What a Lady Needs for Christmas (17 page)

“This painting needs a good cleaning. Peat smoke will ruin it in another generation or two.”

“Why don’t you clean it?” As soon as he’d made the suggestion, Dante realized that if Joan were busy in the library throughout the day, he’d have to work elsewhere if he wanted to be productive.

“I
could
restore this portrait. I studied in Paris for a few months.” She was lost in the painting, which prompted Dante to rise and take a closer look at it himself.

“You could get started today, assuming the supplies were on hand. Restoring the laird here would give you something to occupy yourself.”

Because she needed that.

“I don’t seek merely to be busy, Mr. Hartwell.”

“You’re fretting. Being busy can help the fretting times pass more easily.” Though it had never particularly helped Dante, not when
busy
meant closeting himself with Hector’s blasted reports.

“I’m not fretting. I’m fetching you down to the kitchen, so you can have a turn stirring the plum pudding. The servants are all gathered there, along with the children, my relations, and Balfour’s family.”

What was she looking for in that mahogany desk?

“Balfour’s doing the English this year?”

“He’s doing the hospitable. Tiberius likes Balfour, and that’s no small endorsement.”

Dante was more inclined to think of Spathfoy’s blessing as a millstone for a Scottish earl.

“What are you searching for?” Besides a husband.

“This.” She held up a silver-handled quizzing glass. “That painting isn’t uniformly dirty. It’s darker near the bottom, and probably has more cracks near the top, where the temperature has varied more. The project wants study before I approach Balfour about it.”

“You’d commend me to the mayhem in the kitchen all on my lonesome?” Not that he’d set foot in a noisy, crowded, tipsy kitchen without her. “Come with me, for Balfour will have punch and sweets to ensure we spoil our digestion.”

Then too, it couldn’t hurt for dear Tiberius to grow accustomed to the sight of his sister on Dante’s arm.

She slipped the quizzing glass into some secret female pocket in her velvet skirts. “Don’t talk to me of spirits. I know now why the fussiest ladies never partake of strong spirits.”

“They abstain because they’ve never faced winter in a Scottish croft. Spirits in moderation never hurt anybody.”

He’d said the wrong thing, for this time, when she perused the old fellow in his fancy kilt, she blinked furiously.

“Joan, I’m sorry. I did not mean to judge you.” Though it was a dicey proposition, Dante put a hand on her shoulder. Tension vibrated through her, or indignation.

Or hurt.

“I
wish
I had a familiarity with strong spirits,” she said as the first tear trickled down her cheek. “I wish I had a strong head for them, in fact, because then that dratted man would not have been able to, to—”

Dante pulled her into his arms, where she fit so well, and so reluctantly.

“Sooner or later, everybody drinks too much. I get the sense that much of what we call a university education is an exercise in teaching the sons of the aristocracy to hold their liquor. That strong head you’re so envious of takes years to acquire, and some never do.”

From the same secret pocket, she produced a square of silk, white with green trim. “When will I remember?”

Women should always wear velvet, for when a man stroked his hands over a woman clad in velvet, he was soothed and aroused in equal measure. “When will you remember what?”

“When will I recall what
happened
. I got so muddled, and when I woke up, he was sprawled on top of me, my skirts in complete disarray, the candles guttering, and nothing made any sense.”

Dante kissed her temple, though she wasn’t Charlie, that her hurts and indignities could be made better with a kiss.

“Nothing made sense because you were still tipsy. The drink can take a full day to leave your system, and more days before your body entirely rights itself.” That assumed she hadn’t been drugged as well as inebriated.

“The drink is not in my system now, and I still can’t make sense of what happened. I don’t recall what I said. I don’t recall what I did. Not the half of it, only bits and pieces that are of no help.”

He let her go, because her indignation was doing more to dry her tears than his embrace—or his kisses.

“You might never recall more of that night than you do right now,” he said, pulling the fireplace screen back and tossing another square of peat onto the flames. Joan held out her little handkerchief to him, for handling peat was an untidy business.

“Your handkerchief will get dirty, my lady.”

She lifted one eyebrow, looking much like her lordly brother. “A bit of dirt will wash, Mr. Hartwell. Most fabrics know the difference between a smudge and a permanent stain.”

Though Society, of course, did not, and neither did Lady Joan. Dante took the bit of silk, rubbed the dirt from his fingers, and stuffed her handkerchief in his pocket.

“Don’t focus on trying to recall what you said or did. Let it come back to you on its own. If you were drinking absinthe, then the scent of it might trigger some memories, a snippet of conversation might, a whiff of his shaving soap. You can’t stitch this down and put a perfect hem on it, Joan.”

The library door opened, revealing none other than dear Tiberius, but of all things, the man had an infant affixed to his shoulder.

A smiling infant sporting a head of bright red hair.

“There you are. My countess insists that I join the riot in the kitchen, which means you two are subject to the same decree.”

Joan was across the library in four swishy strides.

“Give me that baby, Tiberius. You’ll feed him sweets until he has a howling bellyache, then feign innocence and mutter darkly about women who are overly indulgent to their children. What was Hester thinking, putting him in your care on such an occasion?”

“While you’ll feed him marzipan, and not let me have him back until Whitsun?”

“Too late,” Dante said as Joan settled the child on her hip and swept from the room. “Your son has been taken captive, and you might as well surrender with good grace—unless you must be the first to stir the Christmas pudding?”

Joan went on her way, her prize in her arms. His lordship’s expression drained of the puzzled wistfulness with which he’d watched Lady Joan make off with the infant and filled with characteristic disapproval.

“You were alone in here with my sister, Hartwell.”

The remaining weeks of the house party loomed with the never-ending dimensions of the new boy’s first semester at public school.

“Spathfoy, you insult me, your sister, the holidays, and the very books with your innuendo. Balfour has offered the library as a place I might work and meet with my man of business. Lady Joan came to invite me to the merriment in the kitchen, exactly as you did—more or less—and she lingered to inspect that portrait over the hearth.”

Spathfoy turned his scowl onto the hapless laird twinkling over the fireplace.

“Lady Joan says the painting is in need of cleaning,” Dante went on, “and she might undertake the project herself. If you doubt my facts, ask her to turn out her pockets, and you’ll find a quizzing glass among her effects.”

Joan would find her temper, did Spathfoy ask her to turn out her pockets like some naughty child, and she’d direct that temper at her infernal brother.

“My apologies, Hartwell, but Joan is not in good spirits, and she might turn to an unlikely source of comfort. If you think my regard for her is overbearing, my father is positively backward when it comes to my sisters.”

At least Spathfoy grasped that Joan was in need of comfort, though it had apparently escaped his lordship’s comprehension that a man with two motherless children knew plenty about offering solace to those afflicted with heartache.

“Is your backward papa due on the next train?”

Spathfoy was a big fellow of solid dimensions and strong features. Women would call him handsome, with his dark hair and green eyes. Men would say he had plenty of muscle, and Hector attributed significant wealth to him as well.

And yet for a fleeting moment, Spathfoy had looked haunted.

“Quinworth will be here tomorrow, with my other two sisters—
and
my
mother
. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll develop pressing business down in Aberdeen, and absent yourself for at least the next week.”

His lordship followed Joan from the library, leaving Dante to wonder if that admonition was Spathfoy’s idea of a friendly warning—or a threat.

***

Hale Flynn, Marquess of Quinworth, hated Christmas. He hated the foolishness of eating like a market hog when the weather was too foul to allow a man to regularly ride his acres. He hated the social deception of claiming to be glad to see people whose names he’d happily forgotten. He hated eggnog. He hated endless renditions of Handel, and this latest business of whacking down entire trees to dress them up like debutantes at an engagement ball…

Sheer buffoonery.

But he loved his marchioness, and if Deirdre, Lady Quinworth, wanted to spend the holidays draped in plaid and harassing their children, then Hale was pleased to oblige her.

“Damned trains get smellier every year,” he remarked to his son. He handed Lady Quinworth down from the sleigh, and watched bemused as she nearly tackled Spathfoy into the snow.

“Tiberius, you naughty boy! I was expecting to see you at the train station, and instead you send poor Balfour, who should not be away from his lady if it can possibly be helped. Where is my grandson, and, Quinworth, why are you standing about in this dreadful cold? Take me inside and do not think of disappearing into the game room until you’ve done the pretty for Lady Balfour.”

Quinworth winged his arm, the only response DeeDee needed when she was in one of her flutters. Spathfoy had the slightly dazed look so many fellows wore in DeeDee’s presence, and the faint fatigue of a man parenting a small child.

“Hello, sir.” Spathfoy said to his father.

“Hah. Warn your sisters that her ladyship and I are on the premises, and pray for an early spring. I don’t know whose idea this infernal house party was, but if I find
him
, he’ll have much to answer for.”

Spathfoy had his mother’s sweet, winning smile, though he was more parsimonious about sharing it. “Happy Christmas to you, too, sir. And might I say, you and Mama are in great good looks.”

DeeDee preened, and well she might. For a woman of a certain age, she showed to excellent advantage. Tall, red-haired, and formed by a generous and loving God, she was more Christmas gift than any one marquess deserved in a lifetime.

“Save your flattery for your wife, Tiberius,” she said. “Your father doesn’t tolerate the cold as easily as you young fellows do.” She ran a maternal eye over Spathfoy’s knees, in evidence because the boy was wearing a kilt—the Flynn tartan, of course.

Inside Balfour house, Quinworth endured more greetings, to the point that a near crowd had gathered in the entrance hall. Most of the fellows were in kilts, and many of the assemblage seemed to know one another. Hester greeted her father-in-law cheerfully—as well she had better—while DeeDee swanned about and kissed cheeks left and right.

“Who’s the solemn little fellow?” Hale asked his daughter-in-law, for the petite Lady Spathfoy was a canny sort and a worthy ally. A small boy peered through the banisters of the balcony in the time-honored tradition of eavesdropping children.

“Mr. Hartwell’s son, Phillip. A shy lad, likes his books and is completely overshadowed by his younger sister.”

“Younger sisters can be the very plague,” Quinworth muttered. “Just ask your husband.”

“Dora, Joan, and Mary Ellen will all be down in a moment,” Hester said—she was also the informal sort, which likely caused Spathfoy no end of consternation. “Dora and Mary Ellen were on the noon train. You made good time out from the station.”

They’d made good time because DeeDee loved to feel the wind in her hair—also because the lady needed to dote on her children and grandchildren regularly, and brought a certain urgency to her activities.

“I assume you and Tiberius are managing adequately?” Quinworth asked. Balfour had decorated his home in the English style, with greenery hanging from the rafters, cloved oranges dangling here and there, and wreaths on the doors and in the windows.

All in the tasteful excesses called for by the season, of course.

Hester was not fooled. She waited until Quinworth had visually inspected every corner and cranny of the entrance hall before she deigned to answer.

“I might well be again in anticipation of a blessed event, your lordship. Tiberius wants to wait until after the holidays to share the news with her ladyship.”

Tiberius was waiting, no doubt, because DeeDee had buried a son, and her nerves should not be tested unnecessarily with good tidings that could turn out to be no tidings at all.

“The little fellow wants to come down,” Quinworth said. “Where is his nurse?”

The longing in the child’s eyes was discernible at twenty paces. He’d have imprints on his pale cheeks from the banister railings. As Quinworth and Hester watched, a blond woman no longer in the first blush of youth knelt beside the boy. She wasn’t dressed as a nurse, and yet…

“Joan needs to take that young lady’s wardrobe in hand,” Quinworth muttered. “Though I doubt her ladyship or Dora and Mary Ellen will allow her the time.”

“That is Mr. Hartwell’s sister Margaret,” Hester said. “We’re finding her very agreeable company.”

Of course. Everybody was agreeable for the first few days of a house party, and then the flirting and overimbibing and overwagering began. Miss Agreeable Company took the boy by the hand, but the child cast a longing glance over his shoulder.

DeeDee had once confided to Quinworth that her secret for managing any gathering was to look about the room and find the person who seemed the most out of place, the most uncomfortable, and attach herself to that person until others had joined their conversation.