by Jen YatesNZ
‘Absolutely. Jumps like a stag. How about that handsome palomino stallion you paid a crazy price for to keep him out of Haverfield’s hands?’
The challenging twinkle in Dick’s eyes left him in no doubt he was in possession of facts Bax’d rather he wasn’t.
‘Prime piece. He’ll sire some stunning progeny. Lady Sherida Dearing is keen to use him at her Springwoods Stud.’
‘But rejected his owner. And did I hear you lost the animal to Wolverton in a bet over the very same Lady Sherida?’
‘Stap me, Pountney! You never stir beyond Bell Barr yet you have the latest tattle from the capital!’
If he hoped that outburst would slow his brother-in-law he quickly learnt otherwise.
‘And is that a little discoloration around your nose and lip, old fellow? Not like you to let anyone do that much damage to your handsome phiz. Quite spoils your looks—and Wolverton with nary a scratch, I believe. You must’ve really nicked his principles. Rarely known His Grace resort to anything so—common—as fisticuffs in a dark alley.’
His chest swelled with rage, attributable more to his own lack of judgement than the loss to his cousin.
‘Wolverton didn’t play fair,’ he muttered as he took a sip of the tea, burning the cut not quite healed on the inside of his lip. ‘He’s going to marry the chit.’
‘Heard that. Didn’t believe it. Lady Sheri’s been banging around the ballrooms of the capital for several seasons and turned down at least as many worthy offers for her hand. Not to mention the odd unworthy one. Why her? Why marriage after all these years? I was tempted to hie myself to London just to have those questions answered.—And here you are. Saved me the trouble.’
When Bax forbore to answer, Pountney pressed harder.
‘Marriage, Bax? You?’
‘Of course not me, you dolt!’
For a moment, the questioning expression was frozen on Pountney’s thin face then he tossed back his head and roared with laughter, drawing the attention of the women.
‘So, Wolf planted you a facer for daring to pursue the Heavenly Iceberg with dishonorable intent!’
As her husband’s loudly voiced ribald comment echoed round the room Lady Pountney observed in a voice of surprisingly steely annoyance for one so pale and languid, ‘Your topic of discussion would be better pursued over port after dinner, I believe, Pountney.’
***
Lord Baxendene wore a strange expression, more a grimace of pain than the show of amusement he was likely trying for.
The stories of his exploits Holly had whispered to her over the years and Jane had privately considered the exaggerations of a hero-worshipping younger sister, possibly fell short of reality.
Bax was still the handsomest, most scurrilous and exciting rake in town! She’d not allowed him to turn her head as a teenager, so she was armed against his charm now as a widow—wasn’t she?
A haughty set-down would have been good—but she’d allowed her tongue an unguarded response, putting an immediate smolder in the smoky grey eyes.
The man was a practiced charmer, an avowed bachelor, whose greatest sport, if one believed the gossip, was bedding foolish women, who probably believed they’d be the one to snare his heart.
Maturity and a pampered life with a man, more indulgent guardian than husband, had improved her appearance, but at thirty years of age she was past having value in the marriage and motherhood stakes for any man. Life in the Dower House at Rotherby Manor, suited her.
And her mind was as fanciful as it ever was! She took another careful sip of her tea. Hades Delacourte never dealt in terms of marriage, was more likely to consider widowhood made her eligible for the terms on which he did deal; clandestine affairs of a torrid and short-lived nature.
She’d do well to shore up the sagging façade of her carefully constructed ‘Lady of the Manor’ persona rather than dream like a wide-eyed ingénue come to London for the purpose of finding a husband during the Season. She was over the hill in that regard; relegated to the chaperones’ corner, to watch from the side-lines.
‘Will you escort us to London tomorrow, Uncle Bax?’
Selena’s query brought her out of her musings. She’d hoped that suggestion lost in what followed.
Lord Baxendene might be considered a rakish blade, but she’d never heard anything dishonorable of him. Escorting his niece, they’d make a singular pair, both crowned with those amazing, coal-black Beresford curls, and it’d probably be as well to have a show of male protection. Holly believed her niece would take the salons of London by storm and Jane, having barely spent an hour in the young woman’s company, was certain that was Miss Carstairs’ intent.
The Earl bowed towards his niece, but his glinting grey gaze glissaded across Jane’s person in the process. Startled at the sensation of her bones softening to the marrow, she made a small production of brushing a wrinkle from the skirt of her gown.
‘I’d be honored to escort two beautiful ladies,’ he declared, his voice a smoky rumble, resonating deep in Jane’s core. She reminded herself the deeply caressing purr and the bedroom allure of his eyes was likely so natural to the man he knew no other way to be—and she was mature enough to know and dismiss it as practiced gallantry.
As she sat before the mirror and watched Dolly dress her hair into a crown of artfully restrained curls on top of her head, Jane considered the phenomenon of Lord Baxendene. She’d never seen a man taller—or so beautifully proportioned. Around him she’d never have to worry her hairstyle added extra inches to her unwomanly height. Physically they were a good match.
A little sigh escaped her.
‘Something amiss, my Lady?’ Dolly asked.
‘Not at all, Dolly. A little weary, I guess.’
It was only a small lie. How could she admit to her practical but far-seeing maid she regretted the plain, semi-mourning, greyish mauve of her gown? What would Hades, with his artist’s eye, think of the flat, drab color?
Did he still paint? Many an afternoon she and Holly had come across him at The Dene, seated before an easel or sprawled on a grassy knoll with a sketchpad and a lump of charcoal in his blackened fingers while his twin brother had been off somewhere with a dog and a gun.
She’d longed for the ability to capture a scene on canvas, but had little talent for it. Hades, on the other hand, in the rare moments he’d allowed himself to indulge the serious, creative side of his nature, had a talent her younger self had found awe-inspiring. It was incongruous considering that most masculine of men with a reputation as a Corinthian and a rake, wielding a paint brush. He probably no longer did.
Rich, autumn colors suited her best; forest green, rusty reds, and periwinkle blue. But that would have to wait until her visit to La Callista in London. Meantime, she’d wear the mauve and remind herself looking attractive for Hades Delacourte was not why she was here. James always told her if all a man saw was the external trappings of silk, lace and artifice, his opinion was not worthy of her concern.
It was a good time to remind herself everything James had taught her she still knew; all he’d shown her she could be, she still was.
With a little nod, she dismissed Dolly and made her way downstairs for dinner.
***
He’d come close to losing his polished, blasé façade when Pountney had twitted him about losing Zeus before he’d owned the prime animal above a couple of weeks. There was no one to blame but himself. He’d been determined to direct Wolverton’s attention away from Windermere’s wife to a woman who was perfect for him in every way—and available. He could blame it on alcohol, but he’d made the damned wager, set the terms of engagement knowing Dom’s honor would force him to strive to win.
‘We’ve both just acquired some new bloodstock. Prime pieces. First to claim the cherry wins the hunter from the other’s stable.’
He hadn’t even intended to win the bet! Merely force Dom to stop mooning after Jassie and notice Sherida Dearing! Born to be a duchess if ever a woman was!
>
Tugging at the knot of his neck cloth, he swore at his image in the mirror. Rarely so careless with his possessions, or his image, he’d let it slip with Pountney and that wily dog would worry the bone to death. The shadows of darkness that often clawed the edges of his sanity must have been raking closer than he’d realized. Those same shadows were probably the reason he’d been dipping a little deeper into the vices of Bacchus of late. He’d retreated to Bancombe Park as always when the shadows threatened to bleed the real Haden Delacourte through the ironclad façade of the Earl of Baxendene. He should’ve stayed longer.
The illusion of the ‘Great Bax’, as the ton called him, was a work of art he’d been creating ever since he’d inherited the title. A prominent man was vulnerable in so many ways: through his actions—or lack of them; his interests, friends and associates; those moments when he allowed his vigilance to be compromised. He couldn’t allow the ton to see the real man, wouldn’t allow himself to be that man anywhere but at Bancombe Park or The Chase.
With a last tug at the front of his silver grey waistcoat, he accepted his jacket from Fosse, and shrugging into it, left the room. Ambling lazily down the stairs in an effort to still his anticipation of seeing Angular Jane—Angela Jane—he stopped at the door to gather his habitual cloak of careless elegance about him.
His niece sat prettily thumbing through a copy of Belle Assemblée, her brother leaning over her shoulder to deride the latest fashions therein portrayed. Pountney hadn’t yet arrived, but Celia and Jane sat on a window seat overlooking the formal gardens at the front of the Hall.
Jane, dressed in an unremarkable gown of smoky lilac, studied Celia’s pattern while his sister pointed out some detail. Her profile, outlined against the mullioned windows, made his fingers itch for a piece of charcoal. An almost straight nose, elegant neck, and hair that captivated. It appeared smoothly groomed, but against the light he could see fine wisps of flame curling away from her head.
Rarely without handwork of some sort, his sister made a doll or bear for each new child to own and treasure. Jane seemed genuinely interested.
Genuine. There was nothing artificial about Angela Jane. Never had been.
Pushing himself away from the doorframe, he crossed the room, reminding himself Angela Jane Bracewell was now Lady Rotherby and he never seduced happily married women. He assumed she was happily married from the air of serenity surrounding her. Although as he settled himself into a chair beside his sister and took the latest creation off her knee to examine, he noted a faint air of sadness about Lady Rotherby.
All thoughts of dalliance would be ruthlessly suppressed.
‘A doll? You’re expecting another daughter, Cel?’ He spread the almost completed project out on his knee. ‘She’s got a cheeky smile!’
‘Of course I don’t know whether it’ll be a boy or a girl,’ Celia laughed. ‘I already have a bear from when Mary was born. I like to be prepared, a doll for a girl and a bear for a boy.’
‘She’s a work of art,’ Bax declared. ‘Reminds me of Holly when she was little. The same mischievous smile.’
Celia’s laughter brightened her tired eyes and put color in her pale cheeks.
‘Then she shall be called Holly,’ she declared. ‘Do you want to christen her?’
Chapter 2
Jane had been studying Celia’s pattern card with the thought of making a doll for Abby’s youngest daughter, but couldn’t keep her eyes from Bax’s manly hands holding the unfinished toy with appreciation. Although she knew those hands could wield an artist’s brush with enviable skill, she could also imagine them wrapped around an axe or a sword—or a woman.
Dear God, she must stop thinking these things in his presence, for thought was all it took to flood her cheeks with color. Lord Baxendene was too observant and astute not to notice—and wonder.
At Celia’s suggestion of christening the doll an unholy twinkle danced in his eyes.
‘I’m very good at christening dollies, am I not, Angela Jane?’
He sought and held her gaze, forcing her mind back to a long ago day at The Dene.
She and Holly had been playing ‘ladies at tea’ with a couple of dolls by the fountain. Though there was a strong bond between the siblings he’d taken every opportunity to tease and torment. It was his job as her older brother, he’d once said when Holly wailed a protest.
She dragged her gaze from his.
‘I’d be more inclined to label you bad at christening dollies,’ she said, smiling downward and hoping he didn’t notice the color in her cheeks.
Futile, she knew, or to forget that to placate Holly after he’d tossed her dolls into the fountain, he’d stripped to his drawers and waded in to heroically save them from drowning. Never having seen a man’s naked chest, she’d somehow known it was exciting—and wicked, though she’d only been eight and he thirteen.
But then, everything about the Earl of Baxendene had been exciting and wicked—and she’d always been susceptible. Although she’d prided herself on hiding that fact from his over-confident Lordship!
The Earl’s naked chest would be more impressive these days, judging by the breadth of his shoulders and how they filled out the immaculately tailored jacket. Lord, she wished she could use the pattern card as a fan!
***
Keeping his eyes from Jane’s heated cheeks was harder than it should be. He was practiced at showing a bored and uninterested front, a necessary survival skill he’d developed from an early age when his lean, lanky physique began showing the promise of the man he would become. At thirteen he’d looked closer to sixteen and been happy to act like it.
Pountney, who’d been waiting by the drinks cabinet, finally ran out of patience.
‘Dammit, Bax, stop blethering like a woman and name your poison. You were late down as it is.’
‘Apologies my esteemed brother-in-law—and ladies. Fosse had trouble with my neck-cloth.’
‘That horse won’t run, Bax! If you cared tuppence for the style of your cloth you’d employ a proper valet instead of a chap more suited to handling military uniforms.’
Bax let the habitual lazy smile curve his lips, and said, ‘I’ll have a brandy before dinner, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
Accepting the snifter his brother-in-law passed him, he took up his stance at one end of the mantel, Pountney at the other, and found his gaze returning to the women across the room. To keep his attention from Jane, he focused on Selena, still trying to engage Harry’s opinion of the plates in the fashion book.
‘Do you have a new wardrobe for London?’ he asked her.
His niece’s blue-green eyes lit up.
‘Some. Aunt Holly is to take me shopping when I get to London and Lady Rotherby has promised an introduction to La Callista,’ she finished with breathy reverence in her voice.
Angular Jane patronized La Callista? Her gown had the skill and detail of a ‘La Callista’ creation, but the color and trimmings were muted, almost effacing. The artist in him fancied the right to dress her in the bright jewel tones her coloring demanded.
The butler announced dinner and Pountney crossed to help his wife from her chair. Bax offered his arm to Jane. As they strolled down the hall, he leant in and asked, ‘Rotherby doesn’t travel to London with you? Does he not enjoy the season, or travelling?’
Jane’s smile faltered.
‘James passed away two years ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured and caressed her hand where it lay on his arm.
Jane was a widow, and though he felt sympathy for her loss, cad that he was, the knowledge pleased him.
Exploring the implications could be the perfect distraction from losing Zeus to Dom and knowing he could blame no one but himself. He suppressed a smile as he seated Lady Rotherby in the chair next to his.
He’d have Angular Jane begging to crawl into his bed before they arrived in London.
***
It might have been better to let him believe James still lived.
She’d not be an easy target, but against a man of Hade’s experience, she was naïve in the extreme. Likely a wedding ring would prove little deterrent. Many even considered it a license to dally!
Condolences, murmured in his deep, caressing voice were almost as disturbing as his hand briefly soothing hers.
Once the perfectly roasted pheasant was served with oven-browned vegetables and a rich cranberry sauce and the servants retreated, Celia asked, ‘Haden, is it true Lady Sherida is engaged to Wolverton? I was beginning to think neither of them ever intended to marry. When is the wedding?’
His body stiffened at her side then relaxed, as if he’d consciously willed it.
‘True, Cel. They’re being married at Wolverton Castle in a few weeks.’
His nonchalant tone was everything one would expect from a sophisticated gentleman yet Jane knew it for a well-crafted hum. Hades Delacourte, was not who he appeared to be! How could she know that when she’d only met him again a few hours ago and it was a dozen years at least since they’d seen each other?
Struggling to project her usual aloof tranquility and mask the intensity of her awareness of the man at her side, she was grateful when Celia rose and suggested they leave the men to their port.
***
‘So, Lady Rotherby wasn’t always as elegant and attractive as she is now?’
‘None of us were! Yourself excluded of course, Dick,’ Bax ended sarcastically.
He shouldn’t have expected young Harry’s presence would restrain his brother-in-law in any way. The bastard took a gulp of his port and waded straight in. Not for the first time since arriving, Bax wished he’d opted for the lesser comforts of the village inn.
Pountney, damn him, just crooked an eyebrow.
‘Pre-adulthood can be a graceless time for some—myself included.’ Bax leant back in his chair, promoting the illusion of savoring his port and expounding on nothing more interesting than the weather. ‘Angular Jane had as many nicknames for me as I had for her. Lanky Bax. Black Giraffe. She was always inventing new ones. I teased the hell out of her.’
