Free What a Lady Needs for Christmas by Grace Burrowes

her cloak. A lady probably didn’t do that either.
    “I forgot it.”
    Something shifted in his regard, though his stance on the swaying platform was utterly solid. Feet spread, chocolates in hand, he looked to Joan as fixed as the enormous trees dotting the white landscape whizzing by.
    “Were you going to jump, my lady?” he asked gently.
    “No.” Her reply lacked conviction, though Joan had no more intended to jump from the speeding train than she’d intended to become inebriated in Edward Valmonte’s company.
    Mr. Hartwell reached past Joan to open the parlor door behind her. In the limited space of the platform, that brought him near enough that Joan could catch a whiff of his heathery, piney scent.
    “Let’s get you back inside. You’ll catch your death taking the air out here.”
    Her teeth had begun to chatter. Mr. Hartwell took her by the arm and steered her back into the cozy light of the parlor car. He sat Joan down at the small settee, then came down beside her and passed her the chocolates.
    “I ate all the almond ones. I think you had better tell me what’s amiss.”
    No, she had better not.
    “I wanted air. My insides are unsettled.”
    He set the sweets aside on one of the fussy, scaled-down tables beside the settee. “Charlie lies better than you do, though falsehoods don’t sit well with her, either. Whatever is bothering you, it’s not worth jumping from a train.”
    Margaret and the children were napping behind a closed door not twelve feet away, and yet, outside, darkness had all but fallen, suggesting they’d remain asleep as long as the train kept moving.
    “I had no intention of jumping.”
    “How about if you have no intention of trusting me, but you give it a try anyway? Nothing is so desperate it can’t be shared with a friend.”
    The wind had disordered his hair, again. Joan searched for a way to remind him that he and she were not friends.
    “I need a spouse,” came out of her mouth. “Rather desperately. Before the holidays would do nicely, but I’m off to join family, where the prospects will be lamentably l-limited.”
    How could she become so chilled in a few short moments out of doors?
    “Damnedest thing, needing a spouse,” Mr. Hartwell said. “They get thrust at you when you’ve no notion one might come in handy, and then when you need one…not a blushing bride to be found.”
    Surprise cut through Joan’s misery, accompanied with a frisson of amusement.
    “Everybody said you were hunting a wife in Edinburgh. I couldn’t credit why they’d believe such a thing, but I suppose your children need a mother.”
    He smoothed the fabric of his kilt over a large male knee.
    “True enough. I was also hoping Margs might see a fellow she could tolerate, but we made no headway on that score either. Spouse hunting is a dismal business, probably invented by the English.”
    Joan’s situation remained unchanged. She was still horribly compromised, and quite possibly in anticipation of a troubling event, and yet, Mr. Hartwell’s commiseration comforted.
    “I was so stupid.”
    He produced his dented silver flask, then offered it to Joan, who shook her head.
    “I know of nobody else who’s ever been stupid, my lady. I myself have been a paragon of common sense and prudence, as any will tell you. This sojourn into the mountains to cavort for weeks among strangers only looks like sheer, bleeding folly.”
    His foul language relieved Joan of an urge to air similar vocabulary. Sheer, bleeding folly , indeed .
    “You’ll manage, Mr. Hartwell. The holidays are a merry time.”
    He put his flask away and patted her hand. “Tell me his name. I’ll pass along my compliments.”
    The hand covering Joan’s knuckles would close into a delightfully formidable fist.
    “That won’t help anything, and it might try the gentleman’s meager store of discretion. I was exceedingly stupid.” Though Edward was vain as a peacock with four hens, and a few ugly bruises were the least