Beauty and the Baron: A Regency Fairy Tale Retelling (Forever After Retellings Book 1)

by Joanna Barker

  “Go to bed.” His words were gruff. “You may finish your work in the morning.”

  She stared at him. “My lord, I cannot. Mrs. Morton—”

  “I will speak to Mrs. Morton,” he said. “I’ll not have you work yourself into illness. You’ll be no use to me then.”

  She did not speak for a long moment. Her dark eyes were wide, shimmering in the candlelight. Or were those tears once again? “Thank you,” she said in a soft voice.

  His stomach gave a lurch at her words. He ignored it and gave a stiff nod, the issue settled. But instead of taking her things and leaving, Miss Sinclair stood still, watching him with a curious expression. She hesitated, glancing down to her feet, then back to his face. “What are you reading, my lord?”

  He narrowed his eyes. The girl had no sense of propriety. He had given her a clear dismissal. “Techniques on farming irrigation,” he answered shortly, certain his dull response would bring an end to this conversation.

  “Are you enjoying it?”

  Why should she care if he enjoyed his reading? “As much as anyone can enjoy such a subject.”

  She brushed back a lock of her dark hair, leaving a streak of ash across her cheek. “Why do you not read something you enjoy?”

  “I cannot say I’ve ever enjoyed reading,” he said. “I do not have the patience for it.”

  She gave a light laugh, contrasting strangely with the shadows under her eyes. “Then you are simply not reading the right books. I daresay I would dislike reading as well if I was forced to read about farming irrigation.”

  He tilted his head, scrutinizing her. “And what book would you recommend to me, then?” He couldn’t say exactly why he was prolonging this conversation. It was hardly appropriate for them to be speaking at all. But the strangest curiosity rose inside him as he watched her. Miss Sinclair spoke to him as if it was perfectly natural, as if he was not a baron and she a maid. He could not decide if he liked the feeling or not.

  She gave a little smile. “Oh, for you it shall have to be Robinson Crusoe. You’ll not find your attention wandering with that tale, I am quite certain.”

  “You’ve read it?” he asked in disbelief.

  She laughed again. “Do not be so very shocked. I read everything, even stories with cannibals and mutineers. It is—” Her voice cut out, and she cleared her throat. “That is, it was one of our more popular books at the shop.”

  The mention of her shop seemed to shake her, and she took a step back, fussing with the apron at her waist. “I am sorry, my lord, I should not blather on so. I’m sure you have much to do.”

  He opened his mouth, whether to reassure her or agree with her, he could not say. Before he could speak, she curtsied, took hold of her buckets, and ducked from the room, leaving him staring after her in bewilderment.

  Chapter Four

  Henry rose early the next morning, his meeting with Miss Sinclair still playing through his mind. He’d never had a more unusual conversation with a servant, though he found his thoughts lingering on her soft laugh and bright eyes as much as her words. Which was absolutely ridiculous, he told himself as he entered the stables, intent on a ride through the morning mist. He was simply unused to anyone speaking so freely with him; his servants generally scuttled about in a constant state of fear. Miss Sinclair certainly did not do that.

  He left the stables in a trot, and when he reached the lawn he kicked his horse into a pounding gallop, hoping the cool air would rid his mind of such thoughts. He rode in the mornings as often as he could, when the world was still and quiet. Though Norcliffe House was secluded, there was always someone who needed him, whether it be Mrs. Morton, a tenant, or his ledger book. Out here in the woods, it was only him.

  He reached the top of the nearest hill and pulled his mount to a stop. It was his favorite prospect of the estate. The trees spread thick and far, green in late summer, and farms dotted the spaces between. It looked the same as when he was a boy and yet it somehow looked different as well. Perhaps it was simply because he was different, changed by the passing of time.

  Horse hooves sounded behind him. He turned to see a horse and rider stepping out from behind a stand of trees. Henry stiffened.

  John Ramsbury. Of course it was him. Henry ought to have anticipated such an ambush. John knew his favorite rides, his favorite places. He would have found him sooner or later.

  “Leave my land at once,” Henry growled.

  John did not look particularly alarmed at the less than friendly greeting. His face remained unaffected, his hair in that ridiculous Brutus style he favored. He stopped his mount a few paces away. “Is that how you greet your oldest friend?”

  “It is how I greet any man who betrays my trust.” Henry narrowed his eyes.

  John held up his hands in surrender. “Please Henry, I did not come here in search of a fight.”

  “Then why did you come here?” He had no patience for this, not during what was supposed to be his solitary ride.

  “To make amends,” John said quietly. “You must know how much I regret what happened.”

  “Do you now?” Henry could barely contain the rage that simmered inside him. He clenched his reins so fiercely that he could feel his pulse in his fingertips.

  “Of course I do.” John ran his hand through his hair. “I tried to speak with you after the burial, but Frampton turned me away. I wrote you half a dozen letters trying to explain.”

  “You wrote me one.” Henry gave a humorless laugh. “Did you think a letter could possibly make amends for what you did? You came to me with a preposterous scheme, which you claimed was a sound investment. ‘Only a fool would turn it down’ were your exact words, if I remember correctly, though there were more than enough fools involved from what I could tell.”

  “Henry—”

  “And then,” he said, louder, a dangerous edge finding his voice, “when I turned you down, knowing your history of terrible financial decisions, you waited until I left for London. You dared to approach my father with the same scheme, telling him I had approved the venture, when I certainly had not.”

  “And I wish every day that I hadn’t.” John leaned forward, his eyes intent on Henry’s. “I swear, if I could change anything in my life, it would be that.”

  “You cannot.” Henry’s vision was spotting. Memory overtook reality—all he could see was Frampton’s stricken face, the rain splattering against the windows. “You cared only for yourself and making enough money to pay your debts.” His jaw tightened. “My mother and father died because of your selfishness.”

  John swallowed, for once having no answer. Because it was the truth, and he knew it. Frampton’s words came back to Henry, echoing through his haze of anger. John had insisted Lord and Lady Norcliffe come immediately to London to see their new investment, despite an imminent storm and terrible road conditions. His parents had set out, excited at the undertaking, when their horses had been spooked by the storm. The coach was dragged down an embankment and into a river—and Henry’s parents with it.

  “I am sorry.” John’s voice was hoarse. “I truly am.”

  Henry shook his head. “I do not want your apologies.”

  John urged his horse a step closer. “Then let me tell you how I am trying to make it right.”

  “You cannot make it right.” How could he even think that? Deluded, arrogant fool. He had used his connection to Henry to manipulate his parents, all for his own gain, and he thought an apology might fix things between them?

  John sighed. “I know that. I only meant that I am trying to change myself, discover what my purpose should be.”

  “Being a careless fool was not enough of a goal?” Henry wished the man would rise to the insult, if only so their bout of words might change to a round of fisticuffs. He’d long wanted to drive his fist into John’s smug, square jaw.

  But John did not seem to hear the gibe. “I’ve found myself steady employment. You would be quite surprised at me, taking a position in trade. But I fin
d a simple pleasure in it. I’ve been working to pay my debts.” He paused, meeting Henry’s eyes. “I’ve met a woman, the loveliest girl in London. I hope to propose marriage soon.”

  “And you want my blessing?” Henry asked scathingly. “I’m more likely to write her and warn her off.”

  “Come now, Henry.” John shook his head. “It is impossible to change the past, but I am doing what I can to make amends. Will you hold a thoughtless mistake against me forever? Is our friendship worth so little to you?”

  Henry tore his eyes away, glaring into the trees. Did John not understand that their friendship was what made his betrayal all the worse? When he remembered their years together—hiding from their nursemaids as boys, playing tricks on the teachers at Harrow, laughing their way across every ballroom in London—all he felt was pain.

  He looked at John again, who waited in silence for Henry’s judgment. He scrutinized the man, noting his simple clothing, his unremarkable mount. Had John truly lowered himself to work in trade? As the grandson of a marquess, he’d always claimed such work beneath him.

  “Who is this girl you wish to marry?” he said, voice curt.

  John straightened, his brow lifting. “Miss Dowding. She is lovely and kind, and generous to a fault.”

  “And she would take you, even with your debts?” Henry did not think any woman would be right in the head to take such a man as John. But love did strange things to a person—or so his sisters said.

  “She would,” John said. “Though her father is a bit more reticent.”

  “He would be a fool not to be.” John Ramsbury was not what any man hoped for a son-in-law.

  “True enough, though I hope to convince him.” John spoke eagerly. “I am close to paying off my creditors, by next year if I manage carefully. But I can hardly ask Miss Dowding to wait for me, not with her father pressuring her to make a match.” He paused, as if weighing a decision in his mind. “But if I had a loan—”

  At his words, any traces of forgiveness flew out of Henry. “So that is why you are here.” His anger from before was nothing compared to the seething rage that arose inside him now. “You come to me with your penitence, claiming you have changed, and still all you want is money.”

  “No, of course not!” John protested. “I am sincere, I swear. I don’t care about the money.”

  “That is all you have ever cared about.” Henry urged his horse forward. “Get off my land, Ramsbury, before I send for the constable.”

  John sent him one last look—though of pain or anger, Henry couldn’t say—before he kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks. Henry watched him race away, his teeth clenched so tightly he thought they would shatter.

  He had let his guard down. He had almost been taken in once more, by the same man—a man who only brought grief and heartache.

  He would not let it happen again.

  Chapter Five

  Rose paced at the bottom of the grand staircase, watching the front door with every turn of her feet. Even with her eyes on the door, she kept her hearing focused behind her. She knew Mrs. Morton would be cross if she found her standing about when she ought to be sweeping upstairs. But she had to speak to Lord Norcliffe. Even after only being here for a week, she knew his habits well, as all the servants did. He would be returning from his morning ride any minute.

  She glanced down again at the letter, bent from her many readings in the last half hour since she’d received it. Her throat closed over and tears threatened yet again. Heavens, it felt like all she did these days was cry. What an exhausting business it was.

  But she could hardly avoid it. Papa was ill, a cough and fever. This letter from his jailer explained that a doctor had been called to the prison to tend him, but her father needed extended care to recover. That meant more money, required immediately, of which she had none. That left her one option, reluctant as she was to take it. Lord Norcliffe.

  Her conversation with the baron the night before had left her spinning—and mortified. Not only had he found her asleep in the library, but she had made quite the fool of herself chattering on about books. What had she been thinking, daring to make a recommendation to him? And then she had returned to her bedchamber to find streaks of ash across her cheeks, her hair a mess. No wonder he had sent her to bed. He likely thought her half mad from exhaustion.

  But he had sent her to bed, for whatever reason. Kindness? Or was it as he claimed, to keep her healthy so she might continue to pay her father’s debt? She was inclined to believe it was the former. The unexpected concern on his face when he had seen the state of her hands, his amusement at her attempt at conversation—was it possible there was some compassion behind his steely eyes and harsh voice?

  She certainly hoped so, or this would be a very short meeting indeed.

  Footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned. It was Mr. Frampton, the butler. She relaxed her rigid shoulders. Though she was shunned by the servants belowstairs, Mr. Frampton treated her the same as he did all the staff.

  He approached now. “Are you lost again, Rose?”

  She might have been offended that he thought her lost, standing there in the front entry, but seeing as he had found her quite turned around in the east wing not two days ago, she could hardly protest.

  “I’m not lost,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m waiting. I need to speak with Lord Norcliffe straightaway.”

  “In regards to what?” Mr. Frampton’s voice was wary, but at least he did not immediately send her on her way.

  Rose took a deep breath, attempting to steady both her mind and heart. “My father is ill, and I’ve no money to pay for the physician’s bills.”

  Was that a flash of sympathy in his eyes? “And you intend to ask his lordship for additional funds.”

  She nodded, expecting a reprimand, but he only frowned. “I see. Well, do not dawdle overlong; Mrs. Morton will still expect your chores to be finished in a timely manner.” He continued down the hallway without another word.

  His indifference did not bode particularly well, but then again, Mr. Frampton did not know about her encounter with Lord Norcliffe the night before. She had seen a glimpse of kindness in him, and could only hope it was not a rare occurrence.

  Footsteps came from outside, mounting the stairs. Rose’s stomach leaped into her throat and she spun as the door was thrown open, silhouetting a tall figure against the morning sun. A footman hurried to catch the door, but Lord Norcliffe was already striding across the entry, yanking his gloves from his hands and tossing his hat onto a nearby table, his fair hair mussed from his ride.

  Rose hurried forward, intent on catching him before he disappeared into his study. “Lord Norcliffe,” she called.

  He looked up and—far too late—Rose noticed his expression. His eyes burned, his jaw tight and his shoulders rigid under his riding jacket. She inhaled sharply, her stomach twisting.

  “What now?” he snapped, coming to a halt.

  She stared at him. What had put him in such a foul mood? She wished she could retreat, but his gaze narrowed on her, the silent tension growing every moment she hesitated.

  “I—I am sorry to bother you,” she stammered. “I wished to speak to you a moment.”

  He said nothing, motioning her to speak on with a pointed gesture, as if she was hardly worth his time. Which she likely wasn’t.

  Rose took a deep breath. “I’ve had a letter from my father’s jailer with distressing news. I hoped to ask for—”

  Lord Norcliffe gave a sharp laugh, and she stopped. “Oh, I know what you want,” he said, stepping forward with a dangerous gleam to his eye. “You want what everyone wants from me. Money.”

  It took all Rose had not to stumble backwards, away from his accusing voice. “I didn’t mean—that is, I only—” Her voice caught in her throat, an odd hum in her ears.

  “I’ve had enough requests for today.” His harsh voice echoed strangely in the high-ceilinged entry, and Rose’s face flushed with heat, her hands shakin
g as she clutched her letter against her chest. “Leave my sight before I dismiss you altogether.”

  He stalked down the hall to his study and disappeared inside with a crash of his door.

  Rose gaped after him. What had happened? She backed away, turning and hurrying to the servants’ stairs. She dropped onto the bottom step, her breaths coming too fast as she pressed a hand against her stomach.

  How had she misread him so badly last night? There had been no trace just now of the kindness she had seen in the library. She was a fool to think she could know a man in the span of a stolen conversation.

  Rose shook her head; she could not dwell on it. She had to find a way to help her father, and she had to do it soon.

  Chapter Six

  Henry could not focus. He’d been trying since the day before to forget his meeting with John Ramsbury, but every time he closed his eyes, John’s face mocked him, remorseful and yet completely deceitful.

  He pushed back from his desk and went to the window, gazing out into the gloomy afternoon, clouds hanging low with the threat of rain. Though his anger had dissipated somewhat, he still could not settle his mind. He was restless, and pacing the halls of this great, echoing house did nothing to help. He leaned against the window frame, eyes unseeing as they skipped over the familiar landscape.

  Movement caught his attention, and he squinted at a slim figure hurrying down the drive, dressed in a blue pelisse and bonnet. The woman glanced back, displaying her delicate features in profile. Miss Sinclair.

  A new feeling rose inside him then, niggling past his pride and anger. He had been in a fuming haze when he’d returned from his ride yesterday, but he could still remember the shock in Miss Sinclair’s eyes when he’d berated her in the entry. Shock—and fear.

  But why should he care what she thought of him? She was his servant, nothing more. Shouldn’t a servant fear her master? He crossed his arms, watching her figure as she walked down the lane, her movements graceful. He wished he could believe what he was telling himself, but the guilt that itched inside him spoke more truthfully than his own thoughts.