Free The Christmas Carrolls by Bárbara Metzger

tomorrow. Dashed if I’m going to give up my hunt for any wedding breakfast. And you deuced well better take a long honeymoon trip, out of my sight.” He looked around to make sure his trusty butler was still in attendance. “We’ll need a special license, Barty.”
    “The riders have been alerted, my lord. They merely await your signature on the letter to the archbishop.”
    “Good man. Oh, and put a footman outside the sapskull’s door to make sure he doesn’t shab off on his blushing bride.”
    “And one below his window, my lord. The men are already assigned.”
    “I daresay you and the viscount thought of everything.” Lord Carroll couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice. They hadn’t thought to tell him what was going on in his own home, as if he were too decrepit to be disturbed, or too senile to see to his own affairs. “I shall expect you, sir, in my office before breakfast tomorrow,” he ordered the viscount. “Meanwhile, take your hands off my daughter, sirrah. I saw you panting after that trollop all night.” He turned his back on them and marched down the hall, so they couldn’t see the wink he gave Bartholemew. “Ten minutes ought to be long enough, eh?”
    “Five, my lord. He’s a bright lad.”
    * * * *
    “Were you?” Joia asked, still in Craighton’s arms from their congratulatory hug, despite her father’s orders. It only seemed natural to celebrate their success together.
    “Was I what, sweetings?” Comfort was finding it difficult to concentrate with such a delightful armful, so near to his bedroom door.
    “Were you panting after Aubergine, sir?”
    “Only in the line of duty, I assure you. She is much too showy for my taste. Like some park prancer, all flash and no go.”
    “That’s not what the on dits columns say.”
    “But it’s what I say. I find I much prefer modest elegance to a brazen display.” He was finding Joia, in her flannel gown buttoned to the chin, with a shawl over it to boot, infinitely more alluring than Aubergine in all her naked splendor. The widow’s yellow hair reminded him of straw, while Joia’s long golden night braid, so virginal, so innocent, begged a man to separate the tresses and run them through his fingers, to spread them on a pillow. This loyal and caring young woman stirred his blood like no dasher ever could. He didn’t just want to take her to his bed, either. He wanted to take her to Ireland and to meet his mother. “There’s a place for propriety, after all.”
    Propriety? Joia jumped back, out of an embrace she was enjoying much too much. His lordship would prefer whatever woman was in his arms at the moment, she feared. Still, he’d helped her and her family, so she mustn’t appear ungrateful. She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, which was the least of what she felt like doing. “Thank you, my lord. I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough. I still cannot believe how you managed to get rid of Oliver so neatly.”
    The viscount grinned. “Brilliant if I have to say so myself. Of course, the inestimable Bartholemew deserves some of the credit, but none of your kisses, sweetings.”
    The corridor was too dark for him to see her blushes. “But to have the toad married, settled where he won’t be able to bother any of us, where Aubergine will make sure he doesn’t do anything to make himself persona non grata in Town, far exceeds brilliance. It’s ... it’s miraculous.”
    “I told you I would save the day.”
    “Yes, but it seemed so hopeless and I—”
    “Didn’t trust me. Ah, my sweet, that’s how you could thank me, with a little faith.”
    Joia was biting her lip, not knowing what to say. She wanted to tell him he was the most noble man she’d ever met, that his reputation no longer mattered. But it did.
    And her obstinate refusal to see that a man could change bothered him. Still, he touched his finger to her lips. “Don’t worry, Joia, we’ll talk again tomorrow. You’ll come to see what a