The Christmas Carrolls (2 page)

“Then you might as well pair him with Aubergine Willenborg.” Merry held out the dashing young widow’s name card, proving she wasn’t quite as innocent as her sisters wished to pretend. Mrs. Willenborg was a connection of Mama’s who had been invited to round out the numbers, as well as she rounded out her low-cut gowns.

“Perfect!” Joia exclaimed. “That should keep the viscount contented, and out of contention for Papa’s little game.”

“Ahem.” All eyes turned to where the butler was straightening the silverware at the other end of the long table. Mr. Bartholemew had been the family’s butler since before there was a family. He might be slower answering the front door, but his hearing was as acute as ever.

“Yes, Barty? Are you in Papa’s confidence?”

The old butler sighed in regret for lost opportunities. M’lord was playing this hand close to his chest. “No, m’ladies. I simply wished to inform you that the household staff favors Master Oliver’s chances at odds of two to one, while Jake reports the stable crew appears to be leaning toward
monsieur le comte.”

Joia wasn’t the least surprised that her affairs were public knowledge. “Where are you placing your bets, Barty?”

The butler
ahemed
again in indignation. Wager on the family? Before all the cards were dealt? “I believe Master Evan is bringing some young officers and old schoolmates when he arrives for the hunt. His invitation did include any of his friends who might be interested. Perhaps one of those young men will suit.”

“What about the viscount?” Joia wanted to know.

Bartholemew polished a speck off one of the forks. “Lord Comfort has spent the two days since his arrival visiting various horse breeders. He is not widely perceived as, ah, ready to establish his nursery.”

Which meant, Joia knew, that Viscount Comfort was still finding comfort in the arms of every willing widow across the width of England. Joia mightn’t be as smart as Holly or as spirited as Merry, but she was no porcelain doll to be moved from shelf to shelf at anyone’s whim. Bradford Carroll, Earl of Carroll, hadn’t bred any spineless fools. Joia was worldly wise enough to realize that, standing heir to a dukedom, Comfort must be under more pressure than she to marry and ensure the succession. Furthermore, his father, the duke, was one of Papa’s closest friends. The viscount had wealth, breeding, looks—and the morals of a maggot. Joia wasn’t having any of him, no matter Papa’s machinations. She had money of her own and, being the daughter of an earl, had a title of her own. Lady Joia Carroll would rather stay an old maid than wed a wandering-eyed womanizer. So there.

Chapter Two

There he was, holding himself above the company at afternoon tea. Lord Comfort hadn’t kept his distance from Aubergine Willenborg at dinner last night, Joia and her sisters had gleefully noted. Why, a crumb could hardly have fallen between the two. At alternate courses the viscount had flirted with his other dinner partner, having Mama laughing and blushing like a girl. Mama! Good grief, did the rake have no conscience?

After dinner the company had gotten up card games. The viscount was claimed as partner by Mrs. Squire Blakely, yet another susceptible female, so Aubergine had draped herself around the French nobleman. Joia was still doing her duty by the vicar and his wife when Comfort retired. This morning she’d discovered her quarry already out of the house by breakfast. The viscount was studying her father’s stud books in the stable office, according to Merry, who’d had it from Jake, their head groom. Joia was determined to speak to the libertine before one more day passed, before he had one more conversation with Papa. She could just imagine whose breeding lines they were discussing.

Joia poured out a cup of tea, adding enough sugar to gag one of the brood mares, then made her way toward the windows where his lordship now stood in solitary splendor. He was a magnificent creature, Joia conceded. Tall, dark, and handsome—de rigueur for rakes—the self-assured peer left all the other young men in the room looking like country rustics or caper merchants. The viscount’s understated elegance made Cousin Oliver’s yellow Cossack trousers and spotted neckcloth look like something found at Astley’s Circus. Then again, Cousin Oliver would need half the sawdust on Astley’s floor in order to fill out the viscount’s wide-shouldered bottle green coat or form-fitting buckskin breeches. So it wasn’t just his wealth and title that made Lord Comfort such a successful rake, Joia acknowledged with a mental shrug that couldn’t spill the tea. He was still a rake.

To be fair, Comfort didn’t prey on young girls. He never attended debutante balls and such, so their paths had seldom crossed, but she’d never heard his name mentioned in the same breath as that of a wellborn female of marriageable age. Which was how it was going to remain, if Lady Joia had anything to say about it.

When she reached his side, she had plenty to say: “Tea, my lord? I added sugar. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to properly welcome you to Winterpark. Oh, and I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.”

Whether it was the sugar, the shock, or the slight pat Joia gave to the viscount’s sleeve as he raised the cup to his lips, Lord Comfort’s tea landed on Lord Comfort’s shirtfront, waistcoat, and cravat. And Lady Carroll’s Aubusson carpet. “Oh, dear,” Joia said as his lordship hastily excused himself. “The poor carpet.”

* * * *

Joia hummed to herself as she dressed for dinner that evening. A weight was off her shoulders. Now she could begin to enjoy the house party. Perhaps one of the young men would grow conversable upon closer acquaintance. Perhaps one would grow a beard to hide his weak chin. Who knew? Perhaps tonight she would fall in love at last.

Joia put on her favorite bishop’s blue gown, the one whose neckline was the lowest Papa would allow. Her hair was gathered atop her head in a matching blue ribbon except for one long gold curl falling over her nearly bare shoulder. For an old maid, she’d do. Happily she tripped down the stairs to the parlor where the company was gathering, for sherry before dinner. Unhappily, the first person she saw was the viscount, who gave her a dark look before turning to Aubergine, at his side like a sticking plaster. The widow was batting her lashes—blackened with kohl, Joia was certain—so hard that the viscount’s intricately folded neckcloth was fluttering. Joia also noticed that the bodice of Mrs. Willenborg’s gown had less fabric than the blue ribbon in her own hair. She smiled. His lordship wouldn’t miss his opera dancers too badly before taking himself back to Town.

Meanwhile Joia intended to enjoy herself, accepting the flattering attentions of Comte Dubournet. Somehow the usual compliments sounded less banal in French, if less sincere. Even Cousin Oliver, in his puce waistcoat and lemon-striped pantaloons, managed to say something not too offensive: “I say, Cuz, that gown is still becoming. And that curl’s a nice touch, even if short locks are all the crack.”

Then, long before Bartholemew could be expected to announce dinner, the viscount was bowing in front of her. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me something of the history of the tapestry on the far wall?”

There was nothing for Joia to do but smile and accept the arm Lord Comfort was holding out for her. She walked with him across the length of the room, gritting her teeth at the knowing smiles on all the faces they passed.

“Miss Carroll, is it?” the viscount asked as though he didn’t know.

“You are correct that I am the eldest daughter of the house, my lord, but I am Lady Joia.”

“Ah, yes. I wasn’t entirely sure about the lady part.”

Joia was certain the lout was referring to the incident over tea, not the proper form of address. She turned from him toward the wall hanging, but not before noticing, begrudgingly, how attractive he looked in the black and white evening wear. Joia started to describe the tapestry, a depiction of the first Lord Carroll, or Karol, or Carl, fighting his liege’s battles to win the earldom. She was dutifully explaining how the symbolism of the dragons was repeated on the family’s coat of arms when Lord Comfort gestured for a footman. He lifted two glasses off the tray, then waited for the fellow to get out of earshot.

“Lady Joia,” the viscount said in a measured tone, “I am sure you know more about tapestries than I could care about, but I brought you here because I have three things to say to you. One, I believe a
lady
waits to refuse an offer of marriage until after she receives one. Two, I am not in the market for a wife. And three, if I were, I would never choose some spoiled, flawed Diamond with all the warmth of a rock.”

With that, he handed over the second glass of sherry. Somehow the glass slipped and the sticky red stuff dripped down Joia’s décolletage. “You did that on purpose,” she spluttered as the viscount reached for his handkerchief.

“What, discommode a lady? I assure you, a gentleman never would.” Comfort held out the lace-edged cloth toward where the sherry was staining the bodice of her gown. “Shall I?”

* * * *

Joia was late for dinner, of course. She had to enter when everyone was enjoying the second course, forcing her supper partners to rise while she was seated. She made hasty apologies like the veriest peagoose, avoiding her mother’s eyes.

She couldn’t avoid her mother for long, however. As soon as the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, Lady Carroll beckoned her eldest daughter to her side in the Chinese Room.

“Two mishaps in one day?” Lady Carroll’s eyebrows rose. “Now, if it were Hollice, I might understand. With her nose in a book, or without her spectacles, she does tend to be awkward. And Meredyth, unfortunately, still exhibits a tendency toward girlish exuberance. But you, my dear?”

“I am sorry, Mama. It’s just that the viscount...”

“Yes, I can see where such a paragon could turn a girl’s head, dearest, but I thought you above such nonsense.”

“Turn my head? It’s no such thing, Mama. He infuriates me, the cad, the coxcomb, the conceited—”

“Guest in our home.”

“Yes, Mama.” Joia turned to engage old Lady Matthews in conversation, feeling like a chastened schoolgirl. Comfort be hanged.

* * * *

The next morning Joia followed her father to the estate office directly after breakfast.

“I won’t marry him, Papa, and that’s final.”

“And just who won’t you be marrying this week, my dear?” he teased.

“Your pet peer, and well you know it!”

“What, did Comfort offer? I did see you go off with him before dinner.”

“No, Papa, he did not offer. But that’s why he’s here, isn’t it? So you and the Duke of Carlisle can continue your lines.”

“Well, yes, actually, but with our Thoroughbreds, not our children. We’ve been meaning to mix the bloodlines this age, but never got around to it. Now Comfort came into a bit of land of his own in Ireland and intends to set up a new stud. He’s here to select some mares for breeding.”

“That’s all?” Joia asked, beginning to feel a complete gudgeon.

Lord Carroll shrugged. “What else? Oh, you thought he might be in the Marriage Market? I’m sorry, puss, you’ll have to look elsewhere.” He held a hand up at her protests. “Don’t mean you ain’t perfect, my favorite daughter and all.”

“Papa, you tell that to all of us.”

“And it’s true every time, I swear.”

“Papa!”

“Yes, well, I don’t mean Comfort is above your touch, either. It’s just that he ain’t interested in innocents. You’d have to dance naked on the table to catch his eye, puss. Of course, I’d have to send you to your aunt Irmentrude in Wales if you did such a thing, but you get my drift. Leave the viscount to knowing ‘uns like Aubergine Willenborg. She understands how to play the game.”

“Marriage isn’t a game.”

“You see, that’s my point.” The earl shook his head, almost in sorrow. “No, I doubt you could bring that young man up to scratch no matter how hard you tried.”

“Fine. Good,” Joia declared on her way out the door, vowing to do that very thing. Oh, she’d never marry his libertine lordship, but she’d show him that proper young ladies had passion too, even if she had to flirt with the émigré comte and Cousin Oliver to prove it. Flawed Diamond, hah!

* * * *

Next to scratch on Lord Carroll’s door was, not unexpectedly, the viscount, dressed for riding.

“Come in, my boy, come in. What, have you a question about one of the horses?”

Comfort didn’t take the seat his host offered, choosing instead to pace in front of the earl’s desk. “No, sir. My question concerns the purpose of my visit.”

“What, not finding any of the cattle to your liking?”

“I like the horses very well, my lord. Your stables are some of the finest in the land. I am concerned, however, that you and my father had some other matchmaking scheme in mind beyond the mares and stallions, when you invited me here and he urged me to accept.”

“What, you think we’re trying to legshackle you to one of my daughters? I saw you with Joia last evening. Beautiful gal, eh?”

“One of the finest in the land.” Comfort echoed his previous compliment, noting that the earl hadn’t denied the charge.

“She’s a beauty, all right, just like her mother.” Lord Carroll beamed, then frowned. “Too bad she’s the most finicky female I’ve ever known. I can’t tell you the number of likely lads I’ve had to turn away. Don’t have daughters, my boy, they’ll give you gray hair.” He patted his own silvered mane, then laughed. “When you’re ready, of course.”

“I’ll remember your advice, my lord, when I am ready.” Comfort waited.

“About that other matter, you don’t have to worry. No offense, my boy
,
but Joia wouldn’t have a man of your stamp.”

So the chit thought she was too good for him? Comfort tapped his riding crop against his boot.

The earl tried to explain. “That is, I’d be proud to welcome you to the family, lad, if you were so inclined, but Joia’s been properly raised. Too sheltered, perhaps. She’ll make some man a loyal, loving wife, but not until she finds one she can trust, if you take my meaning.”

“She doubts my honor?” Comfort asked disbelievingly. Gentlemen were known to meet at dawn over lesser slurs.