The Story of a Baron (The Sisters of the Aristocracy)

by Linda Rae Sande

  The baron had been at Lord Weatherstone’s ball – one of the few events she had ever attended where she actually had the opportunity to meet some of the male members of the ton. And the only reason she was able to attend that particular ball was because her older brother, Harry Tennison, Earl of Everly, was in London for a few months planning his next expedition. At some point during that short stay, he’d managed to arrange for Evangeline to appear in front of the queen for her formal come-out, but he hadn’t the time nor the inclination to host a come-out ball on her behalf. Lord Weatherstone’s ball had acted in its stead, although no mention of her situation had been communicated to their hosts. She was quite sure if something had been said, Lord Weatherstone would have made an appropriate announcement upon her arrival.

  Not knowing many peers in London, Evangeline mingled with the few young ladies she recognized from her days at Warwick’s Grammar and Finishing School, danced once with her brother, and otherwise enjoyed the spectacle that was a ton ball from the sidelines. And then Harry had made a rather peculiar comment about Lord Weatherstone’s decorative plants.

  At her brother’s behest, she began keeping company with one of the rather exotic palms in the hope she could sneak a small frond for him to study. And she might have succeeded on her first try except that Lady Pettigrew was suddenly there on the arm of a baron, insisting Evangeline needed to meet him.

  Well, they met – she curtsied to his bow and gave him her hand. He seemed quite intent on kissing the back of it until he realized her folded spectacles were clutched in her gloved fingers.

  Damnable spectacles! It wasn’t as if she required them to see clearly – she really only needed them for reading and doing embroidery – but given how much reading and stitchery she did in a day, she wore them almost all the time.

  Now, with a rather handsome young man holding onto her clutched fingers, Evangeline was trying to transfer the spectacles to her other hand without interfering with the baron’s elegant fingers. A pink blush covered her face when, of course, their fingers collided, sending the eye wear clattering to the floor.

  The baron was quick to retrieve the glasses – quicker than she was – for their heads nearly collided as they both knelt down at the same time. Her nose did brush his hair a bit, a fraction of a second that allowed her to capture the scents of citrus and sandalwood before she had to forcibly exhale – her knees were suddenly in her chest, and her stays made their presence known with a sudden, uncomfortable squeeze.

  But, for that moment of awkwardness, not once did she hear him curse her as her brother would have. Nor did he seem particularly inconvenienced as he reached for and retrieved the glasses from the ballroom floor.

  When Lord Sommers straightened, one hand still clutching her gloved hand, whilst the other held her spectacles, he merely pulled her up with him and finally bestowed the kiss on the back of her hand as if nothing untoward had happened. “Your brother is the explorer,” he said, not making it a question.

  She nodded. “Yes. He’s in London making arrangements for his next expedition,” she replied. “To look for some kind of fish off the coast of Africa.”

  Lord Sommers frowned. “Then, will you stay in London?” he wondered, his question making it sound as if he were quite concerned about where she would be in her brother’s absence.

  Evangeline shook her head. “Shropshire. At our country estate.”

  Lady Pettigrew, one hand having covered her mouth for the entire incident with the dropped eye glasses, blinked several times before she seemed to recover her senses. “Well, then, Lady Evangeline. Do have a good evening.”

  And with that, the baron seemed to understand he was to leave her in the company of the palm tree and escort Lady Pettigrew back to her conclave of other older matrons.

  That few moments had been unexpected and rather exciting, despite the incident with her glasses, for Lord Sommers seemed ever so anxious to meet her. But given the ball was nearly over and the other guests were already making their way to the exits, Evangeline couldn’t help but feel she had left a poor first impression on the poor baron.

  At least the evening hadn’t been a complete waste of time. She had been able to get a palm frond for her brother. And the small tree started from that acquisition was now growing in the orangery at Rosemount House. Should her brother ever host a ball in her late mother’s ballroom, Evangeline figured that palm would join several others in providing a refuge for wallflowers and illicit romance.

  Jeffrey shook his head. Lady Evangeline?

  No, it couldn’t be.

  This woman was far more comely than the bluestocking sister of one of the men with whom he played cards at White’s – at least, when the earl had enough sense to actually be in attendance at White’s. The man spent entirely too much time away on scientific expeditions.

  The last time Jeffrey had seen the girl was a couple of Seasons ago. At a ball, he recalled, in the company of a rather elaborate plant. He didn’t know her identity when he spotted her standing next to the potted palm, but he remembered feeling rather jealous of the tree. The damn thing had one frond touching her shoulder as if it had decided she was to be its next dance partner and wasn’t about to allow any interlopers. And despite repeated pleas for someone – anyone – to introduce him to the tall, willowy blonde, it was well after the supper had been served before Lady Pettigrew took pity on him and made the introductions. By then, the quartet had finished playing, so there was no opportunity for him to dance with the earl’s sister. She seemed shy but eager to speak with him, mentioning to him that her brother would be leaving the country to study fish somewhere off the coast of Africa whilst she would be at the family estate in Shropshire.

  Sommers remembered thinking of her trapped in Everly’s country estate, snowed in and wishing for companionship whilst he was similarly trapped in Herefordshire with several bachelors and a deck of cards. If they’d been within ten miles of one another, Sommers would have gladly made the trek on foot through the deep snow to join her.

  Wait ... perhaps they were within ten miles of one another. Damn!

  To think, they might have spent Christmas together, especially those days following the holiday when a near record amount of snow fell on the countryside. He could think of a dozen activities they could have engaged in to pass the time. He was, in fact, thinking of several when he realized the evidence of his thoughts was making itself known behind the placket of his breeches.

  Biting the inside of his cheek, he took a deep breath and stepped out from behind the shelving unit. “Pardon, my lady, but are you, by chance, Lady Evangeline?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  Evangeline’s eyes widened. It was Lord Sommers! “Why, yes. Yes, I am,” she replied with a curtsy. When she straightened, she allowed recognition to show on her face. “And you are Lord Sommers, are you not?”

  Jeffrey bowed. “I am,” he replied, his face brightening. “And rather flattered that you would remember me from our brief introduction at Lord Weatherstone’s ball.”

  Blinking in surprise that the baron remembered her at all, Evangeline gave him a tentative grin. “As am I. I seem to recall I made quite a cake of it, though,” she added as the memory of that night replayed itself in her head. Her smile faltered, but she kept her chin up, too embarrassed to do anything else.

  “It was good cake, as I recall,” Jeffrey replied lightly, one finger lightly scratching the outside corner of his eye. “And not enough of it.”

  Evangeline angled her head to one side. Good cake? Did the man think her actions were deliberate? Designed to wreak havoc that night? That she hadn’t made enough of a cake of it by dropping her spectacles and nearly bumping heads with him? I certainly didn’t do it deliberately. My spectacles might have broken!

  Not enough of it?

  Suddenly offended, and not quite sure how to respond to the odd
comment, Evangeline swallowed hard. She remembered the book still opened on her right arm and quickly closed it, the resulting thump quite loud in the quiet shop. “Good day, Lord Sommers,” she said with a curt nod and barely a curtsy. She turned and moved to walk around the baron, quite certain his comment was meant to offend her.

  Cake, indeed, she thought.

  Realizing she was about to cry, Evangeline wanted to be sure she was well away from the aristocrat long before the first tear could fall.

  Chapter 3

  A Man After His Own Muse

  As he did nearly every Tuesday morning, Milton Grandby, Earl of Torrington, read the prior day’s The Times as he sat in a reading lounge on the third floor of The Temple of the Muses. He would have read the paper in the comfort of his breakfast parlor at Worthington House, but when Harry Tennison, Earl of Everly, was away on one of his scientific expeditions, Grandby felt it necessary to ensure the safety of the earl’s sister, Evangeline, while she made her weekly trek to the bookshop. Although she was always in the company of her lady’s maid, she was unmarried, and he thought it best to keep an eye on her. Not spy on her, exactly, but ensure she made it to the shop and home again without being accosted by some unscrupulous heathen.

  Grandby was her godfather, after all.

  As the godfather of no fewer than one-and-twenty chits and at least a dozen young bucks varying in age from about eighteen to six-and-twenty, Grandby took his responsibility quite seriously, even if he was three sheets to the wind when he made his agreements to be their godfather back in the day.

  Some of the goddaughters were married now. Lady Clarinda Anne Brotherton was the Countess of Norwick. Somehow the daughter of an earl had managed to tame the rake that was David Fitzwilliam. The proprietor of one of the most exclusive brothels in London, the earl had waited until he was six-and-thirty before deciding to sell the business and court and marry Clarinda, all in less than a month’s time.

  The daughter of a rather successful businessman who was well-known in ton circles for helping peers of the realm make money, Olivia Waterford was married to one of her father’s business partners. Michael Cunningham, the second son of Viscount Cunningham and a bare knuckle fighter, was rather successful in his own business ventures. But he could be quite a dunderhead when it came to, well, everything else. It was a wonder he had managed to snag the lovely Olivia before it was too late.

  Lady Elizabeth Carlington was now the Viscountess Bostwick, having proposed to George Bennett-Jones when all the on-dit suggested she would end up as the Countess of Trenton.

  Her best friend, Lady Charlotte Bingham, had recently married and was now the Duchess of Chichester, a title everyone knew she would gain by marriage back when she was still in leading strings. The identity of her duke had changed, however, much to Grandby’s relief. He never much cared for the older son of John Wainwright. Having survived the fire that killed the rest of his family, the younger brother, Joshua Wainwright, had the title, and he now had Charlotte as his wife. Now, that was a perfect union, Grandby thought with a good deal of satisfaction. He remembered how he had proposed to his own wife only the day before they paid witness to the ducal wedding in a small chapel in Plaistow.

  Elizabeth’s other best friend, Lady Hannah Slater, the daughter of the Marquess of Devonville, married Henry Forster and was now the Countess of Gisborn as well as Grandby’s niece by marriage. According to Grandby’s wife, Adele Slater Worthington Grandby, Hannah was enjoying life as a farmer’s wife in Oxfordshire and doting on a son she’d delivered just six weeks ago. Apparently, her rather large Alpenmastiff was of the same mind, the dog having decided the babe’s safety was his responsibility. As long as the baby didn’t drown in the dog’s slobber, Grandby thought the arrangement most suitable.

  He considered the next round of eligible goddaughters. Julia Harrington, certainly. Samantha Fitzsimmons at some point. And Evangeline Tennison.

  Evangeline was the priority, if for no other reason than she was the oldest.

  With her brother not due back from his latest expedition for at least a week, Grandby was considering what could be done, short of bribery or deceit, to see to it Evangeline was betrothed and married before the man left again for his next voyage.

  So it was an overheard snippet of conversation that had Grandby setting aside his newspaper in order to eavesdrop on Lady Evangeline and the young man who had apparently approached her just beyond the entry to the reading lounge.

  “Pardon, my lady, but are you, by chance, Lady Evangeline?”

  Grandby listened intently, shaking his head when he heard the young buck say, “And rather flattered that you would remember me from our brief introduction at Lord Weatherstone’s ball.” Then he rolled his eyes when the dunderhead said, “It was good cake, as I recall. And not enough of it.”

  Grandby blinked. Good grief! Talk about making a cake of it! Lady Evangeline was probably half way down the stairs by now, thoroughly offended and on a mission to find a constable.

  Reluctantly lifting himself from the comfortable chair, Grandby moved to stand near the threshold. He peeked around the edge of the door frame and immediately recognized Jeffrey Althorpe. The baron was watching the back of Lady Evangeline as she took her leave of him, and probably of The Temple of Muses, if she had any sense.

  Well, Grandby thought he really should follow the chit to be sure she got to her next appointment unharmed. He didn’t wish to make his presence known, though, and there was the issue of the baron still out in the hall. Having no wish to engage him in conversation nor make it known he was eavesdropping by scolding the dunderhead for his offensive comment, Grandby leaned against the wall and waited until it was safe to leave the third floor.

  Chapter 4

  Making Amends for Making a Cake

  Jeffrey Althorpe realized his mistake almost immediately.

  It was good cake?

  How could he have made such an awful comment? He wasn’t supposed to have agreed with the lady’s assessment of what had happened at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. He should have informed her that she was wrong about what had happened. Well, not exactly wrong, but ... dropping her spectacles was merely an accident. No harm had come to the eye wear, and although he feared his breeches would split open in the rear as he dropped down to retrieve them, the unforgiving satin had held.

  It was the moment when he stood up – that brief moment when she was still below him, looking up at him as he held onto her hand – it was that moment he remembered with such clarity. That moment when her face displayed a look of surprise, as if she hadn’t expected him to make the move to pick up her glasses. He was sure her nose had touched his hair, the sensation not unlike a sensuous caress. He was quite sure his entire body had shivered in response. And when he gently tugged on the hand he still held to help her up, he had a passing thought that if Lady Pettigrew wasn’t standing right there, he would have kissed the surprise right off of Lady Evangeline’s lips before she’d had a chance to get her feet firmly under her.

  Talk about making a cake of it!

  But now Lady Evangeline had suddenly taken her leave of him – and the book with her!

  Jeffrey hurried down the rows of books toward the stairs that would lead to the lower stories. A glimpse of the retreating hem of Lady Evangeline’s gown caught his eye, though, and he slowed his steps. She had apparently gone into the lounging room, no doubt to begin reading the book.

  My book!

  He had made the trip to the Temple of the Muses for the sole purpose of acquiring one of the first printings of The Story of a Baron. He had even managed to arrive within a few moments of the store’s opening thinking he would be the only one in London with the sole errand of buying that particular book on its first day for sale in the store.

  But someone else had his book.

  Of course, he could simply ask Mr. Pritchard
to order another copy on his behalf. I can wait, he told himself, rolling his eyes as he considered that he most certainly could not wait. He had to learn what the publisher had done with his tome.

  My first book!

  And who should end up with the first copy but the very chit over which he found himself feeling just a bit ... unsettled?

  Only because I am intrigued by her, he realized as he pulled up short of the doorway to the lounging room.

  Damnation! Why would he think such a thing about Evangeline Tennison?

  Was it just because she had chosen his book to buy the very day it went on sale?

  No, of course not, he admitted to himself.

  He had been attracted to her that very first time he’d seen her at Lord Weatherstone’s ball. Otherwise, why would he have embarrassed himself by begging Lady Pettigrew to arrange an introduction? Lady Pettigrew of all people – the only older woman whose bare breasts he had seen in their entirety and totally by accident – but that was a story for another day. And now he had further embarrassed himself during their short interchange only a moment ago!

  Talk about making a cake of it!

  Learning there was only one copy of the book on the third floor had him wondering, though. Did the Temple’s book buyer think the work of fiction unworthy of space on their shelves? Did they think that a story about a baron wouldn’t sell to London book readers?

  Or was it too expensive?

  Jeffrey hadn’t had a chance to learn the price of the book. His publisher had never discussed its binding nor how many would be printed for its release. And the Temple of the Muses had a reputation for carrying books that were affordable. Perhaps after The Story of a Baron had been available for several months, the Temple would receive the remainders and sell those instead of first-run editions.