The Christmas Carrolls Read Free Page A

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