Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight (28 page)

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.

“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?”

She missed nothing. Being around such a lively mind was an ongoing pleasure. “Happy memories made on Christmas morning.”

“Those were the dearest puppies, weren't they? I wonder what their names will be.”

Puppies? Ah, yes, the puppies. “I stand by my vote for Westhaven and Rosecroft. We can name the new donkey Valentine.”

This provoked a chuckle from his wife. “How could you not know there was a foal on the way? And what are you doing with a donkey, Joseph? It isn't the sort of dignified animal a peer of the realm and former cavalry officer ought to have.”

“Jesus rode a donkey. What greater recommendation does a creature need? Besides, Clarabelle is gentle and patient with the girls. They can learn to drive her this spring and be ready for ponies in the summer.”

He let her reference to him as a peer of the realm slip by but knew exactly what she was up to. In the smallest increments, she was preparing him for the day when he would be, not Sir Joseph, but Joseph, Lord Wheldrake. On this fine and frosty Christmas morning, the notion did not inspire anywhere near the dread it had just days ago.

When they had rocked through the countryside for some moments in silence, Joseph brought Louisa's knuckles to his lips. “I rather liked being your chosen knight, Louisa. If we're going to be saddled with a title, a mere barony doesn't seem worthy of you.”

“Ridiculous man. The baronies are among the oldest titles in the land. The titles of wife and mother being older, I shall content myself with them.”

Sir Joseph considered pleasuring his wife in a moving coach. “Have we much farther to go, Louisa?”

They'd gotten an early start, in part because the girls had been up before dawn, tapping on the bedroom door and giggling their way through breakfast.

“Not much farther. Joseph, can one indulge in marital intimacies in a traveling coach?”

He turned his head to regard her. The look in her eyes suggested the question had not been theoretical. “You tempt me, Wife. You tempt me sorely, but I find myself more inclined to get this errand over with then hasten back to the warmth and comfort of our bed, where I can indulge your whims at our leisure.”

She looked disappointed. “You have not given me my Christmas gift, Husband. Perhaps I'll call a forfeit instead.” Her hand stroked over his falls, and Joseph retaliated by kissing her soundly indeed. As it turned out, the coachman soon stopped on his own initiative to let the horses blow, but it was rather a long time before the occupants of the coach gave him the signal to drive on.

***

“Who are you?”

“I am your uncle Gayle, or Westhaven if you're of a more formal inclination.”

Fleur looked at Amanda to see if she knew what a
formal
inclination
was.

“He must be related to Stepmama. He talks like her,” Amanda pronounced. “We were going to go see Lady Ophelia's brand new piglets. There are twelve, and when we went to wish them Happy Christmas, our papa said there isn't a damned runt in the batch, and our mama didn't scold him at all because it's Christmas. You can play with our puppies if you don't want to go to the barn. This one has the same name as you.”

“Lou will pay for that,” said the other fellow. He was as tall as Westhaven, but he had darker hair, and he was smiling a little. “Our felicitations to Lady Ophelia, whose acquaintance we'll make some other day. We've come to see if you know where your parents have gotten off to. The servants claim not to know.”

Fleur peered over at Amanda and visually confirmed that they weren't going to tell. Stepmama had said it was a secret.

“This is a waste of time,” the fellow Westhaven said. He looked like Papa before a journey, all impatient and determined.

Yet another tall man strolled into the nursery, one bearing a resemblance to the first two, though a little more muscular, like Papa. “Hello, ladies, I'm your uncle Devlin. Has Westhaven scared you witless with his fuming and fretting?”

This
fellow looked to be great fun, with a nice smile and kind green eyes.

“Mama and Papa didn't say anything about getting uncles for Christmas,” Amanda observed, but she was smiling back at the big uncle.

The
biggest
uncle—they were all as tall as Papa.

“Well, that's because we're a surprise,” the other dark-haired fellow said. “I'm your uncle Valentine, and we have an entire gaggle of aunties waiting out in the coach to spoil you rotten. Westhaven here is just out of sorts because Father Christmas gave him a headache for being naughty yesterday.”

“I was not naughty.”

The other two uncles thought this was quite funny, judging by their smiles.

“There's your problem,” said Uncle Devlin. “I'm thinking it's a fine day for a pair of ladies to join their aunts for a ride in the traveling coach.”

Uncle Gayle—it didn't seem fair to call him by the same name as Fleur's puppy—appeared to consider this. “For what purpose?”

“To keep the peace. Emmie and I never haul out our big guns around the children,” said Uncle Devlin, which made no sense.

“Do you like to play soldiers?” Fleur asked.

Amanda appeared intrigued by the notion. She was forever galloping up hills and charging down banisters in pursuit of the French.

Uncle Devlin's brows knitted—he had wonderful dark eyebrows, much like Papa's. “As a matter of fact, on occasion, if I've been an exceedingly good fellow, my daughter lets me join her in a game of soldiers.”

“I'm not exactly unfamiliar with the business myself,” said Uncle Valentine. “I excel at the lightning charge and have been known to take even the occasional doll prisoner.”

“Missus Wolverhampton would not like being a prisoner,” Fleur said, though Uncle Valentine was teasing—wasn't he?”

“Perhaps you gentlemen can arrange an assignation to play soldiers with our nieces on some other day,” Westhaven said. He sounded like his teeth hurt, which Fleur knew might be from the seasonal hazard of eating too much candy.

“You can play too,” Fleur allowed, because it was Christmas, and one ought to be kind to uncles who strayed into one's nursery.

“We'll let you be Wellington,” Amanda added, getting into the spirit of the day.

“Which leaves me to be Blucher's mercenaries,” Uncle Devlin said, “saving the day as usual.”

“Oh, that's brilliant.” Uncle Valentine wasn't smiling now. “Leave your baby brother to be the infernal French again, will you? See if I write a waltz for your daughter's come out, St. Just.”

Uncle Gayle wasn't frowning quite so mightily. In fact, he looked like he wanted to smile but was too grown-up to allow it. “Perhaps you ladies will gather up a few soldiers and fetch a doll or two. We're going on a short journey to find your mama and papa, so we can all share Christmas with them.”

Fleur noticed his slip, and clearly, Amanda had too—but it was the same slip Amanda had made earlier, and one Fleur was perfectly happy to let everybody make. Uncle Gayle had referred to their papa's new wife not as their stepmama, but as their mama.

What a fine thing that would be, if for Christmas they got a mama again for really and truly. Amanda fetched their dolls, Fleur grabbed their favorite storybook, and the uncles herded them from the nursery, all three grown men arguing about whose turn it was to be the blasted French.

***

“Percival, were we expecting Wales to join us this holiday?”

His Grace came over to the window, and—because the children had all gone on a mad dash over to Louisa's—slipped a hand around his wife's trim waist.

“By God, that is his coat of arms, isn't it? Best ready the state rooms, my dear—” His Grace broke off as down in the drive, a footman dropped the steps on the elegant conveyance and a diminutive fellow emerged, swaddled in scarves and mufflers.

“Not the Regent, then,” Her Grace muttered. “Is this one of your eccentric compatriots from the Lords, Percy?”

The woman had a way of referring to affairs of state as if they barely merited the same notice as a tippling parlor maid. His Grace occasionally shared her perspective, as when those affairs of state interfered with the little peace and quiet a man could cadge with his own wife on Christmas Day.

“Damned if I know what's afoot. Prinny and I aren't exactly bosom bows.”

A footman read a card for the Honorable Mister Somebody Whoever Hamburg, Special Whatever to the Something Committee of His Royal Highness's Select Commission on Whatnot.

His Grace's hearing was not what it used to be—sometimes. “Show him in, Porter, and send around the holiday tray if you can find anybody in the kitchen sober enough to put one together.”