Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight (9 page)

Joseph followed the footman into the bowels of the town house, wondering how it was this dwelling should have such a pleasant air even on a dreary, bone-chilling winter day. The house had a glow, a peaceful quality Joseph's various residences did not, and the seasonal greenery, cloved oranges, and wreathes were only part of the reason.

As Joseph was ushered into the Earl of Westhaven's library, he noted that Louisa Windham's older brother boasted a touch of the same happy, settled quality, though Westhaven was by no means a jovial man. He was a good-looking devil, though: tall, with dark chestnut hair and eyes a more emerald green than his sister's. His nose would serve him well when the ducal title befell him.

“Sir Joseph, a pleasure. Shall I ring for a tray?”

“Not necessary, my lord. I won't take up much of your time.”

“Take it up sitting, nonetheless.” Westhaven did not assume a seat behind his estate desk, but rather, went to the hearth and poked at a cheery fire. “And you'll humor me regarding the tea tray. His Grace's visit has left me peckish.”

While Westhaven's back was turned, Joseph got through the ungainly business of ensconcing himself on a comfortable leather sofa. “Order a tray if you wish, my lord. I won't turn down a cup of something hot.”

Westhaven put the poker back in its stand and turned, hands on hips. “Tea, coffee, or chocolate?”

Chocolate was a drink for pampered women… or possibly for happily married earls.

“Tea will be fine.”

Westhaven flicked a glance Joseph's way then went to the door to speak with the footman. Joseph used the moment of privacy to massage the muscles of his right thigh, which the abruptly colder weather was literally tying in knots.

“Wellington's visit was a surprise,” Westhaven said as he took a comfortable chair near the fire. “I think dukes thrive on unsettling people with their mere presence. His Grace was on his way to Carlton House, and I suspect he unsettles even the Regent when he pops in there.” Westhaven seemed amused by this prospect.

“God knows Wellington could unsettle his staff when he was of a mind to.” Perhaps this was not respectful, but it was true.

“St. Just has remarked as much. Unsettled the damn Corsican too, once and for all, God be thanked.” Westhaven barked admission to two footmen, each carrying a tray. When the servants had departed, he sat forward, frowning at the bounty before him. “Help me eat at least half of this, Sir Joseph, or my wife will be interrogating me at great length about my health when next I see her. She has spies in the kitchen, and I have no secrets from her.”

“Nor do you try to keep any.”

“I do not.”

Sir Joseph watched while Westhaven's handsome features arranged themselves into a smile so beneficent, so
doting
, it took Joseph a moment to recall where he'd seen such an expression previously.

“Has anyone ever told you that you resemble your father, Westhaven?”

The earl paused with the teapot lifted a few inches above the tray. “Resemble Moreland? No, not particularly. How do you take your tea?”

Even in his dismissal, Westhaven was acquiring a ducal quality, which only made Joseph more uncomfortable with the purpose of his visit. The earl served him tea, pushed some warm buttered scones on him, and kept up a patter of political and financial talk until a surprising amount of food had disappeared.

Joseph glanced at the clock and decided if he remained on his comfy sofa by the cozy fire any longer, he'd sleep for twenty years.

“You must be wondering why I arranged this call, my lord.”

“I admit to some curiosity.”

Nothing more. Joseph resented the man's savoir faire, even as he admired it. “I have received a letter from your half brother, St. Just.”

The earl's expression didn't change. “What has my brother to say that brings you here on such a cold and dreary day?”

Not his half brother, his
brother—
a telling correction. “He expressed some concern for your sister, Lady Louisa, and asked me to scout…” Westhaven was not military. Joseph wanted to get up and pace, but that maneuver would be awkward, also rude. And as to that, “scouting” a woman's prospects was not exactly genteel.

“He wanted you to keep an eye on Louisa? Any particular reason?”

Green eyes held steady on Joseph, eyes much like St. Just's, though a shade more reserved. “In St. Just's words, my lord, your sister is organizing a retreat from the front, and he is not inclined to facilitate her decision in this regard.”

Westhaven steepled his index fingers and tapped them against his lips in a slow rhythm while Joseph eyed the pot of chocolate.

“Louisa is not a coward,” Westhaven said.

“St. Just is not one to indulge in dramatics.”

Joseph had considered at length this request from a friend, reminding himself it was
not
an order from a commanding officer. While Joseph
was
inclined to torture himself with time in Louisa Windham's vicinity, he
was
not
inclined to report to anybody a list of men with whom that lady danced or conversed—particularly if his own name were to be on such a list.

Westhaven wrinkled his patrician nose. “St. Just frets over his younger siblings. One must make allowances. Why have you brought the matter to me?”

“If the lady's interests need protecting, then aren't her brothers better suited to serve as her champion than I am?”

More lip-tapping, more perusal from green eyes that gave away nothing.

“You haven't any sisters, have you, Sir Joseph?”

“I have neither sisters nor female cousins nor even aunts. I do have daughters.” Also sons, though they weren't to be mentioned in polite circles.

“Sisters are vexing in the extreme, also dear.” Westhaven poured himself another cup of chocolate while he made his pronouncements. “They require protecting, even cosseting, but they do not allow a brother much opportunity for either. My brothers and I are agreed on this. Sisters are too stubborn for their own good, and in the case of
my
sisters, they are also too damned smart.”

“Lady Louisa is a marvelously intelligent woman.” Joseph was not going to say more, not to the Earl of Westhaven, but the man had no business complaining about his sisters. None at all.

“Women, in the opinion of most men, cannot be
marvelously
intelligent, Sir Joseph. Louisa has grasped this but has decided not to use her wiles to snare herself some harmless fellow as a husband.”

Louisa Windham's heart would break did she settle for a harmless fellow. That her own brother did not understand as much was… vexing, and disappointing. Sir Joseph tried not to dwell on how it would leave Louisa feeling.

“Some fellow who is not harmless might seek to snare
her
, your lordship. She and her sisters are rumored to be well dowered.”

Westhaven's expression darkened. “My countess has suggested as much, but Louisa, Eve, and Jenny take very good care of one another in social settings. I gather St. Just seeks to reinforce the ranks with your watchful eye?”

“Something like that, but because I dance little and converse even less, I am not the best spy.”

He used the ugly word, hoping it would convince Westhaven to act and to spare Joseph from fulfilling St. Just's request.

“A spy.” Westhaven smiled a very different smile. Satisfied, calculating—this also brought to mind his ducal father when hot on some parliamentary scheme. “That's it exactly. We need a spy. Surely you can see why my own efforts to monitor the situation would be pointless? Louisa would run me off before the first supper waltz, and Jenny and Eve would abet her. His Grace would be an even more obvious cat among the pigeons, but nobody would suspect
your
motives, Sir Joseph.” The smile faded on this last observation, to be replaced by a focused frown. “I really must join my brother in his request, much as it pains me to ask for your assistance.”

Joseph rose awkwardly, resenting his damned leg, his damned former commanding officer, and his damned regard for a woman who should never have taken more than passing notice of him. “I will not spy on your sister, Westhaven. Spying on a lady is not honorable, and the lady deserves better from her family. Good day.”

Westhaven was on his feet with enviable ease. “Not so fast, if you please. Allow me to rephrase my request.”

“You did not make a request, Westhaven. And I really must be going.” A dignified retreat wasn't quite possible, not when Joseph's right leg had chosen to seize up painfully. He managed some progress toward the door, only to find Westhaven's hand on his arm.

“All I ask is a moment, Sir Joseph.”

A moment in which the man would set a spy on his own sister. Sir Joseph surmised that Westhaven would not back down, and it might be best to hear what the man was planning.

“I'm listening.”

“Care for a drink?”

Joseph couldn't help glancing at the sideboard, where a half-dozen decanters and bottles sat in a perfectly arranged bouquet of potation. “Say your piece, Westhaven. I thought somebody in a position to assist Lady Louisa ought to be made aware of St. Just's concerns, not a virtual stranger who could at any point be called back out to Kent.”

“You're a neighbor, not a stranger. You served with St. Just and Lord Bart, you ride to hounds with His Grace. Her Grace likes you.”

That startling bit of news seemed to make a difference to Westhaven. It intrigued Joseph, as well, but even the approval of a duchess did not signify.

“Westhaven, I esteem your family greatly, and your sister Lady Louisa in particular. Do not ask me to violate her privacy more than I already have by coming here today.”

“Fine, then, don't violate her privacy.” Westhaven dropped his hand and shot an appraising look at Joseph. “But don't leave her without a champion, however unacknowledged. I can't assume the role, if for no other reason than my countess and I will be rusticating ourselves as of next week before we join my parents for Christmas. I dare not involve my father, for he has decided to take a hand in the matchmaking himself. If Louisa knew this, she would be on the first stage north without taking time to pack more than a book or two.”

The friendly, mostly male political dinner in the Windham home made more sense to Joseph. Political dinner, indeed. No wonder Louisa had been discommoded by a harmless exchange of views.

“Does Louisa know her father is matchmaking?”

“I doubt he announced his intentions, and Her Grace is complicit in his schemes most of the time.”

God in heaven. The cold outside seemed to take up residence in Joseph's belly. “Every impoverished younger son not hunting in the shires will be attempting to ingratiate himself with His Grace from now until Christmas.”

“You see the difficulty.”

Westhaven stepped back, letting Joseph's imagination run rampant over scenes of Lady Louisa being accosted in gardens, under stairways, in anterooms, and private parlors—with mistletoe and holiday punch on hand to aid any young man with the wits to exploit them.

Happy Christmas, indeed.

“She loves to dance,” Joseph said, half under his breath.

“Louisa?”

How
could
Westhaven
not
know
this
about
his
own
sister?
“Yes, Lady Louisa. She'll not suspect her dance card is full because her papa is putting it about she's looking to marry, not until some idiot says the wrong thing to her.”

“Louisa can deal with idiots.”

That was not the point—her own brother was an idiot—the point was she'd be hurt when she realized her father's scheming, and not her own appeal, was getting her onto the dance floor.

“I will keep an eye on her, but I will not report to you or to St. Just,” Joseph heard himself say. “You will inform neither your father nor your mother, and I will tell Louisa what I'm about.”

Westhaven's brows rose. “I wouldn't advise that. She'll take evasive maneuvers and defeat the purpose of your efforts.”

“You do not understand your own sister, Westhaven. I'll take my leave of you, and should I have to repair to Kent before the holidays, I'll let you know.”

Joseph had the satisfaction of seeing puzzlement, however fleeting, on Westhaven's face. And then another smile, this one sweet and slightly knowing. “My thanks, then. And best of luck.”

Joseph bid Westhaven good day and retrieved hat, gloves, and cane from the footman at the front door. When he might have been tucked up in Westhaven's library, enjoying a tot of fine brandy in some masculine company, Joseph instead limped back out into the dark, freezing winter afternoon alone.

“What is this?” Ellen Windham picked up the little volume her husband had just tossed on the night table.

“Poetry.” Lord Valentine lowered himself to the bed and tugged at his boots. “Rather naughty poetry. I'm thinking of setting some of it to music.”

Ellen sat beside him and turned a page. “‘Venus has reserved exclusively for you her best loving thorn…'” she quoted. “‘Cupid without remorse, swirling both love and hatred in a single cup…'” She read for a while longer while Valentine rose and stripped down to breeches and stockings.

“Will you attend me, Wife, or will you disquiet your mind with that prurient verse?”

“Some of it is beautiful. Much of it.” She set the book aside and regarded her husband where he stood half-clothed by the hearth. “You are beautiful too.”

He smiled at her and held out a hand. “I have to send the book on to Louisa, who collects such things, but you can choose for me the poems you find beautiful, and I'll arrange them.”

She came to him, letting him enfold her in his embrace. “Is there any part of you that wants us to be in Town now, Valentine? Christmas is almost here, and your family is gathered there.”

“They're only a day's ride from us in Town, and the compositions flow more easily when I can work out here near you and the baby. Do you worry about this?”

She nodded against his chest. “You love your family. They are part of your music too.”

Valentine rested his chin against her temple, which he was inclined to do when feeling thoughtful.

“Their Graces would enjoy more time with the baby,” he murmured. “We can leave a few days earlier for Morelands. St. Just is already en route, and Westhaven will be leaving Surrey any day.”

Ellen relaxed in his arms, letting go of a subtle tension she hadn't known she was carrying. “I'd like that. If I'm out and about tomorrow at first light, I can start making the arrangements for an earlier departure.”

She never tarried in their bed alone of a morning. In the subtle and convoluted language of marital dialogue, she'd just warned Valentine that
he
wouldn't be tarrying in bed come morning, either.

“To bed with you now then, Wife.” He slipped his arms from around her. “Let me finish washing, and we'll make an early night of it.” He kissed her cheek for emphasis, lingering near long enough to make his point.

On a pleasant little bolt of warmth to her middle, Ellen took his meaning. She
always
took his meaning and obligingly slipped off her robe and climbed beneath the covers to watch her husband's ablutions. Even after nearly a year of marriage, watching Valentine in a state of undress was still of such interest to her that she forgot to ask him why Louisa would be collecting naughty poems, regardless of how lovely those poems might be.

***

Attempting to coordinate her wardrobe with Lord Lionel's convinced Louisa of several truths:

First, she lacked the quality that allowed most young women to fuss over their clothing and accessories, not just for hours or days, but for weeks, even lifetimes. Such a realization was more in the way of articulating a truth long taken for granted. Boredom alone had prompted Louisa to experiment with predicting Lionel's sartorial choices.

Second, Louisa's father was At It Again, meaning the duke had gotten his sons married off, and now had Louisa herself in his matchmaking crosshairs. Worse, Her Grace was conspiring with the transgressor, merrily planning yet another dinner before the remove to Morelands at week's end.

And the display of mistletoe at the town house this year beggared description.

The third realization, over which Louisa tried to muster some guilt, was that she was unwittingly fostering pointless hope on the part of Lionel Honiton.

He danced well.

He dressed well.

He dished out pretty compliments like he was Father Christmas handing out holiday presents. He smiled indulgently until she wanted to apply her closed fist to his manly chin.

Polite society maintained that sisters should marry in birth order, so as a theoretical exercise, Louisa had tried considering marriage to Lionel. Even theoretically, the notion failed utterly. Patchouli in the dark, upon closer examination, was a harrowing thought.

Some day in the distant future, a man might come along who could overlook the indiscretions and missteps of Louisa's youth, though they were serious missteps and egregious indiscretions. When those mistakes had faded to twenty years' distance, though, they'd appear in a less disastrous perspective. They might become so insignificant, Louisa could even share them with a prospective spouse and not be rejected roundly for her confidences.

She hoped. Lionel, however, was by no means Prospective Spouse material.

The present challenge had become to gently discourage Lionel without encouraging anybody else, so to the present challenge, Louisa turned her attention.

“You must look to Lord Lionel's friends,” Jenny said again, proving she was as relentless as His Grace, though her aim was quite different. “Deene can count both His Grace and St. Just among his friends, Sir Joseph is a trusted neighbor who served with St. Just and Bartholomew, and even Hazelton was on good terms with our family before Maggie married him.”

“Hazelton was listening at keyholes and the terror of every polite gathering,” Louisa countered.

“You get on famously with him now,” Eve chimed in. “Lionel has little to recommend him except a stylish bow and some fashion sense. Word has it his finances are embarrassed.”

Louisa lingered with her sisters among the ferns at the edge of yet another ballroom, though even in their relative privacy, Eve kept her voice down.

“Well, you needn't fret that you'll have Lionel for a brother-by-marriage.” Saying it should have been harder—much harder.

Jenny tore the end of a leaf off a fern. “Have you quarreled with him?”

“Not yet.” Louisa watched as her sister acquired greenish fingers demolishing the fern leaf. “I hope it doesn't come to that.”

“Choose another flirt,” Eve said, her tone chillingly practical as she surveyed the ballroom. “It works for me, though I'm better served when I pick three or four each Season. They are less likely to get presuming notions if they're never singled out.”

While Louisa cast about for a reply, Timothy Grattingly approached them.

“Mr. Grattingly.” Louisa held out her hand. She couldn't quite be glad to see him, though his arrival cut short what was no doubt going to be a grueling interrogation from her sisters. “Is it the supper waltz already?”

“Already?” Grattingly smiled, though it struck Louisa as more of a leer. “I've been counting the minutes, the seconds even! Come, my lady, lest there be no place for us on the dance floor.”

Louisa rose, but from the same place in her mind that informed her she would not be diverting herself with Lord Lionel any longer, she made a further decision that she could not turn down the room with this lumbering idiot again either, not even for the ten minutes—or six hundred seconds—generally required for a waltz.

“Might we take some air in the conservatory, Mr. Grattingly? It's too chilly outside, but I confess I have an interest in lining up for the buffet a trifle early.”

“You don't care to waltz?” His expression reflected consternation, and it was indeed the first time Louisa could recall declining an offer to stand up.

Beside Louisa, Jenny had stopped fiddling with the fern and put her gloves back on. “If you're intent on dancing, Mr. Grattingly, I can oblige.”

Jenny's offer was beyond forward—it was
fast
. Also completely in character for Jenny to the extent she'd be making a tremendous sacrifice.

“Nonsense.” Louisa wound her arm around Grattingly's sleeve. “Mr. Grattingly won't mind obliging me.”

Except he apparently did mind. They promenaded the ballroom in the opposite direction of the conservatory, stopping to chat with everybody and his or her maiden aunt. They even ran into Lionel, with whom Grattingly exchanged oblique civilities while Louisa attempted to smile and not look bored.

Lionel was in lavender, gold, and white tonight. Louisa's algorithm, with symbolic variables for waistcoat, coat, breeches, and stockings, flitted through her mind. Later in the week, he'd trade waistcoat and stockings to present an ensemble in pink, gold, and white. After that it would be brown, gold, and white…

“Shall we?” Grattingly bowed her through the open door to the conservatory, and Louisa felt the touch of humid, earthy air on her face. The place was reasonably well lit for a conservatory and blessedly quiet, though there were no doubt other couples using it for a respite from the ballroom.

“Shall we take a seat?” Grattingly asked. “Don't mind getting off my feet, myself.” He offered another one of his unappealing smiles.

“That bench will do,” Louisa said, pointing to the first one she saw.

“How about we find the famous Christmas orchid first? I'm told it's blooming, and the Botanical Society comes trooping around daily to sketch it, sniff it, and refine on its features.”

Louisa had seen orchids before, but Grattingly was towing her by the hand deeper into the conservatory. “I wasn't aware our hosts boasted orchids in their collection.”

Grattingly stopped at a shadowed bend on the gravel path. “Let's sit here.”

He stood so he was between Louisa and the way back to the ballroom. Grattingly wasn't much taller than Louisa, but he was stocky enough standing there in her path that something crawly rose to life in Louisa's belly.

“Mr. Grattingly, while we might tarry in the conservatory in plain sight of the open door, the location you've chosen—ooph!”

“The location I've chosen is perfect,” Grattingly said as he mashed his body against Louisa's. He'd shoved her back against a tree, off the path, into the shadows.

“Mr. Grattingly! How dare—”

Wet lips landed on Louisa's jaw, and the scent of wine-soured breath filled her head.

“Of course, I dare. You all but begged me to drag you in here. With your tits nigh falling from your bodice, how do you expect a man to act?”

He thrust his hand into the neckline of Louisa's gown and closed his fingers around her breast. Louisa was too stunned for a moment to think, then something more powerful than fear came roaring forward.

“You slimy, presuming, stinking, drunken, witless varlet!” She shoved against him hard, but he wasn't budging, and those thick, wet lips were puckering up abominably. Louisa heard her brother Devlin's voice in her head, instructing her to use her knee, when Grattingly abruptly shifted off her and landed on his bottom in the dirt.

“Excuse me.” Sir Joseph stood not two feet away, casually unbuttoning his evening coat. His expression was as composed as his tone of voice, though even when he dropped his coat around Louisa's shoulders, he kept his gaze on Grattingly. “I do hope I'm not interrupting.”

“You're not.” Louisa clutched his jacket to her shoulders, finding as much comfort in its cedary scent as she did in the body heat it carried. “Mr. Grattingly was just leaving.”

“Who the hell are you,” Grattingly spat as he scrambled to his feet, “to come around and disturb a lady at her pleasures?”

Somewhere down the path, a door swung closed. Louisa registered the sound distantly, the way she'd notice when rain had started outside though she was in the middle of a good book.

Though this was not a good book. Instinctively Louisa knew she was, without warning or volition, in the middle of
something
not good at all.

“I was not at my pleasures, you oaf.” She'd meant to fire the words off with a load of scathing indignation, but to Louisa's horror, her voice shook. Her knees were turning unreliable on her, as well, so she sank onto the hard bench.

“What's going on here?” Lionel Honiton stood on the path, three or four other people gathered behind him.

“Nothing,” Sir Joseph said. “The lady has developed a megrim and will be departing shortly.”

“A megrim!” Grattingly was on his feet, though to Louisa it seemed as if he weaved a bit. “That bitch was about to get something a hell of a lot more—”

Sir Joseph, like every other guest, was wearing evening gloves. They should not have made such a loud, distinct sound when thwacked across Grattingly's jowls.

Lionel stepped forth. “Let's not be hasty. Grattingly, apologize. We can all see you're a trifle foxed. Nobody takes offense at what's said when a man's in his cups, right?”

“I'm not drunk, you ass. You—”

“That's not an apology.” Sir Joseph pulled on his gloves. “My seconds will be calling on yours. If some one of the assembled multitude would stop gawping long enough to fetch the lady's sisters to her, I would appreciate it.”

He said nothing more, just treated each member of the small crowd to a gimlet stare, until Lionel ushered them away. Nobody had a word for Grattingly, who stomped off in dirty breeches, muttering Louisa knew not what.

Sir Joseph asked no permission. He lowered himself to sit beside Louisa while she fought an urge to tuck herself against him and mutter a few curses of her own.

“Louisa?” The gentleness in his voice was unnerving. “Are you unharmed?”

She nodded, but it was a lie. If Joseph hadn't come along, then that crowd would have seen far, far worse than a disarranged dress or Grattingly dusting dirt off his satin-clad arse.

“You're shaking.” Sir Joseph handed her a handkerchief. “Next come the chills. Sometimes I'd cast up my accounts too. Once, to my unending horror, I cried. Fortunately, only my horse witnessed that indignity.”

“Grattingly has been trying to kiss you too?”

“Good girl.” How could a man put such approval and warmth into two stupid words? “Care for a nip?”