What a Lady Needs for Christmas by Grace Burrowes Page A

loyalties with such an inquiry.
    “He works all the time,” Miss Hartwell muttered, biting off a length of green thread. “Dante, that is. For Christmas, I wish my brother would be given the gift of the occasional afternoon or morning spent at leisure.”
    “What about you?” Joan asked, wondering if another chocolate might settle her digestion. “Do you spend the occasional afternoon or morning at leisure? Sometimes example is the best teacher.”
    Miss Hartwell regarded her hoop, which sported a pair of doves amid a riot of green-and-gold leaves. “As if Dante would be guided by my example in anything. Charlie can occasionally make him laugh.”
    The train was slowing, perhaps in deference to the thickening snow.
    “Maybe your brother won’t be guided by your example, but he might be tempted by it.” Just as Joan might tempt Mr. Hartwell with the lone piece of marzipan remaining in the box of chocolates.
    He’d sampled that marzipan with the same focus he’d brought to reading his reports or to stacking luggage. Joan could not imagine what such a man would do with a morning’s leisure, much less how he could need one.
    While Joan needed for her belly to settle, and for Edward Valmonte to magically acquire unfailing discretion.
    “We’re coming to Aberdeen,” Margaret said, putting down her embroidery and going to a window. “The children will want to leave the train, lark about for five minutes, catch a chill, and generally get in the way.”
    Something was afflicting Miss Hartwell’s spirits, for she struck Joan as a sanguine lady, and yet her litany was nearly a complaint.
    “Fresh air sounds lovely. Shall we bundle the children up and get off for a few minutes too?” Gray, bleak granite structures flashed by the windows, a few draped in pine roping, some sporting wreathes on doors. In the occasional window, lone candles tried to shed light amid a thickening gloom.
    “Darkness will soon fall,” Miss Hartwell said. “So yes, let’s get off the train, stretch our legs, and chase the children about.”
    They retrieved the children from the part of the car partitioned off for sleeping cots. Charlie had been lecturing a doll about reading reports, and Phillip had countered that dolls didn’t read reports.
    “You can have that argument outside,” Miss Hartwell said, “provided you’re bundled up to your noses. The day has done nothing but grow colder and darker.”
    True enough. Joan assisted with dressing the children—Phillip stood still, while Charlie’s mouth and all fourteen of her limbs were in constant motion—then wrapped herself in her velvet cloak.
    By the time the children and both women were appropriately attired, the train had come to a halt at the back of yet another gray stone building, this one larger than many of the others. Miss Hartwell gave the children a final stern admonition about running off—running anywhere —and turned to open the door.
    A man stood directly outside in his kilt, the fellow tall enough to be higher than eye level with Miss Hartwell, even when she had the advantage of the train’s height. His age was hard to determine, but likely fell between thirty and thirty-five.
    A gust of frigid air accompanied the moment of silence while Miss Hartwell and the fellow stared at each other, then Charlie tore a hand free from Joan’s grasp.
    “Hullo, Hector!” She launched herself at the man, who caught her easily.
    “Hullo, ma bonnie wee lass! Did ye save me a kiss?”
    The next instant was full of the sort of impressions designed to make Joan feel like an interloper: fellows named Hector should be short, skinny, wear too much pomade in their hair, and eschew kilts.
    This Hector had the sort of cliffs-meeting-the-sea features that were the embodiment of sternness in repose. A sloping brow, deep-set eyes, and a prominent nose came together with a determined jaw to form a countenance that would have looked well on an opinionated conservative bishop or a Highland