The Christmas Carrolls Read Free

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