The Christmas Carrolls (3 page)

“It’s not a question of your honor, my boy. Gentleman and all. It’s fidelity that has my girl in a swivet. She doesn’t want one of those modern marriages where husband and wife go their own way after the heir is born, if not before. I cannot say that I’d look with favor on such a match for one of my lasses. So no, my boy, you don’t have to worry about finding me holding a pistol to your head if you walk out in the spinney with Joia. I’d never force you into marriage, not when it would make one of my girls miserable for the rest of her life.”

So Lady Joia believed he would not be faithful to his wife when he took one. Of course he would, Comfort fumed. He wasn’t about to give his vows, else, which was why he wasn’t yet wed despite his father’s urgings, cajolery, and outright threats. He hadn’t found a woman who could hold his interest. Lady Joia certainly couldn’t. And he wasn’t good enough for her? Hah! Miss Prunes and Prisms had a lesson or two to learn about men in the meantime, fiend take the plaguey chit, and Comfort was just the man to teach her.

* * * *

After the viscount stormed out of the office, jaw clenched, knuckles white around the riding stick, Lord Carroll checked his pocket watch and smiled in satisfaction. He’d already done a fine day’s work and it wasn’t even nine o’clock in the morning.

Chapter Three

Joia knew she couldn’t become a dasher overnight, but she could dashed well show a certain cocksure clunch that she wasn’t any milk-and-water miss. A judicious snip of her scissors here, a dab from the rouge pot there. That was all it took, she was sure, less lace, more skin. Joia even let her maid trim some of her long hair so tiny tendrils curled around her cheeks, as though a lover’s hand had freed the blond tresses from their pins.

“You look like you just got out of bed,” Merry said.

But Holly sagely nodded her approval. “That’s the point, silly.”

And Joia flirted more, too. Didn’t all sophisticated ladies? She wasn’t as brazen as the Widow Willenborg—she’d have been sent to Aunt Irmentrude on the instant—but she did manage to keep one spotted youth perpetually ablush, and she inspired another to sudden versification. She let the Frenchman— Phillipe, he insisted—hold her so close during a waltz that the Almack’s patronesses would have rescinded her vouchers, and she even feigned interest in Cousin Oliver’s lisping catalog of his snuffboxes, for Papa’s sake.

Lord Carroll harrumphed a few times at the lower necklines, but Lady Carroll frowned, especially after Joia complimented Cousin Oliver on his new peacock-embroidered waistcoat. “Are you sure you aren’t sickening for something, my dear? You haven’t been yourself at all these few days.”

No, but she’d been a woman of the world, and she’d made sure the high-nosed Nonesuch saw it whenever he left the paddocks and stables and Mrs. Willenborg’s side. “La, you shouldn’t say such naughty things, my—Phillipe,” she cooed for Lord Comfort’s benefit, not pulling her hand out of the Frenchman’s grasp until the viscount turned away.

Soon enough, Joia’s efforts began to bear fruit. Lemons.

She’d agreed to go for a ride with Cousin Oliver, for Papa’s sake. Oliver didn’t hunt because his clothes might get mud-spattered. He didn’t race because his hair would get all windblown—or his hairpiece might blow away. He didn’t drive because Papa wouldn’t let his ham-fisted heir near his highbred cattle. And Oliver didn’t take walks lest he scuff his new boots, which were likely not paid for yet, so Joia consented to what Oliver considered an agreeable ramble through the countryside: an agonizingly slow perambulation atop the oldest horses in Papa’s stable. After trying to coax him into a gallop—Oliver, not her ancient mount—Joia concluded that the next Earl of Carroll was a craven. The pockets-to-let peer-to-be was petrified of horses! No wonder Papa was so affronted by the thought of this fribble taking over Winterpark and its marvelous stables.

Once they were past the home woods and the outbuildings, Oliver did allow as how it might be pleasant to have a bit of a trot, if his cousin was sure there were no rabbit holes. “Wouldn’t want to jeopardize a lady, don’t you know.”

   Not two minutes later, Joia felt old Nelson come up lame. She pulled him to a halt and dismounted, without waiting for Oliver’s assistance. “Nelson can’t be ridden,” she told her cousin after examining the hoof, while Oliver stayed mounted. Joia looked around for her groom so they could switch saddles and Tom could walk Nelson back. The dratted fellow was nowhere in sight. They couldn’t have outdistanced him, Joia knew, not at the pace they’d been keeping, so Tom must have had a problem with his own horse. He should have let her know, Joia thought, but she was more concerned over the old horse than her missing groom. “We’ll just have to walk home,” she said, waiting for Oliver to offer her his mount. They didn’t
both
have to walk.

“Neither of us has to walk, Cuz. We can ride double on my horse.”

She didn’t bother looking at him, just gathered her skirts over her arm so they wouldn’t tangle as she led Nelson back the way they had come. “That would be highly improper, Oliver. It’s bad enough that we are out here alone, out of sight.”

“It wouldn’t be improper if we were betrothed,”

“What?” Now she did look at him, aghast. “Betrothed?”

He’d finally dismounted, awkwardly enough, and came to take Nelson’s reins, Joia thought. Instead he grabbed for her own hand and squeezed it. “I’ve come to see that you cared for me. I hadn’t thought we’d rub along so well together until you proved so attentive to my interests. Why, you positively drooled over my snuffboxes, didn’t you? And you know this is what your father has always had in mind.”

Joia tried to free her hand, but he held tight. Her skirts were trailing in the dirt again. Obviously she wasn’t going to reclaim her hand until she’d given her cousin some kind of answer. “I am terribly sorry, Oliver, but I never meant to give you the impression that I’d welcome an offer. That is...”

“Nonsense, Cuz. No one’s watching, so you don’t have to pretend to this false modesty. I know you’re interested in me, my pet, so don’t play coy now. I’ve seen the way you smile at me. I know what you want.”

Then he pulled her closer and pressed his limp, wet lips against hers. No, Joia thought, this was not what she wanted. She couldn’t do this, not even for Papa. So she kicked Oliver in the shin with her thick-soled riding boot until he released her, cursing. “There,” she told him, “now you’re as lame as your offer. You’re as lame as old Nelson, but he’s better company.”

She led the horse off toward home, not even caring about her skirts anymore, she was that angry. She was outraged with Oliver, of course, and furious that she’d brought his repulsive advances down on herself. Mostly, though, she was angry with Lord Comfort, who was responsible for the entire hobble. She was too busy muttering to Nelson about the male species in general, present company excluded, of course, to hear Oliver ride alongside her.

“Come on, Cuz, you cannot walk back by yourself. Uncle will have my hide. Leave the beast and ride behind me. He’ll find his own way home.”

Leave a horse loose? Papa would have
her
hide! That was how little Oliver knew of Papa, or horses, or women. He proved it by continuing: “I’m sure that with a bit of reflection, you’ll see the benefits of my offer. The future of the stables, security for your mother, the continuance of the Carroll line, don’t you know. I don’t doubt you were merely overwhelmed by my offer. I’m prepared to forgive your childish temper tantrum and accept your apology.”

“Overwhelmed? Apology? I’ll show you my apology, you mincing mawworm!” Joia brought her riding crop down on the broad rump of Oliver’s mount, sending the animal into the first gallop the gelding had had in years, with Oliver screeching and hanging on for dear life. “I’ll apologize to the horse tomorrow.”

Joia expected to meet her groom coming to find her, especially if Oliver made it back to the stables. Then again, his horse had been facing in the opposite direction. She didn’t expect to meet Comte Dubournet strolling up the carriageway, nor was she pleased with his company at this moment The count didn’t ask if there had been an accident, if she was hurt, if he should run for help, if she needed assistance with the horse. Instead he wanted to pay her pretty compliments.

“Enchanté, ma belle.
As beautiful as ever.”

She was all over damp, her riding habit was in a shambles, and her feet hurt. The man must need spectacles. That or his attics were to let.

He noticed her frown. “To a man in love, his inamorata is always beautiful.”

In love? “Excuse me, my lord, I really must get poor Nelson back to the stables.”

“Phillipe,
chérie.
But no, you mustn’t rush off, now that I have you alone. It’s why
Pére
Carroll invited me, no?”

Joia added her father to the list of malfeasant males. “No, that is, I have no idea why he invited you, but I’m sure it wasn’t so we could be alone.”

“Mais
oui
,
chérie.
How else am I to lay my heart at your feet, to pledge eternal devotion? With all your encouragement, I knew I didn’t have to wait before declaring myself.”

“But I never meant to—”

Joia never meant to let him kiss her, either, but he did that too, grabbing her shoulders and crushing her lips with his. At least his kiss wasn’t all slobbery like Oliver’s. If she just waited a moment, he’d be done so she could thank him for the honor and be on her way. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, she counted. Instead, the madman tried to stick his tongue in her mouth! Ugh.

Papa’d always said that if she was angry enough to slap a man, she might as well make it count, so Joia pushed Dubournet away, balled up her fist, and hit him square in the nose.

Now she had spatters of blood on her habit and the broken feather from her hat drooping down her forehead, but she was that much closer to home and a hot bath. All she had to do was get Nelson to his stall—with a word to the head stableman about her missing groom—then creep into the house by the back door.

* * * *

Lord Comfort was in the stable office, copying out some pedigrees he wanted to study. He’d seen Lady Joia ride out with her clodpole of a cousin, then he’d heard the groom come back, saying he’d been dismissed. The viscount went back to his records. The willful chit was Carroll’s problem, not his. Still, his eyes couldn’t help straying to the rear window as he waited for her return. When he finally caught a glimpse of her, alone, leading her horse, he almost jumped up to sound the alarm, but the Frenchman was already there.

Dubournet appeared to have matters—and the minx—well in-hand. Comfort turned away in disgust. Little Miss Morality was no better than she ought to be, the hypocrite. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw her struggle. In a flash Lord Comfort was out the rear office door, tearing down the path, in time
to see Carroll’s Incomparable land the Frenchman a facer that would have done Gentleman Jackson proud.

The viscount spared hardly a glance for the fallen count, merely tossing him a handkerchief to stem the flow of claret. “Are you all right, Lady Joia? Shall I send for a carriage?” Meanwhile he ran knowing hands down Nelson’s foreleg.

Joia was so enraged she was surprised that blasted feather wasn’t smoldering on her forehead. Why did it have to be Comfort to see her in such an unfavorable light? She snatched the hat off her head and threw it to the ground. “No, I am not all right! I have been insulted and abused and—”

“And I bet your hand hurts like the devil. You should put it on ice as soon as you reach your room.” Comfort was trying to fend off the tears he could hear behind her anger. Those magnificent blue eyes might be flashing fire now, but they’d soon be red and weepy if he knew anything about women. He took up Nelson’s reins and placed his other hand under her elbow to lead her on. “By-the-by, that was a flush hit. My compliments on your science.”

“I did manage to draw his cork for him, didn’t I?” Joia said with a chuckle, earning her a high mark for courage in Comfort’s book. The beauty had bottom, at least, to make up for her total brainlessness, going off alone and unprotected. He thought all debutantes, especially gorgeous heiresses, were taught better than that.

“Should I be sending a cart out for Master Oliver, also?” he asked, bringing a touch of embarrassed color to her pale cheeks.

“Only if he doesn’t return by nightfall, the gudgeon.”

“Not such a gudgeon for trying to secure his future, assuming that’s what he did, of course.”

“What, you don’t censure him for making unwanted advances?”

“How was he to know they were unwanted, after you’d led the poor fool on? Yes, and Dubournet, too. What did you expect when you rode off without a groom? You practically issued an invitation.”

Joia gasped. “I never!”

Now Comfort was angry, and he didn’t want to ask himself why. “What, back to Miss Prim and Proper? You were playing the tease, and well you know it. You set out to fire up their blood, then got in a snit when you smelled smoke.”

“How dare you!”

“It’s only the truth.” Lord Comfort knew because his own senses had been stirred by her flirtatious glances, her swaying hips and daring necklines. Hell, she looked so adorably disheveled this very moment that he could barely resist taking liberties himself. Then she stumbled—her boots were not made for walking—and he immediately put his arm around her, which was a grave challenge to his self-discipline. “And I dare the same way those other unfortunate fools dared.”

Comfort’s kiss wasn’t like Oliver’s sloppy mauling or the Frenchman’s assault. It wasn’t like any of the stolen kisses she’d suffered over the years, perhaps because this one was not so much stolen from her as given to her. The viscount’s lips were warm and soft, tingly and hard, all at once. Joia’s feet didn’t hurt anymore because she couldn’t feel them, only a delicious spreading glow. This kiss was all she’d ever dreamed one should be—and it meant absolutely nothing to a practiced rake like Comfort.

Joia stepped back. The viscount released her immediately, with a quizzical look on his handsome face. This time Joia defended herself the way Papa had taught her to do if she was in extreme danger. Oh, she was.