What a Lady Needs for Christmas by Grace Burrowes Page A

brother.
    “My arrival will be something of a surprise. I’m sure a conveyance is available to take me to them.”
    “And all you have is that cloak to keep you warm?”
    That cloak?
    “I love this cloak, Mr. MacMillan. I stitched every seam and buttonhole of it myself, chose the fabric and created the design.” His expression wasn’t contemptuous, so much as disbelieving, and Joan had the thought: So what if he doesn’t appreciate my cloak? After today I’ll likely never see him—
    Except, after today, she very well might see Hector regularly for years. A sense of unreality wrapped her more closely. She was alone, in the Highlands, with little money, and—quite possibly—a child on the way. Yesterday at this time, her only dilemma had been which pattern to cut out first.
    “As long as the station’s open, you should be safe enough,” Hector said. “Charlie, come here and let me do those buttons.”
    The station at Ballater was a low, unprepossessing gingerbread cottage, nothing like the granite edifices Joan was familiar with to the south. The Hartwell party was the only one to debark, and as the train chugged away, Joan appropriated her traveling bag from the heap of luggage on the platform.
    The cold and dark here exceeded even what Joan had grown up with in Northumbria. Breathing through the nose was a curiously invigorating exercise, and more stars blanketed the night sky than the eye could count in a lifetime. Pine roping adorned with red velvet bows decorated the little station, the ribbons whipping in an arctic breeze.
    Joan had to wait while Mr. Hartwell groused at the lone porter and tossed trunks about—weren’t his knees cold, for pity’s sake?—before she could have a word with him.
    “Mr. Hartwell?”
    His gaze was on Miss Hartwell, who herded the children into the small waiting area while Hector took over the transfer of bags from the platform to the street side of the station.
    “Lady Joan?”
    “I wanted to thank you.”
    He peered down at her, as if she’d used a strange word or two. “Thank me? For proposing marriage?”
    “ What? Oh, yes, for that too. For bringing me this far.”
    His brows drew down, suggesting Joan had misspoken.
    “You’re welcome. Here.” He passed her a folded piece of paper. “My direction for the duration of my holiday sentence. You’d best get into the station. When it’s this cold, the horses can’t stand for long.”
    She heeded his suggestion, for her teeth were about to start chattering, also because this exchange with her possible intended had been toweringly awkward.
    Though kissing him had not been awkward at all.
    “You’ll be in touch?” he asked when Joan had moved several yards away.
    He stood on the platform, the bitter wind whipping his kilt around his knees and playing havoc with his hair. His expression was unreadable, and Joan abruptly didn’t want to leave him.
    He was practical, he was kind, he was competent, and he didn’t judge her, as her family must should they learn of her folly.
    Joan offered him her most brilliant smile. She’d perfected that smile when faced with yet another dancing partner half a foot too short, or overheard yet another comment about the pathetic lot of a Long Meg.
    “I’ll send a holiday greeting to Miss Hartwell, at the very least.”
    “Aye, do that.” He turned his back on her—a mercy more than a rudeness—and marched off in the direction of the porters wrestling with the luggage trolley.
    “Happy Christmas,” Joan whispered to his retreating back.
    From the chilly confines of the station, she watched as the Hartwell party organized itself into two sleighs—one for the people, one for baggage. Hector and Margaret each took a child on their laps, Margaret and Charlie wedged between the men. Lap robes covered Margaret and the children nearly to their eyes.
    How warm the Hartwell womenfolk would be.
    “I’ll be closing up now, miss. We’ll have no more trains through here until Monday,