of humility, they might be making better decisions and more of them.”

A knock on the door interrupted the moment as servants appeared to clear up the remains of the meal then wheel in a sizable copper bathing tub. Screens were delivered next, then footmen and maids alike trooped through in a bucket parade, until Louisa was once again alone with her spouse.

She rose and started unknotting his cravat. “Hold still. The sooner you're in that water, the hotter it will be.”

His lashes lowered as if he were veiling amusement, but he made no protest as Louisa went on to unfasten his sleeve buttons and unbutton his waistcoat and shirt.

When Joseph stood bare from the waist up, Louisa gestured toward his knees. “Boots next.”

He took a seat and stuck his left leg straight out, parallel to the floor. “Do you ever think of Their Graces engaged in such mundane domesticity?”

Louisa bent to tug off one boot. “Not much. One takes for granted that one's parents are a married couple, but they're very protective of their privacy. I've probably seen Her Grace remove Papa's boots twice in my life. Other one.”

And yet, this domesticity with Joseph did not feel at all uncomfortable. A trifle strange or novel, maybe, but not uncomfortable. Louisa set both boots outside the door for the boot boy then turned to find her husband clad only in his riding breeches.

And abruptly, the situation was novel, indeed.

“I can blow out the candles, Louisa.”

Louisa pushed up the sleeves of her nightgown and robe. “Nobody bathes in the dark, Husband. Get in the tub.”

He smiled at her peremptory tone, which was fortunate, because Louisa hadn't
meant
to issue an order. “Perhaps you'd help me with my falls?”

And clearly, from his wicked grin, Joseph wasn't asking a question so much as he was issuing a challenge.

“Of course.” Louisa marched up to him, and the smile died even from his eyes. By firelight, his eyes no longer looked blue; they simply looked dark and intently focused.

“My falls,
Wife
?”

He hadn't called her that before—Dearest Affianced Wife not being the same thing at all. The word—and his tone of voice—sent a jolt through Louisa, of warmth and something else. Possessiveness, possibly. Whatever it was, she liked it. Rather than waste time analyzing her emotions, Louisa started undoing the buttons down the flap of Joseph's breeches.

“There are rather more buttons than simple modesty requires.”

“Perhaps that's to ensure a man truly wants to lose his breeches, or a woman truly wants him out of them.”

“The water is getting cool as we…”

Her fingers brushed a bulge in the fabric, a solid, sizable bulge. When she glanced up into her husband's face, he'd dropped his lashes again and dipped his chin, as if watching her undress him.

He shucked his breeches and turned in one move, so he climbed into the tub with his back to Louisa. Once in the water, he made quick work of his ablutions, but even when Louisa had sluiced rinse water over his hair, he seemed reluctant to get out.

“If you stay in there any longer, the water will be cold, and so will you, Husband. I am not inclined to share a bed with a block of ice.”

He remained leaning back against the rim, eyes closed. “Maybe cold water is a good idea, Louisa. Next week isn't here yet.”

“Next week…?” She paused in the middle of folding his clothes into a tidy pile. “What does next week…? Oh.”

He rose from the water, climbed out, and stood dripping on the bricks before the hearth. “Next week, when I swive you until we're neither of us able to walk.” He faced the fire, so Louisa had a marvelous opportunity to admire the wet musculature of his back, legs, and yes, of his taut male fundament.

She
would
not
be
able
to
walk?
“Surely, you exaggerate.”
Or
did
he?

He glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure he had her attention, then turned to face her.

He had not exaggerated. With firelight limning his wet skin in rosy gold, Joseph stood six feet away from Louisa in a condition clearly conducive to procreation. She'd read about this, but nothing in any language could have prepared her for the sudden galloping of her heart at the sight of her unclad, aroused husband.

“You need to see what you married, Louisa. The flesh is willing but far from perfect.”

He spoke in earnest and remained where he was, his
membrum
virile
arching straight up along his belly in intimate emphasis of his uncompromising posture. Louisa studied his arousal until her fingers itched.

“Say something, Wife.”

“I want to touch you.”

His expression shifted for just a blink, from unreadable to unsure, then back to unreadable. “About the scars, Louisa.”

Her eyes swept over him, over the muscled thighs and chest, the curiously elegant architecture of big, bare male feet.

“Don't be ridiculous.” She closed the distance between them. “I have seen scars before. I have a few myself, but I have never seen… what do you call this business?”

She drew her fingers up the length of him, surprised to find both how firm his flesh was and how warm. “It must have a name.” She dropped to the hearthstones, the better to inspect him. “I know some Latin terms, of course, but regarding their persons, men are not without a certain inventiveness—”

Louisa felt Joseph's hand land on her hair, not heavily, more of a benediction. “We can make a list if you like, Wife. Later.”

“Before next week, if you please.” She sleeved him with her palm then traced one fingertip around the crown. “So soft.”

“We'll make the list directly after I've regained the ability to think.”

His voice had gone dark and smooth, as if he were reading poetry to her, but he said nothing more, which Louisa took for permission to continue exploring him.

“This hair is different, not like the hair elsewhere on your body or on your head.” She sifted her fingers through it then traced them over the soft sacs below. “I'm supposed to kick a fellow here if he ever menaces me. That was Devlin's word—menace.”

On impulse, she ran her nose over those same parts. Joseph drew in a sharp breath but didn't flinch away. The scent of lavender was here too—thank God her husband was not shy about using the soap—but even damp and fresh from his bath, there was a different quality to his intimate scent. Masculine, maybe, or just Joseph Carrington.

“Louisa, don't you dare…”

Some knowledge that didn't come from books told Louisa he wanted her to dare, he
longed
for it, though he'd never, ever, ask her for what she was about to do. Before her courage could desert her, she ran her tongue up his shaft, a slow, wet tasting of his male parts.

He shuddered and sighed, which she interpreted as surrender of a sort. The notion was precious and… intoxicating. Physically intoxicating.

She did it again, lapping the blunt, velvety end of his erection in cat strokes, learning him with her tongue in a way she didn't yet know him with her hands or eyes.

“You must stop… soon.”

From him, that was a parody of an order. Louisa wrapped a hand around the base of his shaft and took him in her mouth, lest he stop her before she'd been permitted that liberty. Phrases of Catullus and his naughty ilk finally made sense, even as Louisa's own body became mysterious to her.

When she drew on her husband just a bit, her breasts felt heavy and tender. The urge to weep and the urge to laugh mixed with a wanting that coursed through her from some location in her vitals for which she hadn't even a Latin name.

“Louisa…” Joseph had two hands threaded into her hair now, and his hips moved so he was rocking slowly, slowly in and out of her mouth. She drew on him again, less gently, and he eased away.

He hauled her to her feet, wrapped one arm around her, and fused his mouth to hers. With his free hand, Louisa could feel him stroking himself, the intimacy of it nearly making her knees buckle.

“Joseph…”

His tongue insinuated itself into her mouth in the same slow rhythm he used on himself.

She kissed him back, wrapped her arms around him, and held on, until he shuddered against her and his hand went quiet, though his chest still heaved in slow, deep breaths.

“Holy
God
, Louisa. Holy…”

He wasn't disapproving. She deciphered that much over the subsiding tumult in her body. And he wasn't turning her loose, either. Shyness warred with a sense of accomplishment, of having shared a milestone with her new and naked husband.

“Holy…” He kissed her again, softly. “That was… How on earth…? Jesus.” Another kiss, even more tender. “I need to hold you. To bed, if you please.”

He
needed
to hold her, and he'd said as much in plain English. Admitted a need
for
her
as if… as if he couldn't help himself and didn't care if she knew it.

Louisa turned to comply and felt his hand stroke down over her derriere and finish with a soft pat. There had been affection in that caress, also possessiveness and some male appreciation.

“You like my bottom.”

He paused in the act of toweling off his stomach, his smile sweet and masculine. “I
adore
your bottom. I am also more than fond of your derriere.”

Bottom—a cavalryman's term for grit, staying power, or heart. Louisa discarded her night robe and climbed on the bed, watching as her naked husband banked the coals, blew out the candles, and pushed the hearth screen right up next to the fire.

“Husband? I like your bottom too.”

He prowled over to the bed and climbed onto the mattress. “One suspected this was the case. I rejoice to hear it, though.”

“I wouldn't dissemble about something so important.”

She expected him to come back with another dry retort, but instead he spooned his body around her, laced his fingers with hers, and kissed her shoulder.

And that was answer enough.

***

“How many does that leave?” Valentine ran his hand along the mantel of the hearth in the estate office at Westhaven's country seat in Surrey. The wood was satin smooth and gleaming with a beeswax-and-lemon-oil shine—a nice symbolic comment on the happily married man who owned the premises.

Westhaven, seated at a desk worthy of a ducal heir, consulted a ledger then pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Twenty-seven remain unaccounted for. Our progress has slowed as the number dwindles.”

St. Just blew out a breath and glanced upward, as if appealing to the heavens, then his lips quirked. “Your countess has been busy, Westhaven.”

“Anna is the soul of industry,” Westhaven began, but rather than treat Val and St. Just to a paean of husbandly appreciation, Westhaven's gaze followed the line of St. Just's finger to where it pointed at the lamp hanging over the desk.

“That is enough to keep a man diligently at his paperwork for the entire Yule season.” Westhaven's smile was a slow, naughty grin.

Not a sprig, not a branch, but a sheaf of mistletoe rife with white berries dangled from the lamp.