Beastly Lords Collection

by Baily, Sydney Jane

  “Mother, I’m a grown man.”

  Giving him a lopsided smile, she said, “You’ll always be my little boy.”

  He couldn’t help but smile back at her. Then she was gone.

  Reading the papers was a good diversion and got the wool out of his brain. He rang for tea and then plunged into the next daily. He’d nearly forgotten how much he loved the maneuverings of the government, and got easily lost in an article on what Lord John Russell was up to.

  Half an hour later, he was wrapped up in Ainsworth’s The Lancashire Witches, which was being serialized in The Sunday Times.

  “I might write a novel,” he murmured aloud.

  “You do need some company if you’re talking to yourself,” said a voice from the doorway.

  Simon strolled in, looking as if he’d enjoyed a brisk ride and caught some sun and wind.

  “Nothing wrong with talking to oneself when one is not only speaking sense but also a good listener.” Cam chuckled at his own joke. “Actually, I have about a hundred thoughts in my head, and I believe some of them might even be original. At first, I was feeling muddled from inactivity and sleep. Now, I have an overabundance of creative thoughts. I should start writing some of them down.”

  Simon said nothing for a moment, then asked, “Shall we get you downstairs, maybe to the library? Probably do you good to get up once a day.”

  Cam considered. “Yes, let’s. The library would be good for me. Get Cyril. Is there anyone else about?”

  Simon shook his head. “If we hurry, then no. The ladies are changing out of their riding habits.”

  “Perfect.”

  In a very few minutes, he was downstairs and in his pushchair, which fit perfectly under the round oak table in the library. Fountain pen and paper before him, Cam started to write.

  A few minutes later, a movement in the doorway snagged his attention. It was Jane, which was relieving. If he encountered Margaret before he was ready, Cam feared she would read upon his face he intended to ask her for her hand, and this wasn’t the setting he wanted.

  “Did you have a good ride?”

  “Yes, lovely. Am I intruding?”

  “No, not at all.” He almost confessed she was interrupting a stream of thoughts, but her stay would be short, and he would have many weeks to write after the Chatleys’ departure.

  As if reading his mind, Jane said, “We’re leaving tomorrow. I’m sorry you were surprised by us. I think our mothers had a bit of matchmaking in mind. Or at least, mine did.”

  “I know. And it’s perfectly fine. I was glad for the company.”

  Jane arched an eyebrow. “Even when you already had such delightful company?”

  Christ! He thought his cheeks might be reddening. “Close the door, will you?”

  Grinning, she did so and then came closer, to lean upon the edge of the table on the other side, facing him.

  “I feel as if we’ve become friends with all the hours spent getting ready for the banquet. I hope you don’t think I’m being too personal,” she said.

  “No, I don’t, and I do feel as if you’re a friend. Rather unusual during a Season, don’t you think? To make a friend with a member of the opposite sex, instead of a romantic association.”

  She nodded in agreement. “It helps neither of us is the least bit bothered we don’t have romantic feelings for each other. We couldn’t have become friends if it were elsewise.”

  “True. A few times during the planning meetings, I was worried something more was being hinted at—”

  “By my mother,” Jane interrupted. “You can’t blame her, can you? A daughter becoming wedged on the shelf and you, an eligible, titled man, right before her like low-hanging fruit.”

  Cam laughed. “Yes, that’s me, formerly a juicy pear, now more like a dried sultana trussed up in plaster casts.”

  He was glad to see her laugh. “You mustn’t let your mother get to you. You were in a terrible state after the cricket match. And then you let her drag you up here to Bedford. Glad as I am to see you, it puts too much of a burden on you, especially when you knew we weren’t going to form an attachment.”

  She shrugged, dismissing his words and, in all likelihood, believing she ought to behave as a dutiful daughter.

  “I mean it, Jane. Moreover, I don’t think at your age, you should worry about being on the shelf, neither permanently wedged on it, nor precariously toppling off.”

  Jane sighed softly, and he wondered if he should put his brain to use thinking of which gentleman of his acquaintance deserved her.

  “When the invitation came from your mother,” Jane said, “it would have been rude to turn it down simply because I knew we weren’t going to become engaged. Besides, coming to cheer you up was the least I could do after I’d cried all over you in that wretched tent.”

  “The tent was not wretched. It was perfectly lovely. And you have cheered me up. Our little outing yesterday was the first time I’d made it past the veranda. I wouldn’t have done so if it had been only Simon and …” he trailed off.

  Jane grinned again. “Ah yes, that’s why I came in here, remember? Because you didn’t want me talking from the doorway about the delightful company I found already visiting you. And I don’t mean the handsome Lord Lindsey.”

  Was he beaming like a fool?

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said foolishly.

  “Ha! Ridiculous,” she cried. “I’ve seen how you look at Miss Blackwood. She is a lovely girl, smart and kind, too, and I recall she wears a ballgown to perfection. Why, I’m positive you’ve danced with her during the past Season.”

  “Yes, yes, to all that. I know how she dances and how she looks in a ballgown.”

  “Does she know you know?”

  Cam frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Jane leaned toward him. “Are you going to tell her you admire her?”

  “Yes, I believe I will. Soon.”

  She placed her hands upon the table in front of him and stared into his eyes.

  “This is terribly romantic, John. The lady comes to visit with her brother-in-law because he is your good friend, and then you discover you are mad for her.”

  Caught up in her excitement, a hundred notions going through his brain about Margaret and romance—ignoring the fact they were opium-induced—he grabbed for Jane’s hand, making her slip chest-first onto the table.

  With her other hand supporting her chin, she giggled uncharacteristically.

  “When you put it that way,” Cam said, “the whole thing does sound marvelous.”

  He hadn’t heard any footsteps. Yet, when the door opened, Cam saw the very lady herself, staring wide-eyed as if she’d caught him en flagrante, like in a French farce.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Maggie literally could not believe her eyes. It was too impossible. There was John seated in the library, grabbing hold of a laughing Jane, who was sprawled upon the table within kissing distance, with her gown gaping open and her cleavage hanging before his face.

  Letting the book fall from her fingers, she abandoned the stories of Poe, turning and fleeing the scene. Barely able to breathe, Maggie had to get out of the house. Was that what she had looked like to his mother and Grayson when they’d come upon her lying atop him?

  It didn’t seem to matter to John Angsley, as long as he had a woman, any woman. Or maybe when he’d give her his excuse about thinking he was dreaming, he’d been dreaming of Jane all along.

  Dammit! She would not cry. After all, she knew he had feelings for Jane.

  At least she needn’t bother asking him whether he could give up their fiery encounters for a tepid arrangement with Jane? They seemed to have plenty of heat between them.

  “Stop,” Maggie heard behind her. It was John’s voice booming loudly through the open doorway. Then there was a lot of scuffling. Perhaps the lady was needing to rearrange her skirts.

  “Please, wait.” This time it was Jane who called after her, then suddenly, there the lady was
, chasing Maggie down the hall.

  Reaching the main door, she was intent on escaping outside. However, Jane was beside her a moment later.

  “Oh, please, Margaret, won’t you let me explain?”

  “No, I think not. I have eyes, don’t I? I saw the two of you.”

  Jane shook her head. “Oh dear.”

  “Precisely,” Maggie told her, putting her hand on the door.

  “No, I mean, oh dear, I can only imagine what it must have looked like. Please, come back to the library. John is most upset.”

  “This might seem like putting too fine a point on it,” Maggie said, her voice shrill to her own ears, “but at this moment, Lady Chatley, I don’t find myself caring whether the Earl of Cambrey is upset.”

  Jane had the gall to smile. “Yes, I can see why that might be. Except you mistook what you saw.”

  Maggie rolled her eyes, but Jane persisted.

  “Come now, this type of silly misunderstanding only happens in a romantic novel by Miss Austen.”

  Maggie froze. “Are you saying you do not love our great Jane Austen?”

  Jane sighed. “Well of course I love her books, but I wouldn’t want to live in one, would you? With all the heartache and heartbreak, and the miscommunications and hidden tendres. Our lives are not like those, so please, won’t you come back with me and speak to John?”

  How ironic, Maggie thought, to have been thinking just the other evening of life in a novel. What’s more, Jane was correct. There was always heartbreak, drama, and even tragedy before there was a happy ending. Even then, sometimes, there wasn’t one.

  Before Maggie could answer, Jane took her arm and half led, half dragged her back down the hallway. At the library doorway, Maggie could see one of John’s feet protruding, the one sticking out of his cast.

  “Damn and blast,” John exclaimed, as he came into sight. “It took me all this time not to go in circles, and then I got myself hooked up on the casing.”

  Slightly sideways, he had one of the front wheels of his pushchair stuck on the door jamb. Maggie stared down at the floor, a little angry, a little scared, but then as she raised her gaze to his face, at the same time, he looked up into her eyes.

  “Margaret,” was all he said, but his tone resonated through her.

  “If you don’t mind my saying,” Jane began, “I believe we should push you backward and not have whatever is to come next occur while you are in this doorway.”

  “By all means,” John said, “get me unstuck, but then, if you ladies wouldn’t mind, please push me onto the veranda. I’m confident we can make it.”

  Silently, they did as he instructed, and before long, Maggie, with Jane by her side, was pushing John down the hallway toward the back of the house.

  “That’s it, good going, girls,” he cheered them on as if they were oxen at a plow.

  When they reached the veranda, Jane excused herself quickly, with nothing but a muttered, “Good luck” before she disappeared without looking back.

  “This is not what I intended,” John began.

  “No?” Maggie said, and nothing more. She was not going to help him with ‘whatever came next,’ as Jane had put it. In any case, she simply wasn’t certain what he intended.

  “No, this isn’t. Gray was going to bring you to a romantic spot, probably by the river.”

  “Gray?” She knew her voice had an edge to it, but again, John had thrown her off balance. “Does he have feelings for me?”

  John frowned, his face a study in confusion. Then he shook his head.

  “No, not that I’m aware of. In fact, he has a list of what he doesn’t like about you.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  If John didn’t look so very handsome and have such an attractive mouth at which she now found herself staring while waiting for him to make some sense, she might have been insulted.

  “Let me begin again,” he said, “and speak plainly. I hold you in great esteem and have for a long time.”

  Feeling her cheeks heat, she kept silent. This was one of those times when Jane Austen would write for the heroine to simply let the man speak.

  “Even though I felt drawn to you, not merely for your looks but also for your nature, your good humor, your laughter, the way you see the world. Still, at first, I worried you were too young, and then, of course, I saw you kissing Burnley, which you later told me you were happy to do.”

  “Happy because that kiss demonstrated the vast difference between an ordinary kiss and an extraordinary one.”

  He blinked at her. “Oh, I see.”

  “However, it is difficult for me to credit this ‘high esteem’ in which you profess to hold me, after seeing you with Lady Chatley.”

  “Jane came into the library only to ask about my feelings for you. I was telling her when you walked in.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Not just now. I am referring to after the banquet. At that time, I thought we had an understanding, based again on another extraordinary kiss.”

  “As did I, but then I found you in Westing’s arms. Much as I adore you, Margaret, and I do, I won’t live in question of whether my wife is devoted to me or equally interested in another man.”

  Maggie recalled the day. John with Jane and then …

  “You came into the pavilion?”

  He nodded.

  “But Christopher was only comforting me because of what I heard and saw while standing in the tent opening. You and Jane. It left me shaken, and he ended up taking me home directly.”

  John rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. It was a misunderstanding.”

  “Exactly like in one of Miss Austen’s novels.”

  Tilting his head questioningly, John waited for her to clarify.

  “You know, as in Emma. You are Mr. Knightley, and I think you care for Harriet, but all the time—”

  “All the time, I liked Emma, though she seemed very immature and not to know her mind. Moreover, she appeared to prefer Frank Churchill to Knightley.”

  At her surprised expression, he added, “I’ve read a few romantic novels in my day.”

  Maggie smiled. “Emma was young and inexperienced and didn’t know whom she liked until she thought she’d nearly lost the man. I, on the other hand, grasped the nettle, leaping into the breach to kiss other men and draw my own conclusions.”

  John pinched the bridge of his nose, making a sound that might have been exasperation.

  “I don’t think you needed to kiss other men to determine your heart.”

  “It seemed more direct than, for example, going through everything Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy went through, don’t you think?”

  John took her hand in his. “I’m glad you’re not wearing gloves.” He caressed her palm.

  Her breath caught.

  “What you saw in the tent—and today, for that matter—was the strange circumstance of two people of the opposite sex who have become friends. And nothing more. I promise you. Jane appeared in the tent after the banquet when I thought I would meet you.”

  “I was on my way,” Maggie explained.

  “She got there first and was most upset because her mother was beginning to make it known she wanted Jane and I to come to an understanding. Lady Chatley hoped the banquet would be the day I was so enraptured by Jane’s skills as a hostess, I would offer for her, even as the last wicket fell at the match. Also, Jane cannot drink worth a damn.”

  “I found that out myself. Apparently, she has an extremely low resistance to the effects of wine.”

  “Or champagne,” John added.

  They both chuckled slightly, then silence descended. They stared at one another.

  “And you’ve never kissed her?” Maggie had to know.

  “Not once. I didn’t need to do any such thing to know how I feel about you. When I kiss you, I can’t even think about kissing anyone else. Ever again.”

  Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, Maggie considered his words. He sounded very sure and very m
uch as if they were going to have a future.

  “In my defense, John, I hadn’t kissed many men before you. And I believe you’ve done that and much more with other women.”

  His eyebrows rose and then he dropped his gaze.

  “It’s all right,” she insisted. “Honestly, it would have been strange if it had been otherwise. If I were your age, even unmarried, I believe I would have experienced the act of a man and a woman together. As it is, I’m excited by the prospect of undertaking it. With you, I mean.”

  She watched his expression go from surprise at her bluntness to utter delight.

  “As am I,” he told her, bringing her hand to his lips to kiss her palm. “Let’s get this done correctly, shall we?”

  With the strength in his one arm, he tugged her onto his lap. Taking hold of her chin, he directed her to look at him. With their gazes locked, Maggie felt as if she were swimming in the hazel depths of his eyes.

  “I offer you my hand in marriage and ask for yours in return. I offer you my name, my title, and all that goes with it. And I offer you my body,” he broke off with a wry grimace, but she nodded encouragingly, “which will be whole again someday soon to provide the pleasure you deserve. And children, too, I hope. Most importantly, I give you my heart, and I promise I will never share it with another. Will you marry me?”

  Feeling the tears coursing down her cheeks, Maggie sniffed and wiped them with her free hand.

  “Sorry,” he said and released her chin, delving in his pocket for a handkerchief, which he quickly used to dab at her eyes before giving it to her.

  “I must look all red and moist and awful,” she said, feeling ecstatic anyway.

  “Miss Margaret Blackwood, you are infuriating. You must know you look lovely, even while crying. And you have not responded to my very romantic plea.”

  Maggie grinned at him through her tears.

  “Yes, John Angsley, I will marry you. And I will take your title and your body, and all that. With great joy. Mostly, I feel extraordinarily fortunate to be given your heart. I give you mine, as well.”

  Instantly, his hand slipped through her hair to cradle the back of her head and draw her close. As his lips touched hers, she sighed against him. Opening her mouth to receive his skilled, probing tongue, she relished the thrilling sensations coursing through her.