The Naked Baron

by Sally MacKenzie

  Horace puffed up like an angry cat. Hermes must have thought so, too. He started growling again and struggled to be let down.

  “Shh, Hermes.”

  “I am the Earl of Oxbury, of course—the owner of this magnificent house.”

  If Horace got any more self-important, he’d explode.

  Kate glanced at Lord Dawson. Oh, dear, it looked as if he was going to say something cutting. Not that Horace didn’t deserve it, but there was no need to brangle. They were leaving momentarily.

  She spoke before the baron could vent his spleen. “We are in Lord Dawson’s debt, Horace, as he has kindly offered to escort Lady Grace and me to Viscount Motton’s house party.”

  Lord Dawson came over to stand next to Grace. Kate had never noticed before—obviously, she had been too focused on the man’s uncle—but the baron was a very large and intimidating man. He clearly could pick Horace up in one hand and break him in two.

  Even Horace seemed to realize this truth. His tone was almost polite. “Ah, I see. Very kind of you, Dawson.”

  “My pleasure, Oxbury.”

  Lord Dawson was still glaring at Horace. Surely he would refrain from baiting the man for a few more minutes? Where in God’s name was the blasted coach?

  Mr. Sykes appeared at the door. “The carriage is ready.”

  Alleluia! “Well, we must go. Don’t want to keep the horses waiting. So glad we had a moment to see you before we departed, Horace.” May God forgive her that lie. “I’m sure you’ll find all to your liking here. Mr. Sykes is very efficient.” Kate grinned like an idiot and edged toward the door. “And here comes our luggage.” A procession of footmen, directed by Marie, streamed down the stairs. “Do have a pleasant time in London.” She paused to let the luggage precede her. “Did you have a particular reason for coming to Town at this moment, Horace?”

  She hadn’t expected a real answer, just a polite—or as polite as Horace cared to manage—platitude. She was halfway out the door when she heard his response.

  “Actually, yes, I did. I’ve come to acquire a wife.”

  “Oh.” Grace and Lord Dawson were gaping at Horace, just as she was certain she was. Even Hermes seemed stunned by this pronouncement—he stopped growling. The Weasel, a man with close to sixty years in his dish, a man she had always assumed was a confirmed bachelor…the skinny, oily, annoying, pompous Weasel was going wife hunting? “Well, good luck to you.”

  Horace chuckled and smoothed back his few stringy gray hairs. “I doubt I’ll have to rely on luck.”

  “Ah, right.” She was going to burst out laughing or cast up her accounts on the marble floor. “Of course. Exactly. Yes, indeed. Good-bye then.”

  “Good-bye.” Horace smiled slightly—at least that was what she thought the twisting of his lips meant, but perhaps he just had a touch of indigestion—and waved. “Don’t hurry back.”

  Poor Lady Oxbury. David rode behind the coaches as they pulled away from Oxbury House. He certainly would not want to have any extended contact with Lord Lobcock. The few minutes he’d been forced to endure the man’s company had been too many. What a bloody coxcomb!

  Zeus took exception to a vegetable cart and tried to bolt. He reined him in, and then had to avoid a cow handed idiot in a high-perch phaeton who was attempting to take a corner too fast. Fortunately the Oxbury carriages were far enough ahead they missed everything. He swallowed his curses and urged Zeus to pick up his pace. He would be very happy to shake London’s dirt from his boots—and his breeches, coat, and hat—for a while.

  Once they got free of Town, he moved up past the baggage carriage to ride alongside the coach carrying Grace and her aunt. He tilted his head from side to side, stretching out the kinks in his neck, and let out a long breath.

  God, he’d forgotten what quiet sounded like. London was never quiet. Even at night, there was constant din—the rattle of wheels against cobbles, the clop of horse hooves, the shouts of drunken, young—and not so young—bucks. He’d got so used to the noise, he hardly noticed it any longer. Until now, that is, when it was absent.

  Now he could hear birdsong and leaves rustling in an errant breeze. And the air! He could take a deep breath again without falling into a coughing fit.

  Mmm. He was looking forward to this house party, to taking Zeus out for a gallop without worrying about carriages or other riders, to strolling along peaceful, tree-shaded lanes—with Grace on his arm, of course—and wandering off into a secluded corner to steal a kiss…or more.

  He had taken the liberty of procuring a special license. It was burning a hole in his pocket, actually. As soon as he persuaded Grace to have him, he need only find a minister, a pair of witnesses, and then, after the vows, a nice, soft bed.

  He shifted in the saddle. Too much musing on that subject would make for a very uncomfortable ride. He’d best direct his thoughts to a less stimulating topic—like Lady Oxbury and Alex.

  He glanced at the carriage. What had happened between them?

  Zeus shook his head, making the bit jingle. David leaned forward and patted him on the neck.

  It must have been something momentous. Alex had looked like hell the morning after Alvord’s ball. David snorted, causing Zeus’s ears to twitch. No, Alex had looked like he was in hell. He’d only seen the man that haggard when they’d found Grandda’s and Grandmamma’s carriage crumpled by the big oak.

  David sighed, shaking his head. He’d expected his uncle to be disgustingly cocky at breakfast that morning, if he put in an appearance at all. He’d assumed the man had been frolicking all night in Lady Oxbury’s bed—it had been close to daybreak when he’d heard him come in.

  So what had happened? Had Lady Oxbury refused to see him? But then where had Alex been—walking the streets of London all night?

  Damn it, Alex deserved some happiness. Not that he ever appeared unhappy—he was not a man to wear his heart on his sleeve—but there was always a slight air of melancholy about him, as if he saw the world’s colors dimmed by a thin layer of gray, a thin covering of London’s soot, if you will.

  When he’d seen Alex that morning, he’d decided Lady Oxbury must be a cold-hearted bitch, but now that he saw how much she was suffering…well, he didn’t know what to think.

  “Lord Dawson!”

  He snapped his attention back to the coach. Grace had opened the window and was leaning out. “What is it, Lady Grace?”

  “It’s my aunt. She is feeling most unwell. Can you ask John Coachman to stop, please?”

  “Of course.”

  The coachman had heard Lady Grace and was already pulling back on the reins.

  “And if you could come help her down.” Grace glanced back at her aunt, and then looked up at him. “It’s rather an emergency.”

  “Certainly.” He vaulted from his saddle and jerked open the carriage door. Grace had not overstated the case. Lady Oxbury’s face was as white as a sheet—the parts that didn’t have a pronounced greenish tinge, that is.

  “Would you like to get down, Lady Oxbury?”

  She nodded frantically, her hand pressed tightly to her mouth.

  He half lifted her out. She leaned against the side of the carriage while he helped Grace and Marie. Then he grabbed Hermes while the women hurried away from the road. Lady Oxbury made it only a few steps into the grass before she cast up her accounts.

  Grace braced her while she finished. “Are you feeling more the thing now, Aunt Kate?”

  “Ooh.” Lady Oxbury shook her head. “I still feel…I still think…”

  Grace wrapped her arm around her aunt’s waist and urged her toward a sturdy tree. The three women disappeared behind the trunk.

  David heard the sound of retching.

  John Coachman pushed his hat back with his whip and scratched his forehead. “Shall we bide here a while, yer lordship?”

  “I think that would be wise.” He should offer his assistance, but he didn’t wish to intrude on Lady Oxbury’s privacy. He took a few steps into the grass towa
rd the tree—being careful to avoid one particular spot—and cleared his throat. “Lady Grace?”

  Marie emerged from behind the trunk first. “My lord, could ye get the wicker basket from the carriage? I packed a few things that might help, but a woman in my lady’s condition…well, I think we’ll be stopping a few more times afore journey’s end.”

  “I see.” There went his hope of making good time. At least Lakeland was not far—they should arrive by dark, even with frequent stops. “I will fetch it immediately.”

  He handed Hermes to John Coachman. Fortunately, the basket was in plain sight. He gave it to Marie and watched her hurry off behind the tree. In a moment Lady Grace appeared.

  “How is your aunt?”

  “Better, I think.” Grace frowned. “I wish I knew what was wrong.”

  “Marie mentioned a condition…?”

  “A condition?” Grace’s brow wrinkled. “Aunt Kate isn’t prone to carriage sickness, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No. But her maid said—” His jaw dropped.

  Good God. Alex…Lady Oxbury…

  Was it possible? Had Alex spent the night in Lady Oxbury’s bed with interesting results? And now it was imperative the lady see his uncle because the man was about to be a father?

  David snickered.

  Grace frowned. “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, nothing.” He pressed his lips together, but that didn’t quite contain his mirth. “N-nothing at all.”

  “You should not be laughing. Aunt Kate is very sick.”

  He nodded. “I’m n-not l-laughing.”

  Grace gave him a very nasty look and went back to help Lady Oxbury. Thank God.

  He walked carefully to the other side of the carriage and then collapsed against it, howling with laughter—as quietly as he could—until tears ran down his cheeks.

  He could hardly wait to see Alex.

  Chapter 13

  Alex let Lear choose his own path up the drive to Lakeland, Motton’s manor house.

  He was tired, but satisfied. It had been worth leaving home before daybreak; he’d already had time to take a preliminary look at Motton’s cultivation techniques and chat with Watkins, Motton’s estate manager. The man was a genius. There were definitely a number of improvements he’d seen that he could implement at Clifton Hall. Hopefully he would have time during this house party for some rational conversation with Motton on the topic.

  Lear’s ears twitched. Yes, he heard it, too. Carriages were approaching from behind. He reined up, glanced back, and frowned. The man accompanying the coaches looked familiar. He was too far away to be certain…

  His eyes dropped to the man’s horse. Damn. He’d recognize that stallion anywhere. What the hell was David doing here—and, more to the point, who was he escorting?

  Only one possibility came to mind. Alex jerked, causing Lear to back and toss his head in protest.

  “Sorry, boy.” He patted his horse’s neck. David must have caught sight of him then, because Zeus broke into a canter, covering the ground between them in minutes.

  “Alex! Well met!”

  “Is it?” He could be wrong. Please, God, let him be wrong. But the person—or persons—in the carriage must be female, and the only females he could think might be in David’s company were Ka—Lady Oxbury and Lady Grace.

  Perhaps Lady Oxbury had stayed in Town. Lakeland was only a short trip from London. A maid would suffice as Lady Grace’s companion for such a brief journey; perhaps the girl was meeting a suitable duenna here.

  Right. And perhaps he would sprout wings and fly.

  He wished he could fly, if not through the air, then on Lear’s back. Ride like the wind home to Clifton Hall and hide behind a locked door.

  He blew out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He was being absurd. He was not a frightened little boy, and Lady Oxbury wasn’t some hobgoblin. They were two adults. They could behave as adults, surely, and get through this damn house party politely.

  And he could manufacture an excuse to run—head—for home tomorrow morning.

  “Who’s in the carriage?” He braced himself for the answer. The vehicle was traveling very slowly, as if its contents were exceptionally fragile.

  “Lady Grace.” David paused and gave him an odd look. “And Lady Oxbury.”

  Did David think he was communicating something significant with his bobbing eyebrows? It was not a secret Alex had made a fool of himself over the woman.

  “I see.” He sounded nonchalant, if he said so himself. He was surprised Motton knew Ka—Lady Oxbury.

  Did Motton know her? It would be somewhat unusual. She had been out of society for a long time, and Motton was around David’s age…He frowned. “You didn’t happen to have anything to do with the invitations to this gathering, did you, David?”

  David grinned. “Perhaps.”

  “Damn it, you know I parted on less than cordial terms with Lady Oxbury.”

  “Actually, the last time I saw you with the lady—at Alvord’s ball—you looked to be on exceedingly cordial terms with her. I could only speculate as to why you left London so precipitously.”

  The coaches were getting closer. Why were they moving so slowly—to prolong his agony? “You aren’t an idiot, David. You might have put two and two together.”

  “I might have.” David gave him another odd look. “If we are doing sums, you might wish to do a few calculations of your own.”

  Alex tore his eyes away from his approaching doom to glare at his nephew. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “You haven’t had any communication with Lady Oxbury since the morning after Alvord’s ball?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then you might wish to have some communication with her in the next day or so.”

  “Why?”

  There went David’s damn eyebrows again. “Lady Oxbury is not feeling at all the thing. We had to stop frequently on our trip from London.”

  “I’m sorry for her indisposition, but what does that have to do with me?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  What was wrong with David? “Are you suggesting I gave her this illness?”

  David choked. “I’m not certain Lady Oxbury is ill precisely.” The man was laughing!

  Had the world gone mad? Alex glanced at the carriage again. In just a few moments, he would go mad. “I’m as healthy as a horse, and, more to the point, I haven’t been in London for weeks.”

  David nodded. “Lady Oxbury’s stomach was most unsettled the entire trip. Fortunately her maid had come prepared—nausea is not unusual for someone in Lady Oxbury’s condition.”

  “Lady Oxbury’s condition?” The coach was only twenty yards away. “What condition? Why the hell are you talking in riddles—”

  Good God! Alex gaped at David. David shrugged.

  “As I say, you might wish to have a serious conversation with Lady Oxbury. In fact, I strongly recommend it.” David smirked. “I imagine you might find it life-changing.” With that the blasted man turned and rode back to the coaches.

  Alex stayed rooted to his spot. Condition. Nausea. Not ill…

  But she had said she was barren. She had been married to Oxbury for twenty-three years and had had no children. She was forty years old. She couldn’t be…

  He couldn’t be…

  Damn. He stared like a complete cods-head as the coach lumbered by, Kate’s pale face visible in the window.

  She couldn’t be pregnant with his child, could she?

  A surprising possessiveness surged through him. He could barely breathe. Lear shifted under him, uncertain what his frozen body meant.

  He had dreamt of having a child with Kate. Of being a father…

  But what if she still wanted to live the life of the merry widow, inviting man after bloody man into her bed?

  Lear jumped under him as his knees tightened with rage. He forced himself to relax his body, but he would not relax his resolv
e. If Kate did not want him, so be it. But he would have his child.

  He took a calming breath. If there was a child. He must not leap to conclusions. David could be wrong—most probably was wrong.

  In any event, it looked as though he’d be staying for the whole damn gathering.

  He turned Lear toward the house and urged him into a gallop. He might as well catch up with the carriage; there was no point in putting off his meeting with Kate.

  He rode up just as the footman was letting down the steps. David helped Lady Grace from the coach and then a smaller woman—by her dress, the maid.

  Lady Grace looked over as he approached. “Mr. Wilton,”—they both heard a gasp from the carriage—“how nice to see you.”

  The maid gave him a hard look that promised serious repercussions—drawing and quartering at the least—if he did anything to harm her mistress. He stepped cautiously past her, and she, David, and Lady Grace continued toward the house, leaving him alone with Kate.

  He looked into the coach—he’d swear his heart lurched.

  Kate was so beautiful, sitting in the shadows, staring down at her lap—so pale and delicate. So prim—but she had been anything but prim in her bedchamber that night.

  A rush of desire swamped him. He wanted her. No matter what she said to him, how she felt about him—he wanted her. But he wanted her love, too. And if she were indeed enceinte…

  “Kate.” He extended a hand.

  She pressed her lips together while she looked at his gloved fingers. Then she emitted a little sigh and laid her hand in his. “M-Mr. Wilton.” There was a slight catch in her voice. She kept her eyes lowered.

  He helped her down. When her feet reached the drive, she glanced up at him briefly. Her color fluctuated from white to red to white again. Was she going to faint? He put a hand under her elbow.

  “Kate,” he said, his voice low so none of the servants could hear, “are you all right?”

  She nodded. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her lips. “Yes.” She swallowed. “Yes, I am all—all right.” She looked up at him again. “Alex—Mr. Wilton—I—” She stopped and smiled weakly. “I had better go lie down. I find I don’t travel well these days.”