Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight by Grace Burrowes

just yet. If they’re pretty enough to attract a husband, or well dowered enough, they’re plying the ballrooms. Do you hide from them here?”
    â€œI do.” The drink was making him honest—or uncaring.
    Joseph needed a wife—he repeated this in his thoughts regularly, like a commandment—so every night he chose from among his invitations, fully intending to scout the hostile territory of Mayfair for same.
    And every night he found himself in the card room, by the fire, swilling brandy in company with the other misfits, inebriates, gamblers, and cowards—unless he’d stumbled upon the gathering that boasted Louisa Windham’s presence, in which case he did his brooding where he could torment himself with the sight of her dancing down the room.
    â€œThe orchestra is in fine form,” Harrison said—apropos of nothing.
    Fine form, if a man weren’t heartily sick of holiday arrangements. “So why aren’t you dancing?”
    Harrison shifted lower in his chair. “I schedule sittings for most of the day, sunlight being a necessity for much of my work. Had you any fellow feeling, Carrington, you’d be ignoring me while I doze here in warmth and comfort.”
    There was a touch of genuine irritability in the other man’s words, as if Joseph were truly disturbing him at his much-needed nap. Joseph rose, setting his brandy down by Harrison’s elbow.
    â€œPleasant dreams. If I wanted a portrait of a couple of small children—girls—”
    He fell silent. Even in the men’s card room, it was perhaps not the done thing to bring up business.
    Harrison sat up a bit. “Little girls? How old?”
    â€œSix and seven. They’re good girls. They’ll sit still if they’re told to.” For about two minutes. They were growing up so quickly, and a portrait would keep the image of something precious alive when Joseph’s memory grew dim.
    â€œAre they in Town?” The man looked to be considering the commission, which was a surprise.
    â€œKent.”
    â€œWhose children are these?”
    â€œMine.” It felt good to say it, good to remind himself of this singular if only legal fact, when for the past week, all he’d done was miss them and their siblings in Surrey.
    Harrison’s brows rose. “Come around to my studio. We’ll talk further.”
    Joseph nodded and headed for the door. When he reached the corridor, he could hear the orchestra lilting its way through a lively gavotte, two hundred slippered feet pounding along in synchrony. If he went toward the ballroom, he might find Lady Louisa Windham, twirling and smiling and looking elegant on the arm of some dandy.
    She’d stand with her sisters between sets, putting their pale prettiness to shame with her more earthy beauty. The young men would approach—a greater variety of young men since the most recent ducal dinner—and to the lucky few, Louisa would grant a dance.
    Each evening, Joseph watched this routine for as long as he could before slinking off to the card room, there to silently lecture himself about Cousin Hargrave’s poor health and the girls needing a mother.
    He tested his leg, which was in truth benefiting from the spate of milder weather, and then turned his steps not toward the ballroom but toward the peace and quiet—and unobtrusive exit—afforded by the garden.
    ***
    Louisa had saved her supper waltz for Lionel—he’d all but asked her to when he’d greeted her for the evening—and yet, there he was, smiling down into the madly batting eyes of Isobel Horton.
    Damn and blast.
    But then, Louisa had danced last night’s supper waltz with Lionel—she was to call him Lionel now, and he was to call her Louisa—and the night before that it had been a polonaise.
    Louisa had the impression Lionel was trying to help her scotch the latest barrage of gossip sparked by her criticism of the