What A Lady Needs For Christmas

by Grace Burrowes

  Lady Joan’s situation was good fortune; Dante was almost sure of it.

  “You would marry me, Mr. Hartwell?”

  Her incredulity should have been that he’d presume to offer her marriage, not that anybody would have her.

  “I would,” Dante said slowly, because he was acting on a hunch, on an impulse somewhere between cold calculation and hot instinct. “You’re in want of a spouse; my children need a mother.”

  And he needed entrée into the aristocratic strata of investors. What a lovely coincidence. Lady Joan’s people had to include at least an earl, or she wouldn’t be called lady.

  Her ladyship fingered the mended lace of her cuff. “Marriage is a serious business.”

  “It’s a permanent business,” Dante said. “I do recall occasionally laughing with my first wife.” Not often, and not until they’d rubbed along together for a few awkward years. “She broke me in, I’ll have you know. Put some manners on me, though it was uphill going, I’m sure.”

  She’d put a terrible lot of sexual restraint on him, too, though Dante would hardly burden Lady Joan with that truth.

  Her fingers slowed as she stroked the mended cuff. “I like you too.”

  “Does that surprise you?” For it surprised him—and confirmed his sense that marriage to Lady Joan was a brilliant solution to several problems.

  “My husband cannot be titled, because the child might be a boy—if there is a child.”

  “I’m in no danger of acquiring a title. Are you sure you’re carrying then?”

  She stopped fussing her lace altogether, her gaze going to the darkness beyond the windows.

  “I have not had occasion to familiarize myself firsthand with all of the definitive symptoms… That is to say, I might… Or I might not. I don’t know. Yet. I ought not to be discussing this with a gentleman.”

  A gentleman would pretend that babies arrived from celestial realms with little involvement from the mother, and that such arrivals were attended by angelic choruses instead of a lot of fuss, discomfort, and bother.

  “My dear, I’m not likely to be mistaken for a gentleman. You will take that into account when considering any proposal of marriage from me. You would be marrying quite beneath you.”

  He was compelled to point that out to her, not because he was a gentleman, but because fair play alone called for such a reminder. Women got muddled when they were expecting. Men grew muddled when their women were expecting, too.

  “A failure to marry on my part would occasion disaster for my good name,” she said, “and for my child, while marrying down happens to somebody every day. I suppose we’d best try a kiss.”

  Fair play poked Dante hard in the arse.

  “Before we endure that trial, you need to understand that I’m offering you a real marriage, not some prissy little formality that sees you in Paris and me in Scotland. You will be a mother to my children, my hostess, the lady of my households.”

  He’d expect her in his bed, in other words, which was probably ungentlemanly of him.

  “I like to sew.”

  “I beg your pardon?” And could they please get to the kissing part, because now that the notion was running loose in Dante’s imagination, he was curious to see if they could manage it.

  “I wanted… I love fabrics, love the feel of them. Did you know you wear merino blends? Did you know Margaret’s clothes are all wrong for her? From the colors, to the fabrics, to the designs?”

  She took his hand and ran it over the wool of his kilt, then the wool of his jacket.

  “Can you feel how soft those are? How full of warmth? There’s lamb’s wool in this weave too.”

  He hoped she was soft and full of warmth. “You can sew all you like when we’re married, woman. If we marry.”

  Whatever point she was trying to make, he was missing it. That happened regularly between spouses too, and yet, Lady Joan kept her hand over his.

  “I not only sew, I design clothing. I design my own clothes, and sew them myself. I love working with fabric.”

  While Dante ran three textile mills, which was probably irrelevant to whatever queer start she was on.

  “You love fabrics,” he said. “You will love your child, too, I think.”

  That got her attention. “You will treat my baby the same as you do Charlie and Phillip, or we have no bargain. A child born into circumstances such as these will be especially in need of a father’s guidance and protection.”

  She meant, in need of a father’s love, but she was too English to use the word. Dante was not. He rose and drew her to her feet.

  “I’ll love our firstborn as if he or she were my own. That I can promise you.”

  She’d likely never held a newborn, never experienced the helpless surrender to sentiment such a moment engendered, never known the ferocious sense of protectiveness one wee bairnie could arouse in a man.

  The prospect of sharing such a moment with her was strange, exciting, and also uncomfortable. A prudent man did look a gift horse in the mouth, for the beast would require food, shelter, and care, regardless of its age.

  A gentleman merely murmured his thanks.

  Lady’s Joan’s hand was cool in Dante’s. “How do we go about this?”

  “It’s quite complicated,” he replied, leading her over to the wall beside the door. “My lips and yours, smack up against each other. It might take a few tries before we get it right—I’m rusty, you see.”

  A clumsy attempt at humor, and yet, something he’d said pleased her, for those lips he’d soon be smack up against curved upward.

  “I’ve hardly had any practice myself.”

  Well, then. They weren’t a pair of virgins, which was a relief, truly, and yet, they could bring something of newness to their first kiss nonetheless. Dante maneuvered her between himself and the wall, and before the surprise fled Lady Joan’s green eyes—he hoped it was surprise and not trepidation—he set about kissing her.

  ***

  Mr. Hartwell hauled Joan around and settled her against the wall, rather like he’d rearranged the trunks in the baggage compartment. She closed her eyes and braced herself for a mashing of lips and teeth, some heavy breathing, and a male body pressed into hers.

  Her hands gripped the comforting softness of velvet, for her cloak hung on a peg behind her—the cloak she’d walked right past in her headlong dash for fresh air.

  Mr. Hartwell’s lips grazed Joan’s forehead, a warning shot, perhaps. The next thing she felt were those same lips on her cheek, a gentle buss that put her in mind of a cat nudging its owner to encourage petting.

  Cats were soft too.

  “I’ve changed my mind, my lady.”

  “You’ve what?”

  He was braced against the wall with a hand above her shoulder, a relaxed quantity of kilted male who could loom over even a woman of Joan’s height. The thoughtful look on his face boded ill for Joan’s chances of finding a husband by Christmas.

  “I’ve changed my mind. My plan was to kiss you witless, and while that plan has appeal, I’m thinking you ought to be the one doing the kissing.”

  “But I don’t—” Know how, while his kisses came with thought-out plans. And yet, without having a proper sense of how to conduct a kiss, Joan had known enough to get into tremendous trouble with Edward Valmonte—as best she could recall.

  “This might take some time, Mr. Hartwell.”

  He settled close enough to whisper in Joan’s ear. “I’m a patient mon, though I will mention, one parent to another, that children have a tendency to wake up at the least convenient moments. In the usual case, they wake up full of questions, too.”

  One parent to another. The reminder steadied Joan.

  “I’m not sure I’ll become a parent any time soon, but I am sure that my good name has been compromised.”

  “Stop dithering, woman. I’m only a man, and it’s only a kiss.”

  He took her by the middle and traded places with her, so he leaned back against the folds
of her cloak, legs spread, Joan standing between his thighs.

  Only a kiss—that could lead to a marriage.

  A married woman, in some regards, was more free to do as she pleased. Mama managed the family’s finances, held her salons in Edinburgh, and had separated from his lordship for nearly two years. A married woman could design dresses all she wanted, in fact.

  Joan framed Mr. Hartwell’s jaw with her hand, the texture beneath her palm a contradiction of warm skin, bristle, uncompromising bone, and interesting angles. For balance, she laid her free hand against the wall and again encountered her velvet cloak.

  The feel of the fabric soothed her, as did Mr. Hartwell’s unmoving patience.

  He closed his eyes, which courtesy emboldened Joan to trace her fingers over his eyebrows. His lashes were dark and thick against his cheek, an incongruous dash of luxury on a countenance otherwise devoid of softness.

  And his nose… Joan ran her thumb down the length of that nose, tracing the bump near the bridge. His nose was straight, unbroken, and yet the bump suggested something untoward had occurred somewhere along the way. The arches of his eyebrows were perfect curving sweeps, almost graceful, except his brows were too dark and heavy for grace. As an old man, those brows would grow bushy.

  “Will you kiss me with only your fingers?” His whisper had developed a rasp.

  “I like to touch. I learn by touching.” And he might become her husband, the one man she was at liberty to touch intimately. A weary caution tried to issue from Joan’s mind—why was he so willing to become her husband when they were complete strangers and the children were managing well in their aunt’s care?—but time was of the essence, and a husband by Christmas a necessity.

  She took a leaf from his album and pressed an experimental kiss to his cheek.

  No heavenly chorus erupted; neither did revulsion stir. Mr. Hartwell smelled good, and his claim to patience was apparently well-founded.

  “Again, my dear.”

  Joan’s next attempt landed closer to the corner of his mouth. She wasn’t tall enough to kiss his forehead.

  “Charm on the third try, my lady.” He was teasing her, and the idea that he could laugh about this kiss allowed Joan to breathe.

  “Stop nattering, Mr. Hartwell. I have another use for your mouth.”

  She kissed that mouth, their lips coming together in a pair of smiles that boded well for their future. Putting responsibility for prosecuting the kiss in her hands had been generous on his part, giving Joan the latitude to linger on new sensations.

  Mr. Hartwell was utterly solid, unlike Edward, whose bones were not wrapped in any particular quantity of muscle.

  Mr. Hartwell didn’t grab at a lady. His hands on Joan’s waist were steadying rather than clutching—or wandering. He let her know where his hands were, and left hers free to acquaint themselves with his wool-clad person.

  His clothing was a delight—soft, warm, and fitted to him with the precision and quality found in the best tailoring.

  “Taste me, Joan. I’m dying for you to taste me.”

  She left off stroking his chest—his coat, rather—long enough to decipher that whispered suggestion.

  Taste him—with her tongue. Joan pressed her face to Mr. Hartwell’s throat and withstood the recollection—clear, for the first time—of Edward’s tongue intruding into her mouth like illness rising from the wrong side. She had been so disoriented with drink and bewilderment, she’d had trouble figuring out how to breathe.

  “Like this,” Mr. Hartwell said, making a soft, slow pass with his tongue over Joan’s bottom lip.

  “You taste like chocolate.”

  “You don’t want a husband who tastes like chocolate?”

  A husband who tasted like chocolate, and who knew how to invite with his kisses rather than plunder was an agreeable prospect. “I’m partial to chocolate.”

  She imitated his kiss, which, like a magic word uttered from the exact right location, had the effect of parting his lips.

  He drew her closer—right against the solid length of his body—and what followed next defied Joan’s ability to keep sensations organized in her mind. Mr. Hartwell’s embrace had a sheltering, comfortable quality, the very opposite of the entrapment Joan had felt mashed beneath Edward on his too-short settee.

  Joan could breathe in Mr. Hartwell’s arms; she could enjoy his height and muscle; she could revel in how delicately such a large, dark fellow could share a kiss with a woman who knew precious little about the entire undertaking.

  “Relax, woman. Let yourself have a bit of fun.” His kiss grew playful, his tongue dodging and feinting, his mouth retreating then fastening over Joan’s again. She had to go up on her toes to recapture his kiss, and finally let go of the velvet cloak to sink a hand into his hair.

  The texture of his hair was distracting, much softer than it should have been, softer than Joan’s own russet locks.

  “I like it when you pull my hair,” he growled. In contrast to his voice, his hand on Joan’s hair was light. “I like your kisses too, Lady Joan.”

  Relief coursed through her, for the kiss had been interesting and not at all unpleasant, but Joan had no frame of reference for what constituted an adequate kiss from a prospective fiancée. She let herself rest against him, yielded to the warmth and relaxed security of his embrace.

  “Are we to marry, then?”

  He spread his legs a few inches wider, his chin coming to rest against Joan’s temple. “Ye daft woman, will ye no allow a fellow to propose? That kiss was your inspection tour of me. I had best warn you I work too much—Margs is forever scolding me about it, and has nearly poisoned Hector’s soup in an effort to gain me respite from my business.”

  Joan rubbed her cheek against soft wool and hard, honest man. “Are you trying to talk me out of marrying you? My options are limited—you or scandal—and that flatters neither of us.”

  “I’m warning you: work is all I know. I have no…no, what you English would call address. I loathe the quadrille. I prefer the freedom of a kilt to the fussiness of ballroom attire. I raise my voice indoors. I forget my glasses, and even forget I’m wearing my glasses. I’m late to meals. I have no head for names and family connections. When I’m tired, I can be testy—”

  Joan kissed him to stop his litany of self-revelation.

  “I’m the same way about my sewing. I’d sew all the time if allowed. Dancing with men who are eye-level with my bodice has been a trial since my come out.” She hadn’t meant to say that—hadn’t quite admitted it to herself even. “My father raises his voice indoors and even at table, as does my mother. When I’m tired, one of my eyes has a tendency to turn in when I look down.”

  Her younger sisters had delighted at this discovery, the wretches. As a result, Joan had spent years never allowing her chin to dip after supper.

  Mr. Hartwell’s chest bounced—a chuckle.

  “A terrible shortcoming, that. Perhaps we should loan you a pair of my spectacles. When will you know if you’re carrying?”

  As Joan stood in the circle of Mr. Hartwell’s arms, the tension she’d arisen with so many hours and miles ago eased by a small increment. His kisses tasted of chocolate, he wore beautiful wool blends, and he could go from teasing to blunt, necessary inquiries in a sentence or two.

  She had liked him when she’d danced with him. Respect, and something greater than liking took root where all of Joan’s upset had been.

  “If I am in an interesting condition, I will have definite indications within a week, ten days at most.” If she were regular, which she was—sometimes.

  His hand passed over her hair, a thoughtful gesture.

  “Will you marry me, Joan Flynn?” That same hand landed gently over Joan’s mouth. “Don’t answer that. A child needs two parents, but you might well not need a husband. If the offending twit who took such advantage of you keeps his mouth shut, and nature is kind, then your prospects are undiminished, and you need not take me on as husband.”

&
nbsp; But she—

  She wanted to take him on as husband. Wanted an uncomplicated man for her spouse, a man who wasn’t afraid to apply himself to his goals, a man who cared naught for the social whirl and whose kisses were full of humor and patience.

  “The offending twit isn’t likely to keep his mouth shut. He revealed a tendency to grow bosky, and gentlemen in their cups have no discretion.” Tiberius had warned her of that repeatedly. Tiberius was a great one for issuing warnings…

  Tye would be much in evidence over the holidays.

  “My parents’ union was not happy,” Mr. Hartwell said. “Marriage is a great challenge, trust me on this. If we marry, then the less we do so in haste, the better. I’ll expect to bed you.”

  That again. He wasn’t teasing, and he wasn’t asking. He shouldn’t have to ask and yet… The pleasant hopeful glow of the kiss faded, and Joan pushed away from her reluctant suitor.

  “I may well be thoroughly used goods, Mr. Hartwell, though my recollections are lamentably unclear. Pretending I’m a blushing innocent would hardly serve.”

  He remained leaning against the wall, Joan’s aubergine cloak forming a black backdrop in the limited light of the parlor car. The dark velvet looked like the background for a portrait—and Mr. Hartwell’s expression had grown abruptly stern.

  “How can a woman not know if she’s been ill-used?”

  Joan dropped onto the settee. “I was bosky too. Have you ever partaken of absinthe?”

  He wrinkled his substantial nose. “Hateful stuff, particularly if you haven’t a head for it. The flavor is strong enough that it can be mixed with laudanum and no one’s the wiser. Did you lose consciousness?”

  “I cannot recall.” The words held equal measures of shame and relief. “Pieces of the evening come back to me when something prompts the memory. I was inappropriately intimate with a man who cannot marry me. I know that much. I cannot think I’m still a maid, and I might well be on my way to motherhood.”

  He pushed away from the wall with his back, and such were his reflexes that when Joan’s cloak came free of its hook, Mr. Hartwell caught it easily before it could brush the floor.