Free The Christmas Carrolls by Bárbara Metzger Page B

proffered muffins onto her own plate. “Was he very angry? Did you tell him about Oliver’s blackmail scheme?”
    Comfort was buttering his muffin. He noted that Joia preferred jam on hers. “He was furious at Oliver, of course. I thought he had a right to know in case the dastard tries to extort money or something from your family again. I think the earl is going to offer a honeymoon in Austria to Mrs. Willenborg as a wedding gift. The beau monde is gathering there, which ought to please Aubergine, and it’s far enough away that your father won’t have to lay eyes on the makebate or his bride.”
    “And was that all Papa had to say?” To avoid Comfort’s eyes, Joia gave her muffin another dab of jam.
    “I think that was the gist of it. Oh, he did give me permission to ask for your hand in marriage.”
    ‘Twas a good thing they were having strawberry jam today. The stains wouldn’t show on Joia’s habit.
    “Botheration, that’s what I was afraid he’d do! With Oliver out of the running, you’re his last hope for the house party.”
    “Never say so. I understand your father invited half the Horse Guards barracks up from London for the ball tonight.”
    “But I understand the odds are heavily in your favor,” she teased back. “Why, the underfootman couldn’t find anyone to take his bet. I’m sorry, my lord. I know you never intended... That is, pay no mind to Papa’s schemings.”
    “Not at all, sweetings. I asked him.”
    Joia’s hand stopped between the plate and her mouth. “You asked him what?”
    “Permission to pay my addresses, of course.”
    Joia threw her hands in the air. Unfortunately, she hadn’t put the muffin down first. Now there were stains on Comfort’s clothes as well, and Lady Carroll was scowling from her end of the table. “Why did you do a hen-witted thing like that?” Joia demanded. “Now he’ll never stop badgering you.”
    “I asked him because it’s the proper thing to do. I don’t mean to put my luck to the touch yet, though, so you needn’t give me any answer yet. I thought we should get to know each other better. What do you think?”
    Joia couldn’t think. Her brain had turned to strawberry jam.
    * * * *
    Joia didn’t see the viscount again until after the wedding. That is, she saw him—he rode at the forefront of the hunt; she turned back at the home farm—but not to speak to, certainly not to demand if he’d contracted a brain fever. What other explanation could there be for his latest taradiddle? He couldn’t be serious, she told herself. Could he? He was kind and chivalrous once he got off his high horse, good company and surprisingly good-natured, but he wasn’t ready to set up his nursery; he’d said so himself. And he didn’t like proper young women; he’d said that, too. Joia didn’t know what she’d do if he’d changed his mind, nor what she’d do if he hadn’t. What a muddle!
    The wedding was almost as chaotic as her thoughts. As if the household and the neighborhood weren’t set on their collective heels already, Aubergine insisted Viscount Comfort give the bride away, just to roil the waters. She saw the way the wind was blowing and had no reason to provide the viscount smooth sailing, not after the trick he’d played on her.
    “By Jupiter, I swear she was never mine to give,” Comfort told anyone who would listen. “I had my heart set on being groomsman.”
    The earl took that honor, standing by Oliver’s side, making sure his unworthy heir made the right responses without shabbing off at the last minute. He might have had a pistol in his pocket directed at the clunch’s head, for all Oliver’s joy in the occasion. Instead Lord Carroll had a ring in his pocket, the gaudiest trinket in the family vault, where it had lain for ages, the thing was so ugly. Aubergine loved every diamond, emerald, and ruby in the monstrosity.
    The widow had refused to have Joia as bridesmaid. “I’ll be dashed if I’m going to be overshadowed by