His lordship found the duke’s box and was shown inside. He bowed over the duchess’ hand. He and Ainsworth exchanged wry looks as Prudence tried to drum up some enthusiasm for the upcoming performance.
Clun scanned the hall. It took no time to find her. Elizabeth sat resplendent in a shimmering, pale blush silk gown almost directly opposite them in the Morefield box also on the third tier balcony beside the stage. With her sat Mr. Traviston, Viscount Speare and two exquisite blondes, the older beauty was Traviston’s wife, Lady Petra, the other, their daughter Constance. He looked daggers at Speare until satisfied that the viscount devoted most of his attention to the younger blonde at his side. Elizabeth sat upright staring directly at him across the hall.
He squinted to try to make out her expression.
Looking around, he spied the duchess’ lorgnette, a feminine contrivance decorated in lustrous mother of pearl and festooned with an opulent spray of ostrich plumes dyed to match her gown.
“May I, Your Grace?” He asked and pointed to the dainty thing in her hands.
She held it out to him and said, “I had not thought you a Mozart aficionado.”
He grimaced. Without a word, he swung the frilly glasses open on their thin handle and peered through them. He ignored both the low snorting of His Grace and Her Grace’s gurgles as he stared across the way to watch Elizabeth, who at that moment was laughing till she choked behind her fan.
Rrrrgh.
Stagehands lit the footlights to signal the start of the performance; others rushed to draw away the heavy curtains. From his vantage point, Clun saw the chaos of activity in the left wing. Two burly men dunked armloads of blankets into a tub of water. By law, theaters had to have at least eight wet blankets on hand in case draperies or scrims caught fire during a performance.
Throughout the hall, pages used long-handled snuffers to put out the candles in the many chandeliers dangling from the balconies. When the hall was dark, the orchestra struck up the overture. Singers began wailing and squawking soon after.
Still he stared.
Elizabeth turned toward the stage and only occasionally glanced sideways at him. He, on the other hand, watched her through the feminine frills of his purloined lorgnette till the interval.
Clun noticed the box across the way filled quickly with visitors, Wilder among them. The oleaginous grub bent low over Elizabeth’s hand and she smiled up at him. In a blink, he flicked apart his coattails and seated himself in a vacant chair beside her. That cocklebrain somehow made her smile.
Rrrrrrrgghhh.
His anger was reaching the point of combustion.
“Enough, Clun! My wife would like to see the second half, if you please.” The duke leaned over to tweak the lorgnette out of Clun’s hand. Its plumes were sadly crushed in his fist.
“My apologies, Duchess,” Clun grumbled. “Forgot myself.”
“Perhaps you should stretch your legs,” she said and patted his arm. “The performance is making you tense. Though I assure you it ends happily.”
“I am never tense,” he replied.
“Of course not,” the duchess said in an unmistakably matronizing tone.
His lordship sank low in his seat and glowered directly across the way until the interval ended. Wilder lingered. Only when the performance resumed did Clun excuse himself to stalk 180 degrees around the curving hallway to the Morefield box and tap on the door. He almost regretted being the ninth wet blanket. A page opened it, and his lordship told the young man to convey his compliments to Lady Elizabeth and to request a moment with her.
From the doorway, Clun overheard the page whisper his message, and her reply, “A word with me? Who?”
“He wouldn’t say,” the page answered, “and I dared not insist, my lady.”
“Make the gentleman come in, Lady Elizabeth,” Wilder teased. “Let’s have a look at him.”
“That wouldn’t be wise, Mr. Wilder.”
Clun waited impatiently until Elizabeth opened the box door and slipped into the hall.
“I saw you staring at me through those ludicrous glasses, Clun. Everyone did,” she whispered.
“What of it? I’m short-sighted,” he hissed back. He reached behind her to close the door.
“Well,” she replied, “do you disapprove of something?”
“No. Yes. Why must you let that empty rattle Wilder hang all over you that way?”
“You could’ve taken advantage of the interval to kick up a fuss. What took you so long?”
“For a time, common sense prevailed then principle overcame it,” he grumbled, looking her up and down.
Her pale skin flushed wherever his glance rested. This pleased him. So did the low-cut gown she wore upon closer inspection. The color, though pale, made her skin luminous in the half-light. And there was so much creamy, mounded amounts of her bared beneath his nose, it made his mind skitter from one inappropriate thought to the next.
How was a man supposed to concentrate when so much had so little restraining it into order?
“Well?” She recalled him to the moment, “Have your say, I’m missing the performance.”
He drew her away from the door to the other side of the hallway. Gruffer than usual, he said, “Wilder will disappoint you, Bess.”
“When did my disappointment become your concern, Lord Clun?”
“It has always been,” he said and looked away, “and so long as we’re betrothed it will remain my concern, right or wrong. You deserve better than Wilder.”
“I do?”
“Much better.” Clun took her upper arms in a firm grip and repeated, “Much.”
She studied his face in silence and he felt his throat ripple with each hard swallow.
“I appreciate your concern, my lord, and I will take it into consideration.” She continued to stare, but he couldn’t bring himself to let her go. She glowed as if moonlit, which of course was impossible.
“Clun, you are staring at my bosom.” Her tone was calm and steely.
His eyes snapped up to meet hers. “Not at all, Elizabeth. I was merely lost in thought.” As he spoke, his gaze drifted down again to her celestial orbs as if pulled by the natural laws of gravity.
“Clun!” She stamped her foot, which made them jiggle hypnotically. “A gentleman does not stare fixedly at a lady’s bosom.”
“And a lady doesn’t mention her body parts to a man,” he retorted. “It only draws his attention to them.”
“You were staring at them long before I mentioned them.”
However right she was, he was loath to admit it.
“I’m fairly certain I wasn’t,” he snapped. His eyes had already fallen once again to delve into her décolletage. “I hadn’t noticed it…them…Not really, not until you stamped about and set them in motion.”
“Stop it!” she hissed with another emphatic stamp of her foot. There was a voluptuous bounce where he mustn’t stare but he could not help himself.
He clapped a hand over his eyes and muttered, “Have you never heard of a fichu, woman?”
“With an evening dress? Don’t be silly.”
Peeking through his fingers, he watched her smooth the long, evening glove above her elbow. Crossing her arm over her chest in that way only served to plump the contents of her bodice as she worked the glove higher. She had no idea how glorious a sight she was.
“This is hardly as daring as some you’ll see here tonight,” she said and started adjusting the other glove.
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said. It was the God’s honest truth. He had not noticed any other female’s frock, no matter how plunging. He’d only noticed hers. And it riveted his attention. “I shall endeavor not to look at you,” he bit out, “if you would be so kind as to stop that.”
“Stop what, Clun?” She asked him softly. She looked genuinely puzzled. “If I make you so uncomfortable, I’ll go back.”
“Not uncomfortable.” He let his hand drop to his side to watch her leave and she turned back to dip into
a low curtsey. She paused. He knew his mouth hung open in slack-jawed appreciation because her grin grew into a wide smile.
“Good evening, my lord,” she said.
Helplessly, he took in the heaps of soft, silken flesh and growled, “You torture me, Bess.”
“Don’t be a gudgeon. I’m just taking proper leave.” She straightened up to her full height. “It’s your turn to bow, Clun.”
“God help me,” he groaned audibly and bowed, “You are a minx and I am an idiot.”
Where, oh where, was an icy Shropshire stream when one needed it?
Clun turned on his heel and marched a few steps away trying to ignore her gravitational pull.
Damned provocative gown.
He was tempted to look just once over his shoulder and assure himself that she had re-entered her father’s box. He cast a glance behind. She stood watching him and her bosom rose with each inhale.
How could she expect any mortal man to walk away?
Before he could think another thought, he strode back and pulled her into an unlit alcove opposite the box. He yanked the curtains closed and framed her face with his hands.
“Say no, push me away,” he prayed. He felt her still. Hesitating for a heartbeat, he brushed her lips softly with his own, once, twice, thrice, with no more pressure than the brush of eyelashes.
Her arms stole about him and held him close. Before he kissed her in earnest, he cracked his eyes to steal a look at her and, to his dismay, found her looking back at him. With a grunt, he pulled away. There was no mistaking it. She was watching him.
“It’s customary to close one’s eyes, Bess,” he told her.
“Must I?” She licked her lips as if to savor his slight kisses.
“Why wouldn’t you? Makes a man dashed uncomfortable, staring that way.”
“Are you so shy?”
“Apparently.”
“But I want to remember this kiss forever,” she sighed.
“I will do what I can to make the sensations memorable.”
“But —”
“Shh, if I fail the first time, I’ll repeat myself until the impression’s indelible.”
“And if you succeed, what then? Who am I to marry if not you? Mr. Wilder perhaps?”
“No.”
“He is amusing.”
“No.”
“And dances well.”
“A dancing clown is not husband material, Bess. Even I would be better for you than that verminous fribble.”
She smiled up at him and said, “If you say so,” and pulled him tighter.
He cradled her head in his hands and tipped her face up to his. Ever so slowly, he descended to bring their mouths into perfect alignment. She went nearly cross-eyed as he closed the distance slowly. He stopped just above her lips, looked her in the eye and waited.
“Oh! Forgive me, I forgot.” She squeezed her eyes closed and they chuckled together. Her warm, sweet breath huffed lightly against his face.
“It’s just a kiss,” he whispered over her mouth.
“No, Clun, it’s our first kiss,” she corrected, keeping her eyes tightly closed.
He brushed his lips slowly, softly, across hers, and tasted her with the tip of his tongue. He brushed a firmer kiss on her smile.
Her sigh undid him. And with that, he crushed her to him and took her mouth passionately. His heart raced as she kissed him back, taking her own pleasure with an answering passion. The relief he felt frightened him. Terrified him, actually. He kissed her again and again, delving deeper with each. She seemed to melt in his arms. Blood surged from his head and chest to his lower belly. He kissed her longer, pressing much too close, devouring the sweet taste of her soft lips, sucking her lower lip delicately between his own. His hand stole over her breast bound within her stays. A little gasp escaped her when he stroked a finger along the edge of her bodice across her bare skin. He dipped into her décolletage and felt her tremble. Finally, he relented so they could take a few panting breaths.
“Oh, Clun. You’re right,” she sighed with her head tilted back. “That was unforgettable.”
The box door opened and the sounds of warbled screeches flooded into the quiet hallway. He peeked between the curtains and watched Wilder skulk away.
“You’ve been gone too long, Bess. Time to return.”
“Must I?”
“Yes, you must,” he said and wished he could answer differently. He peeked again between the curtains. When the hall cleared, Clun led her to the door of her father’s box and bowed over her hand. She looked flushed and distracted, but somewhat short of scandalously abused. He pressed one last, warm kiss to the bare skin at the nape of her neck.
“I’m sorry,” he said, now ashamed of his shocking lapse in conduct. “That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No,” she said sadly. “If you say so, I suppose not.”
He couldn’t read her expression and she said nothing more before slipping into the box.
He walked briskly in the hallway for ten minutes to force blood back to his other extremities before returning to the Ainsworth box. Once inside, he bowed to the bemused duchess and seated himself without a word.
Without waiting for him to ask, Prudence offered him her lorgnette and this advice: “I take it you had words with her just now. You mustn’t discompose her so.”
“She looks discomposed, does she?” He whispered back. It was a relief to know he wasn’t the only one knocked top over tail by their first kiss.
The duchess regarded him and patted his arm, “Be gentle with her, my lord. You Horsemen have no idea how overwhelming you can be when courting.”
“I am not courting Lady Elizabeth. We are betrothed.”
“Nor did the duke court me. It was more in the nature of a full, frontal assault. I wish you’d understand such tactics overset the most sensible among my gender. You’d do well to moderate your pursuit.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Clun replied, knowing Ainsworth would flay him alive if he argued with her in her delicate condition.
“Would you like to know what you’ve missed, Clun?” The duchess asked.
“No, Your Grace. Ainsworth may tell me later,” Clun leaned forward to eye the duke and muttered, “if he wishes to torture me.” The men grimaced at each other and slumped lower in their seats till the last notes of the finale faded.
Chapter 25
In which a terror becomes all the rage.
Re-evaluation of Clun’s off-putting demeanor occurred almost overnight. His welcome — a somewhat smothering embrace to the ton’s bosom — came hard on the heels of this revision of opinion. Ton mamas endorsed this re-evaluation enthusiastically because Lord Clun’s ancient lineage, estates and annual income were enough to make haughty matrons and parvenus salivate alike.
For his part, the baron became a reluctant social fixture at the festivities Advent ushered in and Twelfth Night would conclude mercifully after New Year. His primary object was to keep Elizabeth safe from rakes, fortune hunters and scoundrels. And to claim his waltzes at each opportunity.
To his utter amazement, he found his halfhearted efforts reassured the previously timid misses populating Society’s seasonal celebrations. News of his betrothal and Lady Iphigenia’s endorsement whetted other young ladies’ curiosity. It was herd mentality at work. Because one in their cohort considered Clun eligible enough to wed, and another insisted he was a charming dance partner, the rest questioned their first, terrified impression and took a closer look. Now, none of them suffered fainting spells or claimed extreme fatigue when he approached to request a dance. The vast majority hung on his lips and giggled appreciatively at his every muttering. Even when he glowered or grew irascible, they smiled, knowing it was merely a gruff façade. Beneath it, beat the heart of a sweet, grumpy man in need of feminine indulgence.
Almost nothing about his social rehabilitation annoyed the baron as much as seventeen- and eighteen-year-old females matronizing him one after another about his
‘silly, cranky freaks.’ Though sorely tried, he kept his irritation in check. They meant well, he reminded himself, and he must simply bear up and take it like a man. On those occasions when he could no longer stand it, he kept his snarling to a mild-tempered minimum. They were not the reason he so often found himself in a foul mood.
At social functions now, he partnered any number of willing young ladies and found it generally tolerable. Dancing with his little friend Lady Iphigenia was even pleasant. Elizabeth, however, stayed away. Or rather, she remained the glowing sun amidst the planetary orbiting of her coxcombs, varmints and pestilential toad-eaters.
Rather than vie with lesser men for her attention, Clun kept his distance.
Kissing her at the opera had been a grave, tactical error. Even at the time, he knew he shouldn’t have done it, not simply for her sake, but for his own. Now, he understood why. For try as he might, he couldn’t put kissing her out of mind. Elizabeth gave every indication she had forgotten all about it, her protestations in the alcove notwithstanding. She looked perfectly satisfied with her servile claque. Every so often, he caught her eye across the room. Her expression looked a touch grim, or was that merely wishful thinking?
Clun was not the only one to notice coolness between the betrothed couple. Rumors of their alienation soon circulated. Speculating about impediments to their marriage became a popular pastime among gossips and ambitious mamas with hopes of their own. White’s wager book listed ever more entries betting for and against the nuptials of Lord C. and Lady E. ever taking place.
Lord Seelye told Clun he’d put money on the betrothal coming to fruition out of loyalty and an earnest desire to win a few quid.
“Mustn’t bet, Seelye,” Clun advised. “She’s bound to cry off. You’ll lose your shirt. That is, if you still have one to wager.”
“I have faith in you, Clun. Always have had, because I am a born optimist.”
The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) Page 21