In the Baron's Debt: Historical Regency Romance

by Roselyn Francis

  She hesitated. There was so much that was scandalous about the situation, but the tremble of her hands made her relent. She moved to the fire and sat on the other side, being careful to leave some space between them. The Baron was reaching out towards the fire, the better to keep his hands warm.

  They sat for many minutes without saying anything, each of them just staring at the flames. Augusta knew she could not wait out the whole storm in such silence, it was tormenting. With each beat of silence that passed she was growing angrier with him, irked at being forced to be alone with him again after so many years. She blamed him for it. Blamed him for taking James’ money and forcing her into the situation.

  Her gaze kept flicking towards him, admiring the curve of his arms and shoulders beneath his shirt. She had to distract herself by conversation.

  “I taught Markus a little of the pianoforte today.” She knew it was a safe topic of conversation, he was bound to be drawn into talking of his son.

  “You did?” The Baron looked at her with the trace of her smile. “How did he do?”

  “Very well, he could play a tune with one hand in just a couple of hours. He could be quite accomplished when he is older.”

  “That is good news,” he looked back to the fire, his smile much fuller now. “Did you have any trouble today? I mean, you saw how he was with the maid yesterday?”

  “Nothing like that passed today,” she shook her head. “The footman brought us some lemonade.” The memory of Markus falling asleep in her lap came back to her. “I believe he is growing more comfortable. He fell asleep with me today.”

  “He did?” The surprise was evident, the pitch of the Baron’s voice raised a little.

  “Yes, with his head on my lap.”

  “I can scarcely believe it,” the Baron let out a little laugh and looked back at her. “Of all the women in the world, he is most comfortable with you it seems.” His tone was suddenly resentful, it made her ire return tenfold. His words brought up what was so unspoken between them. She looked down to her feet that were curled beneath her, the boots sodden by the rain.

  “I do not know why,” she whispered into the air, her own voice seething as her breathing came fast and heavy. A moment later there was a crack of thunder, urging them both to glance at the window. “How long do you reckon until the storm passes?”

  “I do not know,” he said in reply, rearranging his position on the floor to make himself comfortable. “It is not the first time you and I sat waiting for the rain to stop though.”

  “It is not?” She looked back to him with a frown, curious as to his meaning.

  “You do not remember waiting outside of the ball at Highgate in the carriage because you were concerned your hair would be ruined by the rain?” He scoffed at the idea, shaking his head with more anger than humor. She covered her face in embarrassment.

  “I had quite forgotten that. How long did we wait there?”

  “Too long. I think the ball had quite finished by the time we went in.”

  “How absurd of me,” she shook her head. “Why did you not point out my folly? You were missing the ball.”

  “It meant a little longer alone with you. At the time, I did not mind.” The intimacy of the words made them both return their focus to the fire. Augusta traced one of the flames as it danced around. She felt a little like that flame, quivering beside Loftus, heated by him with so many nerves that she could barely sit still.

  She wished she could turn back the clock, redo their courtship all over again, yet that same thought only made her fury return. The image of him with the other woman was painful. She had to push past the anger – it was like a tension in the air that hung between them. She had to get them talking of something else instead.

  “Do you remember when we went to the theatre?” She asked, trying to get more comfortable on the floor. She flashed open her pelisse a little more, aware that her dress beneath would not dry from the heat of the fire if she kept it closed.

  “The time we saw Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Indeed, I do,” he nodded, looking down at the fire, as though he was trying to keep his gaze from her. “I seem to remember you thinking it quite preposterous that a group of people could be so confused by who loved whom?”

  “Well, it was ridiculous,” she laughed, recollecting the performance. “The amount of lies told, even the truest lovers started to doubt each other’s affection. I just found the story a little hard to believe.”

  “But they were told a lie. They were duped. I can very readily believe it indeed,” he looked back at her, frowning. “It was a good performance, though you censured it a little.”

  “I did not criticize it. I merely expressed doubt on the story.”

  “Oh no, Miss Creassey, I was there; I remember how you criticized it. You stood in the lobby clutching to my arm insisting that the next time we went to the theatre we would have to see something that was not so ridiculous.” The light of the fire was reflected in his green eyes. “If I am to remember your words exactly, I believe you said you wished to see something that was not so full of lies and that did not have a fairy running around with a magic love potion.”

  “You cannot say you did not also find it ridiculous?” Augusta was amazed at the ease with which they were speaking again, but she did not wish to draw attention to it. That would mean the ease could disappear into angry tension once more.

  “Oh, I did, but I was more prepared to believe in the fairies than you were.”

  She laughed at the jest, raising her eyes to the ceiling in mock scorn.

  “You tease me so, my Lord, but I think you are forgetting your own propensity for ridicule?”

  “I am? Surely that is not possible,” his eyebrows were raised in disbelief as she lowered her gaze once again to his face. His hair was still wet, the short curls springing up as they attempted to dry. Augusta had an errant thought of running her fingers through his hair, but she pushed it away.

  “I seem to remember an evening where you were so intent on beating me in a game of cribbage, though you lost every time, that you insisted we stayed awake until you had won,” to her words, he down at his feet again. “Our poor chaperone was exhausted by the time you decided to abandon your endeavor and retreat home.”

  “That was hardly my fault, you wished me to stay.”

  “I did not!”

  “You did. Though we did perhaps break the bounds of propriety a little on that occasion.”

  “A little? You should have seen how high you raised the chaperone’s eyebrows you stayed so late. You still never did win a game though.”

  “Then we must have a rematch sometime,” he declared with vigor. “Perhaps I am now a much-improved player. I could be the winner on this occasion.”

  “You spoke in such a way last time we played, so I doubt the result would be very different at all. Though you did leave with rather a grumpy manner that night. The only difference this time is that you may look even more upset at having lost.”

  He frowned at the idea, the barely concealed anger returning sharply.

  “It is a wager then, we shall see who wins,” he looked at her with a challenge. She raised her chin a little higher.

  “Yes, so we shall see.”

  They both fell into silence once again, their eyes drifting back to the fire. The air between them was tense. Augusta was so fueled by her anger that she wanted to ask the Baron why he had turned away from her eight years ago. She wanted to ask him how his opinion could change so quickly that he would entertain another woman’s company and then marry so soon after the end of their betrothal.

  She opened her mouth to ask it, clenching her hands together as the ire spiked, but she resisted. She asked him something else instead.

  “How have you been? Really, I mean.” The depth of her voice and the curious question connected their gaze.

  “Well enough,” he appeared to answer honestly. “Markus is my everything
these days.” She nodded, liking this idea. With such a boy in his life, he had someone truly special lighting his days. “And you?”

  “Yes, I am well,” the lie came from her with difficulty.

  “What of James’ debts?”

  “It is something I am almost accustomed too by now,” she removed the pelisse from her shoulders and laid it on the floor in front of her, pushing it towards the fire in the hope it would dry the material better.

  “Why did you never marry?” The private nature of his question had her snapping her stare back to him. He did not elaborate, he only stared back, waiting for an answer.

  “I had my one experiment with a betrothal. I never wished to experiment again.” She did not think she had ever spoken with such sharpness in her life. In response, the Baron frowned, with an evident look of confusion. She returned her gaze to the fire, picturing her anger was like those flames, unrelenting.

  “I do not understand you at all, Miss Creassey.” His strange, harsh statement urged her to rearrange on the floor.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It is not important,” his voice was violently cold, scoffing at her as he shook his head. The change left her reeling in pain. She closed her eyes for a second, willing away that hurt before opening them again. “It was easier when you and I were at a distance.”

  “It was not my choice to see you again.” She complained, keeping her eyes from him this time. “The situation dictated it. You dictated it.”

  “You are blaming me for your brother’s fondness for gambling?” They were arguing now. His anger just as foul as her own. “That is ridiculous. I know you have many faults by this point, Miss Creassey, but are you really so great a fool as to blame me for that?”

  “You did not have to take his bet. It is more your doing than mine.” She delivered her words as though they were an attack against him, each word sharp. She was enraged by his discussion of faults, after the flaws that were attached to his own conscience. She wished to deliver him as much pain as he had caused her. “If you cannot bear my company then you should not have asked me to help with Markus.”

  “I did it for him!” He declared loudly, the words practically echoing off the walls around them. In the thunder that clapped overhead, it added weight to his rage, forcing her to look at him. “I would go through hell for him, Miss Creassey. I would walk across hot coals to make him happy, but you cannot seriously imagine that having you in my house is easy for me to bear.”

  “Easy for you?” She could not believe his words, she scoffed at him, disbelieving his argument after what he had done to her. “Do you think I find it easy? After what you did? Do you imagine I am made of stone?”

  “After what I did? What are you talking of?”

  “It hardly matters now!” She practically shouted the words, forcing her gaze away from him and down at the floor.

  She was aware he looked away from her and jumped to his feet, walking a distance to the other side of the room. She watched him go, utterly perplexed by what was taking place. He was the one who had broken her heart. He had left her with no choice but to break off the betrothal, yet he was acting as though he had been hurt. He had no right to be as angry as she was.

  After a minute of silence, she too moved to her feet, wishing she could escape him and run away. Even more, she wished she could run back a few days and escape the events that had passed. She turned to watch him, her eyes darting around with anger, moving her body to stand close to the fire.

  In the light of the flames, she could see him clearly. His face was tense, his hair damp and drying, his arms visible through the wet shirt too. His waistcoat emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the slimness of his waist, the pantaloons the length of his legs. She had such a yearning for him as she looked at him, her desire stirring within and tearing through her anger.

  She raised her gaze to his, seeing his green eyes had been watching her closely. They widened in realization – he had seen her looking at him.

  “Did you just –”

  “No, I did not,” she interrupted him, speaking over him before he could say another word. She covered her face with her hands, trying to block the sight of him from her.

  “Miss Creassey, you were looking at me.” He was speaking just as angrily as before, but now it was another matter entirely. He was closing the distance between them again, walking towards her, she could hear his footsteps.

  “Please, do not say another word on the matter.”

  “How can I not?!” His voice was close, irate, and loud. She dropped her hands to see he was standing in front of her. “I have been fighting looking at you in such a way since we stepped into this room.”

  “Do not tell me that!” She wanted to step away from him, yet her feet did not move, she threw her arms to her side, a physical display of her exasperation.

  “Why not? Is it so wrong?” His hand reached out towards her, his voice echoing off the walls with its high volume once again.

  She did not move away. She merely stared up at him, breathing heavily, the rage pumping through her so much that she could hear the blood pumping in her ears. He appeared to be waiting, but when he saw that she made no move to walk away, he moved that hand closer towards her, reaching for her waist. When it connected, she let out a small sound. The noise appeared to urge him on, he took her waist in both hands and pulled her forward a step towards him, their bodies mere inches apart.

  “Augusta –”

  “We should not be doing this,” her voice was as loud as his had been, insistent on maintaining her anger.

  “Why not?” He was lowering his head to her, but he hesitated, not moving any further. His lips were a short distance away. “You were just looking at me the way I have been staring at you, I am certain of it. If you were not, then tell me you do not desire me still.”

  She said nothing, her eyes darting between his.

  “Well?” He urged.

  I cannot tell you that.

  She placed a hand on his waistcoat, hooking her finger around one of the buttons. He glanced at it briefly, distracted, then she raised herself on her toes, closing the distance between them with a kiss of such sudden urgency that it surprised him.

  It started with a simple press of lips. It had been so long since Augusta had kissed him, she stunned herself with the move. She could not even reason why her broken heart had encouraged her to do it.

  The fury they had both been holding onto did not dissipate. Quickly, the press of lips changed, and the anger became something all the more passionate and heated. Loftus’ hands around her waist took on a firmer grip, urging her to hold onto his waistcoat with both hands. He parted her lips with the softest of nibbles and invited her tongue with his. The touch set her alight.

  Her hands began to pull at his waistcoat, urging him down towards her. He growled at the back of his throat in the kiss and backed her up towards the wall. She collided with it, though he had wrapped an arm around her waist just before the impact, meaning she was not hurt, only excited by the passion of the moment. He brought up his other hand to cradle her neck, urging her to tilt her head to the side and open her mouth wider to him.

  She could feel every part of where they were connected. His chest was against hers, causing her bosom to tingle with the pressure and excitement. Her hands had moved from his waistcoat now, up past his neck to his hair. She buried her fingers in the brown locks and pulled him towards her.

  There was another crack of thunder. It startled them both.

  Their kiss parted, though Loftus’ arm was still around her waist and she lowered her hands to the high collar of his waistcoat. As the rumble passed, he made a move to return his lips to hers, but her sense appeared to have returned along with the thunder.

  What am I doing? Have I not just walked into his arms and offered up my broken heart again? I cannot do this!

  She chastised herself then pushed against his chest.

  “No, I cannot do this!”

 
; “What? Augusta.”

  She pushed him away, he went as she instructed, not putting up a fight. She rushed around him, reaching for her pelisse on the floor and refusing to look at him again, her anger from a few minutes ago had returned and was now greater than it had ever been before.

  “Augusta, speak to me; what is wrong?”

  “That should not have happened. As far as poor ideas go, that was the worst.”

  “The worst?” He repeated with incredulity, his voice loud once more.

  She turned her eyes to the window, it had just about stopped raining, the storm coming to an end.

  “I must go.”

  “What? No!” He attempted to block her path, but she merely stepped around him.