Beguiling the Baron

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  Tia chewed on her lip. This last was almost certainly true, though she hated to admit it. She threw her head back and forced a laugh. “Mama, how perceptive you’ve become.”

  “More than you know, my dear, more than you know. Now, shall we plunder the late baroness’s collection of the Lady’s Magazine? We can hunt for ideas on what to wear for our evening out.”

  “They’re in the morning room, are they not? Surely Ansford’s ‘Rules’ dictate that room should stay shut up?”

  Mama rolled her eyes. “I was planning on borrowing a few copies and bringing them back to our sitting room. Or we could read them here.”

  A frisson of excitement skittered up Tia’s spine. It was ridiculous they shouldn’t be allowed to use the morning room. It only needed the covers to be whisked off and shaken to make the place perfectly habitable. Polly could come and join them—there was a card table, a pianoforte, a splendid collection of ladies’ magazines and journals, and a large, modern window admitting more daylight than any other in the building.

  Ansford wouldn’t like it if they opened up the morning room.

  So, I won’t bother to ask him.

  Chapter 11

  Hal stalked across the Turkish carpet and gazed out the study window. The Wyndhams were still here. If Lynch hadn’t contracted that damn quinsy, he’d have been rid of them by now.

  Of course, he could have dealt with the matter himself, but it would mean he’d have to face up to them. Talking was so awkward. The more one spoke, the more entangled one became in the conversation, and he hated the impression of being trapped.

  An image of Galatea’s beautiful, bright face swam before his mind’s eye. She’d have told him straight what she thought of him for so heinous an act of betrayal. He couldn’t help but applaud her courage in standing up to him, even when in his darkest mood.

  He drummed his fingers on the stone windowsill. He wouldn’t have been able to remove the Wyndhams from Foxleaze immediately in any case, as he’d not yet decided how close, or how far away, their new home needed to be. He was their benefactor, after all, and would have to continue dealing with their business issues.

  So, in the interim, he would simply have to cope with the bloodless battle going on between himself and Miss Wyndham-she with her desire to amend his manners and behavior, and he equally determined to change nothing.

  Hal knew she disapproved of his appearance. Her lips flattened when they encountered one another, and she always ran her eyes over his black-clad form. Well, he’d made a concession by wearing a white shirt and cravat. That was all, for he was in mourning and only he would decide when to come out of it.

  He’d seen her eyeing his hair too. Perhaps she believed, because it was often damp, he’d combed oil into it. This was not the case, of course—where was the point in putting pomade on one’s hair if one went for a bracing swim every day? It would be a waste of money.

  He didn’t care what she thought of his appearance. Although the glimpse of himself in the lake the other day had given him pause for thought.

  Hal stroked his chin. When had he last accepted a shave? He couldn’t remember. And the beard—if he intended to keep it—needed a trim, or it would become as straggly as his hair.

  Not that it mattered.

  It was warm, standing here with the rectangular glass panes intensifying the sunlight. If he were in the folly—where he ought to be currently—he’d be unaware of either the light or the warmth. He really ought to go and get on with his project.

  Instead, his fingers reached for the window catch. This was a sash window, and he couldn’t recall the last time he’d opened it. The sound of the lead weights moving down inside the frame grated in his head, but it was worth it for the sweet air he sucked into his lungs.

  A swallow skidded past, and moments later he heard the faint peeping of chicks from a nest nearby. Mary had always loved summer here, and so had he. The place was full of teeming life, with the lowing of cattle in the distant meadows, birds frantically proclaiming their territories, and the bees buzzing around the bobbing flower-heads.

  Once he used to enjoy watching Polly from this window—she’d emerge onto the grass trailing a skipping rope, and she’d try to beat her previous total of jumps, counting out to herself under her breath. It was amusing when she became entangled and had to start again.

  But nothing amused him now.

  Turning away from the window, Hal clenched his teeth against the memories and the pain. Everything had changed so much in the past three years. There was no way of reversing the clock, of recapturing his lost happiness.

  But he could make at least one change. The weather was balmy, after all—they’d already reached midsummer, and it wouldn’t be long before the blazing days of August arrived. Did he truly want to be sweltering under long hair and a beard?

  A pull on the bell-rope brought his footman, Aldergate, to the door.

  “Find Symons, will you? Tell him I’d like a shave.”

  Was that an expression of triumph on the footman’s face? Surely a decision to shave wasn’t that significant an event?

  A short while later, Hal was settled in the chair in front of his dressing table. He could see Symon’s face in the mirror as the man placed a towel around his shoulders. Like Aldergate, he seemed excessively cheerful today.

  “Mrs. and Miss Wyndham have opened up the morning room, sir, and settled themselves down to their needlework because the light there at this time of day is exceedingly good. Or so they informed me.”

  Hal’s reflection scowled at him. How dare they open a room in his house without his express permission? Or that of Mrs. Dunne? Had the irksome Miss Wyndham found a way to compel the servants to do her bidding?

  Infuriating. But Hal shouldn’t admit to it, because being angry suggested he cared.

  He’d made up his mind long ago to care a good deal less than he used to.

  It hurt too much.

  All the same, as soon as his shave was complete, he set off for the morning room to express his displeasure, but the scene before him brought him up short.

  The Wyndhams had shifted the sofa around and now sat facing the window, accompanied by Polly on a small footstool. All three were absorbed in their tasks. Polly was trimming an old bonnet, tongue clenched between her teeth in concentration. Mrs. Wyndham was crocheting with hairpins, and Galatea embroidered a thin square of lawn. She gazed down at her needlework frame, her long dark lashes caressing porcelain cheeks, her luscious mouth pursed in concentration.

  She was so lovely, his heart lurched.

  Hal shook away his inappropriate, unwelcome response. But he couldn’t help continuing to observe her. The light was so clear today, it picked out every curl of her shining hair, every fold of her sprigged muslin dress, the delicate curve of her shoulders, and the tempting swell of her breasts.

  She seemed as if posed for a portrait, but if he attempted to capture the moment, he’d need to fetch his drawing things. By the time he’d done that, the moment would have passed. Better to stand quietly in the doorway and commit the sight to memory while he waited for someone to notice his presence, allowing him to penetrate the bubble of domesticity.

  Miss Wyndham beamed to herself, sucked in a breath, and hummed a few bars of what sounded like a sea shanty. When her sweet voice broke out in song, her mother and Polly laid aside their work to watch and listen. There was a chorus, which Polly, ever a bright child, quickly picked up, and soon all three were raising their heads and adjuring the spirits of Foxleaze to, ‘Haul away the bow-line, the bowline haul.’

  Something snapped inside Hal, propelling him into the room in a blaze of fury.

  “Silence!” he roared. “Don’t you know this is a house of mourning? I will not have common sea shanties sung here. You will desist at once or leave now.”

&
nbsp; Chapter 12

  A hiccupping sob from Polly broke the stunned silence following Lord Ansford’s outburst. As Mama put a comforting arm about the girl’s shoulders, Tia marched the irate baron out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

  “I presume you intend to apologize.” His blue eyes glittered with anger, his voice harsh.

  He expected her to say sorry? He’d reduced his daughter to tears, insulted her and her mother and threatened to throw them all out. The urge to slap Lord Ansford’s maddeningly handsome—and, she suddenly noticed, fashionably beardless—face was almost overwhelming.

  “My lord,” she began, battling to keep her tone low and even, “we were not aware singing was forbidden. Had I known you meant to deny us every pleasure known to humankind, I’d have stayed in the poorhouse. At least I’d have been able to do some good for the children there.”

  Ansford caught her by the arm and gave her a light shake. “Miss Wyndham,” he snapped, his voice hard, unyielding. “My house, my rules. There’s been no music here since Lady Mary died. I find I much prefer the quiet.”

  “Must there never be music again?” Tia was very aware of the pressure of his warm fingers on her upper arms. He was close enough for her to recognize the fury emanating from his body.

  “If I decree it, yes.”

  “And Polly is never to touch the pianoforte, or hum a melody? How will she fare in the drawing rooms of the ton? How can she attract a husband if she is unable to play? Would you deny her the chance for future happiness, of future security?”

  His fingers tightened, forcing into Tia’s mind all the rumors about the baron, all the cruel things he was considered capable of doing. He wouldn’t hurt her, surely? Nonetheless, she went completely rigid, fearing she’d said too much.

  “I’m trying to help the child,” Ansford persisted. “She needs to be impenetrable. I don’t want her to care for anyone so much she can’t bear to be parted from them, and I don’t want her to suffer the pain of a loss so great she can barely live with herself. I don’t want her to lose a loved one and wish it should have been her who was taken rather than the one robbed of life many years too soon.”

  Like a physical touch, his eyes raked her face, his gaze dark with anger, his lips trembling with the effort to quell the rage.

  The man revealed a great deal more about himself than he had about his plans for Polly. Tia’s fury ebbed away as she relaxed in his grasp.

  “You forget, sir, I too have loved and lost. I lost a sister before I lost my father. Both were taken away far too young. I continue to grieve for them, in my own way. Mama and I have faced great hardship and seen all safety and security stripped away from us, yet we’ve never given up hope. We’ve never given up seeking whatever happiness life has to offer.” It was hard to keep her voice from quavering at the remembered misery and loss.

  “I’m sorry for your suffering, truly I am, but you bring it all on yourself. The time for mourning has passed, and you must learn to live again. If not for yourself, for Polly. Do you want her to be a timid mouse all her life, forever afraid to enjoy herself, or make music or laugh for fear of censure? No, I can’t believe you do. You were a great man once, sir. You can be that man again. But don’t leave it too late, or you’ll find there is nothing left of him.”

  Ansford’s fingers slipped down to her elbows. They were standing breast to breast now, two foes locked in mortal combat, with words for swords and each with their own pride and stubbornness to shield them.

  Tia’s eyes slid from the man’s freshly shaven chin to his white cravat, his broad chest heaving with the strength of his anger, the black, featureless clothing that signaled to everybody he was dead to the world.

  And found herself fervently wishing it were otherwise. What if those hands were to draw her closer, the strong arms to cradle her against his firm chest, the warm fingers to stroke her hair and tell her it was all right, that everything was going to be well?

  Comfort, indeed. Something she had not, until this moment, known she either needed or desired.

  She gulped, and the tears brimmed up. This could not be allowed to happen. Wrenching herself from Ansford’s grasp, she pushed past him.

  “I’m sorry, my lord. I’ve said too much. Forgive me. You don’t need to send Polly away, for I promise there will be no more singing at Foxleaze.”

  He reached for her, but she evaded him.

  “Miss Wyndham, wait. Please, Galatea!”

  She ran down the echoing passageway, blinded by tears. The encounter had opened old wounds. Why waste any more time on Henry Pelham, eighth Baron Ansford? He was beyond her help. He was beyond the help of anybody.

  The sound of hurrying feet pursued her. He mustn’t see he’d made her cry. She burst into the entrance hall, ran up the stairs, thought briefly of hiding behind the suit of armor, and decided to make for her bedchamber. Her adversary wouldn’t follow her there.

  Ansford would have no wish to entertain his staff by pursuing her through the whole length of the house, only to be left locked out and looking foolish before her door.

  Damn, the man was fast when he wanted to be. He caught up with her at the top of the stairs, seized her arm, and steered her wordlessly through the connecting door and into his wing of the house. She found herself being frog-marched down a passageway, around a corner, and eventually into the corridor that held the library. Exactly what he intended to do with her, she’d no idea. Had she left it too late to scream?

  Next minute, they were in his study, with the door shut behind them. She had to hope he hadn’t really murdered his wife in a fit of rage.

  He held her at arm’s length, and she raised a defiant chin to him. With any luck, he’d never know how close to despair he’d driven her.

  “Galatea, don’t run away from me.” His voice was soft and earnest. “I’d never harm you, trust me. I may be a hollow shell of a man, but I’ve not lost my humanity. I’ll argue with you, yes, and I have every right—you stubbornly refuse to understand me, or why I live by the rules I do. It makes me angry. It would make anyone angry. But I beg you, don’t be frightened of me and don’t let me hurt you. I’m not worth it.”

  “I’m not crying, and I’m not afraid,” she lied. “I have wounds of my own to deal with, and sometimes they get the better of me. That is all.”

  “I’m sorry. I must try to curb my temper. It has always been a failing of mine. I had thought I no longer cared enough to be angry about anything, but no matter. Come, let us sheathe our weapons and be friends, or at least call a truce. I suppose you will now tell me to make amends to Polly. As for music, I’ll consider the points you’ve made.”

  Hope sprang to life, and Tia almost grinned. This was the first time Ansford had offered to consider making a concession. And he’d spoken more in the last fifteen minutes, revealed more of his true character than he had in the last month.

  To her astonishment, he embraced her, his hands awkward and shy. He pressed her only lightly against his chest, but it was long enough for her to notice the softness of his clothing and the firmness of the muscles flexing beneath it. His head bent close to hers, long hair brushing her cheek.

  She sniffed. And sniffed again. “My lord,” she said as he released her, “I hope you won’t think me rude, but you smell most peculiar.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The dark brows shot up.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say your hair smelled of pondweed.”

  “Ah, Miss Wyndham is herself again,” he retorted, taking her hand.

  An instant connection throbbed between them. Had he felt it too?

  If he were to try that embrace again, she’d make it work much better. And last considerably longer.

  Hal’s blue eyes glittered. Had he divined her thoughts? She hoped not.

  “You really are the most c
ritical female I’ve ever met. Let us agree I’ll never come up to your exacting standards and you won’t come up to mine. I can promise you no more comforting embraces if all you’re going to do is make personal remarks. I’ve been swimming in the river, as I do virtually every day. My valet neglected to tell me it made my hair smell of pondweed. Would the application of a perfumed oil satisfy you? Or perhaps a simple rinse in rosemary-water?”

  Obviously not offended, he was looking happy now, sporting the first true smile he’d given her. His fingers caressed her wrist, sending a jolt of sensation right up her arm. What allure this man possessed. God forbid he ever chose to use his power.

  “That might indeed serve.” She was desperate now to break the spell he’d cast on her. “Although it badly needs cutting too. As does Polly’s. Her maid Paulet is good at styling but has an unsteady hand when it comes to scissors.”

  What was she prattling on about? She needed to get out of here before she uttered something completely idiotic.

  “Granted. I bow to your superior knowledge, Miss Wyndham. If you do a good job on Polly, you may cut my hair as well, in whatever way it pleases you.”

  Tempting. Extremely tempting. It was a frightful mess. “You jest with me, sir.”

  The fingers on her wrist stilled, but his expression didn’t change. She wondered if he was even aware of stroking her.