Free What a Lady Needs for Christmas by Grace Burrowes Page A

he deserved.
    “ Exceedingly stupid. You have an English way of making that sound dire indeed. I suppose the bastard kissed you?”
    Bastard was such a hard word. Joan’s free hand went to her belly, which had calmed a bit, while her other hand remained in Mr. Hartwell’s warm grasp.
    “I do recall kissing.” Enthusiastic, naughty kissing, at first, for Joan had been curious and surprised by Edward’s overtures.
    Then there had been struggling. She had struggled, and now recalled this for the first time.
    “Doesn’t sound like he got the kissing bit right. You poor wee thing.”
    Joan was skinny. She would never be wee. “Poor wee, exceedingly stupid thing.”
    “Did you mind the kissing so awfully?”
    What had that to do with anything? “Not awfully.”
    “A spouse will probably expect some kissing, you know.” He gave her fingers a squeeze.
    He had been married, and he was a father twice over. He was also not a fussy, proper fellow who’d blush beet red at matters pragmatic and biological. Joan pushed out a question before the tattered remains of her dignity could stuff themselves into her mouth and silence her.
    “How soon might a lady experience digestive upset upon conceiving a child?”
    He reached into his coat for his flask, his hand stilling short of its goal.
    “Some presuming twit needs killing. You must have menfolk who can see to the matter. You said this embarrassment to the male gender was engaged, too, which tells me his death ought to be slow and painful.”
    Mr. Hartwell did not sound as if he were teasing.
    “As heartening as the notion of justice for my partner in folly might be, that would not solve my problem.” Joan tossed her dignity out a figurative window and seized her courage with both hands. “Such measures would not solve a child’s predicament either.”
    The train swayed along through the cold darkness for a few moments, while Joan marveled that she’d confided in a man more stranger than friend.
    “I like you,” Mr. Hartwell said, his pronouncement the sort of gruff, unpolished sentiment Joan suspected hadn’t aided his cause in the ballrooms. “You are honest, and you don’t put on airs. Do you suppose you might stand to kiss me?”
    Then he went and said things like that. Joan withdrew her hand.
    “I am not wanton, Mr. Hartwell. If I’ve said anything to make you think my favors might be available in the general case, then you’re sadly, severely mistaken. I made an egregious, imbecilic error—one misstep—which I sorely regret and have no intention—”
    He put his hand over her mouth, gently. “I meant no insult, ye ken?”
    Joan managed a nod, but he’d leaned closer and whispered his question, and abruptly, his company no longer comforted. Mr. Hartwell grew larger with increased proximity, also stronger and more…more masculine.
    “My family is on the other side of that partition, my lady. I’ll no’ ravish you in a damned parlor car. If you can’t abide my company, then all you have to do is say so. Before I offer you marriage, we’d best establish that we can tolerate a shared kiss first, aye?”
    ***
    The nobs considered business a dirty, dull, tedious undertaking, but in truth, commerce was exciting. Something close to sexual anticipation attended the rattle and hum of competition, cooperation, and the myriad challenges attendant to keeping three mills profitable.
    Wolves and tigers lurked in the jungles of commerce, and a man needed quick wits and courage to avoid disaster and capitalize on good fortune.
    Lady Joan’s situation was good fortune; Dante was almost sure of it.
    “You would marry me, Mr. Hartwell?”
    Her incredulity should have been that he’d presume to offer her marriage, not that anybody would have her.
    “I would,” Dante said slowly, because he was acting on a hunch, on an impulse somewhere between cold calculation and hot instinct. “You’re in want of a spouse; my children need a mother.”
    And he needed entrée