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

by Miranda Davis

  But no, Elizabeth de Sayre, née Damogan kissed him and said: “It’s too late for caution, my lord.”

  Years ago, a horse kicked Clun in the center of his chest, right on his breastbone. Big as he was, it knocked the wind from him, sent him flying and left a dark, purple horseshoe-shaped bruise on his chest. What his wife just said had twice the impact. Clun felt her meaning slam through him. And ricochet around inside him until something odd happened.

  His lordship experienced the alchemy of paternal instinct, during which a man’s perfectly reasonable, well-founded dread effervesced explosively into wordless, boundless, near debilitating joy.

  “Oh, Bess, I thought I couldn’t love you more,” His lordship croaked out. “And I am wrong again.”

  He lifted her high in the air. For minutes, he cried up at her. She braced herself on his big shoulders and laughed down at him as if he were out of his wits. In fact, the host of happy emotions overwhelming his overworked heart left him completely dumbstruck.

  The world was once again a blur for the poor, bedazzled baron. He fixed his watering eyes on his glowing wife. Finally, he understood she had illuminated his life from the moment she first emerged from the shadows of The Sundew’s stable. She had dispelled the gloom.

  Though Clun spun her round and round, it felt as though he circled her, as he had all along. For every moth must dizzy himself in just this way, as he flutters with joyous abandon around his irresistible flame.

  If you enjoyed The Baron’s Betrothal,

  please post your review online.

  Next…

  War hero Lord Burton Seelye returns to England a proud, bored second son with no peacetime prospects.

  If not for an irresistible wager, Lord Seelye would’ve happily stropped his wit on the Incomparable “Ice Maiden.” Instead, he must tame the sharp-tongued shrew enough for her to make a match in her fourth Season.

  Lady Jane Babcock has better things to do than rescue Lord Seelye from his life of cynical superficiality. She must somehow save a tamed bear from a horrible end. But to do that, she must find in Lord Seelye, the man who once stood up for the underdog, no matter how messy or inconvenient.

  After the Historical Notes, etc., an excerpt follows from:

  His Lordship’s Last Wager:

  A Regency Romance Between Bitter Enemies

  By Miranda Davis

  Historical Notes and Corrections for Curious Readers

  About Locations:

  The London square, country estate and Welsh castle in this story are either entirely fictitious or based on the history of London, architecture of actual country estates and castles that I’ve ‘designed’ in a more appropriate location for the story. The Graces and Greyfriars Abbey were built from the ground up in my imagination. Whereas Carreg Castle was inspired by the ruin of Colunwy Castle in the actual village of Clun. Colunwy Castle not being where I wanted it and a pile of stones, I sited the fictitious de Sayre ancestral castle ten miles away and built it with glorious Powys Castle in mind, adding an aviary styled after Regency-period conservatories for fun. Similarly, Damogan Square does not exist in London but is plausible, given the history of a similar square developed as depicted in the story. I referred to The Regency Country House by John Martin Robinson, for a sense of the interiors in a grand country estate to bring The Graces to life and furnish it properly.

  About Mr. John Soane and his townhouses:

  Over decades, the architect reconfigured first No. 12, then No. 13 and 14 Lincoln’s Inn Fields as his home, office and galleries for his burgeoning collections of antiquities, art and books. The ‘right sort’ were in fact welcome to the private residence to view his collection as depicted. John Soane was knighted in 1831, many years after this story takes place, which is why he is Mr. John Soane here. In 1833, by Act of Parliament, Sir John Soane was allowed to bequeath his home and collection to the nation as a museum. He died in 1837.

  Modern-day trustees of his museum published an invaluable catalog, “A New Description of Sir John Soane’s Museum, (5th rev. ed. 1981). Thanks to this source, and its exhaustive summary of the collection, engraved depictions, photographic images as well as a meticulous chronology of the buildings’ renovations and the timing of his acquisitions, I have attempted to describe faithfully the state and extent of his holdings and the crowded manner of display in London at the time of this story.

  If you’ve ever been to the museum ― a quirky favorite of mine in London ― you still get a sense of the light and space as Soane intended it. It became far more ‘stuffed to the rafters’ with antiquities after the period in this story. Seti’s huge stone sarcophagus came later, for example.

  It’s a small museum. Still, I wouldn’t want to dust it.

  Corsets or stays:

  Elizabeth is relatively young and wears the shorter, lighter corset or stays of the period. More matronly women, however wore longer, structured shaping garments. There seems to be an assumption nowadays that the term “corset” and longer shaping garments gave way to stays in this period due to the looser, higher waisted classic-style gowns in vogue.

  Not so.

  In an 1811 guide on lady-like behavior, dress and comportment titled The Mirror of Graces, A Lady of Distinction repeatedly refers to “corsets or stays” as synonymous terms to describe garments both short and flexible as well as something longer, structured and more constricting. These long stays or corsets were intended to shape fleshier figures into the slim, pleasing shape that looser, high waisted dresses of muslin flattered. In other words, the term ‘corset’ survived as did a longer shaping garment, though long stays were not designed to create a wasp waist of the previous century but rather to slim the hips.

  This Regency author does not like long stays or corsets but it’s clear from her writing, the “long stays or corsets” were not only common but over the hip in length and very firming. There was even a long, shaping garment called ‘pregnant stays’ for expectant mothers. (Yikes.)

  Disdaining long versions, this Lady proves the popularity of these garments: “A vile taste in the contriver, and as stupid an approval by a large majority of women, have brought this monstrous distortion into a kind of fashion; and in consequence we see, in eight women out of ten, the hips squeezed into a circumference little more than the waist; and the bosom shoved up to the chin, making a sort of fleshy shelf, disgusting to the beholders, and certainly more incommodious to the bearer.” (Pg. 96. See The Mirror’s chapter “On the Peculiarities of Dress” for more details and hilarious discussion of underthings generally.)

  Lord Percy no more, my apologies George.

  I realized in reviewing noble titles that I had to strip Lord Percy, as he was originally known in The Duke’s Tattoo, of his courtesy title. As the second son of a viscount, he has no courtesy title. I have revised Book One to reflect this (but if you’ve already read it, it’s too late). In this, Book Two of the series, he is now properly identified as the Hon. George Percy or Mr. Percy. I’ll make it up to him in Book Four, sort of.

  Lord Seelye’s father was the Marquis of Exmoor, not Earl.

  For much the same reason, i.e. my confusion, Seelye’s father’s is a marquis because second sons are entitled to a courtesy title. I only mentioned his father once in The Duke’s Tattoo, and I have corrected this error but I wish to make a clean breast of it. Hence he remains Lord Seelye while facing all the travails of wrangling Lady Jane Babcock and her tamed bear in Book Three. Frankly, the man deserves a medal for all he puts up with but that, too, is another story.

  About the Author

  Miranda Davis has loved Regency romances since Mr. Darcy won Elizabeth Bennett’s heart. (Not that Miranda is 200 years old.) Miranda’s mother must take responsibility for her daughter’s love of Georgette Heyer.

  At various points, she earned degrees from Smith College and Harvard University and worked at everything from scooping ice cream to big-time advertising. When she’s not busy with family along the Old Santa Fe Trail, she�
�s happily dreaming of Regency England or reading about it. Or knitting. Or working on the next story slowly but surely.

  Another important individual contributes to her efforts when not distracting her with spitty toys or by taking her for walks in the fresh air. Though he doesn’t read (that the author knows of), her hulking, brown, part-gargoyle dog continues to provide inspiration, serving always as an example of loyalty and love. The author feels blessed every day this dog is in her life.

  Acknowledgements

  First, I am grateful to everyone who took a chance on The Duke’s Tattoo, a self-published first novel. In particular, let’s have a moment of silence for early US and overseas readers who read my original, imperfectly copyedited version. Your reviews educated me, encouraged me and inspired me to revise it and to make it a better story, I hope.

  Second, several generous UK/US/overseas readers have read The Baron’s Betrothal in final draft stages to give me their opinion and help me correct Americanisms and other thumb-in-the-eye mistakes before publishing. (What a concept.) Thank you so much Jill MacKenzie in Australia and Karen Zachary in DC for your valuable time and invaluable insights. And to Carol Sissons in Essex, UK, who sacrificed countless, useful brain cells to help me copyedit this, there is not space enough to express my appreciation for your intelligence, wit and generosity. My deepest sympathy for your loss of gray matter.

  Thank you, too, Thyra Dane in Denmark, a writer with whom I started up a correspondence via amazon review comments, for reading an early, early draft of this and for our wide-ranging discussion about it and HRs. BTW, Thyra will be publishing a series of brilliant, well-researched historical romances involving shield maidens (think gorgeous, kick-your-ass-capable women with significant leadership roles in medieval Norse society) and big, brawny Viking men (sigh).

  Third, thank you for purchasing Book Two. Your support may make the third book possible.

  If you enjoyed The Baron’s Betrothal, let me and the world know. I’m always thrilled someone liked my work to some degree and I appreciate positive reviews (and constructive criticism) as well as personal emails.

  If you didn’t, in addition to the usual outlets, you may reproach me directly at: mdavish@cybermesa.com.

  From Book Three of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse series

  His Lordship’s Last Wager:

  A Regency Romance between Bitter Enemies

  Prologue

  Somerset, September 1804

  “Go home, Pest!” barked George Babcock, Earl of Chapin and the fifth Duke of Bath’s heir apparent. He addressed the scrawny, tow-headed blonde trailing behind his hunting party. “We won’t have you tagging along.” To his friend Lord Burton Seelye, he moaned, “Sisters! And she’s the worst of the lot. Filthy little urchin’s like glue.”

  Lady Jane stood well behind the young men, crestfallen at her brother’s scornful words of rebuke. She wore a hopelessly dirty dress and mud-crusted half boots. Her blonde curls were tangled by her headlong pursuit of her brothers and their friends as they went off to shoot partridge.

  “Oh, George, don’t be such a dry stick,” drawled Seelye, the handsomest of her brother’s friends and the second son of their nearest neighbor, the Marquis of Exmoor.26

  “She’ll only get in the way, Burtie,” George snorted impatiently.

  “Oh, let her come. We’ll need all hands to carry home our braces of birds,” Seelye boasted.

  “Huzzah!” The others cheered.

  The Earl of Chapin scowled eloquently.

  “Mustn’t let your envy interfere with our sport, George,” Seelye added. “We all know she’s a better shot than you.”

  “Is not,” he retorted.

  “Am too,” the little lady piped up on her own behalf. “Even father says so.”

  “If she gets herself blown to bits, it’s on your head, Burton, you hear me?” George fumed.

  Seelye grinned and held out a hand to help the littlest Babcock over a tree limb fallen across the path to the fields.

  “Now after all that, Jane, you really mustn’t get yourself shot. You will mind me, yes? And stay behind us at all times.”

  She frowned up at him. “But I want to shoot, too.”

  Seelye looked at her, noted the mulish set of her mouth and her cornflower blue eyes beginning to swim in moisture. “No waterworks, Jane. Never works on me, you know that.”

  Jane stiffened, straightened and sniffed. “I am not crying. My shoes are wet and pinching.”

  “I see. Well, that does hurt,” he replied. “Right. You will remain behind us when you’re not shooting beside me. But you may only use my gun and I will load it for you. Absolutely no whining about how many shots you get either. We must let George save face, understood?”

  “Rubbish,” George spat and strode off to join the others.

  Jane nodded, never taking her huge, blue eyes off him. “Thank you, Lord Seelye,” she whispered and executed a credible curtsey.

  “You are most welcome, Lady Jane.” And he made an extravagant bow over the ragged cuticles of her grubby fingers. “I predict you’ll either grow up to be a hellion of biblical proportions or a heartbreaking beauty.”

  “Or both,” she said with a lopsided grin.

  “Well, and why not?” Seelye smiled down at her.

  “But I promise not to break your heart.”

  “I am reassured.” And off they walked hand in hand to catch up to the rest.

  * * *

  Lady Jane Babcock, youngest daughter of the Duke of Bath, fell madly in love with Lord Burton Seelye on the 17th of September, 1804. On that day, she vowed to marry him and no other.

  She was ten years old and he was 18.

  The following year, Seelye’s father purchased a commission for him in the Royal Horse Guards Blue of the Household Cavalry. For the next decade, Lord Seelye distinguished himself first in the Peninsular Campaign and later in Napoleon’s final defeat as one of the vaunted Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

  With his golden good looks, ready wit and refined taste, Lord Seelye returned from war in the summer of 1815 a gilded hero and quickly established himself as a much-envied and emulated beau of the ton.

  For months thereafter, Lady Jane’s path never crossed Lord Seelye’s. As a result, Jane’s vow and youthful infatuation lasted until the spring of 1816 when the two spoke at a private ball in Mayfair.

  Seelye happened upon her, stared at her through his quizzing glass, coughed and laughed a little laugh, before saying, “Why if it isn’t Lady Jane Babcock, I’d have hardly recognized you all clean and shiny. You’ve grown into a terrifying beauty, I hear. The Ice Maiden, brrrrrr. You do have a cold look about you. I’ve also heard you’ve frozen any number of men, that is, when you didn’t lash them bloody with your tongue.”

  His tone mocked, his hangers-on chortled. London’s wittiest beau was giving the feared ‘Ice Maiden’ a well-deserved set down, something few dared to do but many prayed to see done.

  Her temper stepped in when the shock might’ve left her vulnerable.

  “Given your well-publicized courage on the battlefield, Lord Seelye, I’d have thought no one terrified you.”

  “And I regret to admit, you’d be wrong. Your saber-tongued reputation makes me positively quake.”

  His claque chortled in amusement and stoked Jane’s hot temper to its melting point.

  “And I would hardly have known you, Seelye,” Jane retorted. “There is such a surfeit of wastrel lordlings outliving their good name and credit in London nowadays, it’s hard to distinguish one fribble drowning in the River Tick from another.”

  Eavesdroppers and onlookers whistled and murmured as the two squared off.

  “I take exception to that. I am not a fribble but a man of decided fashion, at least it is that to which I aspire in my own poor way.” Here, his lordship flicked nonexistent lint off his exquisitely tailored cutaway coat of midnight superfine. “As such, I must live up to expectations. After all, many second sons live on credit an
d their names,” he said, with a steely note in his offhand reply. “It’s the way of our class and I for one am no revolutionary. But sheath your tongue, sister-in-law, we ought not lob cross words back and forth to amuse ourselves, much less others. Will you accept my olive branch and walk with me?”

  He offered her his arm and gave her a hard look that she dared not defy. She took it and he led her off to continue their spat out of earshot.

  “Be thankful you are female, Jane. You may live your life as an overindulged chit to whom everything comes easily because you are well born, well heeled and passably well made.”

  “And yet I strive to be more.”

  “Duchess, perhaps? You you mustn’t set your cap at Ainsworth, old thing,” Seelye concluded rudely, “For that will never happen, ne-ver.”

  “I could if I wanted to,” she retorted and resolved to bring the duke to heel just to teach Seelye a lesson. “But I prefer to expend my energy in a worthwhile direction.”

  “I wasn’t aware there were any royal dukes in want of a wife.”

  “No, stupid, to protect the helpless.”

  Seelye shrugged. “Ah yes, and you are fast exhausting everyone’s patience with your strident censure of everybody and everything. Except yourself, I note.”

  “I don’t care.” Now genuinely provoked, Jane snapped, “The war gave you a purpose for a time, what have you now? Your wit and your clothes. Wait, the latter aren't yours. One cannot own what one has not yet paid for, so I suppose they are still your tailor's. I wonder where Beau Seelye will hide when the duns seize his finery to settle accounts. I hear Brummell has a room to let in Calais.”27

  Flicking open her fan, she regarded him over its lacy edge.