Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight (4 page)

They quieted immediately at his tone, their smiles turning to looks of uncertainty aimed at him and then at each other.

Joseph felt again that sinking in his middle that suggested he was not fit to parent these children—not fit in the least—much less another dozen whom he saw only on occasion.

He went down on one knee, unable to tolerate the possibility that those uncertain looks would degenerate into quivering chins and—he shuddered at the very notion—a double spate of female tears. “Give me a farewell kiss, and I'll be on my way. Say your prayers while I'm gone, don't tease each other too mercilessly, and mind Miss Hodges.”

“Yes, Papa.”

He held out his arms, and the girls advanced, first Amanda—the elder, the one who elected herself in charge of taking risks—then Fleur, the loyal follower. They dutifully bussed his cheek, and he let them go.

“And stay off the banisters.”

There being nothing more to say, he left the nursery, mounted his horse, and pointed his gelding in the direction of London. The roads were dry, the weather fair, and Joseph's horse—after about five miles—apparently in the mood to behave, which left Joseph to the task of brooding.

He did not require a wife, but his dependents needed an adult female to take them in hand, and thus a wife he would get. His wife would know what to do with Miss Hodges, whom Joseph had overheard lamenting again the “plebeian” coloring exhibited by Sir Joseph's daughters.

Dark hair and dark eyes hadn't been the least plebeian on King Charles II or his Iberian wife, had they? Females nowadays were held to some other standard, one which maintained that fair hair and fair skin were pretty, while dark hair…

Louisa Windham had dark hair and dark eyes, and on
her
, the combination was… lovely. She was not a restful woman, having about her a faint air of discontent, of boredom, perhaps. But it was to Louisa Windham that Joseph had articulated the need for a wife, and to her he'd admitted that the title was figuring into his thinking.

The title.

Cousin Sixtus Hargrave Carrington had written to warn Joseph that he was not enjoying good health. To receive the annual letter so many days before Christmas was only to underscore the point: Sixtus did not expect to live out the year.

Any party holding at least a one-third interest in a title in abeyance could petition to have that title bestowed upon him. Hargrave and Joseph, though each held an equal claim, had by tacit agreement declined to petition for a choice to be made between them. Upon either man's death without male issue, the other fellow would be saddled with the title.

And that… Joseph thought of his relief when Lady Louisa had spared him having to clomp and mince through a promenade—or perhaps spared herself. He thought of his offering to recite poetry to give them both a reprieve from his attempts at polite conversation. He thought of his daughters at the mercy of an employee who didn't even approve of their
coloring
—something neither child could help or control.

“My life is not a fairy tale,” Sir Joseph informed his horse, “but it's quite bearable. I can provide for my dependents. I have a measure of privacy and can, on occasion, steal away to read to an appreciative audience.”

The horse snorted.

“Very well, a tolerant audience.”

A mere knight could limp; a lord must waltz. A mere knight could read Shakespeare to his favorite breeding sow; a lord was likely forbidden to
have
a favorite breeding sow. A mere knight could admire a lovely, dark-haired lady from afar, while a lord…

A lord had a title and a succession to attend to, so he must—he absolutely must—have a lady to bear him sons.

Joseph urged his horse from the trot into a rocking canter and put all thoughts of ladies and waltzes from his mind, the better to allow him to pray for his fourth cousin's immediate return to good health.

***

“My love, I thought you'd be going out this morning.” As he spoke, His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, made an instantaneous assessment of the slight frown on his duchess's brow and changed course to join her in her private sitting room. He saw the frown disappear and closed the door behind him.

Whatever was troubling his bride of more than three decades, she was going to try to hide it from him. Silly girl. If the huntsman had blown “gone away,” His Grace would not have felt any stronger need to pursue and investigate.

“Is there fresh tea?” he asked, taking a place beside his duchess.

But Her Grace was no fool. She knew that in the duke's eyes, the purpose of tea was to wash down crème cakes. In extremis, tea might serve as an adequate medium in which to stir a generous dollop of brandy on a freezing day.

Tea for its own sake was a lame undertaking, and Her Grace had long since divined His Grace's position on the matter.

“I sent Westhaven and Anna off shopping with the girls,” Her Grace said. “Eve tried to beg off, but her sisters wouldn't have any of that.”

“Abandoning you to my dubious company.” And abandoning him to the dubious offerings on the tea tray: scones and butter, jam, and honey. Not even a hot cross bun or a few slices of stollen. “Whom do you suppose will make our stollen this Christmas, since Sophie has gone to housekeeping with her baron?”

“Just where do you think Sophie got her recipe, Moreland?”

He adored it when she called him Moreland in that magisterial tone. He planted a kiss on her cheek. “From your mother, because your interest in cooking is almost equal to my interest in a tepid cup of tea. What has given you a fit of the megrims, my love? Shall I take you for a drive? Send around to Gunter's for a picnic?”

“Louisa asked me if she might remain at Morelands next spring.”

His Grace sat back, trying to shift mentally to that part of his intellect—the brilliant politician and successful former cavalry officer part—that occasionally got him past the rough patches when the papa part was knocked on its backside.

He reached for his wife's hand, needing the subtle information gathered by physical connection with her—and the reassurance. “What is that about, Esther? Louisa is not the least retiring and not the type to mope.”

But Louisa was from that vast, unmapped territory known as His Daughters. His Grace loved his five adult daughters and would cheerfully have died to protect them, but as for
understanding
them… He might as well have tried to grasp the mental processes of… another species entirely.

“I have been thinking this over,” Her Grace said, “and you're right. She's not the type to mope. She takes after her papa in that she's more given to action than introspection.”

“You have referred to me as a bull in a tea shop in your more honest moments, Esther.”

“A handsome bull.” She moved closer in that subtle way women had of shifting without being visible about it. “A doting and lovable bull, one who keeps me quite pleased with him, usually.”

“Such flattery will have me locking that door, Esther Windham.” A quarter century had passed since they'd needed any locked doors in the middle of the day, but mistletoe was showing up all over the house, and standards had to be maintained if his duchess was to be kept smiling a particular smile.

She cocked her head, the beginnings of that smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. “About Louisa.”

His Grace understood priorities, for they were the heart and soul of bearing a lofty title. Comforting his duchess involved more than just flirting with her. He slipped an arm around her waist, the better to allow her head to rest on his shoulder.

“About our dear Louisa,” His Grace said, pressing a kiss to his duchess's brow. “As pretty a young lady as ever sipped the punch at Almack's. She is worrying you, and thus I must be worried, as well.”

“I have grasped her reasoning, I think, but you must tell me your thoughts. I believe, as the oldest unmarried daughter, she thinks to remain at Morelands so as not to overshadow her younger sisters.”

His Grace stroked a hand over his wife's wheat-gold hair while he considered her theory. He was careful not to disturb her coiffure—a man married to a duchess learned the knack of such things.

“Your thinking is logical, and Louisa is logical. There are still many people who believe daughters ought to marry in birth order or not at all. I will say again that Louisa should have been a cavalry officer. She has the gallantry for it and the excellent seat.”

“Also the outspoken opinions and tendency to take charge of matters outside her authority.”

“You can't blame the girl if she takes after her mama in some regards.”

Esther sat forward and aimed a glare at him, until he smiled at her ruffled feathers. She smiled too and subsided against him. “Shameless man, and you a duke.”

“Also a father. Have you spoken to Louisa about her wayward notions? She cannot be allowed to give up so soon, Esther. Young men are blockheads. This is known to all save young men themselves, and Louisa is not one to tolerate blockheadedness from any quarter.”

“Percival, what if Louisa is right?”

The little note of despair in his duchess's voice sent alarm skittering through His Grace's vitals. “Right? To give up the chase after what, only three Seasons? That is rot, utter tripe, Esther, to think—”

She put her fingers to his lips, giving him the scent of roses and the sensation of soft, soft skin against his mouth. “Six Seasons, Percival. Six Seasons, which means for five Seasons she's had to stand around with her empty dance card, secure in the knowledge she has not taken, convincing herself all the while that it's her fault her sisters have not married.”

Her Grace was being reasonable. She was at her most dangerous when she was being reasonable.

“Maggie was past thirty when she married, my love. Men are idiots, is the trouble. We need time to mature beyond the screaming demands of our base natures, to appreciate a woman's—”

He fell silent. He'd been such an idiot, and only by the grace of a merciful God and the cleverness of his dear duchess had he been spared the marriage from hell.

“I don't want to give up on her either, Percival, for Louisa has a soft heart and would make a wonderful wife and mother, but to see her tortured, Season after Season…”

Tortured. Tortured was not a word a father liked to hear regarding any of his offspring, but most especially not his pretty, proud, and—facing facts was also part of being a duke—sometimes blunt-to-a-fault daughter.

“She dances well.” He needed to defend Louisa, even to her mother.

“With the few who ask her.”

“She's fluent in any number of languages.”

“So why hasn't she singled out some diplomat? They tend to be from good families, and we've certainly seen enough of them underfoot in recent years.”

“She's very well read.”

“Appallingly so, some would say.”

“She understands mathematics better than any Oxford don.”

“Percival, that is hardly an attribute that will secure her a happy future.”

His Grace rose from the sofa, needing to pace in the face of such honesty. “It isn't Louisa's fault she's got a brain. It isn't her fault she isn't dainty and blond and simpering. You never simpered, Esther, and no woman of your magnificent height could be called dainty.”

Refined, yes—Her Grace managed that easily—but she was not dainty.

“I never asked Lord Hubert if I might try a puff of his cigar, either.”

“Hubert is eighty if he's a day. How else is a young lady to flatter and flirt with such a curmudgeon?” Except old Hubert in his cups had a puerile turn of mind, and a puff of his cigar had—several brandies later—turned into a much more prurient innuendo. His Grace shuddered to recall the quiet talk he'd had with the man in the sober light of day.

Her Grace arranged her skirts in a sniffy sort of way. “I never threatened to get my curricle to Brighton in record time, arguing that a woman's lighter frame would give her an advantage of weight not enjoyed by the overfed dandies of the Carlton House set.”

“She didn't mean to insult the Regent.” And thank God the Regent remained too convinced of his own dashing good form to take it that way.

“Percy, in six years, the young men have not learned to appreciate Louisa, but it's also true that she hasn't moderated her ways much at all.”

“She should not have to.” He resumed his seat beside his wife. “She is brave, she's intelligent, she's loyal as hell—witness this sacrifice she's trying to make for her sisters. We must find her a fellow, Esther.”

The duchess's brows rose, indicating that His Grace had leapt to a different conclusion than his wife had been leading him to. His Grace's gratification was probably akin to what the fox felt when twenty couple hounds went off baying at the top of their lungs after some deer or rabbit.

Her Grace did not take his hand or put her head on his shoulder. “I was thinking more in terms of allowing her to stay with Sophie and Sindal for a bit, or perhaps excusing her from next spring's Season entirely.”

“It might come to that, but first, let's investigate the other options, shall we?”

He poured his wife a steaming cup of tea, prepared it exactly to her liking, and passed it to her without pouring one for himself. “We will find her a fellow among those in Town anticipating the holiday season. We must simply apply ourselves. There's plenty enough to choose from—how hard can it be to find one bridegroom between now and Christmas?”

“Mama asked me a curious question when we were in the park yesterday.” Eve was swaying slightly in time with the orchestra as she spoke. “A question about you.”

Louisa wanted to sway—she wanted to be out on the dance floor twirling down the room, and in just a few minutes she would be, provided Lionel didn't forget his commitment.

“What sort of question?”

“She asked if you were partial to Mannering or any particular young men.”

Louisa resisted the urge to glower at her youngest sister. Shrieking in a crowded ballroom
would
not
do
. “What did you say?”

Eve's expression was sympathetic. “I said I needed time to consider my answer. What do you want me to say?”

Relief washed through Louisa, and gratitude. Siblings were the best kinds of friends to have. “Tell her I'm considering joining a nunnery, except I can't find one where dancing is permitted.”

“Louisa, this is serious.”

It was. It was an indication that Her Grace, in the Windham parental tradition, was going to indulge a propensity for meddling. “I will go visit St. Just up in the West Riding.”

“There are bachelors in the West Riding, Sister. And long, cold winters.”

And St. Just, converted like their other brothers to a firm belief in connubial joy, would offer Louisa questionable sanctuary.

“Tell them… Merciful heavens, Eve, do you suppose they're looking for a list?” Louisa dropped her voice as the music came to an end. She saw Lord Lionel detach himself from his fellows near the door to the card room and start to cross the room.

“A list might not be a bad idea. Two lists, one of possibles and one of impossibles.”

“They're all impossible.” They were impossible as long as evidence of Louisa's youthful folly was at large for all to stumble upon. Visions of a small, red leather-bound book evaporated from Louisa's mind to be replaced by the reality of Lionel approaching in a lavender-and-gold evening ensemble.

Amethysts, Louisa guessed. Lord Lionel would be wearing amethysts tonight.

“Tomorrow morning,” Eve said quietly, “we'll gather in the library to see what might be done. I'll alert Jenny.”

“While I, for once, enjoy the supper waltz with a handsome swain.” Surely she was entitled to that much diversion?

Eve said nothing while Lord Lionel cut through the dancers leaving the floor, looking like a swan among ducks. His height, his dazzling attire, his aristocratic good looks… Louisa let herself stare at the male pulchritude approaching, let herself enjoy for just a moment that all the other girls were watching as Lord Lionel bowed over Louisa's hand.

Too bad his charm, like his jewelry, was more appearance than substance.

“My Lady Louisa. Lady Eve. I believe my dance ensues momentarily.”

“The honor will be entirely mine.”

Louisa put her hand over his knuckles, noting that he had, indeed, chosen amethysts to adorn his outfit. An amethyst and gold pin for his lacy cravat, amethyst sleeve buttons, and if she wasn't mistaken, his watch fob sported a small procession of amethysts along a delicate gold chain.

He bowed, she curtsied, the introduction sounded, and then she was in his arms.

“You wear the rose colors exceedingly well, my lady.” Lionel's originality was limited to his wardrobe, for as many men did, he lowered his lashes as if gazing into Louisa's eyes, when Louisa could see he was, in fact, darting glances at her décolletage. “And they go with my own choices tonight very nicely.”

Was he complimenting her or himself?

“A pig in a ball gown would look ravishing on your arm, my lord.” He blinked, leaving Louisa to suspect her rejoinder hadn't been exactly smooth. Before she could muster any words to repair the damage, the music started.

Lord Lionel was a masterful dancer. He moved decisively; he didn't leave a woman to wonder who was in charge of matters. As they moved down the room, Louisa told herself she ought to like that about him.

He was also tall enough to partner her, and he wasn't afraid to wear amethysts—or faux amethysts. As she one-two-three'd in his arms, Louisa realized that in Lord Lionel, she might have the start of a list of men she might flirt with to appease her parents.

Except, she wasn't precisely certain
how
to flirt.

And this close, Lionel savored rather strongly of cigar smoke overlaid—not too pungently, thank heavens—with both the scent of manly exertion and the scent of patchouli.

Patchouli was not a fragrance Louisa cared for.

She tried to imagine marital intimacies with a man who wore patchouli and concluded it was fortunate she would not be taking a husband. Scents tended to concentrate in the dark.

“I've been looking forward to this dance all evening, my lady, and to having your company in the hour that follows.”

“As have I. You've been lurking in the card room, which I'm certain has been a disappointment to every young lady present.”

Surely that was an acceptable response? He smiled down at her, or at her bosom. “Gathering my courage, some of it Dutch.”

He twirled her under his arm—the scent of exertion being a tad stronger as she passed close to him—and brought her back to waltz position. “Will you be in Town until Christmas, my lady?”

“Not quite that long. Yourself?” And was he, or was he not, holding her a shade closer than he had been earlier?

“That depends.”

Something in his eyes changed, became cooler or hotter—Louisa couldn't discern which. Perhaps Lord Lionel had gas. “Depends on?”

“The company to be had, for one.”

Another turn under his arm, and Louisa was wishing the dance would end. “Good company is always a blessing.”

“Indeed, it is.” His response was inane, but he offered it as if his words were imbued with meaning and resonance, with portents and promises.

When the dance was over and they had filed through the interminably long buffet line, Louisa was aware that being in company with Lord Lionel was an effort, the same as being in company with every other young man of her acquaintance. It was particularly an effort when it earned her the disbelieving looks of women five years her junior.

Then too, there were looks from women five years her senior that were… pitying.

So many looks, which aided neither Louisa's digestion nor her attempts at conversation.

While Lord Lionel ate his supper—he had a peculiar tendency to gaze at her while he licked his fingers slowly between bites—Louisa consumed her food, as well. Every once in a while, she'd look up to find her companion studying her. By the time they'd parted at the end of the meal, she'd found a word to describe the
looks
he'd been giving her.

It wasn't a nice word, but Louisa respected words when they rang with truth, and the word that came to mind as she considered the way Lord Lionel had looked at her was not “possessive” or “speculative” or even “considering.”

The word that would not leave her mind was “covetous.” The way he'd regarded her had been covetous.

***

“Thank God that's over.” Lionel slumped into a chair in a corner of the men's card room. “Hardest bit of work I've done since bringing off Lady Ponsonby three times in the same evening.”

A few of the older fellows at nearby tables scowled at that bit of indiscretion, but they'd likely done the same yeoman labor themselves, Lady P being of a demanding and inconstant—if charmingly licentious—nature.

“Hear, hear.” Grattingly lifted a glass, which Lionel snatched from his hand.

“My thanks.” Lionel took a deep drink of Grattingly's brandy—dancing with Louisa Windham was thirsty work. “There should be a medal awarded for any man with the stamina to both waltz
and
dine with a woman who lacks conversation, a sense of humor, and the ability to let her partner lead her down the room.”

A chair scraped, and Elijah Harrison emerged from a gloomy corner. He nodded coolly at Lionel and left the room.

“Encroaching toad.” Grattingly muttered this observation then looked about as if to canvass the surrounds for seconds. Hearing none, he cleared his throat. “Though I must say, Honiton, you make a damned impressive pair with Lady Louisa. The girl moves nicely.”

Lionel smiled. “If she moves so nicely, why am I one of the few to dance with her, particularly when it comes to the waltz?”

He took another sip of brandy—it was free, after all—and wondered if he could tolerate a lifetime of Louisa Windham's hesitant smiles and awkward conversation. Harrison's recent accusation, that Lionel had singled out the Windham daughters as marital prospects, came to mind.

Lionel was in truth trolling for any prospects, any prospects at all that would clear his debts, muzzle his parents, and get his older brothers off his back. The Windham sisters were certainly suitable for a marquis's son, but suitable and desirable were worlds apart.

“The other two sisters are prettier,” Lionel observed, taking another swallow of brandy.

“They ain't such bluestockings, either,” Grattingly said. “They're golden and cheery and don't spout the Bard at a fellow when he's trying to flirt his way through a dance.”

“Yes, but Lady Genevieve is intolerably sweet, the milk of human kindness oozing from her every word. I'd run screaming from her in less than a year, lest she expect me to visit orphanages or some such rot. A man would be lucky to swive her once a week in the dark while she recited Paternosters in his ear.”

Grattingly guffawed obligingly, though it was nothing more than the truth. “The little one might make a nice armful, and she's friendly.”

Lady Eve Windham was a pretty, lively little thing, who could often be seen taking pity on pudgy, aging university boys like Grattingly or impoverished younger sons.

“One hears Lady Eve was invalided some years back,” Lionel said, finishing his—Grattingly's—drink. “Though the nature of her indisposition remains a mystery. An invalid wife is a curse not to be contemplated, regardless of how robust her curves are at present, particularly if her little indisposition is sporting about on some ducal property in the shires.”

“Hadn't heard about that,” Grattingly said. Lionel watched while the man's gaze settled on the Windham sisters standing like three goddesses outside the card room door. They were pretty enough, well dowered enough, wellborn enough that all three ought to have been snatched up years ago.

If Lionel had to marry Louisa Windham, then he supposed he could simply gag her when it came time for the marital intimacies. Gag her and blindfold himself—stranger things had been done in the name of securing a succession—or staying out of the sponging house.

“More brandy, Grattingly.” He shoved the empty glass at the fellow, who scampered off in the direction of the sideboard. When Grattingly moved, Lionel could see another man who'd been sharing Harrison's poorly lit corner.

Joseph Carrington sat with his leg propped on a stool, rubbing at his thigh with both hands. In the low light, the poor bastard's features had a fiendish cast, all darkness and shadows, almost as if his injury were making him furious.

Perhaps it was. Carrington limped his way through life and would likely never know the pleasure of being able to bamboozle a well-dowered woman to the altar just by waltzing her down the room.

***

The Duke of Moreland had a conspiratorial streak, one his daughters shamelessly exploited. He loved his political machinations, loved his plotting and scheming in the halls of Westminster, loved pulling strings to make the Lords dance to his tune without him being identified as the piper.

So when he went riding in the park of a morning, he was only too happy to extend his escort to both Louisa and Jenny, provided a groom was brought along, as well.

His Grace drew up under an oak that was still shedding the occasional reddish-brown leaf. “There's young Mannering, out in last night's attire. Not well done. Ladies, you will forgive me if I ride on and spare you an introduction?”

Louisa spoke for both herself and Jenny. “Ride ahead, Your Grace. Jenny and I will take a turn on the Lady's Mile.”

The duke saluted with his crop and cantered off, leaving Jenny and Louisa to exchange a smile.

“He's introduced us to any number of young swells still half-seas over from last night's carousing,” Jenny observed. “What do you suppose he wants to whisper in Lord Mannering's ear?”

“Maybe he just wants to give us a chance to gallop with only a groom in tow,” Louisa said, “and I intend to take him up on it.”

She tapped her horse stoutly with her heel and set off toward the Serpentine. Jenny fell in beside her, and when they reached the stretch beside the water, they raced their mounts at a pounding gallop for a few hundred yards before coming back to the walk.

“A good gallop is not enough,” Louisa said, patting her gelding stoutly, “but it's better than nothing.”

“Especially when the days start growing shorter,” Jenny said. “And the mornings can be so very brisk. Who is on that black over there?” A big black horse was passaging its way along a path through the trees ahead, the rider a picture of relaxed elegance.

“I believe that's Sir Joseph. I wasn't sure he'd bestir himself to come up to Town with Christmas right around the corner.” Louisa watched for a few more moments while Sir Joseph collected the horse into the more difficult trot-in-place known as piaffe.

“They're quite an accomplished pair.”

“Good God.” Louisa fell silent as the horse shifted into a controlled rear, a slow rebalancing of its weight down, down onto its haunches until the front end lifted and balanced in a breathtaking display of strength and control.

“Can St. Just teach his horses to do that?” Jenny asked in subdued tones. “I don't even know what it's called.”