Beached with a Baronet

by Murdoch, Emily

  “I apologise for my appearance,” she said in an undertone – the large hall seemed to demand silence, “but I had nowhere else to go this night, and with the storm there is of course no possibility of staying outside.”

  The butler closed the door and was now facing her in shock, as though he had never seen a woman before.

  “I…I will not be too much trouble,” Chloe said quietly, almost hesitating thanks to his complete lack of reaction to her. “A little food and drink, and a bedroom to rest is all I ask.”

  The butler blinked at her, as though attempting to remember how she had got there.

  “My name,” she said, with a little edge in her tone now, “is Miss Chloe Vaughn. And you are?”

  A frown now appeared on the butler’s face, but he did not seem to have heard her. “You will need to meet the master, then,” he said quietly. “Follow me.”

  Without waiting for her agreement, or any sound from her whatsoever, the butler started to trudge down the hallway and towards a corridor, picking up a candle as he passed one. It was the only one in the hallway, and Chloe moved forwards quickly to ensure that she could stay in the light.

  It was a strange house. No candles were lit in the corridor which she walked down behind the strangely silent butler, and cobwebs covered the empty candle brackets and paintings which adorned the walls.

  She was so focused on watching her feet in the gloom, to prevent herself from falling over, that she almost walked into the butler when he stopped outside a door.

  He nodded, muttered something that sounded an awful lot like, “Good luck, miss,” and opened the door.

  Chloe swallowed. She was a woman of science, not of mystery. Whatever waited for her in that room could hardly be worse than the storm that raged around the house. Throwing back her shoulders and telling herself that there was absolutely nothing to be afraid of, she walked through the doorway and into a large and equally unkempt room where a tall man was standing by the window in gloomy darkness.

  2

  Difficult though it was, Chloe managed not to cry out in astonishment at the strange man’s appearance. Tall but dishevelled, the gentleman had long hair that was tangled and gave his jaw a rakish look. His shirt was half buttoned, and there was a dark frown on his face from what she could make out in the darkness – but all it did was strengthen the impression of power on his features.

  He was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Breath completely taken away, Chloe took an unsure step into the room, almost unable to help herself. Just being a step nearer to him was enough, but the pull inside her was demanding another step and another.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” The man barked at her, and the illumination from a flash of lightning outlined his silhouette, and making him look even taller than he was.

  Chloe shivered, but not entirely with fear. Although she instinctively moved to take a step backwards, something in her fought it, and she instead dropped into a curtsey and then moved forward.

  The door closed behind her.

  She swallowed. “I must apologise for my intrusion; I – ”

  “It is an intrusion,” snapped the man, “and you are not wanted. You may go back to wherever it was you came from.”

  Without looking at her, almost as though she was repellent to him, the man strode over to the armchair by the empty fire grate, throwing himself into it without a word.

  Chloe stared at the side of his head, now tilted away from her. Rain thrashed onto the windows, drumming their constant patterns on the glass. The single lamp in the room, beside one of the casements, cast a strange twilight glimmer over the room and its bizarre inhabitant.

  If she had expected the strange gentleman to say anything more, she was to be mistaken, and irritation welled up in her once more that day. Why was she always surrounded by angry, arrogant men? Was it not enough that she was not considered enough of a natural philosopher simply because she was female – was she now to be ignored just because she existed?

  Striding forward, Chloe pulled aside a small table to stand right before the gentleman, who started as if forgetting that she had even been in the room.

  “I would never have considered coming here,” she said tartly, glaring at the gentleman in his astonishment, “unless it was absolutely necessary – and as you can see, due to this raging storm, I am soaking wet!”

  The gentleman glared, but then his features softened slightly as his eyes focused on her. Considering her properly for the first time, he stared at her…but not only at her face.

  As another roll of thunder moved overhead, Chloe felt her cheeks start to darken as she realised just where his gaze was moving: down her slender neck to her breasts, heaving with anger, her gown glistening and tight against her flesh because of the rain – and then further down to her hips, swelling through the clinging material.

  This was intolerable. She tried to think, but a part of her glorified in the power she evidentially had over the man whose mouth had opened slightly – in hunger, or in disgust, she could not tell.

  But those eyes: dark and monstrous as they were, there seemed to be some kindness in them, and there was certainly desire in there. Embarrassment flooded her cheeks now, and Chloe thanked her stars that the single lamp in the room was not sufficient to highlight them.

  Chloe sighed. “You did not ask me to come here,” she murmured quietly, heart rate slowing. “My name is Chloe Vaughn, daughter of Sir William and Lady Vaughn, of Chequerbent, and I am very grateful that your butler has given me refuge during the storm.”

  She looked down at him expectantly. By all the rules and regulations of society, such a formal introduction would immediately warrant a similar form from the gentleman, giving his name, parents, and place of residence.

  By all the rules of society maybe, but this gentleman obviously had no care for such things. His eyes had moved away from her now, to a point somewhere to her left, and he grunted without saying a word.

  Paying no heed to the dampness of her gown – nor the damage that it could impart to any furnishings – Chloe sank slowly into the chaise longue opposite him.

  “Of course,” she breathed. “I was foolish not to have realised.”

  “Realised what?” He snapped, refusing to turn his gaze to her but seemingly unable to ignore her completely.

  Chloe shook her head slowly. “I do not know why it did not occur to me before. You are Sir Moses Wandorne, baronet.”

  “What of it?”

  A flash of lightning threw the room into glorious light for a brief second, and Chloe gasped. The look of pain, anger, self-loathing and curiosity was an enigma opposite her, and yet none of the conflicting emotions did anything to lessen the attractiveness of the owner of the house.

  Chloe shook her head slightly, as though trying to rid the storm from her mind. And then she smiled. “I was beached, sir, on your lake. Surely your magnificent house, Sir Moses, is large enough for the two of us for one night?”

  His eyes darted to her and narrowed slightly.

  “All I ask is to stay indoors as the storm rages and dry off,” Chloe said meekly. “‘Tis not an unreasonable request, sir.”

  Sir Moses Wandorne was barely able to conceal his surprise, even now that the lady was seated and not glistening in a tantalising way before him.

  There was a woman – a young woman – in his house. Right here, in his library. Here, in his house. The fact was shocking, almost upsetting, to him. Confusion rushed through his bloodstream, pumped around his mind by a heart that seemed treacherous to his body, drowning him in bewilderment.

  There had not been another person in his house since…well, then. Except Baxter, of course, and for some reason he never did count him.

  Unable to help himself, desperate to take in her face once more, his eyes strayed over to her again – and Miss Chloe Vaughn was staring defiantly back at him. Moses looked away from her quickly.

  How could this have happened? After trying to avoid the world for the
last year, the world had managed to force its way back into his life.

  By God, but she was beautiful. Fair, and fragile at first glance, but the longer he looked the more strength and determination he saw. Grit, that was it. The shape of her eyes was truly mesmerising and the mere memory of them was enough to fill him with all sorts of thoughts that were most unsavoury, and at the same time delicious.

  “Well?”

  Moses started. He had been pondering on the exact shade of her eyes – green? grey? – that he had almost forgotten that she was still seated before him. A pair of diamond earrings shone from under her hair, catching the light from the single candle. What had she asked?

  Unable to think of anything to say and embarrassed at his lack of concentration, Moses just glared at her.

  “I said,” she spoke in a slightly forced tone now, “that I was beached on your lake and intend to stay here indoors as the storm rages.”

  Moses swallowed. The idea of having her here, here in his home, was tantalising. She was beautiful, there was no doubt about that, and something in him stirred as he took in the wet gown, the curve of her breasts, her very breathing –

  He nodded, barely trusting his own voice.

  “Oh, thank you, kind sir,” Chloe was now saying in a grateful voice. “I cannot tell you how thankful I am.”

  Moses nodded once more. Unable to face further conversation, he picked up a book from the nearest table, lowering his gaze to a random page, the better to attempt to ignore her.

  It was impossible. He was startled not just by her presence, but by how similar she was to … to … And yet she was definitely real; the water stain that was spreading across the chaise longue could not be wished away.

  “Have you eaten this night?”

  Moses determinedly kept his eyes down when he heard the question and shook his head – but even without looking, he could feel her gaze upon him. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand out, forcing a shiver up his spine. By God, he was a baronet, not just chit of a lad from the country. How could this woman do such things to him?

  “And when are you going to eat?”

  Swallowing, Moses shrugged. He did not owe this woman any conversation; if she was determined to force it, then all he could do was give the absolute minimum answers.

  “You must eat, Sir Moses. Why have you not yet eaten, as ‘tis nearly nine o’clock?”

  Why won’t she stop asking questions? Moses raised his eyes to her and saw nothing but good nature, and it burnt him like a brand as it came into contact with his constant bad temper.

  “You are making that seat damp,” he barked gruffly, ignoring all her comments about food and meals.

  Miss Vaughn jumped up hastily, and Moses was relieved to see a little embarrassment on her face. So, she was not totally immune to it either – but she was no fool.

  “That is as may be,” she snapped back. “But your book is upside down, Sir Moses, and I am surprised that you did not notice that sooner.”

  Mortification rushed through him as Moses glanced down and saw that she was absolutely right and turned it around hastily – but before he could say anything more, Miss Vaughn was moving across the room.

  “And why have you not eaten yet?” She asked, peering out of one of the windows.

  Now that she was not staring at him, Moses relaxed slightly, and closed the book with his finger marking the page. “I am not hungry.”

  “Not at all?” Miss Vaughn raised a hand to stroke the velvet of the curtains, and Moses watched her, unable to look away, as she stopped hastily, feeling the dust on her fingertips. “What is there to eat, may I ask?”

  Moses did not answer immediately; he was utterly transfixed by the way she moved. It was not purposeful: she did not seem to have any intended plan for her exploration of the room. She moved like water, forming her own path in defiance of the world, elegantly moving one way and then the next as her eye caught something else of interest, though shivering all the while.

  “Sir Moses, is there anything to eat here?”

  Moses coloured. Without speaking a word, he stood up, pulled at the bell by the fireplace, and dropped once more into his armchair.

  Miss Vaughn did not seem to have noticed. She had discovered his collection, and before he could ask her not to touch any of the stuffed birds that he had so carefully organised, she spoke.

  “Dactylortyx thoracicus, the singing quail.”

  That was enough to capture his attention. “How the blazes do you know that?”

  Miss Vaughn turned at the sound of his voice, and even in the darkness he could make out the growing blush. “‘Tis a remarkable collection – I especially admire the fact that you have included both the male and female quail, for I know how difficult they are to catch unharmed.”

  Moses unconsciously put down the book. “Yes, it was considered quite a victory at the time. Only a few other museums have a set anything near like it.”

  Miss Vaughn smiled, and Moses felt the power of it and himself quite under it. By God, she could ask almost anything of him and he would obey, obey without question. She was truly beautiful, but now this understanding of ornithology? What was she, a sprite that he had dreamed up from his imagination?

  “And have you considered,” she began, but Miss Vaughn stopped as the door to the room was flung open and Baxter strode in.

  Moses himself was startled; it could only have been three or four minutes since he had requested him through the bell pull, but he had completely forgotten.

  Now he remembered, and Moses could not look at her as he said gruffly, “Take Miss Vaughn away, Baxter, away out of the house.”

  Try as he might, it was impossible for Moses not to see the look of shock and astonishment on Miss Vaughn’s face, and it gave another level to her beauty that he fought to ignore.

  “Out of the house, sir?” Baxter stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head. “No sir, not in this storm. She can wait it out here, surely?”

  Moses swallowed. This woman was doing strange things to him, awakening parts of him that he had been sure were dead, had died a year ago, and the longer that she was here, the less control he would have around her. He wanted her gone, and he wanted her in his bed, and if he was not careful the first instinct would soon be replaced with another.

  “Send her home in the coach,” he snapped.

  But Baxter lowered his eyes and said quietly. “The coach is in the village for its annual repairs, sir.”

  Moses’ heart sunk. “Typical. Send a note then, to wherever it is she comes from. Tell them she is safe and will be returned in the morning.”

  He looked up at her and saw the intrigue and interest on her face. He puzzled her, that was for sure, and it stirred his passions to find himself the centre of a beautiful woman’s attention.

  “Lady Kathryn, I believe is the young lady’s chaperone in this part of the country,” Baxter was saying, but Moses could hardly listen to him.

  “Yes yes, send a letter to Lady Kathryn and let her know that her charge is well,” Moses snapped, cutting off his butler. “Sign it with all the trimmings, Baronet of Wandorne, that sort of thing. Make it so, Baxter.”

  How could it hurt? Just one evening, after all, and she would be gone by the morning. And it was not as though he had much of a choice, with Baxter standing there mutinously.

  “So be it,” he managed to say with as little emotion as possible. “Miss Chloe Vaughn, you may stay. For this one night, only.”

  She sank into a deep curtsey, and Moses tried to ignore the desire to stride across the room, take her in his arms, and sink his lips upon hers.

  A roll of thunder boomed over the house, and it seemed to shake the three of them back to their senses, moving as though unfrozen.

  “Dry clothes,” managed Moses in a strangled voice, “and food.”

  Baxter nodded and backed out of the room, closing the door with a snap that seemed to Moses’ ears to echo around the room just as the thunder had don
e so.

  No matter what he did, he could not prevent his eyes from roving around the room, back to her. She had turned her back to him, gazing once more at the specimens that he had collected with such care. His instinct to call her back – to call her away from his precious collection – had faded with the sight of her delicacy. She did not touch them, peering with her hands clasped behind her back, as though to prevent the temptation.

  Temptation was the last thing that his mind should wander to. By God, but they were so alike in some ways, Moses thought. Look at her curiosity: she could barely contain herself to find out about myself, and my habits – and now she examines the room in a manner so forensic, some of the best chaps at Oxford could not compete with her.

  A strange sort of ache was growing in his chest, and Moses fought to ignore it. Miss Vaughn was just a woman – a beautiful woman, to be sure, and a woman whose figure was outlined most splendidly whenever he looked up – and beached or no, she would be gone when the sun rose tomorrow morning.

  Not a word had been spoken by either of them when Baxter entered the room, placed a tray covered in food down on a table nearest Miss Vaughn, bowed silently to his master, and then left.

  For a moment, Moses hesitated. It could not hurt him, surely, to partake in the meal with her? Something in him hungered, and he was attempting to convince himself that it was merely his stomach that growled for satisfaction – but the moment was lost. Miss Vaughn strode forward, picked up the plate, and began to eat where she stood.

  Temptation surfaced once again in his heart, but this time, for a different instinct. Eventually, Moses gave into it.

  “Miss Vaughn, why are you not seated when you eat?”

  It was an innocent question, Moses reasoned, and he had managed to speak the words without shouting. Just about.

  Her response, however, was not nearly as civil.

  “La, sir, I am feared of getting your seat damp once more,” she said with a sarcastic smile. “So here I stand, and I beg your kind sir will forgive me if a puddle appears on the floor.”