Mistaken Kiss: A Humorous Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt Book 2)

by Kathleen Baldwin

  He nodded, considerably more relaxed. “Precisely.”

  Too bad there wasn’t a jot or tittle within her whole being that truly felt like scolding him. She wanted more than anything in the world to hug him and tell him thank you, a thank you he would believe.

  Instead, she stood contently at his side watching the rowboat trundle down the canal to the pond. There had never been a more pleasant day in all of her memories. Alex toyed with her hand as he held it in the crook of his arm. The sun warmed her neck, and the strength she felt in his forearm played havoc with her senses.

  Perplexing that a man with no ambition and reckless morals should elicit such emotion from her while a staid, reliable man like Sir Daniel did not. It was not logical. But today she would abandon logic. Just for today.

  Willa glanced up at him. Had she the luxury, she would stand beside him for the rest of her days. But Alex Braeburn would not be wandering through her days for much longer. He had a life apart from her, a life with other women, beautiful women with veils and coins in their navels. Emptiness thudded into her stomach, and it was not from hunger.

  “Bad business that,” Alex said, almost as if he could read her mind. He gestured toward the pond. “Harry’s rowed them away from the shore. I’m not certain he can swim outside a bathtub. What about your friend?”

  “Alfreda? I would be utterly astonished were she not a most capable swimmer. Seems to be competent at nearly everything. Bye the bye, you might mention to Lord Tournsby that she does have a rather handsome dowry.”

  Willa shaded her eyes to get a better look at the hapless trio. “I cannot see clearly, but it looks as if it’s beginning to sink, isn’t it?”

  Alex nodded. “I should think so. Looks quarter full to me. It’s sitting low, but if they row hard, they might just make it to shore without a soaking.”

  Tournsby gesticulated wildly at poor Harry, pointing toward the shore and waving his arm at the hull.

  “Looks like Harry tried to turn the craft, but he miscalculated which oar to put to.” Alex shook his head. “They’re moving farther from shore. Of all the—now what’s Tournsby doing?”

  Willa squinted. Lord Tournsby stood up, precariously making his way to the back of the boat. The vessel rocked from side to side, especially when he tried to step around Alfreda. “What is he doing?”

  “The dunderhead wants to take the oars from Harry. Your friend is arguing with him about it. Can’t blame her.”

  Willa could hear bits and pieces of Alfreda’s heated warning floating across the water. But evidently Lord Tournsby lost patience. He abruptly stepped over her seat.

  “He’s going to sink them.” Willa grimaced.

  Alex nodded. “Yes, but not intentionally this time, I think.” He gripped Willa’s hand, tense, as they observed Tournsby’s blunder.

  Devoid of weight, the bow of the little craft tipped up.

  “Call for help!” Alex took off running along the edge of the canal toward the inlet.

  Alfreda lurched forward trying to correct the distribution, but her small contribution did little to offset Tournsby and Harry’s combined weight in the stern. The prow lifted high into the air. Water rushed into the stern. Harry jumped up. Alfreda and Tournsby were both thrown from the boat. Nose up, it sank into the brown water.

  Willa yelled for help and waved her arms, pointing, calling attention to the accident until servants and guests started down the hill toward them. Then, she ran after Alex.

  Alfreda surfaced, her white hair easy to spot. She swam with long capable strokes, just as Willa had expected she would. Amazing girl.

  But Harry appeared to be caught in an undercurrent. He splashed and flapped at the water to no avail. He bobbed like a cork as the current carried him out of the pond and down the canal.

  “He’ll be carried out to the river!” Willa shouted to Alex up ahead.

  Alex glanced up as he yanked off his shoes and stockings. He acknowledged Harry’s predicament with a nod but pointed to Tournsby, who was floating face down. “Must’ve hit his head!”

  “Alfreda!” Willa screamed. “Freda! Look behind you!”

  The elfin warrior heard Willa. Immediately, Alfreda turned and swam to Tournsby’s side. Without squandering a single moment on panic, she efficiently flipped him over, grasped his collar, and dragged him toward shore.

  Willa ran toward them, crashing through the reeds and grass. She arrived at Alex’s side just as he and Alfreda pulled Tournsby out of the water. “I can help here. Poor Harry’s headed out to sea. He’ll be drowned.”

  Alex dashed off before she even finished speaking. He raced to the far side of the pond where the ebbing current was picking up speed and carrying Harry down the canal toward the Thames.

  Alex grabbed a paddle from a moored rowboat and threw himself onto the end of a pier, extending the oar far out into the water. “Harry! Grab hold!”

  Harry fumbled but finally made purchase. He clutched the paddle as if it were his long lost mother, and Alex dragged him to safety.

  Willa breathed a sigh of relief as she helped haul Lord Tournsby well up onto the lawn. Alfreda shoved back her sopping hair. Droplets sprayed over Willa and their unconscious patient.

  “Help me turn him on his side,” Alfreda commanded. Drenched, but just as single-minded as when dry, the mighty Alfreda delivered a powerful blow to the center of Lord Tournsby’s back. “Can’t let him die. He’s perfect.” She whacked him again.

  His lordship belched up a tankard of muddy water. He wasn’t done there. He spewed up breakfast and lake weeds in a gushing slurry of fishy water.

  Perfect.

  Chapter 12

  Jack Fell Down and Broke his Crown

  ALEX STOOD BESIDE an enormous fireplace inside one of Lady Tricot’s spacious guest rooms attempting to dry his river-stained shirt. His cravat had been rinsed out by a servant and hung over the fender where it steamed from the heat of the fire, tainting the air with the smell of musty lake water and cooked cotton. His coat had been carried off by servants for a proper cleaning.

  Wearing a dressing gown, Harry sat huddled by the fire gulping down his fourth snifter of brandy. “Could’ve been killed. Demmed lucky, that’s what. Even luckier you were there to pull me in. Could’ve been the end of me. Might’ve stuck my spoon in the wall.”

  “Not a bit of it.” Alex pressed a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Given another yard or two, you’d have paddled out on your own. I’m certain of it.”

  Harry shook his head. “Don’t know. Just have a look at Neddie. Might’ve been me.” He sloshed some of the brandy trying to set it on the side table. “If only I’d rowed closer to shore like he asked. All my fault.”

  “An accident, Harry. No point in blaming yourself.”

  Poor Harry, wide–eyed and still shaking like an old woman, remorse didn’t suit him. If he drank much more he would, most likely, end up as unconscious as Tournsby.

  The waterlogged lord lay moaning softly in the luxurious snowy folds of a large four-poster bed. His pallor was a disconcerting shade of gray, and Alex didn’t like the look of the bruise swelling out like an apricot and turning an ugly raspberry hue.

  Lady Tricot bustled into the room without a thought for any of the gentlemen’s state of dishabille. A small cavalcade of servants followed her like chicks trailing behind a giant mother quail. They fluffed Tournsby’s pillows, checked the temperature of his feet, straightened the bedclothes, and waited for instructions.

  The hulking matron turned to Alex. “He may yet survive. I’ve sent for my physician. Most fortunate my daughter pulled him out when she did.” She clucked her tongue. “Dreadful business. Ought not be moved. We’ll attend to his needs until he recovers.”

  Alex bowed his head. “Very gracious of you, my lady. Lord Tournsby will, undoubtedly, be most grateful.”

  “Hhhm, yes. If he recovers.” She shook her head as if it were only a vague possibility. “Well, must return to my other guests.” Lady Tricot glanc
ed skeptically back at the bed before abruptly exiting the room.

  In the ensuing silence, Alex stretched out in an armchair in front of the blaze. He’d finally begun to relax when a young footman brought him a pair of folded notes.

  “I was told to give you these, sir. Although, this one here is for the red-haired miss.” He nodded toward the hallway where Willa and Alfreda had been ushered to dry their gowns. “I can take it directly to her if you prefer. But her aunt said you would know how to advise the young lady.”

  Alex frowned and took both of the missives.

  The footman bowed at the waist. “As to the other note, sir, a local lad waits in the kitchens for your reply.”

  Alex hesitated for only a second before flipping open the unsealed note from Lady Alameda.

  My dear Wilhemina,

  Delightful theatrics. Your friends must be congratulated. Covent Garden pales in comparison. However, now that the entertainment is over, the party has turned deadly dull. Monmouth and I are taking our leave.

  You may send for my coach if you wish, but I recommend you apply to Mr. Erwin for an escort home. I’m certain, your friend Mr. Braeburn is in a better position to advise you than I, but I believe young Erwin is fairly well situated, several thousand pounds per annum. Seems a biddable sort of fellow. With proper handling, he might be trained not to squander it all at the clubs.

  Do as you wish, my dear. However, I do not expect to return home until midday tomorrow or the next.

  Adieu

  Your Beloved Aunt

  He reread it twice and shook his head. Of all the conniving, manipulative, galling... He swore aloud.

  Lady Alameda’s improper conduct toward her niece was beyond reckless. It bordered on insanity. He slapped the letter down on the side table and promptly picked it up again.

  How could she have so little regard for her niece’s welfare? Such folly might well ruin an innocent young woman like Willa. Had this odious note been sent to another man, he might have taken full advantage of the situation. How dare Lady Alameda presume he would advise Willa concerning Harry. Utter lunacy. Completely irresponsible.

  Yet, who was he to criticize? His father’s criticisms lashed across his mind, wastrel, scapegrace, ne’er-do-well.

  Alex glanced over at Harry, who at last had stopped shaking. The exhausted fellow sat with his head propped in one hand, the empty snifter in the other, his dressing gown gaping open over his protruding white belly as he dozed. This was the paragon Lady Alameda suggested Willa might trust to convey her home, perhaps, even make a husband. Alex liked Harry, but the thought of Willa taking the silly coxcomb into her bed roiled in his gut as if he’d eaten a bad fish.

  After seeing her in a damp gown today, he could all too easily envision each sensuous curve of her body. Curves nature could not possibly intend for Harry’s chubby hands. Nor Tournsby’s stealthy tapered fingers. Absolutely not.

  Alex stood up abruptly and threw the crumpled letter into the fire. “Tell the housekeeper I’ll need my coat as soon as possible. She needn’t bother about the stains.”

  The footman nodded. “And the other note, sir? What shall I tell the lad?”

  He’d nearly forgotten the other missive. He picked it up from the side table, flipped it open, and took a deep breath. “Have him ready the gig.”

  Alfreda and Willa peeked into the room just as the footman hurried out. Willa had exchanged her wet, mud-splattered gown for a more serviceable brown dress, obviously lent her by Alfreda, too long and too tight across the bodice. Copper and wood, a deer at sunset, her hair glowed like fire and turned the otherwise ordinary brown into a vibrant color. It took him a moment before he realized she was asking him something. He rubbed his neck.

  She asked again. “How is Lord Tournsby?”

  “See for yourselves.” He waved at the bed.

  Alfreda brushed past Willa, rushing to Tournsby’s bedside, assessing the damage.

  “And Harry?” Willa asked, staring at the poor sod slouched in the chair.

  Alex exhaled loudly. “As well as can be expected.”

  She nodded. “Perhaps you might secure his robe around him. Poor fellow ought to keep warm after his dunking in the cold water.”

  “How very tender,” Alex muttered to himself and brusquely tucked the dressing gown over Harry. “I’ve had a note from your aunt.”

  “Oh?” She glanced around the room looking for it.

  Naturally, she would expect him to show it to her. He glanced at the fire. Too late for that. Her gaze followed his and undoubtedly observed the blackened wad of paper as it crackled and snaked with fiery orange ridges, sending featherweight sparks floating up the flue. He cleared his throat. “She and Lord Monmouth have been called away. Asked me to escort you home.”

  “Oh.” She blinked. He watched her ticking through her questions and forming incorrect conclusions. Why had her aunt abandoned her? Why had he burnt the note? Finally, she looked up at him, chagrined, and he felt a cad for not handling it better.

  She stopped biting the corner of her lip. “She ought not to have troubled you. I can—”

  “No,” he forestalled her. “No trouble. But, if you would ready yourself quickly, I’d be most grateful. We must make a stop at a nearby farm.” He held up the other note. “One of my horses is about to foal, and evidently the farrier is away at another farm.”

  Alfreda called to them from Tournsby’s bedside. “He’s awake!”

  They rushed to the bed. Tournsby’s color was much improved, and his eyelids fluttered open. Alex nodded, relieved. “Looks like he’ll make it. Welcome back to the land of the living, Neddie.”

  Tournsby moaned and tried to sit up. “Feel wretched.”

  Alfreda gently pushed him back down. “Lie still. You’ve had a nasty bump on the head. The doctor will be here shortly.”

  Alex folded his arms across his chest. “Regrettably, I must take my leave. Darley’s Lass is about to drop her foal. Harry is right here by your side, ready to do your every bidding. Aren’t you, Harry?”

  “What? What?” Harry sputtered as he came to from his chair. “Oh. Right you are. Won’t leave his side.” Harry, reeking of brandy, his hair tousled, stumbled to the other side of the bed and plopped down, jarring the mattress and the patient’s head. “Till death do us part.”

  “Gad. I hope not,” moaned Tournsby. He pressed his lips together and tried to hold back the tide rising from his stomach. Alfreda anticipated his need and presented him with the chamber pot, stoically holding it while he wretched.

  Harry, blissfully unconcerned, curled up on the far side of the bed and struck up an accompanying chorus of guttural snores.

  Alex chastised himself for letting the young puppy drink so much. Blessedly, the maid arrived with his coat. Alex tipped the servant, shrugged into the damp, dark-blue superfine, and firmly guided Willa out of the room.

  Chapter 13

  They Sailed Away In A Silver Cup Upon A Grassy Sea

  IT WAS LATE afternoon by the time Alex and Willa slipped away from Lady Tricot’s breakfast party. The day turned unseasonably warm. Side by side they sat on the narrow driver’s seat of a dogcart, a small rig in dire need of new springs, if indeed it had ever had any in the first place. Directly behind them, the stable boy stood on the rear bench holding the side rails like a brave Roman charioteer as they bumped and bounced over the rutted roads.

  Although the cart needed refurbishing, the horse pulling it was a fine, sturdy animal, quite capable of maintaining the pace Alex set for him, a pace more suited to a mail coach. Willa felt as if her teeth were about to rattle loose.

  She clutched the side of the cart, hoping they would not hit a hole in the road. If they did, surely, they would all spill out into the ditch. “It’s quite serious then?”

  He nodded without looking at her. “Almost there.”

  Fast approaching them from the other end of the small lane was a cumbersome old black coach swaying ominously with a heavy load. The top deck
appeared to be crammed with men. Two more men clinging onto the rear leaned out, peering down the road as the rickety coach barreled toward Alex and Willa. Both drivers were obliged to pull up short. Alex steered as near to the edge of the road as possible without tumbling the cart into the culvert.

  “Hallooo, Mr. Braeburn!” The large man driving the coach hailed them.

  Alex frowned and tipped his hat. “Squire. What’s amiss?”

  “Bit of bad news.” The dust from both vehicles caught up to them and caused him to cough as he pointed off to the east. “Fire at the old Ridley estate.”

  Willa tried to make out a plume of smoke in the distance but could see nothing save dust and the nearby trees.

  “I’m afraid I need all available men with me,” the squire shouted. “Darley’s Lass is in her stall. Must be off. Can’t let the fire blow this way. Could lose m’barley field. Or worse.” He hefted the reins. “Tommy, you attend to Mr. Braeburn. And lad, mind the other mares as well. The almanac warned me to stay abed today.” He maneuvered the cumbersome old coach around them, grumbling loudly. “Full moon. Every mare in the northern hemisphere will likely drop her foal tonight.”

  Alex saluted and flicked the traces. Willa guessed by the hard set of his jaw he was uneasy.

  “Can you see the fire from here?” She strained to identify anything on the horizon, but it was hopeless. “Is it very bad?”

  He tilted his chin in the direction the squire had pointed. “A good six or seven miles away. Still, I don’t like it. After Darley foals, I’d better lend a hand.”

  “I’m sorry to be a nuisance.” Although she knew very well she was a hindrance, she did not wish to be anywhere but at his side. She did not care about the jarring ride or the dust or the threat of fire. She was perfectly happy sitting next to him.