Hot Historicals Bundle with An Invitation to Sin, The Naked Baron, When His Kiss Is Wicked, & Mastering the Marquess

by Jo Beverley

  Chapter 12

  Alex stared out at the rain. It splashed in the puddles on the terrace and ran like tears down the Coade stone statue of Hermes he’d purchased in a moment of whimsy.

  Funny, Kate’s dog’s name was Hermes.

  Damn. He turned away from the window. He should light some candles—it was too dim in the library to read.

  He didn’t want to read.

  He walked over to his desk. Windom, his estate manager, had been after him to work on his accounts ever since he got home. Something about a drainage problem in the south fields and a new kind of seed…

  Blast it all! He left the desk and went back to the window. He’d tried to work on the damn accounts almost every day since he’d fled London. Windom was getting impatient with him. He didn’t blame him. He was getting impatient with himself. His attention was shot to hell. Nothing interested him any more.

  What the blazes was he going to do? He had to put Kate behind him. He couldn’t spend the rest of his days drifting from room to room, staring out windows.

  The rain continued to fall. It had been misting or pouring every day since he’d got back to Clifton Hall. Everything smelled musty. He could feel the damp in his bones.

  It had been too wet to work in the fields or take Lear for a good long gallop, but he had the sinking feeling those activities would no longer cure him of the dismals.

  He shouldn’t have left London. Hell, he shouldn’t have left Kate’s room, but something in her glib tone had shot straight to his heart like a well-aimed arrow.

  Maybe if he had stayed and simply enjoyed what she was offering, he would have cured himself of this infatuation. Perhaps they could have had an enjoyable liaison for the Season. He might have got tired of her—or she of him, of course. In any event, he could have finally put this longing to rest.

  He rested his forehead against the windowpane. God, could he ever fill the hole she’d torn in his heart? He had lived for years with the emptiness of loss, but he’d still had a vague sense of hope. Now that was gone and in its place was this bleak ennui. He felt as if he were dead, but had just forgotten to lie down in his coffin.

  He closed his eyes, then opened them again and straightened. No, he was not some silly fribble to be brought low by love. The very thought was nauseating. Damn, he was acting like some court-card, some mewling dandy poet. Disgusting.

  And what if David actually married Lady Grace? It would have to be over Standen’s dead body, but stranger things had happened. If he did not want to cut all connection with his nephew, he would have to learn how to meet Lady Oxbury in social settings. At David’s wedding, the christening of his first child—

  He squeezed his eyes shut again. God, the pain that thought caused him. But he had to get over it. He wanted David to be happy.

  He would stop this ridiculous moroseness immediately. Lady Oxbury was just a woman, and there were plenty of women in the world who would be happy to spend time with him—women who were younger, more beautiful—

  No, he was not ready for comparisons. He would not think of Ka—Lady Oxbury. He would not think at all. He would just do. He would start slowly. There was no hurry. Just taking the first step to free himself from this awful gloom was—

  “Sir?”

  His butler was at the door. He’d been so lost in thought, he hadn’t heard the man approach. Well, that would change right now. “Yes, Grant? What is it?”

  “This just arrived from Viscount Motton.” Grant handed him a note. “The footman is awaiting your response.”

  “I see.” He pulled his spectacles from his pocket and glanced over the text.

  Motton was having a house party at Lakeland, was he? Splendid! What could be a more perfect first step out of his misery? True, sometimes the viscount allowed his odd sense of humor to rule his better judgment—one of his gatherings reportedly included a competition to determine who possessed the worst singing voice—but a little screeching was a small price to pay to get out of the dungeon Clifton Hall had become.

  If the planned festivities were too wearing, well, he’d been wanting to talk to Motton about the viscount’s new cultivation scheme and to view his fields firsthand. And if that failed to amuse, Lakeland was only a day’s ride away. It would be easy to come home.

  “Grant, tell Lord Motton’s footman I shall be delighted to attend.”

  “Lord Dawson has arrived, my lady.”

  “Oh.” Grace’s heart almost leapt from her bodice. She stopped packing to press her hand to her chest. Just the man’s name made her stomach flutter as if it housed a flock of sparrows. “I’m not quite ready. Is my aunt packed, Marie?”

  “No. Ye both are taking forever. Yer just going for a few days, ye know, not weeks.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s just, well, I’m not certain what to expect…” She glanced around the room. Perhaps she should just pack her entire wardrobe and be done with it.

  “I’ll put him in the blue parlor and have some brandy sent in.”

  “Perhaps that would be best. I won’t be too much longer.”

  Marie laughed. “My lady, any time waiting is too long for most gentlemen.”

  Grace let out a long breath once the door closed behind Marie. How was she going to survive this house party? She’d be spending days in close proximity to Lord Dawson with hours free to wander the estate in relative—well, perhaps actual—privacy. Many opportunities for him to do exactly what he’d done at Lord Fonsby’s soiree…and more.

  Ooh. Her knees gave out and she sat down abruptly. Fortunately, the bed was there to receive her. She was throbbing again.

  She’d decided she was going to sow a few wild oats, yes—but only a few. Not a crop. She was still marrying John Parker-Roth in a matter of weeks; in fact, she was leaving for Devon after the house party to make the final preparations. She was not at heart—could not be—a hoyden.

  Where was the proper, prim, always-follow-the-rules Grace when she needed her? She was only the veriest whisper in the farthest, darkest recesses of her mind.

  She must get herself under better control. Once she wed John…well, she could not be lusting after another man.

  But she was lusting after another man right now. She covered her face with her hands. Dear God, she was. How was she to stop?

  She should have slapped Baron Dawson there on Lord Fonsby’s terrace. He’d expected her to do so, she could tell. He had put his tongue in her mouth and had run his hands over her person, pressed his body against hers—ohh…

  She hadn’t wanted to slap him, she’d wanted to tell him to do it again. And when he’d said he intended to go a lot farther, she’d almost begged him to do so immediately—sooner than immediately if possible—there on Lord Fonsby’s terrace. She’d wanted to cry when he’d taken her back inside.

  Was she mad?

  She was mad. She was also in serious, serious trouble.

  It was all very well to have an adventure or two, but John would expect her to be a virgin on their wedding night. She wasn’t familiar with all the particulars—usually the discussion of a woman’s marital duties happened on the night before she was expected to assume those duties—but she’d be willing to bet the odd sensations she felt with Lord Dawson were closely linked to the marital act. They certainly were linked to nothing she’d ever experienced before.

  She rubbed her forehead. Perhaps she should discuss the problem with Aunt Kate. Her aunt had been married. By all accounts, she’d been faithful to Oxbury, so she must also know how to control these peculiar urges.

  Grace put her last few items in a valise and went to her aunt’s room. Hermes met her at the door, barking and dancing on his hind legs.

  “Sorry, Hermes. I don’t have any treats.”

  Hermes paused, gave her a long look, and then sneezed and trotted over to the hearth to lie down.

  “Are you ready to go, Grace?” Kate stood by her bed, surrounded by portmanteaux. “As soon as Marie makes Lord Dawson comfortable, she’s coming back to he
lp me finish packing.”

  “You look as if you are taking as much as I am.”

  Kate pushed her hair back off her face. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? We will only be gone a short while. I’m sure I am bringing far too many things.” What was the matter with her? She wasn’t usually so indecisive.

  It was nerves, of course. She was hoping Alex would be at this house party.

  No, she was dreading it.

  It made no difference what she felt. If he was there, she would have to tell him about his child.

  Dear God! She sat down quickly. A child. Alex’s child.

  “Aunt Kate, I need to ask you something.”

  Grace was looking down at her skirt, twisting the fabric with her fingers. Something was obviously amiss. “Yes? What is it, Grace?”

  “I’m a little concerned…That is, I should probably tell you…Well, as you know, Lord Dawson will be at this house party…”

  “Of course I know—he’s downstairs waiting. As he was kind enough to offer us his protection on the drive out to Lord Motton’s estate, we should not keep him waiting.”

  “Yes. Well, the thing is…” Grace finally met Kate’s gaze. “I might need protection from him.”

  “What?!” She knew she should never have accepted this invitation. “I will have a word with him immediately. If he thinks—”

  Grace flushed. “Or he might need protection from me.”

  Kate’s jaw dropped. For a moment she couldn’t muster a single sound. “I-I don’t think I understand.”

  “I thought you might know what to do. I mean, you’ve been married. You must know all about the urges one feels.”

  “Ah…” Urges? Grace hadn’t said urges had she? “Er…” What should she answer? Just a short while ago, she would not have known what Grace was talking about, but unfortunately now she was all too familiar with urges—and not very familiar with controlling them. “What you should do—”

  “I’m back.” Marie bustled into the room. Kate could have fallen on her neck and kissed her. It was cowardly of her, she knew. Grace had asked for advice, but she had no advice to give her. She laid her hand over her stomach. Look where her urges had led her.

  “The footmen are on their way up to get these things,” Marie said, putting the last dress into a portmanteau. “Why don’t ye both go down and wait for the carriage?” She looked up and grinned. “Ye can keep his lordship company. He’s wearing a hole in the rug with his pacing.”

  Kate bent and put on Hermes’s leash. “That’s a good idea, Marie. Are you ready, Grace?”

  She bolted out the door before Grace could answer.

  Kate stopped at the stairs. That was not well done of her. Grace deserved an answer—needed an answer if she was going to get through this house party without putting herself in Kate’s position—enceinte, but unwed. That would indeed be horrendous.

  She hoped Grace had more control than she, but the Wilton men were devilishly seductive. And it was Kate’s job as chaperone to see that Grace didn’t go astray.

  “I’m sorry,” Kate said as Grace caught up. “I shouldn’t have hurried away like that.”

  Grace smiled slightly. “That’s all right, Aunt Kate. I’d thought these feelings must be common, but I guess I’m—”

  “They are common, Grace.” Kate wasn’t entirely certain of that, but she suspected it was so—and she couldn’t bear the distress she heard in Grace’s voice. She put her hand on Grace’s arm. “That’s why girls are told to avoid being alone with a gentleman—and why chaperones are there to be sure they follow that rule. I have been sadly remiss, but I promise I will stick to you like a burr at this house party.”

  “Oh, no.” Grace looked completely appalled. “You can’t do that!”

  “But, Grace—”

  “Grr.”

  Kate glanced down. Hermes was literally bristling, his teeth bared.

  “Good heavens, Hermes, what is the matter?”

  Hermes barked vociferously and lunged, jerking Kate’s arm forward. She grabbed for the banister to keep from going head first down the stairs. “Hermes! Will you—oh.”

  She saw what had disturbed Hermes. The Weasel was standing by the front door, handing his hat to Sykes. He looked up at the commotion. Good God, his eyes were going for her stomach. She scooped Hermes up and held him in front of her.

  “Cousin,” he said in his annoying, nasal tones, “how…nice to see you again.”

  Nice? Yes, he probably did think it was nice to see her—just as he must think it nice to see a cockroach right before he heard the crunch of his heel flattening it.

  Hermes gave another low growl. Kate kissed the top of his head and strove to sound polite.

  “I trust you had a pleasant trip, Horace?”

  The Weasel shrugged, his bony shoulders shifting his shabby, cheap coat. He hadn’t yet spent Oxbury’s money on a new wardrobe.

  The man was most unpleasant looking. He had all of Oxbury’s less favorable traits plus a few of his own. He truly did look like a weasel—thin with a narrow face, long pointed nose, and small beady eyes.

  Her Oxbury had not been much to look at, but at least he had not been pompous and obnoxious.

  She descended the stairs, Hermes held shield-like in front of her stomach. When she got within five feet of the Weasel, she stopped. One step closer and Hermes would start barking. Here, he only growled menacingly.

  “Have you met my niece, Horace?”

  Horace smiled in his usual oily fashion. “I don’t believe I’ve had that pleasure.”

  Kate nodded and gritted her teeth. It had to be done.

  “Lady Grace, Lord Oxbury. My lord, as I’m sure you know, Lady Grace is the Earl of Standen’s daughter.”

  “My pleasure, Lady Grace.” Oxbury bowed slightly.

  “Lord Oxbury.” Grace gave the barest curtsy and offset that little politeness by lifting her chin and peering down her nose at Horace—not hard for her to do as Horace was a good four inches shorter than she.

  “I shall check on the carriage.” Sykes, the coward, handed Lord Oxbury’s hat to a footman—one of the many new servants hired in the last few days to support Horace’s substantial self-importance—and dashed out the door.

  Horace sniffed and looked back at Kate. “You are leaving?”

  “Yes.” Hermes wriggled, indicating his wish to be set down. Kate hugged him tighter and stroked his ears. There was no way she was going to expose her torso to Horace’s scrutiny. “We have been invited to a house party at Lakeland, Viscount Motton’s estate. We are on the verge of departure.”

  “I see. I wonder—” Horace’s eyebrows—well, in his case eyebrow was more accurate as there was no demarcation between the two—shot up. He was looking at a spot just behind them. “And who might this gentleman be?”

  Horace’s tone suggested the gentleman might be a pimp or debaucher. Kate turned to see what nefarious blackguard had slipped by Mr. Sykes’s guard.

  Lord Dawson stood scowling in the doorway to the blue salon. “I am Baron Dawson. Who are you?”

  Horace puffed up like an angry cat. Hermes must have thought so, too. He started growling again and struggled to be let down.

  “Shh, Hermes.”

  “I am the Earl of Oxbury, of course—the owner of this magnificent house.”

  If Horace got any more self-important, he’d explode.

  Kate glanced at Lord Dawson. Oh, dear, it looked as if he was going to say something cutting. Not that Horace didn’t deserve it, but there was no need to brangle. They were leaving momentarily.

  She spoke before the baron could vent his spleen. “We are in Lord Dawson’s debt, Horace, as he has kindly offered to escort Lady Grace and me to Viscount Motton’s house party.”

  Lord Dawson came over to stand next to Grace. Kate had never noticed before—obviously, she had been too focused on the man’s uncle—but the baron was a very large and intimidating man. He clearly could pick Horace up in one hand and break him in two.


  Even Horace seemed to realize this truth. His tone was almost polite. “Ah, I see. Very kind of you, Dawson.”

  “My pleasure, Oxbury.”

  Lord Dawson was still glaring at Horace. Surely he would refrain from baiting the man for a few more minutes? Where in God’s name was the blasted coach?

  Mr. Sykes appeared at the door. “The carriage is ready.”

  Alleluia! “Well, we must go. Don’t want to keep the horses waiting. So glad we had a moment to see you before we departed, Horace.” May God forgive her that lie. “I’m sure you’ll find all to your liking here. Mr. Sykes is very efficient.” Kate grinned like an idiot and edged toward the door. “And here comes our luggage.” A procession of footmen, directed by Marie, streamed down the stairs. “Do have a pleasant time in London.” She paused to let the luggage precede her. “Did you have a particular reason for coming to Town at this moment, Horace?”

  She hadn’t expected a real answer, just a polite—or as polite as Horace cared to manage—platitude. She was halfway out the door when she heard his response.

  “Actually, yes, I did. I’ve come to acquire a wife.”

  “Oh.” Grace and Lord Dawson were gaping at Horace, just as she was certain she was. Even Hermes seemed stunned by this pronouncement—he stopped growling. The Weasel, a man with close to sixty years in his dish, a man she had always assumed was a confirmed bachelor…the skinny, oily, annoying, pompous Weasel was going wife hunting? “Well, good luck to you.”

  Horace chuckled and smoothed back his few stringy gray hairs. “I doubt I’ll have to rely on luck.”

  “Ah, right.” She was going to burst out laughing or cast up her accounts on the marble floor. “Of course. Exactly. Yes, indeed. Good-bye then.”

  “Good-bye.” Horace smiled slightly—at least that was what she thought the twisting of his lips meant, but perhaps he just had a touch of indigestion—and waved. “Don’t hurry back.”

  Poor Lady Oxbury. David rode behind the coaches as they pulled away from Oxbury House. He certainly would not want to have any extended contact with Lord Lobcock. The few minutes he’d been forced to endure the man’s company had been too many. What a bloody coxcomb!