Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight (16 page)

“Oh, well done,” Fairly said softly. When Joseph cast him a curious look, the man shrugged. “I don't hold with using antique weaponry for such serious matters. Appearances are well and good over the drawing room mantel, but this is not a drawing room affair.”

The seconds conferred, and while Grattingly sputtered curses and cast Joseph withering looks, both dukes repaired to their coaches and brought forth boxed sets of dueling pistols.

Things moved along quickly from there. Grattingly chose Moreland's set of Mantons, Joseph took his place back-to-back with his opponent, and Harrison began the count.

The snow, Joseph later concluded, saved his life—if Their Graces hadn't already done so. Harrison's voice rang out, tolling the steps, but one shy of the turn, Joseph heard the snow beneath Grattingly's feet crunch off-rhythm, two steps where there should have been one.

A shot to the back was marginally less likely to be lethal than a shot to the chest, so Joseph did not emulate Grattingly and turn early. Grattingly's pistol discharged before the count ended, and Joseph felt the bullet whistle past his ear.

When Joseph turned, Grattingly was on one knee, his right arm still extended with the smoking pistol dangling from his grip.

“Foul!” Harrison called from the direction of the coaches. “Foul on Mr. Grattingly for firing early.”

“He slipped!” Grattingly's second called, but the man's words lacked conviction.

Wellington's crisp voice cut across the frosty silence. “Take your shot, Sir Joseph.”

Joseph aimed, inhaled, exhaled partway, and when he should have taken his shot—a clean bullet through Grattingly's black heart—there arose in his mind an image of Louisa Windham curled onto his chest in sleepy abandon. She had given Joseph permission to teach Grattingly a lesson—and only to teach him a lesson. Joseph adjusted his aim and fired.

The pistol went sailing from Grattingly's hand, while a few yards away, Moreland accepted a tenner from Wellington.

***

“I owe Your Grace a new set of pistols.” Joseph kept his gaze from where Grattingly's hand was being wrapped in bandages by the physician. No blood had been drawn, but Grattingly's middle finger had been dislocated when the gun had been shot from his grasp.

“Consider this set a wedding present,” Moreland said. “You'll come back to the house for some breakfast, won't you?”

Breakfast. Joseph envisioned himself at his desk in his drafty library, tea getting cold at his elbow, cold eggs on a plate with some cold buttered toast completing the picture.

“Breakfast wouldn't go amiss. Does one invite one's seconds and any chance-met dukes to breakfast after a duel?”

Moreland's white brows rose. “Arthur will take Harrison and Fairly to the club for a beefsteak. Let them listen to his glorious tales of India and Spain. I'm sure you've heard him prosing on as many times as I have.”

Wellington was not particularly given to prosing on, but Joseph wasn't inclined to argue with his prospective father-by-marriage. He was, however, inclined to get his arse out of the freezing dawn air before the cold made his leg seize up into uselessness.

Moreland signaled to his coachman. “I'll tend to the civilities. You'd best be having a nip. You look a trifled peaked, and we mustn't be alarming the ladies with unnecessary dramatics.”

Joseph extracted his flask from an interior pocket and took the duke's excellent advice. Moreland marched off to say something to the physician, while Wellington appeared at Joseph's elbow as if… on cue.

“So you're acquiring a wife for Christmas, Carrington.”

“Your Grace has no doubt been invited to the wedding. I won't be offended if you decline the invitation, though.”

Wellington shook his head at the proffered flask. “
Decline?
And put dear Percival in one of his legendary pets? Not bloody likely. Besides, I'll probably be able to get on Esther Windham's dance card at the wedding ball, and one doesn't pass up such an opportunity lightly. Does the young lady approve of your import business?”

In tone, this was a casual question from a man who could be brusque, direct, and blunt to a fault—all qualities Joseph liked about him. It was also an inquiry from a military duke who took the welfare of his officers seriously.

“The matter hasn't come up yet, Your Grace.”

“Hmm.” Wellington looked Joseph up and down. “Ladies don't like surprises, Carrington. My own duchess has informed me of this on several occasions.”

“This is no doubt true in the general case, sir.” But not true of certain ladies regarding certain surprises.

“When my duchess bestirs herself to offer an opinion, she is rarely wrong. Ah, yon Percy is done glowering at Grattingly. What an unworthy display the boy made. Pissed himself like the greenest recruit, I'm guessing, or he wouldn't be keeping that coat buttoned up. See you at the wedding, Carrington!”

Wellington bustled off, while Joseph took another nip and waited for Moreland to rotate into the post of ducal nursemaid.

“Let's be off,” Moreland said, swinging up onto his bay. “My duchess is holding breakfast for me, and I do not keep her waiting lightly.”

When they reached the Moreland mews and the grooms had taken Sonnet's reins, His Grace gestured toward a gate in a high brick wall. “This way, unless you want to go sashaying around to the front door at this hour? Word of the duel's outcome will be making the clubs by noon if some brave soul braces Arthur on the matter directly. Fairly will see to it if Wellington is having an inconvenient attack of discretion, and I imagine Harrison will stick his oar in if need be.”

So there was strategy even to a duke's breakfast beefsteak. The notion was daunting.

Joseph followed Moreland past a snowy garden, through an unprepossessing door, into a dimly lit back hallway. The scent of baking bread hit Joseph's nose like an olfactory benediction.

“Moreland.” Esther, the Duchess of Moreland, paused as she rounded the corner into the hallway. “And Sir Joseph. I hope your morning ride was pleasant?”

Their
morning
ride?

A footman slipped Joseph's greatcoat from his shoulders while the duchess performed a similar service for the duke. She passed the coat off to the footman and studied His Grace, clearly awaiting an answer.

“Utterly uneventful, my dear.”

While Joseph looked on, and before the footman had withdrawn, Moreland brushed a kiss to his wife's cheek. “We ran into Arthur in the park. You're to save him a waltz at the wedding ball, or I'll never hear the end of it. I expect the bride had best do likewise, or Joseph will be the one His Grace plagues with sighs aplenty and public innuendo. Fairly sends greetings, and Sir Joseph is famished.”

Her Grace's green-eyed gaze swiveled to take in Joseph in his riding attire. “An early outing can leave one with an appetite, particularly in this brisk air. Sir Joseph, if you'd like to freshen up, Hans will show you to a guest room.”

Hans being yet another footman who'd appeared from thin air. Joseph let himself be led above stairs, though watching Their Graces had been a fascinating exercise in… marital code, Joseph decided. Her Grace knew damned good and well what had been afoot this morning, knew Wellington had been recruited to the scene…

Hell, it had probably been Her Grace's idea to send for reinforcements.

A door opened to Joseph's left as the footman—
Hans
—continued a stately progress through the house.

“Joseph.”

He turned to see Louisa silhouetted in a doorway. She was attired in a plain green velvet day dress, her dark hair in a simple bun at her nape. Her expression went from surprised to smiling—brilliantly, magnificently smiling.

“My lady, good morning.” He could not help but smile back.

He was calculating how much of a bow his hip and knee could tolerate, when she launched herself at him. “Please tell me you are unharmed. Please tell me all is resolved and you sustained no injury.”

Footman be damned. Joseph brought his arms around his intended. “I am unharmed.” He was at risk for being suffocated and knocked on his backside, but that did not matter. It did not matter in the least.

“And all is well?”

She was asking something more, something he'd figure out just as soon as he let himself enjoy for a moment the warmth and feminine abundance of Louisa Windham in his embrace, her clove scent winding into his brain and her smile scattering his wits.

“All is—”

“You won't have to hare off to the Continent?
We
won't have to?”

“Grattingly stoved a finger, I'm told, and the demands of honor are met. There will be no hasty departure for France.” And she'd assumed if there had been a need to flee from the law, she'd be fleeing with him—an intriguing if wrongheaded notion.

“He stoved a finger?” Louisa shifted, tucking her hand into the crook of Joseph's elbow and moving alongside of him. “How is that possible?”

Joseph did not think of prevaricating. “He fired early, and when I took my shot, I shot the gun from his hand. Your father gave me the set of pistols as a wedding present.” Louisa paused in the act of walking him down the corridor, her smile becoming, if anything, yet more incandescent.

“
You
shot
the
gun
from
his
hand?
That is, that is…
famous
.
Brilliant.
St. Just will be jealous. All of the boys will be jealous.
I
am jealous.
You
shot
the
gun
from
his
hand.
I am so proud of you, Joseph. Well done. Brilliantly well done.”

They resumed their progress toward soap, water, and towels—heated water, scented soap, and warm towels as it turned out—while Louisa continued to deluge Joseph with a bewildering spate of approval. She also stayed near him, if not touching, for the duration of a hearty hot breakfast and insisted on walking with him to the mews when the meal had concluded.

“I wanted to kiss you,” she said as they waited for Sonnet to be brought out. “When I saw you this morning, whole and healthy. Did you want to kiss me?”

In the bright morning sunshine, Louisa's green eyes sparkled like spring grass wet with dew, and energy fairly crackled around her.

And this magnificent, gorgeous woman—who was to be his wife—was confessing to a thwarted urge to kiss
him
. The grooms were busy in the stable, and the alley was deserted enough that Joseph could be honest. “I find, Louisa Windham-soon-to-be-Carrington, that I am constantly in readiness for your kisses. This state of affairs brings me back to boyhood Christmases, to the sense of excitement and… glee that hung over my holidays. As if delightful developments were always awaiting me.”

He didn't sound gleeful to his own ears, but seeing his fiancée's smile, feeling her hand close around his several times under the breakfast table, he'd felt glee. Glee, relief, warmth…

And desire, of course.

Louisa smoothed a hand down his lapel. “If we were not standing in plain view of a half-dozen neighbors, Sir Joseph, I would comport myself very gleefully indeed. Did you know we're to have a ball after our wedding breakfast?”

He'd hoped she would kiss him. Instead, he caught her fingers in his and brought them to his lips. “If you don't want a ball, Louisa, I can probably put a stop to it. Where are your gloves?”

“Where are yours?” She made no move to retrieve her hand. “I think the ball is for Her Grace, a grand gesture to quiet the tabbies and gossips. Then too, Mama and Papa haven't hosted such an event or even a house party for some time now.”

He tried to decipher her meaning. “So you want to have a wedding ball?”

Her expression dimmed. “Would you mind?”

“Come with me.” He led her by the hand—she had warm hands, even in the morning chill—to a bench outside the stable. He took the place beside her, which meant ignoring the oddest impulse to sit her on his lap. “The question is not would I mind a ball, Louisa, it's do you want one?”

“If Mama and Papa want one, does it matter?”

“It matters to me. If we're having a ball merely to quiet gossip, a lavish if hastily arranged ball, a ball following an equally lavish wedding breakfast and a well-attended ceremony at St. George's, then we're tacitly confirming all the gossip, aren't we?”

She worried her lower lip with her top teeth, which gave her a girlish and uncharacteristically tentative air. “There's no good choice, is there? If we make a splash, we're trying to face down scandal. If we don't make a splash, a hole-in-the-corner affair practically announces a scandal.”

Seeing that Louisa fretted, seeing that gossip and scandal preyed on her peace of mind, Joseph realized something he could not say to her, though keeping it to himself didn't quite amount to a lie.

She was marrying him to avert scandal. He was lucky to marry her, however, on any honorable terms he could find. That was why he felt like Christmas approached whenever he was near her, because she was dreams come true, unattainable wishes granted, and hope restored.

He kissed her cheek just for the chance to catch a whiff of her scent. “We will have that ball. Wellington is already angling for a place on your dance card.”

Louisa dropped her forehead to Joseph's shoulder, her relief evident. “He's a good dancer and something of a wit.”

They remained there on the hard, cold bench until Sonnet was led out. Joseph swung up and parted from his fiancée, thinking that when next he saw her, it would be on the occasion of their wedding.

As he rode off into the chilly morning air, he had to smile at the thought of the greatest hero in the land being referred to as “a good dancer and something of a wit.”