Cocky Baron: Regency Cocky Gents (Book 2)

by Annabelle Anders

  “Isn’t it though?” Really, there was likely nothing to worry about. From what she knew of these unspeakable arrangements such as Chase presumably had had with Lady Starling, they were usually short-lived.

  Unless Chase had developed an attachment to the lovely widow.

  Bethany scooped up her mother’s reticule and shawl and urgently shuffled toward the doors that exited onto the terrace.

  Chapter 3

  Saving Him

  Dancers were just finishing up the quadrille as Chase entered the ballroom in search of the enthusiastic widow. He hadn’t even realized Miranda was back in London yet. If he recalled correctly, she’d mentioned something about visiting her late husband‘s family in Brighton.

  But if she was indeed here…

  His hand itched as lust slowly heated his blood. Her in-laws’ loss, then, was to be his gain. Thirty minutes yet, until midnight, but he could wait outside.

  Not taking time to retrieve his hat or coat, Chase exited onto the terrace and paused to examine his choices. Which of these confounded paths led to the folly? He would meet Miranda for this one rendezvous tonight but then make himself perfectly clear regarding his intentions.

  It wouldn’t do to allow her to become overly attached.

  He removed a cigar from his pocket, along with his cutter, clipped the end, and then scorched it using one of the conveniently placed torches. After the cherry had thoroughly heated, he placed the tip between his lips, leaned forward, and sucked lightly until a hazy glow jumped across to the rolled vice.

  Drawing smoke into his mouth and retaining it there before allowing it to escape, his irritation ebbed slightly.

  Consuming a full flask of whisky ought to have sufficed.

  Likely, his melancholy could be blamed on Westerley, one of his oldest friends. Blasted bounder. How dare he marry? Worse, how dare he fall in love? It was almost as though he was taunting him. Next thing, Mantis would be getting himself hitched. And then Stone, Greys, Peter, hell, even Blackheart.

  Leaving Chase to juggle the dubious obligations he’d inherited from his father.

  Frowning at his thoughts, Chase contemplated the various footpaths set out before him. Which of them would lead to nowhere, and which led to unspeakable amorous delights? Damned whisky. Strong enough to affect his ambulatory abilities but too weak to discharge his foul mood.

  And damn Westerley and his bleeding happily ever after. Not that he cared for one himself. In fact, the opposite, really. Love was nothing more than a burden disguised as relief. Chase reined in any musings that had him thinking differently.

  He leaned against a tree and examined his cigar before taking a second puff.

  When a man’s best friend ups and falls in love, and then marries, dear God, it oughtn’t to send his friends reexamining their own less-than-satisfying lives.

  Hell and damnation, he certainly didn’t need more women to protect. Such musings were preposterous.

  Chase headed down the path again.

  When—if—Chase ever married, it would not be for love, by God. One need only spend a few days with his mother to understand what a horrible notion that was. His father had once loved his mother.

  Once. For a few months, a year?

  And then he’d loved someone else.

  The blighter had left his mother the shell of a woman she once was—a woman who’d lost touch with segments of reality. An eccentric. A shut-in.

  No. Marriage must be entered into for reasons far more substantial than emotion.

  If one married at all.

  Not that Westerley wouldn’t find great happiness with his new countess. He and his little American redhead seemed to have fallen into an extraordinary sort of love—an anomaly of sorts. And although Westerley had married her after hardly a month’s acquaintance, Chase knew his friend wouldn’t have entered the institution lightly.

  A few nights after the engagement had been announced, late one evening over billiards, Westerly had confessed he’d experienced a moment when everything became crystal clear. He’d said that he knew— beyond a shadow of a doubt—that Charlotte Jackson was the one, that she was the other half of himself he’d not known existed for most of his life. He’d compared it to being struck by lightning or some such nonsense.

  Chase would avoid all threatening thunderstorms in the near and distant future.

  He chuckled at his own thoughts and then paused to attend to his cigar.

  It wasn’t that the idea of romantic love repulsed him, per se, but it would be naïve to imagine himself ever being faithful to one woman for a lifetime. If, God forbid, he married for love, when he eventually became enthralled with some woman other than his wife, as he inevitably would, he’d require himself to practice denial and self-control. Because, regarding marriages based upon love, devotion and all that, he didn’t believe in infidelity. Not after witnessing the results of his own father’s cavalier faithlessness.

  It was cruel and heartless when one participant of such marriages transferred their affections to someone who was not their enamored spouse.

  Now, if the marriage was an arranged one—a loveless one—that was an entirely different beast. No emotions to muck things up.

  It was the only kind he would consider.

  Chase squinted into the dark. Yes. There it was, the gazebo and then the bench. It wasn’t light enough to read his timepiece so he would simply make himself comfortable and wait, finishing his cigar in the interim.

  Music from the Willoughbys’ ballroom drifted from the house, making the alcove rather peaceful. Just him and a most excellent smoke.

  He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him, and puffed until finally allowing the last embers to die. Rolling the tip on the flagstone at his feet, he relished in the anticipation of a satisfying romp.

  She ought to be along any moment. He glanced around and then pounded on the wood of the bench. They could be creative enough right here. Best not arrange to meet her at her home, and no chance in hell he would bring her back to his. No, they could experience a good deal of pleasure in this darkly private niche.

  He imagined various scenarios they might attempt. For all the gossip of Lady Starling’s tendency to cling to her most recent lover, Chase had to admit she made it worthwhile.

  He squinted down at his watch. The music no longer played, leaving sounds of the murmuring guests to float outside. If guests were partaking of supper, it was surely past midnight already.

  Oh, but it was dim outside. With no moon and only a few lanterns burning, the ambiance all but demanded romantic trysts. Bethany dashed onto the path that she was ninety-nine percent certain led to the folly.

  However, nearly complete blackness surrounded her after she’d taken no less than ten steps into the various shrubs and trees. She slowed and narrowed her eyes.

  Her certainty fell to ninety-eight percent when she stumbled past an unfamiliar ornamental fountain. Drat, she ought to have snatched up one of those lanterns.

  Too late now.

  Her apprehensions doubled when she arrived at a fork in the trail, causing her to again reconsider going back for a torch. But time was running out. Should she go left or right?

  She closed her eyes, doing her best to remember the occasion when she and Felicity had explored these gardens a few years ago. Felicity had wanted to avoid a particularly relentless suitor so the two of them had stolen outside where the besotted gentleman wouldn’t find her.

  Left.

  Holding her hands out in front of her, she crept slowly along the dirt path. Had she passed this copse of elder trees already? Dear Lord, was she going in circles? Panic set in when the music that had been floating from the manor silenced.

  Supper was being served!

  She was on the verge of turning back when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the distant roofline of the folly. Was she too late? In a panic, she increased her pace. When a prickly bush caught the sleeve of her gown and tore, she didn’t take the t
ime to stop and untangle it.

  And then a low-hanging branch did the same to her coiffure.

  Drat and fiddlesticks and so many other words that she wished she could utter out loud!

  Her only consolation was that she didn’t sense any goings-on of a scandalous nature in the area up ahead. All she needed to do to succeed in her endeavor was to beat Rachel Somerset there.

  She pushed through to the edge of the trees but then halted. The folly was empty.

  Oh, but Delia had told her the bench was behind the folly.

  Fearing she was already too late, Bethany edged her way around the perimeter. Please let me be on time, she chanted in her mind, contemplating how mortifying it would be to stumble on Chase with any woman, let alone Rachel Somerset.

  When the rather striking silhouette of a lone gentleman sitting on the bench came into view, she exhaled the breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.

  Was Rachel on her way? Bethany had no doubt midnight had already come and gone, and she was doubtful Delia could delay her sister much longer.

  Best to keep quiet for now.

  Bethany tiptoed closer, certain it was Chase now. She’d grown familiar with the tilt of his head as well as the scent of his particular brand of cigars, but there was something else—something undefinable. If she closed her eyes, she did not doubt that she would have sensed his presence, the essence of his person sitting in the dark.

  She paused and took advantage of the moment to study his profile. This was a rare opportunity to see him like this, quiet and alone, not joking with her brothers or putting on a façade for mixed company.

  He had one arm draped along the back of the bench and was staring off into the distance. What would it be like to truly know Triston Aaron Corbet, the man behind the baron? What would it be like for him to want her the way he wanted someone like Lady Starling? To be kissed by him? To be the object of his affections?

  The knowledge that she’d never have the answer to any of these questions pinched her heart, and she found herself ridiculously blinking back tears.

  “Chase,” she whispered.

  He stilled and then seemed to stiffen but didn’t answer or turn around. Had he heard her?

  He reminded her of a lion in wait.

  Chapter 4

  Uh Oh!

  A snapping sound rewarded Chase’s patience.

  She was here. Finally. There was no mistaking the sound of feminine footsteps as they crept up behind him. Would she attempt to blindfold him with a silk scarf she would have brought along for this very purpose? Or perhaps she’d use it to bind his hands to the bench.

  Chase froze and held himself silent. On this one occasion, he’d claim the upper hand. He would set the tone for this evening’s game.

  When her delicate hand landed on his shoulder, he was more than prepared. He flipped her onto his lap, threw up her skirts, and landed a resounding slap on her sweet derriere. “This is for being late,” he growled as his hand rubbed her tender flesh.

  Ripe.

  Warm.

  Pliable.

  He slapped her again. “This is for not wearing pantaloons.”

  Slap.

  “And this is for telling me you were going to Brighton.”

  But when he went to slide his palm between her legs, thrilled at the prospect of finding soft, wet pussy, she began kicking and squirming.

  “What on earth? Ompf! Get your hands off me! It’s me, you scoundrel! You cad! You villain!”

  Perhaps if it hadn’t been so dark, or if he hadn’t been quite so inebriated, or caught up in his own particular brand of woes, Chase might have known instantly by the tenor of her voice, by her gasp, that something was dreadfully, terribly, horribly wrong.

  Controlled flames materialized from the folly, illuminating the grass, the bench, the trees surrounding them…

  The squirming woman in his lap.

  Bright light flooded the area that only moments before had seemed to be the perfect location for a tryst. Chase found himself in something of a spotlight, with an audience of ladies of the ton peering at him with accusing eyes.

  Startled by the onslaught of gawkers, he glanced down and his blood ran cold.

  Not Miranda. Not even close.

  Chase was regrettably, ruinously, disastrously… spanking the wrong woman.

  Chapter 5

  Big Mistake

  This was Chase, the man she’d dreamt about—the man she’d sighed over and cried over more times than she could count—handling her almost violently and in a most inappropriate manner

  Not simply touching her but…

  Spanking her!

  What on earth? Mortification. Shock. And more stinging!

  She attempted to squirm off his lap, but he held her tight. And good Lord, whatever he kept in his pocket was poking up and into her…

  Was he carrying a pistol?

  Her realization that it most definitely wasn’t a pistol had her arching her back and twisting. “Chase! You bacon-brained—ompf! It’s me!”

  The flicker of an approaching torch barely registered as she did her best to escape this humiliating attack. Before she could break free, however, the flicker brightened, causing her to stretch her neck up so that she could see where it was coming from.

  In that precise instance, Chase’s hand stilled, and he stiffened beneath her.

  “Lord Chaswick!”

  “Lady Bethany!”

  Voices chockfull of shock echoed around them.

  Chase’s heart.

  Literally.

  Stopped.

  He’d not been spanking Miranda. Not even close. He’d been spanking an altogether different bottom.

  Lady Bethany’s.

  Westerley’s sister!

  Even as realization struck, he whipped her gown down to cover the creamy expanse of flesh he’d exposed—exposed and smacked. He took in one last glance just long enough to note the crimson print in the shape of a hand glowing a nice pink against her skin.

  His handprint.

  On Lady Bethany’s bum.

  If he’d been a woman, he might have swooned. But since he was not, he did the gentlemanly thing and awkwardly assisted her to a sitting position. The maneuver wasn’t as easy as it ought to have been, seeing as his life was flashing before his eyes.

  “I—” He needed to apologize but his voice seemed to have closed up. “I’m so--” Westerley would have no choice but to defend his sister’s honor.

  “Send for her mother at once!” one of the women amongst the onlookers shouted.

  “Westerley’s going to kill him.”

  “He’ll call him out for certain.”

  “I didn’t really think she was the type.”

  “I didn’t think she was his type.”

  His heart plummeted when he got a look at her face, which was red from having been inverted, tears streaming down her cheeks. The only time he’d ever witnessed Bethany crying had been at her father’s funeral.

  Someone punch me now.

  Plunge a dagger through my heart.

  Shoot a bullet into my brain.

  As the hordes of onlookers surrounded them, her gray-blue eyes widened, and then she buried her face into the side of his neck as though looking for somewhere to hide. The sensation of tears moistening his skin punished him further.

  “Come, come, Lady Bethany.” Lady Ravensdale, perhaps London’s most respected countess, rushed forward, glaring at Chase as she lowered herself to the bench and dropped an arm around Bethany’s shoulders. “Send them away at once,” she hissed at Chase through clenched teeth.

  The steel behind the countess’s words jolted him out of his shocked paralysis. Damage control. Mitigate the situation to the best of his ability.

  With a jerk of his shoulders, he shifted so that Lady Ravensdale was seated on the bench now and partially shielding Bethany as he slid out from beneath her.

  A tremor shook Bethany’s delicate frame the moment before he released her.
>
  She would be protected too late, though. Much too late. He crouched down at her feet. “Bethany, I’m so sorry—I thought. I didn’t think—” His voice broke. How had he been so stupid? What in the hell had he been thinking?

  He hadn’t been thinking. He’d been lusting. This was what happened when he allowed his guard to drop.

  “What on earth has happened?” Their hostess Lady Willoughby’s voice cut through the bystanders’ speculations. “What has she done?”

  “Showed her bottom to everyone!” some busybody answered. “Shameful behavior!”

  “She’s ruined,” a high-pitched voice announced. “Only a whore would allow such a thing.”

  Chase rose and turned to challenge the impertinent person who dared censure Bethany with such venom. Not one of them met his eyes. Exactly what he would have expected. Whoever had been so courageous a moment before was suddenly not so bold. White-hot anger had him forgetting that he needed to disperse this ravenous throng. Anger at this mob but mostly directed at himself.

  “Chaswick!”

  He swung around and nearly collapsed in relief at the sight of Stone and Peter Spencer approaching, Mantis right behind them.

  The relief, however, was premature. Before he could say a word, Stone’s fist collided with his face, sending a stinging pain reverberating through his eye, his cheek, and into his brain.

  His knees buckled, but when he went to collapse, Mantis supported him on one side, Peter on the other, and the two of them dragged him along one of the ubiquitous paths, presumably toward the manor.

  “Greys’ driver is bringing his carriage around. Best get you out of here,” Mantis growled. “What in the bloody hell, Chase?”

  “You thought she was Lady Starling, didn’t you?” Peter had the right of it. Would anyone else come to this conclusion or would the rabid lot conclude he’d intentionally ravish an honorable lady against her will?