Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight

by Grace Burrowes

  He would. Westhaven set his glass aside and considered the man so innocently eyeing some books of poetry.

  “Do you doubt Louisa will exert herself toward assuring a happy union?”

  Sir Joseph frowned in the direction of a small volume bound in red leather. When he too put his drink aside, Westhaven took up a position leaning against the opposite bookshelf.

  “I harbor no doubts regarding my intended. Lady Louisa has a generous heart, for all she shares her mother’s ability to view the world dispassionately.”

  God in heaven. Few outside her immediate family were privy to the Duchess of Moreland’s practical nature. “You’ve made a study of my womenfolk.”

  “If Louisa marries me, they will soon be my womenfolk too, won’t they?”

  The conversation was not going at all as intended. Worse, Sir Joseph had chosen the small red volume to pluck at random from the shelves. “This is beautiful.”

  It was also a disaster bound in expensive leather. “It’s just a book, Sir Joseph.”

  “The poetry is beautiful: ‘He sits beside her like a besotted god, watching and receiving that laughter which tears me gently to ribbons…’”

  “Turn the page, and it takes a very different tone.” Westhaven lifted the volume from his guest’s hand—carefully, lest the thing tear. It was beautiful poetry, when it wasn’t being scandalous as hell. He had read some of it to Anna in the privacy of their bedchamber.

  Carrington watched as Westhaven put the book back between its fellows on the shelf. “You enjoy those translations?”

  “Some of them. I don’t believe the point of our gathering is to recite poetry to each other.” Westhaven infused a dose of ducal condescension into the observation—something he was getting quite good at, if he did say so himself.

  Carrington’s lips pursed. “No, it is not. We gather to discuss settlements, and I must thank you for sparing me from undertaking this exercise with His Grace.”

  “Because?” Though His Grace was also grateful not to have to deal with the business.

  “I am not of your strata, Westhaven, I understand this. His Grace does, as well, and to the extent that among your sort marriage is commerce, the negotiation of it must be made complicated and delicate. I neither need nor want a farthing of your wealth to take Louisa as my wife.”

  Oh, famous. First the poetry, now the insufferable pride of the merchant class must obstruct Louisa’s happiness. “Shall we sit?”

  Sir Joseph cast a look toward the blazing hearth, his expression betraying a longing Westhaven found uncomfortable to behold. “Your house is marvelously well heated, my lord.”

  “My countess will not permit me to suffer domestic discomfort. I expect Louisa will be similarly vigilant with your hapless person. I advise you to resign yourself to it.”

  “Should that be the case, I shall bear up.”

  They shared a smile, and as they ensconced themselves in comfortable chairs, Westhaven began to hope that Louisa had chosen well after all. “I will not permit my sister to come to you undowered.”

  “Oh, of course not.” Sir Joseph settled a little lower in his chair. “To do so would be to insult the lady. Make whatever arrangements you like, but be aware that upon our marriage, I will donate a comparable sum to the charity of Louisa’s choice.”

  And now things became delicate, because a man of Sir Joseph’s unprepossessing origins was unlikely to understand the magnitude of the figures involved.

  “That is very generous of you, Carrington, but might it not suggest to Louisa that you place no value on her jointure and thus none on her?”

  Sir Joseph eyed his drink. “It ought to make clear the opposite: I place such value on her, that without any settlement whatsoever, I would be well pleased to marry her.”

  Westhaven shot a look at the door then pretended to study the flurries drifting down outside the window. What he wanted was to confer with his countess—that lady being at present occupied in the kitchen, overseeing Christmas baking, if Westhaven’s nose were to be trusted. Anna would know if Sir Joseph’s thinking did indeed comport with those peregrinations of whimsy referred to as feminine logic.

  Though it was of no moment, given that a gentleman farmer, even one sporting a knighthood, could not possibly adhere to the scheme Sir Joseph propounded.

  Years of reading law gave a man a certain facility with prevarication, upon which Westhaven drew shamelessly. “I will draft something and have it sent around to your solicitors, Sir Joseph.” With enough trusts, remainders, and legal obfuscations, Sir Joseph’s pride ought to be spared much of a beating.

  Westhaven did not commit himself to a date, since once the marriage was fait accompli, the dickering could be reduced to the status of a family squabble.

  “Please yourself, Westhaven, but send the document to me. A mere knight need not admit solicitors to his personal business. What I want to make plain to you and the entire world is that I would have Louisa without a penny from her family.”

  “I’ve been in your home, Sir Joseph.”

  Sir Joseph stretched out his right leg, his posture a trifle relaxed considering the nature of the call. “So has half the shire, given the nosiness of the typical denizen of the neighborhood.”

  “We are friendly,” Westhaven said. “Cordial.”

  “A bunch of gossiping titles by any other name. You can’t learn one another’s business under the vicar’s watchful eye in the churchyard, so you must call on all and sundry. What is your point?”

  They were a bunch of gossiping titles, which was part of the reason Westhaven’s home was in Surrey, not Kent.

  “My point is, Sir Joseph, had I not seen with my own eyes that your domicile is sufficiently commodious to house a duke’s daughter, then I would have concern for this match.”

  Sir Joseph turned his head slowly to study his host. “Any man who does not regard matrimony in the general case with concern, much less the marriage of his own sister, is an idiot. Might I have a bit more?”

  He held out his empty glass.

  “Of course. I am remiss as a host, for which you will forgive me.” While Westhaven refilled Sir Joseph’s glass at the sideboard—and his own—he also revised his thinking. His Grace was correct: Sir Joseph would be a fine addition to the family. The man wasn’t cowed by anything as insubstantial as ducal consequence. Such backbone was a necessity for anybody marrying a Windham.

  Sir Joseph shared this quality with no less a person than the Countess of Westhaven, in point of fact.

  “Let me revise my toast,” Westhaven said, bearing their glasses across the room. “To a long, happy, and loving union, such as I intend to enjoy with my own dear wife.”

  Sir Joseph accepted the glass but looked hesitant. Loving had been pushing the bounds of nascent fraternal bonhomie, but fruitful would likely have caused the man to blush. Carrington took a sip of his drink, and silence spread between host and guest.

  Dealing with siblings, parents, merchants, and other aggravations, Westhaven had learned the value of silence. Perhaps raising livestock taught a man the same lesson.

  “Sir Joseph, was there something more we needed to discuss?”

  “Yes.” Sir Joseph’s lips thinned as he frowned at the snow now coming down in earnest. “I’m thinking you’d best fetch that decanter over here.”

  A duke’s heir did not fetch anything, except perhaps his wife’s shawl, her embroidery, her favorite book, her hairbrush, or her slippers.

  Or her morning chocolate.

  “Perhaps you had better enlighten me as to the topic first.”

  The smile hovering around Sir Joseph’s mouth was almost mischievous, leaving Westhaven to suspect his guest’s trespasses against strict decorum had been intentional. Such behavior was worthy of… Louisa, herself. When Westhaven again regarded his guest—with somewhat more respectful eyes—the man was no longer smiling.

  “I would like to discuss my daughters and my sons, and the fact that I am in need of a guardian
for them all in the event of my death.”

  Westhaven crossed his legs at the knee and straightened the crease of his trousers. “I wasn’t aware the blessings of fatherhood extended in your case beyond your two daughters.”

  “Neither is Louisa, and I would prefer it stay that way for the present.”

  As a tenet of business, politics, and domestic tranquility, Westhaven believed that when something seemed too good to be true—say, an ideal spouse for his brilliant, bookish, outspoken, pretty sister—invariably it was too good to be true.

  “And how many times have you been blessed as regards the siring of sons, Carrington?”

  “Eight—and they have four sisters similarly situated. These are in addition to the two daughters who share my household in Kent.”

  Eight. The total number of extant Windham siblings, legitimate and otherwise. Twelve bastard children was… King Charles II had sired twelve bastards. A man had to admit to grudging admiration at the sheer stamina involved. And like His Majesty, Carrington was apparently making good provision for his by-blows.

  Westhaven fetched the decanter.

  ***

  “You have mail.” Jenny dropped two letters into Louisa’s lap.

  Louisa did not reply until the footman who’d rolled in the tea cart had departed. “And it has taken all day to be delivered to me?”

  “You’ve had a busy day,” Eve said from her seat by the fire. “Though I must say you’ve borne up wonderfully under the strain.”

  “Of shopping?” Her sisters had remained at her side throughout, and kept Her Grace’s more profligate notions firmly in check.

  Jenny set the tea tray down on the low table before the sofa. “The strain of knowing your intended fights a duel tomorrow at dawn.”

  An unease that had nothing to do with impending matrimony coiled a little tighter in Louisa’s gut. “There is that.”

  “Read your letters, dearest.” Jenny’s countenance was serene as she poured tea for all three sisters. “Sir Joseph will acquit himself honorably. That’s all that matters.”

  Eve’s mouth screwed up in an unladylike fashion. “This honor business seems to create a great deal more problems than it solves. Women never mention it, and you don’t see us blowing out each other’s brains at a ridiculous hour over some imagined slight.”

  “Eve.” Jenny’s voice was sharp with rebuke.

  Louisa scanned her letters, feeling equal parts grateful for and annoyed by her sisters’ concern. “She has a point… And I have a letter from Valentine.”

  “Is it words, or has he sent you a composition again?” Jenny held up a teacup. Louisa shook her head and scanned her brother’s elegant, flowing penmanship. “Words. He felicitates me on my choice of spouse—as if I had a choice.”

  Eve shot her a puzzled look. “You did.”

  “So I did.” Though the idea of marrying anybody but Joseph, for any reason but the preservation of familial honor—and his honor—had been unthinkable and remained so. “Ellen is in wonderful health, as is the baby, and Val sends you two his warmest greet…” China tinkled, the fire popped out a shower of sparks, and as Louisa read the next few lines, her insides went queasy and cold.

  “Dearest?”

  Eve and Jenny exchanged a worried look. Until his marriage, Valentine had been their escort of choice, the brother they confided in, the one who seemed in greatest sympathy with female sensibilities.

  “I must pay a call on Sir Joseph.” Louisa folded the letter carefully and got to her feet. If it was the last thing she did on earth, she was going to pay a call on her intended.

  “Tonight? Dearest, it’s already dark, and if you’re not here when we sit down to dinner…”

  “We’ll tell Mama you have a headache or the female complaint,” Eve broke in. “Either is perfectly plausible. I’m happy to go with you.”

  Jenny pursed her lips. “You can’t both have a headache.”

  “I’ll go alone,” Louisa said. “I’ll go on foot. It’s only a few blocks, and I’ll wear a veiled bonnet and have one of the footmen accompany me. This snow will keep people off the streets, and Sir Joseph will see me home.”

  Her plan was arguably improper, also possibly dangerous.

  They didn’t stop her. They didn’t even try.

  ***

  Assuming you survive the field of honor, what would you be willing to pay to keep your new wife in ignorance of your profligate adultery in Spain?

  Sir Joseph stared at the note, the words printed in a sloppy and unknown hand. The little epistle had been delivered with the day’s correspondence, no address, no franking, and it had haunted Joseph for an entire cold, miserable day.

  Somebody was determined to poison the marital well for him, and before the ceremony had even been held.

  And yet, it wasn’t quite a blackmail threat—not yet. The solution was simple, of course. All Joseph had to do was tell Louisa she was marrying a man with more bastards than most fellows had legitimate children—and watch a woman he esteemed greatly flounce off to a life of obscure spinsterhood she did not deserve.

  “A young lady to see you, sir.”

  Joseph glanced up from the ledgers he’d been staring at. His butler, a worthy old hound in demeanor and to some extent in appearance, wore a carefully neutral expression.

  “Did she give you a name, Sylvester?”

  “She did not, sir. The footman who escorted her was wearing Moreland livery.”

  “Show her in, and tell the kitchen to send up two trays for dinner.”

  “Very good, sir.” Sylvester bowed and withdrew, only to return shortly with Louisa Windham in tow. Joseph knew a moment’s chagrin that she’d caught him in his shirtsleeves, but if they married, she’d find him in far more informal moments than this.

  When they married.

  “The young lady, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sylvester. That will be all, and close the door behind you.”

  While Joseph rose from the desk and folded his reading spectacles into a pocket, Louisa remained standing by the door in a dress of red velvet. Her cheeks were rosy with either cold or self-consciousness. “Hello, Joseph. We should leave the door open.”

  “In which case, we’ll lose all the heat I’ve spent the past two hours coaxing out of this fire.” Joseph crossed the room and took her hand in his, her fingers chilly against his palm. “If you’re concerned about propriety, may I remind you that we’re engaged, Louisa? Your damp hems suggest you came on foot, and your passage here with only a footman in tow might well have been remarked already.”

  “We stayed mostly in the alleys.”

  “Did you?” He wanted to summon her footman from the kitchen and read the man the Riot Act regarding the foolishness of allowing young ladies into London alleyways after dark. But Louisa was cold, quiet, and around her eyes there was a tension Joseph did not like. “Come over by the fire. There’s food on the way.”

  He kept her hand in his and sat beside her on the sofa before the hearth. “If you wanted to cry off, Louisa, you might simply have sent a note.”

  Her dark brows rose. “You think the night before a duel, I’d send along a note breaking our engagement?”

  Joseph regarded his intended for a silent moment. Beneath the flush of cold, she was pale, and under her eyes, shadows suggested she was sleeping badly. “I would not blame you if you had sent a note, Louisa. Are you crying off?”

  He’d managed to make the question sound causal, but could hardly fathom what else might have sent her out in dirty weather, virtually alone after dark. The idea of losing her…

  It should have been a relief. Marriage to Louisa would be a challenge, to say the least, and yet, Sir Joseph did not let go of her hand.

  “Do you want me to cry off?” she asked in a careful voice, a voice not at all appropriate to the passionate woman he’d become engaged to.

  “I do not, and I am not offering you a gentlemanly platitude, Louisa.” Giving her the simple truth was surprisingly
easy. He wished all truths were that uncomplicated.

  Her shoulders relaxed a trifle. “Well, I’m not crying off. That is, I don’t intend to.”

  He was spared having to reply to that ringing assurance by the arrival of the dinner trays. Louisa eyed hers dubiously.

  “Eat, Louisa. You are likely missing supper with your family, and if you’re going to brave blizzards at night, you must have sustenance.”

  “I eat too much.”

  If she’d burped, she could not have looked more horrified at her own words. Joseph busied himself pouring them each a glass of wine, lest he witness the blush he knew she was suffering.

  “If your feminine attributes are any indication, you consume exactly the right amount to fill your figure out to its best advantage. Shall we eat?”

  In keeping with his preferences, the kitchen had sent up a simple meal of roasted beef, bread and butter, potatoes mashed with cheddar, and some stewed pears. He should have been ashamed to set such pedestrian fare before her, but if they married—when, when they were married—she’d catch him taking a tray in the library on many an occasion.

  “This beef is cooked to a turn,” she said some minutes later. “Your kitchen takes good care of you.”

  “They’re on their best behavior of late. There’s a rumor the daughter of a duke will soon take my humble self and my staff in hand.”

  He saw she was pleased with the compliment but tried to hide her smile by taking a sip of wine.

  “Louisa, as much as I enjoy your company, as flattered as I am by your presence, please tell me why you’re here.”

  Rather than answer, she pushed her pears around with her fork. “I got a letter from Valentine.”

  Joseph extricated the fork from her hand, speared a bite of pear, and held it up to her lips. “And?”

  She took the bite from the fork, holding his gaze as she did. “These are good too.” She munched slowly while Joseph made a bid for patience. “Valentine was at university with Lionel, Grattingly, and the fellows they sport around with.”