The Baron's Betrothal (Dangerous Lords Book 1)

by Maggi Andersen

  He would have left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. Even if she was a suitable choice of bride for him, which she was not, being gentry, he would not break hers. She had the advantage of being forewarned.

  Chapter Five

  Despite Hetty’s wish that Saturday never come, it arrived to deepen her anguish. In the afternoon, Fanny Kemble came to visit in her carriage. She hurried into the house wearing a fur-trimmed blue pelisse and bonnet, a hand thrust into a matching fur muff.

  “Fanny, how nice you look. Come into the parlor. I’ll ring for tea.”

  “I had to promise to be home by four, otherwise, Mother would not have let me come. But I couldn’t wait to tell you the news,” Fanny said. “Lord Fortescue called on us yesterday, and Mama’s invited him for dinner and there’s to be dancing afterward.”

  Sarah brought the tea tray in.

  Hetty poured the tea into cups. She wanted to share her secret with Fanny, but, dear practical Fanny would think her mad, and she couldn’t always be relied on to keep a secret. Not that she would deliberately hurt a living soul, but her inherently honest nature made it impossible to keep things to herself.

  She often wished she was more like Fanny who knew exactly what she wanted from the moment she left the schoolroom. A home and a family. Fanny was bound to marry soon as her Aunt Caroline was to chaperone Fanny for the London season.

  “Oh, Hetty, the baron is so handsome.” Fanny clasped her hands to her breast. “And so very charming. What is it about a French accent? It makes even the simplest sentence sound romantic. Everyone in the village talks of nothing but the prosperity the Baron’s return will bring to Digswell. Lord Fortescue told us of his plans to improve the house and grounds. I was rather shocked that Rosecroft Hall had become so shabby when Mama and I were last there. It is most exciting.” She trilled with laughter. “Mama is beside herself!”

  “That will liven up Digswell society,” Hetty said, dismayed at being forced to keep secrets.

  Fanny widened her eyes. “Is that all you can say? Dear Hetty, if you won’t take your nose out of a book, I declare you’ll end up a spinster. And you are far too pretty to be one of those poor wretches.”

  “Not every woman who fails to marry is a poor wretch,” Hetty said. “I prefer my independence. Husbands have complete power over their wives. As a single woman, I may inherit, buy, sell, and own my own property. If I marry, I must relinquish it to my husband.”

  “Oh, pooh.” Fanny gestured with a currant bun. “No woman would pass up someone like the baron for spinsterhood. And why would you want to worry about all that when a husband takes care of it for you?”

  “To become devoted to the idle graces? Married to a nobleman, my days would consist of visits to the dressmaker, carding, and formal visits. Unlike my grandmother who lived a useful life and managed my grandfather’s estate after he died. Why, today, noblemen even have a means to prevent women bearing children once they have their heir and a spare.”

  Fanny’s eyes widened. “My goodness, Hetty. You put me to the blush. Where do you learn of such things?”

  “On a hot night in India, after a long-drawn-out dinner, and much wine, many topics were discussed by the guests, and I admit I eavesdropped.” Hetty laughed. “I learned far more from listening to the women in the drawing room after they’d left the men to their port.”

  Fanny giggled. “How fascinating. You must tell me more. But your poetry won’t warm you at night, Hetty. And I’m sure the baron would.”

  “He might be half-English, but not all the villagers will put out the welcome mat for him.” She sounded like a meanspirited old spinster. What was wrong with her?

  “He’s an English nobleman by birth. And Mama has learned on good authority that, although his father’s French properties were seized during the Revolution, he continues to be wealthy.”

  “Then he will be of great benefit to the district,” Hetty said grudgingly.

  “Oh my, you are like a bear with a sore head today. What has happened?” Fanny didn’t wait for a reply before rushing on. “What are you wearing tonight? I have the most exquisite new gown. It has been made especially for my come-out, but Mama told me to wear it.”

  “Father wants me to wear the bronze with the figured lace.”

  “What? That old thing? Buttoned up to your chin? Finish your tea and let’s go up to your chamber. You must have something better.”

  “If I had something better, I would wear it.” Hetty wished her father’s economizing didn’t extend to her wardrobe.

  Fanny put down her napkin and rose, brushing her skirts. “We have hours to spare. Come, let’s see.”

  In the bedchamber, Fanny pulled out all Hetty’s dresses and threw them on the bed. None were particularly alluring. There hadn’t been much call for glamour in this quiet place, but Hetty had a sudden urge for it.

  “All right, it’s the russet silk,” Fanny said with a moue of distaste. “We might lower the neckline. Do you have any spare lace?”

  “I do as it happens. It came from India. I’ll fetch my sewing box.”

  Several hours later, Hetty tried the gown on again. Fanny had cut the neckline into a deep scoop and edged it with a border of fine old lace that Hetty had been keeping for a special occasion. What better occasion than now? There was enough lace left to embellish the hem, shortened to give a glimpse of the ankle. Fanny was an enthusiastic seamstress but had little chance to enjoy it, for her mother had all her gowns made.

  Hetty gave her a hug. “You are the best of friends, Fanny.” She gazed in the mirror, and her hand fluttered over her chest. “But it is barely decent. Perhaps I should add a fichu.”

  Fanny gasped. “You know they aren’t worn any more, especially in the evening. Why, Mrs. Braithwaite at the lending library might wear one, but she’s in her dotage and might have need of it. Someone young, like you, does not.” She took the scissors and cut a thread. “The neckline is perfect. You have lovely skin, Hetty. And the gown is quite modest, really.”

  That evening, Hetty took an unconscionable amount of time with her appearance, and when she came downstairs, her father remarked on how well she looked.

  “That gown complements your fine brown eyes, my dear. I don’t remember it being so…” He waved a hand across his chest. “Perhaps a shawl? We wouldn’t want you to catch a chill. Those curls frame your face so becomingly. I’m pleased you took my advice.”

  More ringlets clustered about Hetty’s ears than she cared for, preferring smooth braids. Aware that Fanny would hate it, she had added a little black net to cover the crown of her head, like a dowager in mourning, in the faint hope it might disguise more of her appearance. The low neckline of the gown afforded her figure some womanly curves, and she trusted she now bore no resemblance whatsoever to the groom Lord Fortescue spent the night with. She bit her bottom lip in dismay. What a reckless fool she’d been! If their night together was discovered, the ramifications would spread far wider than she’d envisaged. But surely the baron would be too distracted by Fanny’s loveliness to notice her.

  The carriage passed through the gates at Kemble Court and approached the three-story, symmetrical building of stucco brick. It pulled up in front of the porch flanked by two pillars.

  The property was situated farther from the town than Malforth Manor and enjoyed a much larger park. However, it paled into insignificance beside the magnificent Rosecroft Hall. Lady Kemble had mentioned on more than one occasion that, although smaller, her property was far better laid out, with very little wasted space. Hetty thought her a fearful snob and considered it fortunate that her attitude had failed to rub off on Fanny.

  A footman assisted Hetty down from the carriage. She eased her tight shoulders, sure that an awkward and disconcerting evening awaited her.

  She entered the hall on her father’s arm where a maid took her evening mantle and her father’s coat.

  Lord Kemble now deceased, had gained his knighthood for his service in the navy. His widow sto
od waiting in the entry hall, eager to present her special guest.

  “So rarely are we honored with a visitor of this stature to our community,” she gushed. “And to think that he plans to remain among us.”

  Lord Fortescue stood beside her, handsome in beautifully tailored dark evening clothes, his linens white against his olive skin. “And such a prepossessing personage,” Lady Kemble added with a flirtatious glance in his direction. She introduced Hetty’s father to the baron. Then Lady Kemble’s glance alighted on her, and her features took on a disgruntled expression. “Miss Horatia Cavendish.”

  Hetty forced her knees into a curtsy after taking note of the small bruise on his forehead and the cut which had almost healed.

  “My pleasure, Miss Cavendish.” He bowed. His gaze flickered over her from her hair to her chest and back to her eyes. She had not forgotten those blue eyes. She searched them for a sign he recognized her but saw nothing beyond politeness.

  He moved on to greet Mr. and Mrs. Shelton, who had arrived after them. Hetty might have been an aged dowager for all the interest he showed in her. Perhaps it was that cursed bit of net. After the first studied glance, he’d looked right through her. And he a practiced rake! She fumed, ignoring the fact she should be relieved. Her breasts suddenly seemed pale and exposed, and she pulled her shawl closer.

  Hetty entered the salon on her father’s arm. Beside the fireplace, her godfather, Eustace, held court, and her father went to greet him.

  Apparently, Lady Kemble had cast her net wide, bringing suitable personages from the surrounding towns. Some twenty guests milled about in the long room and several had brought their daughters. The three young ladies watched Lord Fortescue in frank admiration.

  Eustace left her father and came to kiss her hand. She noticed his limp. “My dear, you are the belle of the ball this evening.”

  “You flatter me, Eustace. I hardly compare with some beautifully gowned ladies here tonight,” Hetty countered with a brief smile. “Is your gout bothering you very much?”

  “It has been troublesome, my dear. Thank you for noticing.”

  “I’m so sorry. Have you tried that remedy the apothecary suggested?”

  “I try everything, but little seems to help, save laudanum.”

  “Are you pleased to have your relative returned?” Hetty was surprised he had not mentioned the possibility of an heir when he’d come to dinner last.

  He smiled. “But of course. Handsome is he not?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Curious as to what Eustace might make of him, she said, “Do you think him a good man?”

  His brows rose. “Good? I pray it is so. He has been unable to supply me with proof that he is Baron Fortescue.”

  “But surely, he’s the baron.” Hetty had never doubted it herself. He knew the Fortescue history and could describe the estate as if he’d lived there.

  “He might have been a servant of the baron’s,” Eustace said with a frown. “After all, this time, I require evidence as does the Committee of Privileges.”

  Hetty eyed Lord Fortescue doubtfully as he moved gracefully through the room. He looked every inch the aristocrat. “Could a servant be so at ease in society?”

  “There are upstarts everywhere, my dear.”

  “But the family likeness…”

  Eustace shrugged. “His father’s hair was brown. Not coal-black.”

  “But his mother was French,” Hetty said. “What about his eyes? Are they not unusual?”

  “The family does produce blue-eyed children, but they are common enough.”

  Hetty didn’t find the color of his eyes at all common. “He would most likely tell you more about his family should you ask him.”

  Eustace raised his ginger eyebrows. “I’m surprised that you defend him on such short acquaintance. I cannot afford to be so trusting.”

  Hetty gave a start. “I heard he has a sister who lives in Paris.”

  “Oh? And where did you hear that?”

  “He told Fanny, or her mother.” Hetty blushed at the lie.

  “I have written to the Duchess Châteaudunn who will be able to confirm or deny he is who he says he is.” Eustace gave a sad smile. “Poor girl, this whole business has concerned you more than it ought to. You are wasted stuck away here in the countryside. Your father must be persuaded to let you go to London.”

  “He refuses to consider it.”

  “He doesn’t trust your aunt’s ability to care for you, believes her to be a bit of a flibbertigibbet. Too wrapped up in her literary society. But I shall also be in London. Perhaps that might sway his opinion?”

  Hetty doubted it. It would be wonderful to stay with her aunt, especially while Eustace was there, but her father had been adamant, and she saw no reason why he would change his mind. She snuffed out the faint hope before it burst into flames. Watching her godfather greet guests, she marveled at how he put others at ease. Even Sophie, the doctor’s shy daughter, blossomed under his attention.

  The guests laughed and chatted, more than was usual. Lady Kemble had been right, the village of Digswell had never seen Lord Fortescue’s like, at least not since his father had lived here, and few could remember those scandalous times. At twenty-two, Hetty certainly didn’t.

  The baron moved among the guests, bowing gracefully, and, after a brief conversation, left spellbound expressions behind him. He approached the small group where her father stood chatting. She held her breath, fearful that he intended to mention Simon to her father. If she could speak to the baron, she might find a way to prevent it.

  Fanny rushed up to her, dainty in a gown of jonquil satin with an overdress of spider-gauze, her blonde ringlets bouncing. “How lovely you look, Hetty.” She peered and frowned. “But what’s that thing on your head?”

  “Net. You’re like an angel, Fanny. That gown is perfect for you.”

  “Mama had it made by a dressmaker in London,” Fanny said, hitching a glove up her arm.

  Hetty smiled fondly at Fanny, then her gaze swept the room, searching for an opportunity to speak to the baron alone.

  Lady Kemble sailed toward them like one of Nelson’s frigates, on which her husband had once served. She gave her daughter some unspoken direction with a lift of her eyebrows and a jerk of her head.

  “It appears your mother wants you to mingle,” Hetty said. “We must compare notes later.”

  Fanny grinned and moved away.

  The chatter around the room centered on Lord Fortescue’s encounter with the highwaymen. Digswell in Hertfordshire was some twenty-two miles from London. It lacked a toll road, the closest being at Ayot Green, and nothing so dangerous had happened within the environs for some years. It was as though his lordship brought trouble with him, riding into their midst wreaking havoc, especially for her. She appeared to be of no special interest to him, but an appeal to his better nature might work. Apart from his rakish ways, he’d shown himself to be trustworthy.

  “Have you summoned the magistrate?” Lady Kemble asked Lord Fortescue with an exaggerated shiver. “And given him a good description of the rascals?”

  “But of course. I expect they will be miles away from here by now.” He glanced at Hetty, and a tiny frown puckered his brow.

  Hetty lowered her eyes and busied herself with smoothing her gloves. When she looked up again, his gaze still rested on her. Was that a speculative look in his eye? She could not allow the conversation she’d intended having to take place in her father’s presence. As soon as a waiter approached with a tray of champagne flutes, she backed against the wall and dropped her fan into an urn.

  “Oh dear,” she said to her father. “I must have dropped my fan as we came in, and it is close in here with all the candles lit. Shall I go and see?”

  “No, my dear,” her father said. “I’ll tell a servant to find it.”

  As he moved toward the door, someone claimed Lady Kemble’s attention. Hetty seized her moment and stepped closer to the baron. “My lord, I’m sorry
to see you have suffered an injury. As it occurred a few miles from our home, I am anxious to learn more of your dangerous encounter.”

  A dark brow peaked above his amused eyes. “Enchanté, Miss Cavendish, although it has been blown out of all proportion, I assure you.”

  He offered his arm, and they strolled away from the throng. Everyone watched them, and no doubt thought her extremely forward when they walked out of earshot to the far end of the long salon.

  Hetty said, “I have a favor to ask of you, my lord.”

  “A favor?” He smiled. “When so charming a lady asks such a thing of me, how can I refuse?”

  Hetty frowned. So, he switched the charm on and off when required? “Please do not mention your acquaintance with our groom, Simon, to my father. Papa was away from home that night, and I am the only one who knows Simon rode his horse.” She searched his face for a sign he might have discovered her ruse. If he had, he hid it well.

  “I see.” A gleam brightened his eyes. “We shall share your secret, no?”

  “If you wish to put it like that,” she said, growing cross.

  “You obviously have a close friendship with your groom, Miss Cavendish.”

  “No, I… He has been with us for some time and does confide in me, yes.”

  “You find him attractive, your groom?” He lifted that black eyebrow again. So imperious.

  “I hadn’t noticed.” Annoyed, Hetty wished she had her fan to use as some kind of barrier to hide from his astute gaze.

  He moved closer and dropped his voice. “You share this secret with your groom?” He made a tsk noise with his tongue and shook his head.

  Caught by the shape of his mouth, she raised her head to find laughter in his eyes. She firmed her lips. He was toying with her. “I dislike the implication, my lord.” Frustrated, and unsure where she stood, Hetty adopted her most effective stony expression.