The Baron's Betrothal

by Maggi Andersen

  Hetty fell back and gazed up at him, her eyes half-closed as she flicked her swollen bottom lip with a pink tongue, looking utterly abandoned.

  Guy groaned. It was time. This was too delicious, too exciting, and he’d wanted it too long.

  He slipped between her thighs and pressed himself against her entrance, she stilled. Her body was ready for him, rosy and wet. He searched her eyes which gazed at him with love and apprehension. “This may hurt a little.”

  She shook her head as if incapable of replying.

  With a thrust of his hips, he nudged inside her, met with a resistance, and pushed through. She drew her breath in sharply.

  “Shall I go on?”

  “Yes,” she said cautiously.

  “Am I hurting you?”

  She bit her lip. “A little.”

  He paused.

  “No, don’t stop, please.”

  Guy began to move, slowly, as her body accepted him.

  Hetty released a breath and drew him close.

  He withdrew and pushed in again, then settled into a rhythm. As her body rose to join his, she threw back her head with a mew of pleasure. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as if she could pull him closer. Her body closed around him like a hot velvet glove, the pleasure so intense, he fought to retain control.

  *

  Hetty lay sprawled beside Guy, his hand resting on her breast, rising and falling with her rapid breaths.

  “Je t’aime ma chéri,” he said huskily. “You are my life.”

  “Oh, my darling. I love you.” She could barely speak, her body weighed down with a pleasurable fatigue. She settled beside him and closed her eyes.

  She woke as the soft patina of moonlight slid across the room through the open curtains. It must have been close to midnight. While she’d slept, Guy had put a taper to the fire and pulled the covers over them. He stirred beside her, woke, and gathered her into his arms. She snuggled against the warm length of his body, settled her head on his shoulder, and slept again.

  They woke to birdsong. Drowsy and exhausted, Hetty sat back against the pillows as they fortified themselves with the hot chocolate the maid had brought.

  She put down the cup and pushed back the covers.

  “Where are you going?” His eyes were heavy-lidded with sleep and awakening desire.

  “I was just going to ring for the maid to draw my bath.”

  “Not yet.” He drew her back into bed.

  Hetty leaned into his hard body as the familiar sensations of warmth and need flooded through her. How she loved this man. Her need for him robbed her of breath as she pressed her mouth to his.

  Hunger drove them downstairs at luncheon to find Genevieve and Eustace had tactfully gone to visit her father and Marina.

  Ravenous, they devoured a late breakfast. Then, holding hands, they walked over the grounds enjoying order restored to the gardens, the hedges trimmed, the parterre garden free of weeds, the roses pruned, and the lawns scythed. Gardeners were raking up the first of the autumn leaves to fall and burning them, the smoke coiling into the sky. Rosecliff Hall had been restored. But to Hetty, it was more than a restoration. Rosecroft Hall had been lifted from the mortmain past, which had held it in thrall ever since Guy’s father had deserted it. “I can’t wait for you to see how glorious the estate is in the spring.”

  “We may not be here in the spring,” Guy said.

  She looked up at him. “Why? Where shall we be?”

  “Genevieve wants us to visit her in Paris,” he said with a grin.

  “Oh, Guy. I’d love to!”

  He lifted a curl to press a kiss on her neck and warmth spiraled down her spine. “I knew you would. But Genevieve may have to wait. It may not be advisable for you to travel.”

  She leaned into him and smiled. “Might I be with child?”

  “Perhaps.” He leveled a glowing look at her.

  “I expect the others will return soon.” She wanted to be alone with him and found a similar need in his eyes. He began to turn back to the house.

  She tugged at his arm. “Let’s walk to the summerhouse by the lake.”

  Guy’s brows rose. For a moment, she thought he might refuse, but then his eyes smoldered with desire and he grabbed her hand.

  Epilogue

  Rosecliff Hall, Spring 1817

  Hetty wandered the glorious gardens, breathing in the floral scents carried on the breeze. Footfall behind her made her turn. Guy walked down the path. “Are you ready to leave, mon amour? The carriage is being brought around.”

  She smiled and took his hand. “I’m saying goodbye to the garden.”

  “It’s only for a few months. We’ll come home when it gets too hot.” He raised her chin with a finger, his blue eyes questioning. “Looking forward to London?”

  “But of course. The Mayfair house has been made ready for us, and I can’t wait to see it.” Hetty turned for one last glance of the sunlight brightening the new spring green in the trees. She didn’t want her perceptive husband to see the dread in her eyes.

  “You will be a great success, Hetty.”

  She took an anxious breath and shook her head. “You are biased.”

  “Not at all.” He grinned and shook his head. “We shall see.”

  After they’d journeyed to France to visit Genevieve in her chateau and met her charming husband and children, they’d returned here and spent the following months closeted in Digswell, through Christmas, and the fierce winter that kept them snowbound for one whole delicious month. Now the moment had finally arrived. She must face the haute ton as the Baroness Fortescue.

  She took Guy’s hand, and they walked up the path to where the coach waited, while footmen loaded the trunks. As Hetty’s maid and Guy’s valet traveled with them, she wouldn’t have a chance to talk to him privately about her concerns. She squared her shoulders, she must deal with this herself. She wanted him to be proud of her.

  “Our house party proved to be a great success, was it not?” he reminded her.

  “Because they are our friends.”

  “You shall make many more friends this season.”

  “I hope so.”

  Their house party held at Rosecliff Hall last October had been great fun. John came with his sisters and their husbands. Georgina, now Her Grace, Lady Broadstairs was still lively, but she’d gained considerable poise. Her husband, His Grace, proved to be an amiable fellow and not at all haughty. Eleanor’s husband, Lord Gordon Fitzherbert, had rallied enough to make the journey, but looked thin and pale. Hetty found him to be bookish, calm, and patient, as many with serious infirmities could be. He’d been unable to join the men on their shoot and spent his time in the library where she and Eleanor had joined him for a cozy afternoon discussing poetry. Hetty liked his sense of humor and the twinkle in his eye, but she feared that he would not live overlong.

  They settled in the carriage, and the horses trotted down the drive and soon left Rosecroft Hall behind. Digswell was not a great distance from London, but Hetty felt as if she was about to make a very long journey.

  Hetty’s first real experience of the ton came a week after settling in London. Lady Montague’s was the first ball of the season. She wore her new peach silk gown lavishly trimmed with old lace, which she thought suited her.

  They stood with other guests waiting to be announced at the door of the elegant ballroom. The orchestra played Mozart, and beneath crystal chandeliers, guests drank pink champagne seated on sofas and chairs around the walls where a variable garden of flowers in vases perched on occasional tables.

  “Baron and Baroness Fortescue,” a footman proclaimed loudly. A hush fell. To Hetty, it seemed as if time had stopped, before chatter began again. Their host and hostess warmly greeted them, then Hetty, her hand resting on Guy’s arm, continued into the room.

  In a moment, they were surrounded by friends and others begging to be introduced.

  “We have been so eager to meet you.” Mrs. Drummond, a large bosomed lady in gray, s
ank into a curtsy. “Your prolonged stay in the country after your marriage has had everyone talking.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize.” Hetty employed her fan, imagining the talk would be unfavorable.

  “Yes, indeed, my lady. The beau monde could do with an injection of new blood, and to find such a glamorous couple in our midst.” Mrs. Drummond flicked a glance at Guy. “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, well…we are all delighted.”

  The following hours became a blur as they chatted, ate supper, and danced. It was close to dawn when the carriage took them home. Hetty slipped off her dancing slippers and snuggled within Guy’s arm. “Well?” He ran a hand gently up her arm. “Was it so awful?”

  “Not at all. Really quite pleasant. I met many interesting people.” She yawned. “I am fatigued though. They keep such appalling hours in London.”

  His deep chuckle made her lift her head to observe him. “With my preference for the country and your fear that society would shun you, we may never have come.”

  She ran a finger along his jaw. “But we will continue to come every year, will we not?”

  Guy groaned. “If that is your wish, mon amour.”

  The End