The Baron's Betrothal (Dangerous Lords Book 1)

by Maggi Andersen

  He stood admiring the architecture of the old house when a vehicle rattled its way up the carriage drive. As it grew closer, he saw it was Simon driving a gig with Hetty seated beside him.

  Guy helped her down. Hetty wore a green pelisse with a fur collar the color of her hair, and a pretty bonnet lined with amber silk. The breeze toyed with the hem of her skirts, revealing a slim ankle, as he considered what delights might lie beneath.

  “Good day, Simon,” Guy said with a smile. “I’m sure Williams will be glad of a chinwag.”

  “As will I. Thank you, my lord.” With a bow, Simon slapped the reins and drove toward the stables.

  “How ravishing you look today.” Pleased to see her in a pretty dress, Guy took her basket and carried it. “What have you here?”

  She nodded her thanks. “Cook has made some afternoon tea for Eustace. Is he still in bed?”

  It wasn’t the warmest of greetings. “No, he seeks the sun in the conservatory.”

  “That is good news.”

  “I hope you find him more talkative than I.” Guy followed Hetty indoors, waiting while Hammond took her coat and bonnet.

  She patted her hair into place, her big expressive eyes filled with doubt. “Perhaps he’s not happy here.”

  “Not happy?” His shoulders tightened with a prickle of annoyance. He escorted her along the passage. “Eustace has been happy here for the best part of thirty-five years.”

  “Perhaps he feels you want him to leave.”

  Guy tightened his jaw. “I’ve made it perfectly plain he is welcome. The hall is large enough for several families to live in and seldom meet.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  He took her arm and turned her to face him. “Do you think I’m being unreasonable to want the man to explain a few things to me?”

  She gave him a quizzical glance. “I should think it would depend on your manner. Are you too forceful?”

  Her lack of faith in him affected him far more than he would have thought possible. Perhaps because it was so unfair. “Forceful? I’ve held off on asking any direct questions that might upset him. I’ve assured him he may remain for the rest of his days. What more do you suggest? Shall I offer to rub his back?”

  She narrowed her eyes and took the basket from him. “You are talking nonsense. Perhaps all he wants is your friendship.”

  Rather difficult when the man is as frosty as the weather, Guy thought. And then there were those unexplained attacks of which he was reluctant to accuse the man, not without proof at least. And perhaps because he doubted Eustace lay behind them. He exuded lassitude rather than menace. “I’m willing to be on good terms, but he must also make the effort. I shall learn what has occurred here even at the risk of upsetting him.”

  Having escorted her to the door of the conservatory, he bowed. “And I shall have it straightened out before one of us leaves for London.” He left her and strode away.

  If she couldn’t understand his point of view, so be it. But when his outrage drained away, he felt decidedly flat. He made his way to the library and returned to his study of the estate books and articles on modern methods of farming. He had much to learn.

  Chapter Nine

  Dismayed, Hetty crossed the tiled floor to her godfather. He sat with a shawl around his shoulders, a book opened on his lap. Guy’s stern manner had surprised her, but Eustace did appear miserable.

  He smiled and closed his book. “Horatia. How lovely that you should call on a dull, old fellow like me. What is that you have brought with you?”

  She put her basket down on a table. “Some of Cook’s shortbread biscuits, plum jam, and an apple cake.”

  “My, you do spoil me.”

  She bent to kiss him. Cloves. She was familiar with the smell of laudanum. He patted her hand. “You are the closest thing I’ve ever had to a daughter, Horatia. The kind of daughter to make a man proud.”

  Horatia was touched but couldn’t help a rush of unease. Eustace’s eyes looked glazed and his movements sluggish as he summoned a footman.

  “Take these to the kitchen,” he instructed the servant. “We’ll have the cake with our tea, shall we?”

  She looked around the conservatory as she sat down. The sun highlighted the dirt on the panes of glass and the cobwebs in corners. Once a lush display, the area was almost bare of plants. The orchids crowded their pots, in need of being divided and repotted, and the violets appeared to have rot. She’d noticed the lack of servants. It was not surprising everything was neglected.

  “Where is Thomas?”

  “The footman? He decided he was better off in London.”

  She thought it odd. Thomas had been there for some years. “You know Guy is happy for you to stay here, should you wish to.”

  “Yes, he’s said as much to me, but I shall leave for London soon. The season is almost upon us.”

  “Will you be well enough?”

  “I may as well suffer there as here. I hold out hope that I shall see you in London. Any luck with your father?”

  Hetty shook her head. “Papa is taking tea with Mrs. Illingworth again this afternoon. Perhaps he is developing tender feelings for her.”

  Eustace’s eyebrows rose. Warmth sparked in his faded gray eyes. “Really? There’s life in the old dog yet.” His face reddened. “I do apologize, Horatia. Not fit talk for a young lady’s ears. This laudanum has me saying the darndest things.”

  “Father needs someone to care for him. And someone for him to care for.”

  “But he won’t bother while he has you there to do it. Ah, here is the tea.” A footman placed the tea tray on the table.

  “Go and find his lordship, Moody. Ask him to join us,” Eustace instructed him.

  Hetty leaned forward and poured out two cups. She cut him a piece of cake and placed it on the plate.

  Eustace stirred his tea. “So very nice to have company.”

  Hetty didn’t like the way he looked. As if he would prefer to doze in his chair than talk to her.

  Moments later, Guy walked into the room. He sat in a wing chair. “I’ve been to visit the tenant farmers, Eustace,” he said, taking a cup and saucer from Hetty with a nod of thanks. “They all suffer great difficulty with leaking roofs and not enough to eat.”

  “As is the case for the rest of England.” Eustace stirred his tea. “The Prince of Wales is a charming fellow, but a spendthrift, and there’s no help from his father, for he is mad. Lord Melbourne’s Tory government is coming under enormous criticism, but they’re doing their best.” He took a sip of tea. “I don’t consider it polite to discuss these matters in front of Horatia.”

  Guy folded his arms and frowned.

  “This cake is first rate. Please pass my compliments to your cook when you return, my dear,” Eustace said.

  Rather disappointed not to be part of the discussion, Hetty passed Guy a plate. He looked annoyed. If she’d hoped to lighten the atmosphere between them and make things better, she’d failed.

  When the tea things were taken away, Eustace leaned back and yawned behind a hand. “Horatia, take Guy for a walk to the lake. I feel in need of a nap.”

  Eustace had clasped his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes before they left the room.

  The gardens greeted them with the smell of damp earth, the rustle of wind through the leaves, the call of birds, and the hum of insects. Guy opened the gate at the bottom of the parterre garden and stood aside for her to pass through.

  “Where did you learn to ride astride?” Guy asked her as they strolled together.

  Hetty picked a bay leaf from the tree and held it to her nose, breathing in its aromatic fragrance. “In India. A servant taught me to ride when my parents traveled into the higher country for the rainy season. Life was more relaxed there.”

  “How long were you in India?”

  “I spent my nursery years with Aunt Emily in England. Then I was sent to join my parents in Calcutta. It was different to England, but the English created a
society as close to England’s as they could make it. We enjoyed our tea, and they drank gin to keep malaria at bay. Cricket and polo matches were enormously popular. Not a heathenish existence by any means. It was every bit as strict as English society.” A small community rife with scandal and rumor as she remembered it. Much like the ton must be.

  The fountain was empty except for rotting leaves at the bottom. They skirted around the lime walk which was so overgrown as to be impassable, walking over the lawns toward the glimmer of water. The breeze had lost its sharpness, and the grass no longer crunched underfoot. It was unlike Guy to be so quiet. “Winter is losing its grip,” she said to fill in a long pause.

  “It should be pleasant here in the spring.”

  “It’s glorious. The trees with new leaves and every bush blooms with flowers.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  “Have I done something to annoy you?”

  He turned to face her, placing his hands gently on her shoulders. She startled at his touch. He was so physical. Englishmen weren’t so, at least not the ones she knew. His eyes implored hers. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said without hesitation.

  His eyes searched hers. “You believe that I am who I say I am?”

  “That you are Lord Fortescue? Of course, I do.”

  The deep timber of his voice sounded sincere, but more than that, she’d never detected any sign of deceptiveness in his manner.

  “Merci.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “I hate living under a cloud like this. I feel… helpless. Something I’m not used to.”

  “You must be patient. Eustace has written to your sister—”

  “It’s not that, for this will be settled in time. It’s a matter of trust.”

  “If you could just see it from Eustace’s point of view, Guy—”

  “Why should I?” he interjected. “Look around you at the state of this place.”

  “I’m sure there’s a good reason for it.”

  “You’re so loyal, Hetty.” He took her arm and turned back to the path.

  They reached the grassy bank and gazed out over the lentic calm of gray water dotted with waterfowl. “Let’s not talk about it,” he said. “When I’m with you, I want to think of other things.”

  “Like what?” She laughed. “The cost of bread?”

  A wicked twinkle entered his eyes. “What lies ahead. And how much I like your laugh.”

  Pleased, she shook her head at him. “I do declare you would flirt on your deathbed.” She recalled how close he’d come to it and put a hand to her mouth.

  He took one step toward her and reached for her hand, rubbing his thumb along the underside of her wrist. “I don’t wish to dwell on death. I want to think of life and how much I enjoyed kissing you.”

  “I think we should go back.”

  “Why? You’re safe with me.”

  Safe, he was the last thing from safe. His gaze rested on her mouth, and she took a gasp of air. “I thought we’d decided to put that in the past. You would not dare to kiss me again.”

  His wicked smile warned her that he would. She seemed rooted to the spot as he traced the shell of her ear with a finger, moving down to outline her jaw. “I never turn down a dare.”

  “Such rakish behavior is unforgivable, my lord.” She batted his hand away while fighting her own need. It was so hard to resist him.

  “You have labeled me a rake, so I’m inclined to live up to your vision of me,” he mocked. She saw hurt in his eyes as he lowered his head toward her.

  She stilled. “It’s a matter of trust. Didn’t you just say so yourself?”

  Guy straightened and shook his head with a slow grin. “Oh, that is utterly unfair of you, clever, Hetty.”

  He offered her his arm, and she took it. As they strolled back to the house, Hetty didn’t feel clever at all, just regretful that he hadn’t kissed her. But the closer they became, the more difficult it would be for her to face the fact he would never be hers. A baron must marry a titled lady, that was an undeniable truth.

  Three weeks dragged by while it rained every day, Lady Kemble’s card party the only bright light on the social agenda. If one could call it that. Both Guy and Eustace sent their regrets, but Mrs. Illingworth attended, and her father’s courtship with the widow continued at a leisurely pace.

  Bored and frustrated at not knowing what went on at Rosecroft Hall, Hetty turned her attention to the plight of The General. She found her father in his favorite chair in the library, sorting through his salmon fly hooks, his new copy of Thomas Best’s A Concise Treatise on the Art of Angling open on the desk.

  “Father, we finally have a fine day. Would you like to accompany me on a ride this afternoon?” A ray of sunlight from the window fell on her father’s face, revealing the deep lines and puckers. She almost gasped. He was getting old. When had his brown hair turned sparse and white around his ears?

  “Oh, I don’t think so, my dear.” He pushed his pince-nez up his nose and examined a fly more closely. “I’m most comfortable here.”

  “Then may Simon accompany me riding your horse?”

  “Must you? It looks like it might rain again.”

  “Father, can you not find someone interested in purchasing The General? It is cruel to keep him.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “My goodness, that’s a spirited request, my dear.”

  “Forgive me, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it worries me.”

  “I suspect you are right. But it will take time. I promise to ride him this Sunday.”

  “Why not this afternoon?”

  He looked pained. “I heard talk yesterday in the village that a stranger has been seen lurking about.”

  A warning bell sounded in Hetty’s mind. “A stranger? Where?”

  “Mr. Thurston passed a shabbily dressed fellow on horseback riding along the road toward the village. The vicar saw him, too. He’s not putting up at the inn. And after that episode with the highwaymen, one can’t be too careful. Best we remain in our homes.”

  Hetty climbed the stairs, her mind in a whirl. She walked around her bedchamber with prickles of unease on her nape. Could Guy’s life be in danger again?

  She stripped off her gown and took her forest green wool habit from the clothespress. She must warn Guy. Although she detested defying her father when she’d promised never to do it again, desperate times required desperate measures. Her mare was too slow; she would have to ride The General.

  Once on the road, The General lengthened his stride, and she was caught again by his grace and strength. He was far too good for her father’s Sunday rides. The sidesaddle was her one concession to propriety although she disliked it. The rain held off, and the horse covered the miles rapidly.

  It was a revelation when The General trotted up the carriage drive at Rosecroft Hall. Workmen labored everywhere. They had begun the immense task of restoring the Hall to its former glory. Carpenters replaced rotting timber and stone masons worked to repair the stone walls while other workmen filled in potholes in the carriage drive. Gardeners moved over the landscape as they pruned, clipped hedges, and weeded, preparing the beds for spring. Hetty dismounted and handed the reins to a footman. She picked up the skirt of her habit and walked to the door where the huge entryway dwarfed the waiting butler.

  “His lordship’s not here, Miss Cavendish,” Hammond said, in answer to her query. “He left a short time ago to ride to the village.”

  “Is my godfather here?”

  “He departed for London several days ago.”

  “Thank you, Hammond. Please tell his lordship I called.”

  She rode past the abandoned gatehouse, and once through the ornate wrought-iron gates, she reined in The General. It might have been one of the workers from a neighboring village that Mr. Thurston and the vicar had seen, for some employed up at the hall were new to the area. It would be sensible to go home before her father discovered her missing. She nudged The General’s flanks a
nd headed in that direction. But as she approached the turnoff to Malforth Manor, some unexplainable instinct drew her on toward the village.

  Hetty heard the rattle and jingle of a horse-drawn vehicle. Not wishing to meet with disapproval and fuel gossip, she rode into the shelter of the trees. She watched from her leafy hideaway as Mr. Gantry drove by in his curricle. She suspected he was on his way to visit her father. She hoped it would distract him for some time as the two liked to visit the farm and discuss livestock feed.

  When she’d come within a few miles of the village, she pulled The General to a stop. A mere presentiment brought her here before she had time to consider her actions. Going off half-cocked, her father would say. And he would rightly be angry with her. A brisk, cool breeze had sprung up and rain clouds hovered overhead. She would turn back as soon as she came to the end of Sherradspark Wood. The fields and farmlands would offer few hiding places for highwaymen. By now, Guy would be in the village. Most likely enjoying a tankard of ale in the oak-beamed coachman’s parlor of the King’s Arms. He would laugh at her and accuse her of being fanciful. Well, she wouldn’t tell him.

  When the road straightened out, she caught sight of a rider ahead. Guy, trotting his horse, safe and sound. Relief and embarrassment heated her face. He rode out of sight around another bend. She eased The General up, then turned his head for home before Guy saw her.

  A pistol shot ricocheted through the quiet air.

  Chapter Ten

  The General reared as panic tightened Hetty’s throat. Settling the horse, she urged him into a gallop. “Go boy!”

  The General obliged. They rounded the bend in minutes. Hetty gasped. Guy had dismounted. A man shoved a pistol into Guy’s back and pushed him into the trees.

  For a moment, she debated whether to ride for help or follow them into the forest. There was no time. When she’d reached the spot where Guy and the highwayman had disappeared, she dismounted and looped the reins over a bush. She fought her way through the bushes and trees, the brambles snagging her habit. Broken twigs and trampled undergrowth marked the path the men had taken. The trail crunched under her boots. Their voices reached her, and she crept forward.