The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series)

by Miranda Davis

  “That’s not necessary, Clun.”

  “I’ll not rest easy until you are properly situated, my lady,” he declared.

  Low murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd though the couple remained oblivious.

  “You haven’t minded my situation since we first met,” Elizabeth said. “You knew who I was yet you left me on my own at the cottage.”

  “I most certainly did not, you goose! I spent cold hours under the stars on guard that first night. Then I arranged for Roddy to put men to work nearby so you’d come to no harm. Oh no!” He held up a hand to silence her reply. “I’ll have no more of that ‘signs of affection’ blather, by God,” he barked. “Bathing in the stream, will you. I wouldn’t let anyone bathe in that stream. It’s only commonsense, you hear me? You could catch your death! Or drown.”

  There were chuckles among the onlookers. The majority opinion whispered back and forth was that his lordship must take the moonchild in hand, and not a moment too soon, for a young lady who dances around cows would only come to harm otherwise.

  Didn’t bode well for their children’s good sense, others muttered darkly, but who were they to naysay?

  Clun continued his lecture, “And do you think firewood fairies left you that great, heaping pile while you were trading my game in the village?”

  For an instant, Elizabeth looked nonplussed. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “Right. You’re coming to The Graces now. We’ll gather your things on the way.”

  “But—”

  He tried to bring her through the crowd surrounding them. Clun finally noticed they were the chief amusement for a sizable gathering of carters, farmers and villagers. Caught gawking, the audience feigned a fascination for the sky, their feet, or their fingernails. They looked anywhere else, in other words, rather than meet Lord Clun’s blackest gaze.

  “Not another word, my lady,” he said. She smiled first at him and then at the people surrounding them; they grinned back and parted to let the couple and horse pass.

  “Pixilated mayhap,” one villager whispered to another, “but in a nice way.”

  His lordship led Elizabeth through the crowd and continued his harangue, “I know you relish frigid water but would a hot bath in a big copper tub be such a torment? Wouldn’t you enjoy a nice, warm, relaxing soak? You could wash your hair. Have it combed through and dressed by a lady’s maid.”

  She stumbled.

  He couldn’t help grinning like Beelzebub buying a prime soul on the cheap. If he couldn’t yet command her acquiescence, he would tempt her to it.

  “You’ll have to endure a soft bed without any lumps, fluffy down pillows and clean linen sheets smelling of lav-en-der,” he crooned, playing pied piper to his grubby, tangle-haired lady.

  She closed her eyes and sighed, “Clean sheets.”

  “And Mrs. Wirt would see your unmentionables are cleaned and pressed. Perhaps the Fur-, er, the baroness has left some frocks that might suit in a pinch. That is, if you wouldn’t mind wearing something other than your rustic gowns.”

  She blinked. He watched the last of her resistance crumble at the mention of clean, pressed undergarments. He chortled triumphant.

  “It’s too far to walk. You’ll ride with me, if you please.”

  He lifted her to sit sidesaddle on Algernon and mounted effortlessly behind her, his thighs bracketing her bottom. For good measure, he pulled her snug against his body. He didn’t have to, he just wanted to.

  Eyes followed them as they crossed the bridge and left the village at a sedate walk.

  Soon after, they reached the thatched cottage. He dismounted first and plucked her down. She hurried inside to gather her few belongings into the small portmanteau she’d brought. In no time, she stood ready to abandon the rustic dwelling and its creatures for The Graces and its creature comforts.

  Clun tied her bag behind the saddle and mounted first.

  “Your hand,” he ordered, reaching down to Lady Elizabeth.

  * * *

  No point arguing, Elizabeth realized. The baron would’ve known it was only token resistance. She longed for mouse-less nights of sleep in lavender-scented linen sheets.

  “Your hand,” he repeated calmly from astride Algernon.

  Elizabeth would normally bristle at such high-handedness. In this instance, she did as she was told, placing her hand in his large, warm grasp and her foot on his in the stirrup. Truth to tell, his managing attitude made her feel cosseted, though a bit roughly, by a strong, supremely confident man.

  He lifted her up before him with heart-stopping ease. Her stomach fluttered when she settled once again between his legs. To gather the reins in one hand, his brawny arms encircled her and brushed against the sides of her unbound breasts. It sent heat shimmering through her. His free hand came to rest on her waist and she snuggled back against his chest. He nudged Algernon’s forward. They rode, she thought, like a knight and his lady.

  Approaching The Graces, she sat up tall in his arms. The elegant sprawl crowned a rise that overlooked a meandering lake, its stream and a patchwork of fields delineated by hand-stacked stone walls. Who knew the Elysian Fields lay tucked away in Shropshire! Looking left and right, every vista enchanted her in the same way Lord Clun had, by being handsome in a rugged, unfussy way. Reaching the tall gatehouse, she tilted her head back till it bumped against Clun’s shoulder. They passed under the vaulted stone archway into the courtyard. She felt his rumble of amusement.

  “You approve, my lady?” This he purred not an inch from her ear. His breath teased her skin. His ‘appRrrove’ made her sigh. Oh, she approved. Wholeheartedly.

  She twisted in his arms to look at him. “It’s breathtaking.”

  He blinked at her before looking away with a nod. After a moment, he replied, “Indeed.”

  If this was a glimpse of their married life, she bubbled, it would be two parts fairy tale to one part charmed reality.

  By the front door, a footman took Algernon’s bridle while his lordship dismounted. Clun grinned up at her, lifted her and let her slide down his solid body in scandalous fashion. To make matters worse, he held her much closer than propriety allowed for much, much longer than proper. All of which left her a bit wobbly. She closed her eyes, smelled his clean-male-scent-with-horse-top-note and teetered. He steadied her, then chortled. She didn’t know where to look and she certainly couldn’t help blushing to the tips of her ears.

  “Oh dear,” he said. “I’ve made you blush.” He drew her hand through his arm and led her to the open door where the butler stood, his expression ever-so-slightly harried.

  “Elizabeth, this is Penfold.” At Clun’s introduction, she nodded and the head butler bowed.

  “Your ladyship, I apologize that the entire staff is not here to greet you properly. I was not aware— ”

  “Penfold,” Clun cut in gently, “my lady wants a hot bath more than a presentation of staff. It’s been a rather venturesome journey for her.”

  Penfold’s face relaxed by an infinitesimal degree. “Very good, my lord.”

  Elizabeth sighed in relief. With so much to take in, she’d forgotten how anxious she was for a tub of hot water, soap and a scrubbing flannel. That Clun remembered touched her.

  Penfold quickly arranged with Mrs. Wirt to have the Gold bedchamber readied for her ladyship. The housekeeper directed an upper maid to serve as Elizabeth’s interim lady’s maid. Everyone had expected the baron to bring home his new bride sometime after his own unexpected return, so these domestic tasks were performed without demur. His staff was also too well trained to look askance at Elizabeth’s unorthodox appearance, lack of trunks or absence of personal servants.

  “When does her ladyship wish to meet the staff, my lord?” Penfold asked.

  “Tomorrow should do,” Clun replied for her and drew her inside.

  Everywhere Elizabeth looked, the house’s vaulted ceilings glowed in the fading light. The floors gleamed. Wood furniture glittered with careful
ly dusted gilt carvings, their upholstery suitably cheerful in the gracious, airy rooms she glimpsed from the grand foyer.

  Clun escorted her upstairs to the door of the baroness’ bedchamber. “We dine early. Will half-past-six allow you time?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Given a long soak, she might recuperate from the series of shocks she suffered so far that day. Most devastating was discovering that Lord Clun was quite agreeable when not beastly and disobliging.

  His lordship lifted her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist before letting her float into the bedchamber. Add that shock to the rest. She was thoroughly undone by the baron’s bold gesture. She hadn’t realized how thrilling skin-to-skin contact could be until the moment his bare fingers grasped her ungloved hand and he pressed his lips so intimately against the thin skin of her wrist. No wonder Society required women to wear gloves — it kept them safe from temptation.

  The Gold bedchamber consisted of a suite of rooms that included a lovely bedroom, a prettily appointed sitting room and a dressing room with an enclosed Bramah water closet. Curious, she lifted the hardwood top of the cabinet and spied a floral transferware porcelain bowl within. (She’d never used one. Only the earl’s suite had a flushing water closet on Damogan Square.) Overhead on the wall was its cistern. Curious, she pulled the cistern chain and a swirl of water rinsed the bowl and drained through a valve that slid shut. Ingenious but too complicated to ever replace the chamber pot. Such a pity.

  She continued her exploration. Beyond the first dressing room lay another. She cracked open the door and peeked inside before entering. A dress uniform of the Royal Horse Guards Blue hung in a wardrobe, the clean, blue wool jacket gleamed with braid, buttons and trim. On the floor stood a pair of black, over-the-knee riding boots shined to a high gloss, and on a tall chest of drawers sat a gilt embossed helmet with thick crest of black bear fur nestled in a specially constructed bandbox. Displayed on top of a low cabinet were a saber sheathed in its scabbard with sash, black gauntlet style leather riding gloves as well as other paraphernalia.

  The top drawer of the dresser held numerous small presentation boxes. She opened one and found a round silver coin-style medal on a red and blue striped ribbon. The Prince Regent’s profile graced the obverse; on its reverse, “Wellington” arched over a winged figure of Victory, and at her feet the word “Waterloo.” Another was a gold cross with a proud lion in its center suspended from a broad crimson ribbon with blue. There were more such boxes that she didn’t open. She also found folded, yellowing newspaper clippings. The first she read astonished her.

  The closed door at the far end of this dressing room beckoned. It opened to the baron’s bedroom, she presumed. She tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. Did she dare explore farther out than beyond the pale?

  ‘Marriage, dear,’ Mrs. Abeel had often observed, ‘is a wondrous effective sanitizer.’

  Elizabeth turned the knob and swung the door wide. She walked into the spacious, well-furnished bedchamber. It faced east to the entry arch. The room had a fireplace before which sprawled a gruesome bearskin rug with a great head and huge curved claws. Upon closer inspection, the bear’s ferocious expression resembled Clun’s on any number of occasions. The canopied baronial bedstead sprawled on the other side of the room.

  She explored the less intimate side of the baron’s bedchamber. Two comfortable chairs flanked the fireplace and bearskin rug. In pride of place on the wood mantle sat an elegant Vulliamy clock with classical figures done in pale unglazed Derby porcelain. It was a surprisingly delicate timepiece for such a big, brusque man. She sat at his handsome, ebonized writing table and lost herself in thought. When she heard a maid direct a troop of footmen bearing a large hip bath and buckets of hot water into her chamber, she rushed from his room, anxious to luxuriate in her piping hot bath.

  The maid helped her undress. The peculiarity of her homely frock and the dearth of appropriate gowns and accoutrements embarrassed Elizabeth, but ‘One never explains oneself to servants. It only leads to mischief,’ as her mentor often said.

  Elizabeth slipped gratefully into the bath. After weeks of washing with a mobcap, a tub full of hot water nearly made her swoon. She soaked blissfully then scrubbed herself with soap. The maid rubbed her dry till her skin tingled and combed her wet hair carefully. Wrapped in a borrowed dressing gown, she lay down on the bed to rest until the maid returned to dress her for dinner.

  What to wear?

  There were no derelict gowns in the dressing room. Her other witch’s frock would have to do. Clun would understand. At least her lilac gloves were brushed clean and presentable.

  Almost immediately, Elizabeth grew restless. And curious. She snuck once again through both dressing rooms to his door, leaned close and, hearing nothing on the other side, quietly turned the brass knob. In the shadowy room, a merry wood fire burned in the fireplace grate, making a cheery sound. The usual coal fire had no such homey charm. She stopped in her tracks.

  Before the fire sprawled Lord Clun asleep on the bearskin rug. His head rested beside the bear’s snarling, glassy-eyed head. He wore a rumpled linen shirt, buckskin breeches, no boots, just stockings.

  Elizabeth could only stare. Her eyes swept down his broad back and lingered on the swell of his rump, which she’d already studied while he chopped wood. His shoulders were round as cannonballs; his arms bulged with muscle. All of him was cast into high relief by firelight and shadow.

  Large as he was, he was exquisite in his way, too. In profile, his thick, black brow arched low over his closed eye, while a delicate arc of black lashes curved in the opposite direction on his cheek. His nose had a clean, classical angle with the hood of his nostril finely sculpted. His jaw was firm and square. And his lips recalled the Greek and Roman busts everyone loved to collect and display in their houses. As elegant as he appeared in repose, he was still a great beast of a man, reposing on another elementally powerful creature.

  She should have crept from the room immediately She didn’t. Her own animal instinct started howling at her. Touch the beast! Pet him!

  Rather than ignore the temptation, his sleeping form drew her near until her toes felt the tickle of the bear’s rough golden brown fur. She knelt down. His back was broad and inviting.

  I mustn’t.

  He slept deeply. She ran a hand softly down from his shoulder to the dip in his lower back.

  I really mustn’t.

  She did it again. He didn’t stir.

  Oh, where’s the harm?

  In one motion, she slid over him. Carefully, she settled herself onto his wide back and reclined fully on him just as he reclined on the bear. It was wonderful. His body was warm as a teapot.

  He stirred soon after she was situated comfortably, but he didn’t awaken fully just then.

  Chapter 9

  In which the beast awakes.

  After seeing Lady Elizabeth to her rooms, Clun gave thanks for the ease with which he brought his fiancée home to The Graces. It could’ve gone badly. The lady might’ve balked at the last minute. Or reacted oddly when Penfold assumed they were married. Staff might’ve asked awkward questions. Instead she was safely tucked away in the baroness’ suite adjoining his, taking a bath, for God’s sake. Lustful visions of that bath would’ve tortured him had he not been too exhausted to think about it. Inappropriate dreams would likely blight his napping mind, but there was little he could do about that. He stalked into his room disgusted with his lack of self-control.

  He unwound his stock, unbuttoned and shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat and used a jack to pry off his boots. Country attire was much more comfortable than the closely tailored cutaway coats, waistcoats and form-fitting pantaloons and breeches his valet Fewings shamed him into wearing ‘as he ought’ in Town. He’d only just sent word to recall Fewings to The Graces. So Clun was a free, unfettered and slightly rumpled country gentleman until his man’s man arrived in a few days to reestablish sartorial order.

  A fire
blazed and the vast bearskin rug of his childhood beckoned.

  He’d received the ferocious floor covering from his father as a Christmas present when he was eight years old. It was the only gift he ever received from that quarter as far as he knew. He received it only because a footman new to the castle had informed him that a trunk addressed to him arrived from Lord Clun in London. The accompanying note explained it was a grizzly bear skin from the Canadian wilderness. He had the trunk brought to his room immediately, where he and the footman opened it and laid the rug out. The great monster’s head was frozen mid-snarl and its clawed paws stretched impossibly wide. It was on his floor — and he was on it — before the baroness caught wind of it.

  She was displeased when she did.

  As a boy, he’d wondered if the baron had sent other gifts that his mother spirited off and disposed of without his knowledge. His question was answered when she sacked the footman and sent him off without a character the following day. A week shy, Roddy observed, of Boxing Day and his year-end gift.

  With Roddy’s help, he himself had made good as best he could by giving the hapless footman the balance of his quarterly allowance and an enthusiastic letter of recommendation from the Hon. Wm. Tyler de Sayre. (Their tutor transcribed it into an adult’s hand.)

  Young William’s thank-you note to his father was their only correspondence. In it, he expressed sincere delight with his bear and wished his lordship a happy, healthy New Year. As a precaution, he took the letter to Cook, who posted it for him in the village on her fortnightly half day off.

  The boy took to lying on the monster, resting his head on its head. He whispered many confidences into the bear’s ears, knowing it would guard his secrets fiercely from all snoopers. Before going off to Eton, he bundled it up and removed it to The Graces for safekeeping.

  Two decades later, Roddy saw it placed in the baronial bedchamber as soon as Clun returned. It smelled of cedar and fresh air. It was good to see his old friend just as he remembered him, or rather, almost as he remembered him. Though well kept, his bear had shrunk with the passage of time and in the eyes of a mature man. Clun marveled how, as a child, the rug had been a vast silver-tipped sea of golden brown fur. He’d grown into a large man himself since then. Now, the grizzly bear fit him more proportionately.