The Christmas Carrolls (8 page)

“I told you I would save the day.”

“Yes, but it seemed so hopeless and I—”

“Didn’t trust me. Ah, my sweet, that’s how you could thank me, with a little faith.”

Joia was biting her lip, not knowing what to say. She wanted to tell him he was the most noble man she’d ever met, that his reputation no longer mattered. But it did.

And her obstinate refusal to see that a man could change bothered him. Still, he touched his finger to her lips. “Don’t worry, Joia, we’ll talk again tomorrow. You’ll come to see what a steady fellow I am, if I survive the morning interview with your father.”

“I’m sure he only wants to thank you for the service you’ve done all of us. He was just upset you didn’t tell him of your plans.”

“I think he was more bothered that you came to me with Oliver’s threats instead of to him.”

“I didn’t precisely come to you, if you remember. You offered yourself.”

Somehow the viscount’s fingers were still at Joia’s mouth, brushing her lips in butterfly caresses.                  “Sometimes I amaze myself.” His own lips were about to replace his gentle touch, giving them both a glimpse of heaven, when Bartholemew cleared his throat. He and a footman were moving a chair down the corridor for the watchman set to guard Oliver’s door.

“Wretched timing,” the viscount muttered.

“Excellent timing,” the butler countered, sending Joia flying down the hall in her bare feet, cheeks burning again.

“Wait!” the viscount called. “Will you save me the waltzes at the ball?”

“You saved me from Oliver, truly a fate worse than death. You may have anything you want.”

Bartholemew opened the viscount’s door for him. “Don’t even think it.”

“The waltzes will do. For now.”

Chapter Nine

“What, are you riding to the hounds?”

Joia’d thought she’d be first in the breakfast parlor that morning, hurried along by anxiety over Lord Comfort’s talk with Papa. Both of them, however, were before her, both in scarlet hunt jackets like her own wool habit, and neither showing any signs of agitation. Papa was already halfway through his gammon and eggs. She’d have to wait till later now, to find out what the men had discussed.

“My girls often hunt with the pack.” Lord Carroll was answering the viscount’s question. “And I don’t care if it isn’t considered proper in some corners. They’re excellent riders all, mounted on the finest horseflesh my stables can provide, and they are aware of the limitations of the confounded sidesaddle, by George.”

Joia usually turned back after the first few fields, enjoying the ride, the spectacle, the dogs, and her father’s excitement, without any wish to see the poor fox slaughtered. Most times Merry stayed with the pack until the end, begging for a reprieve. When no one was about, when the fox had given them a good run, Lord Carroll would relent, for truth to tell, he admired the game little creatures himself. But today Reynard would have to depend on his own wits, for half the county was assembling in Winterpark’s carriage drive and on the lawns, to Lady Carroll’s dismay. The countess entered the morning room without her usual cheerful greetings. “If they trample my rhododendrons, Bradford,” she threatened, “there will never be another hunt at Winterpark.”

Everyone knew she’d never deny the earl his favorite pastime, after raising horses and daughters, of course. While a footman poured her tea and brought a fresh rack of toast, Lady Carroll instructed Bartholemew to send out more trays of sweet rolls and stirrup cups to the eager, early riders outside. Of course, Bartholemew had already given orders to the kitchen, but the countess felt she had to do something before the rest of the company gathered to fortify themselves for their morning’s run. In a bit she would go stand on the front steps waiting for the huntsman to blow his horn, to wave away the riders. Then she could come back and get down to the serious business of planning a wedding for the very afternoon of the hunt ball. Men! Did they never think?

Comfort thought Joia looked stunning this morning with her hair gathered back in a net and a tiny veiled hat pinned to her head. He also thought she might burst from curiosity, so, as the breakfast room filled, he went to the sideboard and brought back a plate of muffins, taking the seat beside her this time.

“What did my father want with you?” Joia asked, taking one of the proffered muffins onto her own plate. “Was he very angry? Did you tell him about Oliver’s blackmail scheme?”

Comfort was buttering his muffin. He noted that Joia preferred jam on hers. “He was furious at Oliver, of course. I thought he had a right to know in case the dastard tries to extort money or something from your family again. I think the earl is going to offer a honeymoon in Austria to Mrs. Willenborg as a wedding gift. The beau monde is gathering there, which ought to please Aubergine, and it’s far enough away that your father won’t have to lay eyes on the makebate or his bride.”

“And was that all Papa had to say?” To avoid Comfort’s eyes, Joia gave her muffin another dab of jam.

“I think that was the gist of it. Oh, he did give me permission to ask for your hand in marriage.”

‘Twas a good thing they were having strawberry jam today. The stains wouldn’t show on Joia’s habit.

“Botheration, that’s what I was afraid he’d do! With Oliver out of the running, you’re his last hope for the house party.”

“Never say so. I understand your father invited half the Horse Guards barracks up from London for the ball tonight.”

“But I understand the odds are heavily in your favor,” she teased back. “Why, the underfootman couldn’t find anyone to take his bet. I’m sorry, my lord. I know you never intended... That is, pay no mind to Papa’s schemings.”

“Not at all, sweetings. I asked him.”

Joia’s hand stopped between the plate and her mouth. “You asked him what?”

“Permission to pay my addresses, of course.”

Joia threw her hands in the air. Unfortunately, she hadn’t put the muffin down first. Now there were stains on Comfort’s clothes as well, and Lady Carroll was scowling from her end of the table. “Why did you do a hen-witted thing like that?” Joia demanded. “Now he’ll never stop badgering you.”

“I asked him because it’s the proper thing to do. I don’t mean to put my luck to the touch yet, though, so you needn’t give me any answer yet. I thought we should get to know each other better. What do you think?”

Joia couldn’t think. Her brain had turned to strawberry jam.

* * * *

Joia didn’t see the viscount again until after the wedding. That is, she saw him—he rode at the forefront of the hunt; she turned back at the home farm—but not to speak to, certainly not to demand if he’d contracted a brain fever. What other explanation could there be for his latest taradiddle? He couldn’t be serious, she told herself. Could he? He was kind and chivalrous once he got off his high horse, good company and surprisingly good-natured, but he wasn’t ready to set up his nursery; he’d said so himself. And he didn’t like proper young women; he’d said that, too. Joia didn’t know what she’d do if he’d changed his mind, nor what she’d do if he hadn’t. What a muddle!

The wedding was almost as chaotic as her thoughts. As if the household and the neighborhood weren’t set on their collective heels already, Aubergine insisted Viscount Comfort give the bride away, just to roil the waters. She saw the way the wind was blowing and had no reason to provide the viscount smooth sailing, not after the trick he’d played on her.

“By Jupiter, I swear she was never mine to give,” Comfort told anyone who would listen. “I had my heart set on being groomsman.”

The earl took that honor, standing by Oliver’s side, making sure his unworthy heir made the right responses without shabbing off at the last minute. He might have had a pistol in his pocket directed at the clunch’s head, for all Oliver’s joy in the occasion. Instead Lord Carroll had a ring in his pocket, the gaudiest trinket in the family vault, where it had lain for ages, the thing was so ugly. Aubergine loved every diamond, emerald, and ruby in the monstrosity.

The widow had refused to have Joia as bridesmaid. “I’ll be dashed if I’m going to be overshadowed by some milk-and-water miss on my own wedding day. It’s bad enough the groom’s finery outshines anything I own. I’ll have the middle gel—what’s her name?”

Joia resented the implication on her sister’s behalf, so she spent the afternoon convincing Holly to remove her spectacles, do her hair up in a more modern style under Joia’s own diamond tiara, and touch her cheeks with the hare’s-foot brush. In her ecru gown, Holly looked more like a bride than Aubergine. Her dance card for the ball that night was filled before the first wedding toast was given.

There weren’t many—toasts, that is. Even the smooth-tongued viscount was hard put to come up with a polite way of saying he hoped the two didn’t murder each other before the honeymoon was ended. He did hand Oliver the packet of his IOUs to burn as a wedding present.

Then, mercifully, the newlyweds were on their way, with at least five people thinking what Merry put into words: “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

In a few hours the house party would gather again for dinner, before the outside guests arrived for the ball. The ladies were going upstairs to rest and repair their toilettes. The gentlemen were headed to the billiards room, to recount the day’s run one more time.

Lord Carroll stopped Joia on the stairs. “I’d like to have a word with you, puss. And your young man.”

“He’s not my young man, Papa, and I really don’t have time. My hair...”

“Is perfect, as always. If you make yourself any prettier, I’ll have to beat your beaux off with my cane. Let Holly shine tonight.”

“Holly always shines, Papa.”

The earl’s chest expanded in pride. “She does, doesn’t she? Deuce take it, though, did you see her this afternoon? I’ll have mooncalves littering the doorstep knee-deep. When did she grow up, I wonder? I always knew she’d be a beauty, with brains to boot. But enough of that. I have something that needs saying to you today, something that won’t keep any longer.”

“It’s all right, Papa. You don’t need to explain anything.”

“You almost married Oliver over it. I want you to understand what happened.”

“It’s not
my
understanding you need.”

“No, but perhaps it’s what you need, my dear, before you think of taking a husband, or refusing one.”

Comfort was already in the library, gazing at the flames in the fireplace when they came in, looking magnificent in his dark evening clothes with his dark hair combed back. Joia liked it better when the thick waves fell in his forehead. He didn’t seem so toplofty then. She wished Papa would speak his piece and begone, so she could find out what Comfort had meant—and perhaps muss his hair the slightest bit.

“Are you too warm?” He misinterpreted the betraying blush on her cheeks. “Shall I bring you some wine?”

Lord Carroll stared at his own glass for a while, gathering his thoughts. “I have always loved your mother, Joia,” he finally said. “And I never strayed from her except that one time.”

Joia started to rise. “I don’t want to hear this, Papa.”

But Comfort took her arm and bade her sit. “We should listen.”

“There was a funeral,” the earl began. “It doesn’t matter whose, I hardly remember, but I had to attend. One of you girls was sick, the measles or the croup or heaven knows what, and your mother did not want to leave you, so I set out alone. It was wintertime and the roads were terrible, all muddy and rutted, then iced over so you couldn’t see the craters.” He sipped at his wine, remembering.

“There’d been a coaching accident on the road, and I told my driver to pull over and see if any of the passengers needed assistance, even though it was late and I was eager to get home to my wife and sick children. The coachman said his guard had ridden for help, but there was one lone female on board, and could I take her up and out of the cold, as it was beginning to snow again. Of course, I did. She was a drab little squab of a thing, a schoolmistress returning to the girls’ academy where she taught. She was nigh frozen and her lips were blue, so I offered her my flask, which seemed to help.

“By the time we reached the inn the coachman had directed us to, the snow was falling harder, so I decided to spend the night there also. I made sure Miss Applegate had a room and dinner and a hot bath, and I sent up another bottle of wine, because she’d been so chilled. Then I proceeded to have my own dinner in the private parlor, and to drown my loneliness in the host’s smuggled brandy.”

“But you never drink to excess, Papa.”

“Not anymore, I don’t. I’m not saying it’s an excuse. A man has no excuse getting cup-shot if he’s going to lose control. And that’s what happened. You see, the wantwit of an innkeeper thought Miss Applegate was my ladybird—saddest excuse for a bird of paradise I ever saw—and put her in my room. I went up, more than a shade castaway, undressed in the dark, and threw myself on the bed—on top of Miss Applegate. Well, she started screaming, so I kissed her, to shut her up. Then she was crying. Seems she’d never had strong spirits before. Anyway, I held her, and one damn fool thing led to another. I was horrified when I woke up to find a strange woman asleep in my bed. Almost as horrified as I thought the schoolmistress was going to be, so I took to my heels before dawn. I hired a carriage to take her to the school, and left her my card. Three months later I received a letter from her. She was breeding. She was about to be turned off without any family to go to, without a reference, without a brass farthing. Who would hire an instructress no better than she ought to be, much less one with a child? How could I abandon a young woman and an innocent babe? Would that have been the honorable thing to do?”

It might have been the wiser, but Joia had to shake her head no.

“I sent her funds to rent a cottage, and then found the infant a foster family so she could resume her life, short though it turned out to be. I never saw her again, I swear it. I had to tell your mother because I couldn’t live with the guilt.”

“How could she trust you again after that?”