What a Lady Needs for Christmas (23 page)

His tone held regret, as if he pitied the long-ago bride who’d shared such an awkward match with him.

“You are a handsome fellow, even my sisters admitted that much. I’m particularly fond of your eyebrows.” Joan traced each one, thinking them akin to fox fur in their texture.

“It wasn’t my eyebrows she objected to.” Dante captured Joan’s hand and drew it between their bodies. “May we please leave further mention of my late first wife for another time?”

“Of course.” Preferably weeks in the future, at least. Months or years might suit better. “Though if I had to object—goodness!”

He’d wrapped Joan’s hand around his engorged member, skin to hot, smooth skin.

“You are in want of your drawers, Mr. Hartwell.”

“I’m no’ in want of me drawers, Lady Joan. Get acquainted, why don’t you, as long as you’ve come to call?”

His burr had thickened along with this part of his body, the part Joan would learn even more intimately on their wedding night. As her fingers explored length, girth, texture, and response, she searched her memory.

She hadn’t touched Edward thus, of that she was certain. The knowledge comforted significantly.

“Am I doing this right?” Because her prospective husband had gone quiet, all except for breathing that made his bare chest heave.

“Stroke me,” he whispered. “Wrap your hand around me, and yes—God, yes. Like that, and don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

The covers formed a cocoon of heat and darkness as Joan tactilely inventoried her prospective husband’s most intimate attributes. He was smooth, rough, silky, hot, hard—a bouquet of textures like no fabric she could name. Dante’s breath rasped past Joan’s ear, his breathing became labored, and then, as if a sudden wind had picked him up, he heaved himself to his back and shoved the covers down.

He took himself in his own hand, and after a few rough strokes, groaned softly. By the light of the single candle, Joan watched his seed spurt onto his belly, gleaming like nacre on his fingers and ribs.

“Sweet, everlasting, holy…” He opened his eyes and regarded Joan with such wonder, she had to look away. “I hadn’t planned that. Please believe me. I owe you every respect, of course, but I wanted to air some aspects of my—”

He lay amid Joan’s covers, exposed down to his thighs, where the black silk was a shadow among Joan’s scented linens. One hand was flung back against the pillow, while his male member lay in decadent repose amid the dark hair of his lower belly.

“My lady…” He cradled her jaw with his free hand and leaned up to bestow on Joan a kiss that combined heat, joy, and reverence in equal measures.

Mama knew a thing or two after all, for that kiss…that kiss
helped
. With Joan’s worries, with her fears, with her sense that her life had run off its well-ordered, well-dressed rails. She kissed him back then wrestled her way off the bed.

She dipped a flannel in the wash water left close to the hearth for warmth, and brought it to Dante’s side of the bed. He lay utterly passive, eyes closed, his breathing still deeper than normal.

“Shall I?” she asked, shifting so the candlelight fell across his torso.

“Madam, I could not stop you in my present state if I wanted to—and I do not want to.”

The formerly thick, hard part of him was quiescent. “You’re like a hedgehog all curled up and gone to sleep. I gather that scent is your seed?”

“Does it offend you?”

She started on his belly and sniffed. “Not offend. The scent is like a conservatory smell—earthy, and while not a fragrance, it’s not a stink either. Does one—?” She gestured with the cloth.

He took it from her and rubbed himself briskly enough to wake up any hedgehog.

“Weren’t we to cuddle at some point, wife-to-be?” He tossed the cloth in the direction of the hearth, where it landed on the hearthstones with a plop.

“So casual, Mr. Hartwell.”

“Would you rather I got up and affected a bow? I might be able to manage it, or I might topple to my arse at your feet. I was sadly overdue for the pleasure you just bestowed on me.”

He was teasing her, which was lovely and even lovable—though she didn’t entirely understand his humor.

“Move over, sir. You are on my side of the bed.”

He scooted a good two feet, into the middle of the bed, not clear to the other side. “That’s intimate, knowing which side of the bed my lady sleeps on.”

His lady. Not lady, as in Lady Joan, but lady as in the woman he esteemed above all others. Watching his hedgehog go to sleep was intimate too. Joan draped her dressing gown over the foot of the bed, and climbed in beside him. “You’re telling me marriage is intimate.”

“Ours will be, thank God.”

His wrapped an arm around her and kissed her temple as he offered his prayer of thanksgiving, his tone suggesting the matter had given him concern.

Joan kissed his jaw, and yet, she was concerned too.

Her prospective husband sought to marry an intimate, honest friend, and she wished she could be that for him. She would try very hard to be that for him, because he intended to offer her nothing less of himself.

And yet, Edward’s snide little note sat two yards away, making a mockery of Joan’s marriage before the vows had even been spoken.

Eleven

“Hale Flynn, I sent you to fetch me a book. Why are you back here empty-handed?”

Quinworth suspected DeeDee’s exasperation was only partly feigned, for the prospect of losing a daughter to holy matrimony had overset her ladyship’s nerves. Nothing would do but her husband of more than twenty-five years must read some Robert Burns to her, which his lordship was only too happy to do.

“My dear, Balfour House is a veritable gauntlet. I attempted the mission you set for me, only to find Mr. MacMillan stealing kisses from Miss Hartwell in the library. Having some familiarity with kissing, I can assure you these were not holiday greetings.”

“You’re the Marquess of Quinworth,” DeeDee said, rustling about under the covers. “You clear your throat, look severe, and all in your path run for cover.”

“The young lady was giving as good as she got, else I might have indeed cleared my throat and looked severe—though might I point out, that tactic never worked very well with you, madam.”

Or with their children.

She preened as only Deirdre Flynn could preen before the man she loved. “Did you make only the one attempt, Hale? You were gone for more than a few moments.”

His lordship took a seat on the bed at his wife’s hip, close enough to catch a whiff of lilacs.

“I was trapped, trapped I tell you! I came up the stairs to report my failure to you, and what should I find but Spathfoy enjoying the privileges of a young husband with his countess. The household has gone mad.”

Her ladyship’s eyes began to dance. “Under the mistletoe?”

“I averted my eyes, my dear. One doesn’t like to see one’s firstborn son and heir so thoroughly taken prisoner by a woman half his size.”

Her ladyship rustled around under the covers a bit more, the better to show off a peignoir that would make older men than Hale Flynn revisit naughty memories.

“This is a large house, Hale. You couldn’t come up the maids’ stairs? You had to stand there in your night robe, shivering with mortification while your son went down to defeat at the hands of his countess?”

How he loved it when she made fun of him. “I came up the footmen’s stairs, and the sight that befell me…”

Had warmed his heart.

“Hale, if you want to live until morning, you’ll stop being coy.”

“Mr. Hartwell was coming out of Joan’s room. I am dismayed to report that his hair was disheveled, and Joan hauled him back into her room for a parting kiss. A good, strong girl, is our Joan. She takes after her mother.”

DeeDee stopped fussing her blasted nightclothes and laughed, the hearty, merry laugh Quinworth had fallen in love with decades ago.

“And I have missed all this excitement. Thank goodness for the foolishness of young people. Joan has had me worried these past few days.”

She’d had her papa worried for longer than that, though matters appeared to be taking a sanguine turn.

“I’m again off in search of Mr. Burns, and mind you don’t be snoring when I return, madam.”

He kissed her cheek—a prudent husband didn’t part from DeeDee Flynn without observing the civilities—and made his way back to the library, avoiding locations likely to be graced with mistletoe and kissing couples.

The library was still not, alas, devoid of occupants.

“You’re Phillip, aren’t you? Hartwell’s boy? Isn’t it late for you to be wandering the house?”

The lad remained where he was, sitting before the banked fire, a large book open across his knees. “Papa isn’t in his room. I checked.”

This was the serious little fellow who’d been spying from the balcony upon Quinworth’s arrival at this Highland holiday bacchanal.

“Had a bad dream, did you? Heard some dragons under the bed?”

And where in this vast collection would Robert Burns be hiding?

“There are no such things as monsters, though Papa says Parliament comes close.”

“The Commons certainly does. Don’t suppose you’ve seen Robert Burns lying about somewhere?”

“Robert Burns was a poet and a great man,” the child recited. “Burns begins with
B
and the
B
s are over there.”

Burns was a linguistic genius, also a philandering disgrace, among other things, and yet DeeDee loved to hear her husband read his poetry. “Damned if you aren’t right.”

“Papa says you shouldn’t swear, but Daisy swore at Fiona’s rabbit when he got loose.”

Fiona was Quinworth’s granddaughter, Gordie’s sole offspring, and the rabbit had been a gift to the girl from her uncle Tiberius—a bribe, more like. DeeDee had a soft spot for the damned rabbit, else it would be enjoying the hospitality of the stables.

The lad looked lonely perched on the hearthstones, his book too big for his lap, his spectacles making him resemble an orphaned owlet.

“You’re not wearing slippers, boy. The womenfolk set great store by slippers.”

“You’re not wearing slippers either.”

“I’m trying not to make a sound. Mind if I join you?” Because DeeDee might well fall asleep, given a few minutes to herself, and the woman needed her rest.

Young Phillip scooted over a few inches as Quinworth lowered himself to the hard stones. “Are you up past your bedtime, too, sir?”

“I am. Did you know your papa is marrying my daughter Joan?” Because people often forgot to tell their children the important things. Particularly people newly enthralled with each other’s kisses.

“I like Lady Joan. She’s no good at marbles, but she smells pretty, and she doesn’t cheat. Charlie likes her too.”

“Charlene is your sister.” Quinworth had done what research he could in the time allowed, not that Joan would have listened to reason regardless of any discovered shortcomings in Mr. Hartwell or his family.

The boy studied his book, though seated as he was, back to the fire, the words on the page would have been hard to decipher.

“Will you like having Lady Joan for a stepmama?” And weren’t the lad’s feet cold?

“It doesn’t matter if I like her, though I do. Lady Joan explained that stepmamas understand about first mamas being important. I don’t have to love Lady Joan, but I probably will.”

“Even if she’s no good at marbles?” The marquess had no familiarity with marbles as a pastime, but Master Hartwell apparently set store by the game, and he seemed a discerning young fellow.

“Papa is lonely,” the boy said, turning a page of his storybook. “Lady Joan will be his friend, and he told Hector she can open doors. I thought footmen opened doors.”

Interesting. Perhaps this was why Hartwell hadn’t offered a single objection when Tiberius had arranged Joan’s settlements so the funds remained indirectly under Joan’s control.

“Ladies can help us make new friends,” the marquess said. “They open doors to people we might not have otherwise met. It’s a figure of speech.”

“Papa needs money for the mills. He worries about it.”

This, too, comported with what intelligence Quinworth had been able to gather. “Why doesn’t your papa sell those fancy train cars, then?”

The child peered at a drawing of a fellow in armor brandishing a sword at a large, fire-breathing reptile.

“Because the train cars don’t belong to him. Mama left one to me, and one to Charlie. They were a wedding present to her from her papa.”

Good God. A wedding present made to only half of the couple? More research was in order, surely.

“The hour grows late, my boy. I think I’d best see you to your room. We’re to fetch the Christmas tree tomorrow, you know. Nothing will do but we must emulate the Royal Consort’s barbarian traditions. It’s all quite jolly.”

The child closed his book. “I don’t want Papa to be lonely.”

Despite his tender years, this small child knew loneliness well, as did the marquess.

“I will tell you a secret, young Phillip. Lady Joan has needed a friend for quite some time. I think your papa is just the fellow for her, and she’s just the lady for him. It will be all right, you’ll see.”

Though Joan’s loneliness had only recently come to her father’s notice, and that largely because Hester muttered about it to Spathfoy.

With a less solemn child, the marquess might have tried for another wink, but Phillip lacked his younger sister’s blithe—and loud—spirit. Quinworth rose and extended a hand down to the boy—Tiberius had been a great one for reading at all hours—and tucked the storybook under an arm, along with that old rascal, Mr. Burns.

“Let’s to bed, shall we? Fetching the Christmas tree and cutting the Yule log are taxing adventures. You’ll need your rest.”

The child went along docilely, all the way to the nursery, where they made sure Fiona’s rabbit was sleeping peacefully in his cage, then said their good nights. Quinworth turned his steps back to the bedroom he shared with his marchioness, but realized when he was most of the way there that he’d kept the boy’s storybook along with Burns’s poetry.

No matter. The marchioness was fast asleep when her husband returned to her side. Quinworth kissed her cheek, wished her sweet dreams, and blew out the candles.