Beguiling the Baron

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  A pang clutched at his heart, and he pressed a hand against it. Now was not the time to weaken his resolve concerning his daughter, especially with Galatea Wyndham lurking about the place, ready to expose every chink in his emotional armor.

  He raised his eyes from the kitten to the window. Outside, the lawns surrounding Foxleaze already showed a brighter green, past midsummer now. Soon his tenant farmers would gather in the hay. As a boy, he’d loved to help with this, and with the wheat harvest. As the young Lord of the Manor and his parents’ only child, he was always set triumphantly atop the loaded wagons as they trundled in through the midstrey of the barn.

  If it weren’t considered unbecoming, Polly could have done this, too—and would doubtless have enjoyed it. Was Galatea correct? Was he being too hard on his daughter?

  But if he didn’t do something to scotch the speculation surrounding his wife’s death, both he and Polly would be pariahs if they ever dared go out in Society again. And if he did attempt to quell the gossip by telling the truth, would it improve Polly’s lot in any way? Almost certainly not.

  He was in a wretched coil. The decisions he’d made to protect his wife’s memory and to be sure no scandal ever attached itself to Polly’s name had seemed the right ones at the time.

  Ought he now to change his mind?

  The kitten stirred in his lap and rolled onto its back, stretching and presenting its fluffy tummy. Hal grinned and risked the tiny creature’s wrath by tickling it. It reminded him of the time he rescued a litter of kittens from the millpond when he was a boy and had kept—and loved—each and every one.

  As this former farm creature was now accorded the status of ‘Polly’s Kitten,’ it needed something to set it apart from its siblings. Perhaps a bow around its neck? Although it would soon lose it. A basket to sleep in maybe, lined with the same color cloth as the ribbon. He would leave the items in the nursery for Polly to find.

  Would Galatea be satisfied? It had cut him to the quick that she thought he intended to harm it, forcing him to leave the room lest she see how much she’d offended him.

  If he went out of his way to please her, would she think it meant she’d won the battle of wills concerning Polly’s schooling? Because he hadn’t changed his mind about sending her to the Academy. If Galatea could be relied upon not to let his daughter become as opinionated and willful as herself, there was a chance he might postpone Polly’s removal. The pair seemed to like each other, and it would be heartless indeed were he to separate Polly from her new friend so soon.

  He gazed out the window once more at the sheen of heat rising from the ground and shimmering across the grass, but all he could see was an image of Galatea, dressed in her finery on the way to dine with the Douglas family. She’d no idea he was watching her, of course, but he couldn’t help himself. How jealous he’d been at the thought she would be spending her evening with other gentlemen. Especially looking as ravishing as she did.

  Ah, Galatea.

  She was so changed since her arrival. Well-fitting clothes direct from the mantua-maker, the services of Paulet and Bessie to assist her with her toilet and the styling of her hair, combined with the fact she was no longer stick-thin, had turned her into a nonpareil. The urge to run his eyes appreciatively over every curve of her body and every feature of her face whenever he saw her was becoming harder to resist.

  Not that she’d ever let him touch her. She despised him, he was certain. There was nothing about him of which she didn’t disapprove or seek to change.

  True, there had been the occasional mutual spark when they touched, and he’d known the kindling of desire, but he knew better than to give way to it. Satisfying one’s lust with an innocent was anathema.

  No. She already held too much sway. As she was antagonistic to everything he believed in, said or did, he was in no hurry to let her augment her power.

  It was too damn hot in the house. But he couldn’t throw off his clothes and dive into the river as he was wont to do, as he couldn’t trust Galatea to stay away from any place he’d ordered her to avoid. He’d have to wait until nightfall now.

  Suddenly remembering the fresh tisane of St. John’s Wort he’d poured earlier, he lifted the cup and swigged back the tepid liquid. Ugh. There had to be a way to make the stuff taste better.

  His eye fell on the port decanter, slightly dusty from lack of use, but the liquid inside retained its ruby hue. When he removed the stopper, it smelled good too. Without bothering to hunt for a glass, he tipped the decanter to his lips and relished the buoying warmth sliding down his throat. The taste of the herbal tea was utterly defeated.

  “Ah, port. I’d forgotten what a splendid tipple you were.” Sighing, he shot his wife’s portrait an apologetic look. “Forgive me, Mary. I swore I’d never touch a drop after you died. But I’m thinking maybe three years is long enough. I’ll go to the folly forthwith, to make it up to you.”

  Having made this resolution, he tucked the kitten into his pocket, seized the decanter, and set off to give his instructions to Aldergate.

  Chapter 16

  Tia lay on her bed, gazing at the shadowy ceiling, her thoughts prodding her awake, taxing her with the conundrum of Lord Ansford. He was so grim all the time and yet he knew how to be generous and kind. Polly’s doll had arrived later the same afternoon, and the child was entranced by it. It might mean less than a hug from her father, but it was a good distraction.

  The kitten had been found safe and well in the nursery in its own basket, so Polly still had something to love and to be loved by.

  Tia threw off her coverlet. It was so stuffy tonight, even with the window open. A finger of bright moonlight slanted into the room, turning all it touched to a magical silver. Well, if her mind insisted on buzzing around Lord Ansford, she may as well let it. Not that she hoped to draw any conclusions—

  The man was such a contradiction.

  Of the murder of his wife, she must exonerate him. Any man who put a bow on a kitten was unlikely to have killed his spouse. Nor was he likely to embalm her and secrete the body in the folly, to either gloat over or to remind him of his sin. Tia could no longer imagine the baroness alive in there, imprisoned and insane, hidden from the world so her husband wouldn’t have to live with the shame of it.

  Yet there was definitely something suspect about the baroness’s death, a secret Ansford refused to divulge, a mystery hidden inside the folly. The only way to discover it was by stealth, but how was this to be done? Where did Ansford keep the key? Were there any copies of it?

  The housekeeper had a huge ring of keys on a chatelaine, but did she ever leave it unattended? Where did it go when she slept? Did she keep it locked up at night, or beneath her pillow? Did his Lordship’s steward, Lynch, have a duplicate set, and how could Tia make inquiries without raising suspicion?

  She groaned and sat upright. This was no good, no good at all. She was wide awake now and would think herself into a megrim before morning if she didn’t stop. With a sigh, she slipped out of bed, took off her nightgown and pulled on a serviceable cotton walking dress. She was unlikely to meet anyone as she roamed about the house at this hour and anyway, it was too dark for them to tell she wore no underclothes beneath.

  Using the moonlight to guide her, Tia slipped out into the passageway and made her way to the main stairwell, with no real idea of where she was going or what she wanted to do.

  The cold light cast stark shadows behind the furniture, weapons, and suits of armor adorning the walls of the old entrance hall. She ascended the stairs, her ears alert for every sound, aware of the faces of generations of Pelham ancestors frowning down at her.

  Perhaps a perambulation around the old Great Hall would release the nervous energy she’d stored up during the day. She gazed at the terracotta statues of medieval saints and classical philosophers in their shadowy niches and shivered at the
touch of their myriad hollow eyes upon her.

  Perhaps not. An owl hooted outside, and a bat fluttered past the window. Maybe she would rather be out there with them, with other living creatures instead of in this tomblike, echoing hall.

  Despite her swift retreat, she couldn’t quite shake the sensation of being watched. The front door stood before her, sturdy with its deep iron nails and heavy latch. It would awaken the entire household if she went out that way. There was nothing for it—she’d have to use the cloister. So long as she didn’t encounter the ghosts of its former inhabitants . . .

  By the time she emerged onto the lawn beyond the archway, there was moisture on her upper lip. Lord, how easy it was to succumb to one’s imaginings. She mustn’t allow herself to be afraid of the supernatural—only the corporeal could do one actual harm.

  Was Ansford in the folly? It was late, past midnight at a guess. No, there were no lamps shining from the tower. She was trying to decide where she might walk without setting all the dogs off when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye.

  A tall figure was striding into the trees in the direction of the river.

  Ansford. It had to be him. Wherever was he going at this hour of the night? The only way to answer the question would be to follow him.

  Her nerves fizzed with the thrill of being the hunter, stalking its prey. What a heady sense of power it gave one, to be in pursuit of the unwary.

  When she reached the belt of trees, however, her quarry was gone. The moonlight barely penetrated the burgeoning foliage, and she had to stand motionless while her eyes adjusted.

  If he were still walking through the woods, should she not be able to hear his footsteps crackling amongst the twigs and last year’s fallen leaves? Yet she could hear nothing but the thundering of her heart and the rush of blood in her ears. Night descended about her like soft velvet, and when she began to go forward again, she imagined it was pushing gently against her, urging her to go back.

  Gradually a new sound became audible, a sound like the wind soughing through branches. The rushing of the river.

  She knew the stand of trees opened out before it reached the bank, so the moonlight would be able to penetrate. As she’d lost her quarry, she might as well walk down to the water and enjoy its soothing flow before attempting to go back to the house.

  Suddenly she noticed something pale lying crumpled by the water’s edge and when she went closer to examine it, it turned out to be a pile of clothes.

  Her heart thudded to a halt. Ansford must be here, bathing, as was his wont. He must be some way down the river though, for she couldn’t hear any splashing. It would probably be a good idea to remove herself immediately. The baron would be furious if he knew she’d penetrated his private swimming spot. But as she turned to go, she noticed something small glinting on top of the pile of clothing.

  A key. Her heart leapt into her throat.

  Could this be the key? The one to the folly? She’d seen what she thought was a key around Ansford’s neck when she’d first set eyes on him, when she’d believed him to be a hermit.

  Temptation gnawed at her, mingled with curiosity and guilt. There might never be another opportunity like this one. She could take the key, unlock the folly and replace the key before the baron returned from his swim. As soon as he’d gone off to bed, she’d get a lantern and explore the tower.

  She wouldn’t touch anything, only look. When Ansford arrived in the morning, he’d merely assume he’d forgotten to lock the door the previous day.

  I must know what is in there, for Polly’s sake.

  Hopefully, there would be absolutely nothing nefarious, and her own mind could find ease. And she might permit herself to like Ansford as much as she wanted to.

  Buoyed up by this reasoning, Tia picked up the key with a trembling hand. She’d just turned away to creep back into the shadows when there was a great whoosh of water behind her.

  “Stop.”

  The familiar voice held a tone she dared not disobey.

  Chapter 17

  Slowly she turned around. Lord Ansford was advancing toward her up the bank, the water streaming from his muscular body, his hair hanging in dark tendrils against his shoulders, like Poseidon emerging from the waves. Or Heracles maybe, considering the powerful planes of his chest and the fascinating bunches of muscle spanning his flat stomach.

  Tia backed away, but he continued his advance. She couldn’t help herself—her gaze raked up and down his superbly sculpted form, taking in every single inch of him. It was too dark to see the expression in his eyes—they were mere shadows beneath the black slashes of eyebrows—but his mouth was set in a grim line.

  He didn’t stop to clothe himself but came on relentlessly, menace in every step.

  She’d seen him angry before, but this was different. She continued to back away until she fetched up short against some obstacle and could go no further. Her hands pressed against the rough bark of an oak tree as she flattened herself against its trunk, wordlessly waiting for the sea god’s wrath to fall.

  As he came closer, she forced her eyes upward and resolutely kept them there, despite the temptation to admire and wonder at his body as long as possible.

  When he was so close she could barely focus on him, he stopped, leaned in, and placed a hand on either side of her head against the tree.

  The glitter of his eyes made her pulse skip. Her knees had turned to jelly, and only her awkward grip on the tree held her up. The beat of her heart was so rapid she half expected it to fly right out of her chest, like a frightened bird.

  Holding up the key in shaking fingers, she breathed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any harm, my lord. Take it back, please.”

  “I don’t need it. Not yet. And it seems rather formal to call me ‘my lord’ when you have me completely naked before you, stripped of all vestige of rank and power.”

  She licked her lips. “I wouldn’t exactly say that.”

  “You should call me Henry, Galatea. The time for formality between us has most definitely passed.”

  Not only her knees, but her legs had lost the ability to hold her upright. At this rate, she was going to end up slithering down the tree like a worm. But not from fear.

  The realization hit her with the force of a hurricane. She desired him, wanted him, more than she’d wanted anything in her life before. In her heart, she knew it had happened when first she’d laid eyes on him, but she’d buried it deeply to protect herself.

  Or to fool herself.

  Now the need awoke with overwhelming violence. Her mouth went dry, and she couldn’t help wondering what she would experience if she ran her hands along those silvered flanks.

  “You should definitely get dressed, or you’ll catch a chill,” she urged. No, pleaded. This temptation was absolute torture.

  “As will you,” he replied softly, “if you go about without your underthings on.”

  How could he possibly know? She glanced down and flushed.

  Freed from their usual constrictions, her nipples stood out hard and proud, pushing against the thin fabric of her walking dress. Damn the man for noticing. Damn him.

  He came closer until there was barely a whisper of decency between their bodies, and shifted a hand to touch a lock of her hair. A light tug, and the curl sprang back and bounced against her neck. His eyes followed it, then examined her heated face.

  “I wondered what you looked like with your hair down. It’s like a dark cloud cloaking your shoulders, framing your face.”

  “Very poetic, my lord.” Why did she sound so breathless?

  “Henry. Or Hal if you prefer. My friends, when I had some, used to call me Hal.”

  What was going on here? Was he angry, or not? She offered him the key again but he simply shook his head and gave her a mirthless grimace.
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  “No. I haven’t finished with you yet.”

  She was most definitely in danger. Bravely holding his gaze, she moistened her lips. “Do you mean to punish me?”

  “Perhaps. It depends upon your answer to my question. What cause have I given you to think I’d have my daughter’s kitten drowned?”

  “I . . . I . . .” She couldn’t think straight. His breath on her face smelled sweet, like the best port wine. A drop of water from his hair splashed onto her neck and trickled down inside the front of her walking dress. He watched its progress before brushing his knuckles across the silvery trail, igniting a line of fire across her bosom. Her nipples ached from straining against the cloth that confined them.

  Softly he repeated his question, and added, “Do you truly think me so inhuman? Can you not trust me?”

  She swallowed hard. “How can I trust you when you won’t tell me what’s in the folly?”

  “Because it doesn’t affect you. It’s private and will remain so. There’s nothing terrible there, believe me.”

  “Hal—”

  “Shh.” He placed a cool finger across her lips. They suddenly became as sensitive as her nipples, and she squirmed against the tree, aching for she knew not what. Helplessly, she gazed up at the man before her, the moonlight blazing on his bare shoulders.

  What an amazing mouth he had. A slender upper lip, a full lower lip with a bow-shaped curve between and the slightest of upward quirks at the corners. How much would she give right now to hear words of tenderness issue from those devilishly tempting lips?

  His finger stroked along her mouth and under her lower lip, then dropped to create a gentle pressure beneath her chin.

  “Would you consider me a monster if I kissed you?”

  “W—Why would you want to?”