Beauty and the Baron: A Regency Fairy Tale Retelling (Forever After Retellings Book 1)

by Joanna Barker

  The door opened behind him and Frampton’s reflection appeared in the window. “Today’s post, my lord,” he said, coming forward with a silver tray.

  Henry hardly noticed, his eyes still upon Miss Sinclair. Where was she going anyway? Should she not be working? He attempted to rally his anger once more.

  “Where is Miss Sinclair going?” He gestured to the window as he turned to face Frampton.

  Frampton looked unbothered by the force of the question. “I believe it is her half day.”

  Henry grunted, wishing his butler’s response was not so logical.

  “Did she have the chance to speak with you yesterday?” Frampton set his tray on the desk.

  “You knew about that?”

  “Indeed.” He brushed his gloved hands together. “I found her quite distressed over the news of her father.”

  “Her father?” Henry furrowed his brow. Had she mentioned her father? All he could remember was her request for money, which had sent his anger boiling over. “What happened to her father?”

  Frampton turned back to him. “He is quite ill, enough to send for a physician. His jailer demanded Rose pay the fees immediately. Did she not discuss this with you?”

  Henry swallowed. “She attempted to.” He turned back to the window. Miss Sinclair had disappeared past the brick pillars that marked the entrance to the estate, but her face appeared in his mind. Wide dark eyes, mouth parted in astonishment, skin pale as a ghost. She had been trying to help her father, and he had rejected her without a second thought.

  For two years he’d carefully crafted his callous reputation, depending on it to guard against those who would exploit him. It was his best means of protecting himself. But he never realized how it might hurt someone. Someone innocent of ill-intentions.

  What would his mother think of what he had done?

  He hesitated a moment more before he turned and strode to the door. “Have my horse readied immediately,” he called back to Frampton.

  * * *

  Rose shivered and pulled her pelisse more tightly around her. Even in late summer, the grey clouds and stiff breeze held a chill that crept through her layers. She touched her neck, making certain Mama’s necklace still hung safely there. It had been silly, wearing it instead of tucking it inside her reticule. But as this would be her last chance, she could not stop herself.

  Her mother’s necklace was the only item of value she had left after selling all her possessions to pay Papa’s debts. She ached to think of parting with it, but what choice did she have after her disastrous attempt with Lord Norcliffe? Even now, the memory of his harsh eyes and even harsher words sent a wave of anxiety through her.

  She’d been walking a quarter hour when hoofbeats sounded behind her. She moved to the side of the road to let the other traveler past, glancing up as the horse came even with her. She stopped in her tracks, staring up at the rider.

  “Lord Norcliffe,” she sputtered. He looked down on her with an unreadable expression, looking far too at ease on horseback. She remembered to curtsy, though it was so unsteady it hardly counted.

  “Miss Sinclair.” He dismounted, taking his horse’s reins as he stepped toward her. “Might I join you?”

  “I—” She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. He wished to walk with her? “Yes, of course.”

  He gestured her forward. She somehow managed to convince her feet to move, and he fell in step beside her. Nerves preyed upon her mind. Why was he here? Perhaps he had decided to dismiss her after all. But why would he wait until she had left the house?

  “Miss Sinclair,” he said in a gruff voice. “I wanted to … apologize for my behavior to you the other day.”

  She blinked. “Apologize?”

  “Yes.” He cleared his throat. “I was upset about another matter and treated you poorly when you had done nothing wrong.”

  She shook her head, twisting her gloved fingertips. “I should apologize to you, my lord. I promised when you took me on that I would make no more requests of you, and then I came asking for another favor.”

  “A favor that was not for you.”

  Rose peeked sideways at him, attempting to read his expression. He did not look at her and kept his eyes straight ahead on the road.

  “It was for me,” she said quietly. “My father is all I have.”

  He looked at her then, his eyes intent as they scrutinized her face. “Frampton says your father is ill.”

  She nodded, trying hard not to show how worried she was. “Yes, my lord. I would go to him myself, but—” She stopped, dropping her gaze. What a foolish thing to say. “That is, of course I would not leave my post now.”

  Lord Norcliffe looked away. “Have you found a way to pay his fees?”

  Why would he ask that? Was this a change of heart? She had trouble believing it, considering how he had reacted yesterday. Her hand went to her necklace and traced the familiar shape of the golden rose with her fingers. “I have a plan, yes.”

  His eyes followed her movement and fixed on her necklace. Her stomach jolted, realizing how it must look to him. She had come to him pleading for money, and here she was wearing a necklace that, while surely not extravagant to him, was quite unnecessary for a girl of her current station. Did he wonder why she hadn’t sold it before now?

  “It was my mother’s,” she blurted, grasping the chain tightly in her hand.

  His brow furrowed. “Pardon?”

  “This necklace,” she said. “It was my mother’s. And my grandmother’s before her. They were also named Rose.”

  “I see,” he said, though he did not look as though he understood at all, watching her in perplexity. “A family heirloom.”

  “Er, yes.” Did he not care how valuable it was? Or had he not yet made the connection? “It is all I have left of my mother.”

  “You must be quite attached to it.”

  “I—I suppose.” Rose let her hand drop to her side, toying with her reticule on her wrist. “It helps me to remember her.” She hated the thought of selling it, but her father’s life meant more than any trinket, no matter its memories.

  “I understand the sentiment,” he said. She turned her head to look at him in surprise. He looked just as surprised at his own words. The slightest hint of pink touched the angles of his cheeks. “That is, becoming attached to an item. There is more value to an object that is associated with a loved one.”

  She watched him for a long moment before replying. “You speak from experience,” she said slowly. “Not observation.”

  His jaw tightened. “Yes.” His voice was short, but not rude.

  “What thing do you value?” She wasn’t certain why she pressed him. There was just a look about the baron that she could not quite name. A mix of loneliness and pride, perhaps. But she should try and keep her words to herself. He had proven himself unpredictable, and she was not anxious to be shouted at again.

  He did not speak for a long moment and Rose fidgeted with the edges of her pelisse. He clearly thought her too forward. But then he spoke.

  “My father gifted my mother a beautiful gold hand mirror at their wedding.” His eyes were distant in remembrance. “She was quite sentimental about it and I saw it nearly every day of my life. I haven’t had the heart to move it from her vanity, not since …”

  His voice drifted off, pain filling his expression. Mrs. Morton’s words came back to her, the warning not to enter the late baroness’s rooms, and now Rose realized why. Lord Norcliffe kept his memories there, like a flower pressed between the pages of a book. She wanted to reach out, touch his arm or speak a kind word, but her voice abandoned her. How did one comfort a man she barely knew? Especially her own employer.

  The wind began to blow more fiercely against her face, but she hardly noticed as she sorted through her thoughts.

  “I think it is good to have such a reminder of your mother,” she finally said. “Memory fades so quickly.” Her own mother’s face had grown hazy in her mind. What she would not give for
a miniature of her mother, to better remember her laughing eyes and kind smile.

  He nodded and they walked again in silence, though more comfortable than before. Rose’s shoulders relaxed slightly. She was beginning to think that this man—this thoughtful, perceptive man—was more the reality of who Lord Norcliffe was than the one who had shouted at her. But why was there such a difference to begin with? Why had he acted like such a beast if there was another man entirely inside of him?

  “Do you have an errand in town?” he asked, filling the quiet. “Or a visit perhaps?”

  She touched her necklace again. “An errand, yes.” A small part of her wished to tuck away her pride and ask Lord Norcliffe once again for help. But she did not want to risk their tentative peace. “And you, my lord, do you have business in town?”

  The pleasantries felt odd after the depth of their conversation. He opened his mouth to speak—but a drop of rain hit his cheek. A moment later, one splashed on her arm, and then one after another until the rain fell in a resounding chorus all around them. Rose inhaled sharply and clasped her bonnet to her head. She hadn’t realized the storm clouds were so close.

  “Blast it all.” Lord Norcliffe turned, his eyes searching in all directions as the rain fell harder, soaking his shoulders and dripping off his topper. “We must find shelter.”

  Rose blinked the rain from her eyes. Shelter? They were still miles from town.

  Lord Norcliffe met her eyes, his expression resolved. “There’s an old gamekeeper’s cottage not far from here.” He had to raise his voice as the wind began to howl.

  Her pelisse was already damp and she jumped as distant thunder rolled through the wooded hills. She managed a nod.

  “It will be quicker if we ride,” he said briskly. “Come, I’ll help you up.”

  She gaped at him. “Ride?” Did he mean together?

  “Yes, of course. Unless you wish to catch your death?”

  His abruptness did nothing to quell the anxiety that swelled in her. She rode but rarely, and never with another person. But he waved her forward impatiently as the rain continued to pelt them. She joined him beside the horse. Heavens, but it was tall. She glanced around for a log to serve as a mounting block.

  “Shall I—”

  His hands came around her waist and she was lifted into the air before she could utter a gasp. He settled her sideways on the saddle as she gawked at him, but he wasted no time in pulling himself up behind her.

  “No time for propriety,” he murmured in her ear, slipping one arm around her waist. Her back was pressed against him, lighting a strange heat in her chest. He kicked his horse and Rose only had a moment to grasp the saddle before they were dashing through the rain.

  Chapter Seven

  Was that her heart beating rapidly in her ears, or just the sound of the horse’s hooves pounding into the damp ground? If it was her heart, Rose could only hope the sound was drowned out by the rain and wind. What would Lord Norcliffe think if he knew how affected she was by his strong arms around her, the commanding ease with which he directed his horse?

  He said not a word as they rode, rain pouring down around them. Despite the speed at which they raced across the countryside, his hold on her was tight and she felt no fear.

  A small, stone cottage came into view, nestled between two chestnut trees. Lord Norcliffe pulled his mount to a stop and dismounted, splashing into the mud. Rose shivered. She hadn’t realized how warm he had been against her, shielding her from the wind. She unclenched her hands from the saddle and looked down at the ground in apprehension. But again, the baron did not stop to ask for permission. He reached up and took her by the waist, his movements effortless as he slid her to the ground.

  He took the horse’s reins. “Come,” he called through the deluge. She hurried after him, following the horse up onto a wide, covered porch. He tied his mount’s reins to a beam, patted the horse’s flank apologetically, and then ushered Rose inside the front door.

  She moved into the cottage, clutching her arms about herself as she shivered. The space was dark and dank; the windows were boarded up, letting in hints of light. Water dripped from the roof, which clearly had not been repaired in years.

  Lord Norcliffe stepped in behind her. She turned and then froze, her eyes fixed on him as he removed his hat. His light hair was darkened by the rain, dripping and splayed across his forehead, his sharp jawline emphasized by the color in his face, from the cold or the exercise, she couldn’t say. And his eyes were vibrant, alive. She ought to look demurely away, but found it quite impossible.

  “I wish I could offer better accommodations,” he said.

  It is fine, her mind told her to say. A roof is enough.

  Instead, in some mad fit of humor, her mouth let loose a short laugh. She clasped a hand to her lips, but the perplexed look on his face only made her laugh again, harder and without any restraint.

  “I … am—” She stopped, laughter still bubbling up inside. “I am sorry,” she finally managed, her mouth unable to stop smiling. “I don’t mean to imply this is humorous at all.”

  “Your laughter would indicate otherwise.” His words were reproachful, and yet, to her astonishment, one corner of his mouth twitched.

  “I don’t mean to laugh.” She reached up and untied her bonnet, shaking the rain from its brim. She hoped it would dry properly. “It’s just that this seems like an incident from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, a handsome baron rescuing a damsel from the rain.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Handsome?”

  Heat flamed across her face and she stared at him with wide eyes. “I mean—that is I meant—that the heroes in her novels are always handsome—”

  “So you don’t find me handsome then?”

  She took a deep breath, thoughts tumbling through her mind. What possible answer could she give to that?

  But then he grinned, a crooked smile that was entirely at odds with their interactions so far. His eyes were alight with mischief.

  “You should not tease me so,” she scolded. “I am in no position to know whether you are in earnest or not.”

  He crossed his arms. “It hardly matters since you speak candidly regardless of the situation.”

  She was a bit outspoken. “I am sorry. I will try harder to be more reserved in the future.”

  “And why would I wish that?” he asked, squinting at her in the dim light.

  “A servant is not employed for her opinions.” Speaking the word servant reminded her how absurd this situation was. In all the turmoil of the storm, she’d almost forgotten who she was—who he was. Her hands went to the mess that was her hair, smoothing back her drenched curls.

  “No, but I do tire of the bowing and scraping. A bit of straightforwardness is refreshing.” He paused. “And I admit I have difficulty thinking of you as a servant.”

  Was that good or bad? He looked at her through narrowed eyes, though not in anger or irritation. Rather as though he was trying to remember a time he had seen her before, but could not place it.

  The look was gone in the next moment. He turned, inspecting the interior of the cottage. “I imagine we’ll be caught here for a while yet.”

  “Then it is good you do not seem to mind my loose tongue.”

  His mouth twitched. “Indeed. The afternoon would pass terribly slow if you were too frightened to speak to me.”

  “Which is no small thing, since you seem quite determined to frighten everyone away.”

  The humor in his eyes slipped. “Pardon?”

  She caught her breath; she should not have said that. But her tongue had run wild, drawn into this conversation without any thought. She could not take back her words, so she took a steadying breath and pressed on. “I simply cannot take your measure, my lord. One moment you are generous, offering me a position, and the next—”

  “I am shouting at you.”

  “Well, yes.” She swallowed. “And I cannot decide which side of you is the true side, though I have little doub
t you wish everyone to believe you are nothing more than an irritable man not to be crossed.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back and did not respond. Was he angry? She could not tell from his impassive expression. She dropped her gaze, tugging anxiously on her damp gown. “I apologize, my lord. I mean no offense.”

  There was a long minute of silence, and she dared not look up. His voice was gruff when he spoke next.

  “I’ve had far too many people attempt to manipulate me for my wealth and title.” He shook his head. “Since my parents’ deaths, I find keeping the world at arm’s length the best way to avoid them, and being ‘irritable,’ as you say, helps me achieve the peace that I want.”

  Rose examined him, his eyes distant. “That sounds rather lonesome to me.”

  He gave a sharp laugh. “Better to be lonely than used.”

  Used? There must be more to this story than he was telling her, but she could hardly force it out of him. “Perhaps you simply are not friends with the right sort of people. The world is not so terrible as all that.”

  He squinted at her. “I do not know how you can believe that, considering your lot in life.”

  She lifted one shoulder. “I’ve learned that although I have no influence over the decisions of others, I can choose how I respond. Bitterness will not help, and I am determined not to waste my time with it.”

  He stared at her. “I’ve never met anyone like you, Miss Sinclair.”

  “I am your servant,” she reminded him. “You may call me Rose.”

  His eyes lingered on her face, and a shiver ran across her skin, though she was certain it was not because of the cold. “Again, I have quite the difficulty thinking of you as a servant.”

  Her stomach fluttered. What did he think of her then? She turned away, going to sit upon the ledge beside the window. “That is likely because I am not terribly good at being a servant. I am far too frank and far too slow, as you are well aware.”

  He followed her lead, though he sat on the window ledge across the cottage, far enough to allow the appearance of propriety, but still close enough to speak. “And were you much better at being a shopkeeper’s daughter?”