A Baron in Her Bed

by Maggi Andersen

  “But to do so places you in peril.”

  Horatia drew herself up. “I can handle myself as well as a man.”

  “You believe that, do you?” His gaze flicked over her. What was he thinking? She quivered under his scrutiny.

  “We spent the night in the same bed,” he said finally.

  The indecency of it made her want to block her ears. “I remember quite well, my lord,” she murmured. “Nothing happened between us.”

  “Stop calling me my lord,” he barked. “While I was half-conscious, I told you all my secrets, confound it!”

  So, that was what worried him. Horatia’s agitated breath eased a little. “You have nothing to fear from me, my… Guy. You can trust me to keep close counsel.”

  “I spoke to you as one man to another, zut!” He shook his head. “Now you’ve got me cursing!”

  “I’ve heard far worse from your lips,” she said with a wry smile.

  “You deserved to,” he said coolly. He appeared to rein in his temper and leaned against a post to shred a piece of straw.

  “Really, your confessions were a mere trifle,” Horatia fibbed. She began to enjoy her new sense of power. “You French are so excitable. You place great importance on something of little consequence.”

  “You think that, do you?” His voice sounded dangerously honeyed as he shoved away from the post and stalked towards her.

  Horatia stifled a nervous giggle when she realized she’d gone too far. She watched him change from a preparedness to listen to the unleashed power of an angry male.

  She backed away until the wall of the stall jutted against her spine. “I believe we should go to the house,” she said in a shaky voice. “Father will be wondering where I am.”

  He towered over her. “Oui, and how he will enjoy your mode of dress.” He offered her his arm. “Allow me to escort you.”

  Now he thought he had the upper hand, curse him. Horatia gulped down her alarm and tried to appeal to his better nature; she was fairly confident he had one. It was just she, most probably, who brought out the worst in him. “Please… Lord Fortescue, will you allow me to go and change? And keep my secret?” She began to walk around him, but he stopped her, a hand on her arm.

  “What will you give me in exchange?”

  She pulled her arm free. “There is nothing I can give you.”

  His gaze went to her mouth. “Oh oui, there is much you can give me.”

  Horatia drew in a long anxious breath. What was he suggesting? Surely not... A nervous thrill passed through her, coupled with a sense of shame. Did he think her unscrupulous? “I assure you, my lord, there is nothing.”

  He placed a finger under her chin and raised it, forcing her to meet his fiery gaze. She felt singed as warmth spiraled down to heat regions of her body she’d hardly been aware of. Her knees threatened to give way.

  “You owe me a kiss, I think.”

  Horatia was quite sure she couldn’t handle a kiss from this man with any degree of savoir-faire. He had the wrong idea about her entirely. “I owe you nothing of the sort.” She decided to bluff it out and pushed past him.

  She found herself on her back on a pile of hay, with his lordship leaning over her. She struggled, but he held her down by her arms.

  “Roué! Rake!” she spat at him. She moved her head from side to side to evade his mouth as he lowered his head toward hers. It was useless; he was too strong. He claimed her mouth, his lips cool and hard, and she stilled as desire flooded through her, the lick of excitement like a hot flame. He withdrew to look at her with surprise.

  She gasped. “How dare…”

  He ruthlessly kissed her again. Horatia had never been kissed like this. This was not an embarrassing collision of lips, quickly over. His tongue caressed hers and teased her and made her hungry for more. Such raw intimacy stunned her, and she couldn’t breathe. He stroked up her arms and clasped her hands, holding them above her head, a further shock of skin on skin, as she was crushed against his warm, hard body.

  The fight went out of her. Had her hands been free, she would have pulled him closer still, driven by insatiable curiosity.

  Horatia was dimly aware he had taught her a lesson. Women could not hope to get the better of a man physically, and impotent fury rose along with the passion.

  Their heavy breathing filled the stable. The horses shuffled and whickered as he hovered over her, still holding her captive. She glared up at him, struggling against the desire he stirred in her. She fought to keep her anger close and nurture it to build a wall between them. “You have made your point,” she hurled at him. “You are stronger than I am.”

  “You are such an innocent, Horatia. I hope you now realize you can’t go about dressed like this.” His gaze locked with hers. “Do you know your eyes aren’t brown? They are closer to pure amber with touches of green and gold. Like some rare stone.”

  She turned her head away. “Let me go.”

  When he obeyed her, she shoved him back as hard as she could. Struggling to her feet, she left him lying in the hay, looking infuriatingly smug. “You are no gentleman, sir. It seems they teach very poor manners in France!”

  “Ah, but we French know how to enjoy what life has to offer.” He climbed to his feet and dusted himself down. When he straightened, his eyes were full of laughter. “I’ve wanted to do that since I first opened my eyes and saw you. The shape of your body in those breeches cast me into a terrible state, I can tell you!”

  Another wave of helpless rage swept over her. “How ungrateful you are. I saved your life!” She put a finger to her trembling lips, finding them swollen.

  “And I am most eternally grateful for it. Now go off quickly and change before I decide to kiss you again. As fetching as you look right now…” He gave her a long look from head to toe, which made her suck in a breath of frustration. “I wish to see you dressed as a pretty woman should be. Your secret is safe with me.”

  “How dare you patronize me,” she said when she could get her breath. What arrogance! Glaring at him, she searched for the right words to wound him. Fury tied her tongue into knots. He toyed with her because he was a man and could do whatever he pleased. Her restricted circumstances became so unbearable she thought she might explode.

  She forced a smile on her face and swayed closer.

  “Mon dieu!” He eyed her hips in the form-fitting breeches and shook his head with a grin.

  She reeled her arm back and slapped him hard across the cheek, so hard her fingers tingled. She welcomed the smarting; it made her feel considerably better.

  “Coquine!” Eyes open wide, he fell backwards with a hand to his cheek.

  “We Englishwomen are not to be toyed with, my lord!” She turned to make a grand exit but stumbled over a rake cast down in the hay. Extricating herself without injury, she hurried for the door. “I shall expect you for tea in fifteen minutes.”

  “Will you, indeed?” came the amused reply.

  Sick with mortification, Horatia changed into her best morning gown of rose-pink-patterned cotton. She knew one must look one’s best to feel any degree of confidence. And confidence was required to put the baron in his place! She discarded the idea of a lace cap and parted her hair to sweep it back in a smooth bun, secured with pearl-handled combs. If Guy had sought to show how weak she was when a man wished to take advantage, he had succeeded. He made her feel passionately alive. It wasn’t an entirely comfortable feeling, but it made sense of the unaccountable restlessness she had been suffering. How would she be able to bear being stuck in Digswell for the rest of her days?

  After a quick glance in the glass, she hurried downstairs, his deep kisses still on her mind. Remembering what had happened between them only succeeded in making her pause on the step and utter a strangled gasp. Struggling to regain her composure, she entered the drawing room, to find Guy and her father on their second slice of Cook’s plum bread. Guy threw down his napkin and stood as she entered the room.

  Her father’s brow puck
ered. “Where have you been, Horatia? I sent Molly to find you ten minutes ago. As you see, we have a visitor.”

  “I was out in the garden, Father, and had to tidy myself. “

  “I see you’ve changed your gown,” her father said with a nod of approval.

  Heat flooded her cheeks as Henrietta curtseyed. “So nice to see you again, Lord Fortescue.” Unable to risk meeting his eyes, she stared at his left ear. “I expect you find the English weather deplorable.”

  He angled his head so that his gaze met hers. What she found there surprised her. Sympathy and compassion. Or was it pity? Her throat closed in horror. “Nothing about England is deplorable, Miss Cavendish,” he said. “The beauty one finds in the countryside fair takes one’s breath away.”

  “Well expressed, Lord Fortescue,” her father said. “Horatia, that’s more persuasive than that poet Lord Byron you’re always quoting.”

  “Oh, not so very often, surely, Father.”

  “Lord Byron is a favourite, Miss Cavendish?” Guy seized on the information, and a delighted gleam entered his eyes. He was not about to let such a moment pass. “Surprising that a roué and a rake can produce such finely penned and passionate verse, don’t you agree?”

  Horatia scowled. “I agree that his poetry is very fine.”

  Knife poised, her father raised his head before buttering another slice of cake. “Roué? Rake? These are not words often bandied about in English drawing rooms, my lord.” He looked at her with a worried frown. “But if Byron is one of those, I forbid you to read any more of his work.”

  Guy’s eyes twinkled.

  She glowered back at him. “I wonder that his poetry is popular in France, my lord.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Do you mean that French poets are so sublime we tend not to read beyond our shores? We are a nation of romantics.” He put down his cup. “I recently discovered a new poem of Byron’s. Written this year, I believe.” He began to recite it, his voice lending it just the right tone of regret.

  “Fare thee well! and if for ever,

  Still for ever, fare thee well:

  Even though unforgiving, never

  ‘Gains thee shall my heart rebel.”

  Horatia released the breath she’d held. She had hung on every word. She wasn’t sure what she thought about him quoting Lord Byron as if he understood the meaning of every word. Coupled with the memory of his kiss, it almost made her swoon, and she desperately tried to distance herself from the emotion it stirred in her.

  “Written to his wife, when his marriage ended after one year, I believe,” Guy added, helpfully bringing her back to earth.

  Her father replaced his cup in its saucer with a rattle. “Modern verse!” He shook his head and climbed to his feet. “I declare, I can’t follow what you young people talk about nowadays.” He bowed. “I’ll just pop across to the library. But please finish your tea, Lord Fortescue. It was a pleasure to see you. Call on us again.”

  Guy rose and bowed. “Merci, Colonel Cavendish. I should be delighted.”

  With both doors left ajar for propriety’s sake, her father settled by the library fireside.

  With a glance at her father rustling his newspaper, Guy turned to her. “Horatia,” he said in a quiet voice, edging closer to her on the sofa. “Might we be friends?”

  She needed time to build some sort of resistance to his charm. “Friends don’t treat each other the way you have me,” she said in a small voice.

  “I know. I am sorry.” He gave a Gallic shrug and grinned. “I could not resist.”

  “You don’t look sorry.”

  “You did trick me, Horatia.”

  “I had no choice,” she said, watching her father intent on lighting his pipe. “I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

  “But you can, don’t you see?” He gazed into her face with a gentle smile on his lips. “No one has been badly wounded by this escapade, have they?”

  His words sounded so convincing, and she had to admit that the last few days had been quite extraordinary. She would allow friendship; it put the relationship on a safer plane. “You’ll tell no one of this?”

  “Kiss and tell? That is not my code.”

  She allowed him to take her hand and began to believe him, even though his behavior had been quite disgraceful.

  He turned her hand over and pressed a kiss on her palm, which sent endless quivers of feeling along her nerves. She snatched it back. “That is not within the bounds of friendship, my lord!”

  He held a finger to his lips. His dark lashes hid his expression, but she was sure his eyes danced. He was so outrageous she tamped down the urge to laugh.

  “Forgive me,” he said a smile in his voice. “It won’t happen again. Unless you wish it.”

  “I shall never wish it. Let us talk of something else.”

  “I have discovered quite a library at Rosecroft Hall. You are more than welcome to visit and investigate it, at any time.”

  “That won’t be possible. For many reasons.”

  His wide mouth quirked up in a grin. “Come dressed as Simon, if you must. I shall enjoy it no end.”

  She couldn’t resist returning the smile. “You are incorrigible, my lord!”

  He tilted his head. “But I confess, I do prefer you in that rouge-colored gown.”

  She gathered the folds in her fingers. “This hue is called rose pink, I believe.”

  He laughed and shrugged. “Rouge, rose pink. Red, chestnut?”

  “They are all very different.” Her tone censorious, she resisted the urge to pat her hair.

  “Well, you look very pretty in it.”

  “You are a compulsive flirt, my lord.” She shook her head but couldn’t prevent the small smile that hovered on her lips. “Weren’t we to speak of other things? How is my godfather today?”

  Guy scowled. “He has taken to his bed.”

  “Poor Eustace. He suffers terribly from gout.”

  “So I believe.” He fell silent.

  “I’m sure he will rally and be better company.”

  “I do hope so. There is much to discuss.”

  “I daresay. Years to catch up on.”

  “He shows little interest in my family.”

  This surprised her, for didn’t Eustace wish to validate Guy’s authenticity? “Oh? I’m sure he will when he feels better.”

  He looked doubtful. “Perhaps.”

  “Does Eustace plan to remain at Rosecroft Hall?” Horatia wondered if Eustace would be cast out of his home after all these years. Surely Guy would not do such a thing.

  “In truth, he has enjoyed my father’s hospitality unencumbered for some years. It might be difficult to relinquish it. He has a residence in town, as I’m sure

  you’re aware.”

  “He has always enjoyed the time he spends at Digswell,” Horatia said. “He has many friends here.”

  “Did he ever make mention of my existence?”

  “No, he didn’t. Why?”

  “I suppose he hoped the heir would never return to England.”

  “And not take your rightful place here? What nonsense.”

  He shrugged. “I might have died.”

  What was Guy suggesting? She cringed at the dreadful notion and knew her upset showed on her face. “Surely, you don’t think that he…”

  Guy looked down at his hands. “I’ve yet to find out what has gone on at the Hall. Until then, I prefer not to talk about it.”

  Outraged at even the faintest suggestion of impropriety on her godfather’s part, Horatia rose. “Eustace is a good man, Guy. He would wish to do the right thing.”

  “It is hard to know the workings of a person’s mind. We are strangers, after all. He holds no affection for me in his heart.”

  “That’s very different from…” She couldn’t say the words.

  He stood. “I must go. I hope I shall see you again soon.” A grin tweaked the corner of his mouth. “On horseback perhaps?”

  She wrinkled her nose. �
�I believe this episode has put an end to my rides. Alone, anyway.”

  “Then I am not sorry for it. It is very dangerous, as I have taken pains to explain to you.”

  Was he just like her father underneath his bravado? Did he want a wife to merely be an adjunct to him? It hardly mattered to her. Fanny would make him an agreeable wife. Horatia followed him to the door. “You have much to do to put your estate to rights, I think.”

  He pulled on his gloves. “Oui. A difficult but necessary enterprise.”

  At the parlor window, she watched him ride away through the trees. Guy must have met the real Simon, who would have returned from the village.

  She shivered and moved to the fireside. Did he really believe her godfather could be capable of such evil? Although to be fair, Guy hadn’t come right out and said it. She wound the tassel of a cushion through her fingers. It appeared that the upkeep of the Hall had declined further since she and Father had last been there. She was sure that Eustace had a good reason for the neglect; perhaps his health was a more serious issue than they knew.

  She heard Simon in the kitchen in conversation with Cook and was tempted to go and ask him what he thought of Guy. He was levelheaded, and she trusted his judgment. She sighed and patted the cushion back into place. Guy had expressed the wish to marry and safeguard his heritage by producing an heir. And, rightfully, his wife would come from the upper ten thousand. She must put him out of her mind.

  Chapter Eight

  Several weeks passed, and, to Horatia, each day was very much like the last. Their only visitors were the widow, Mrs. Thompson, and her sister, Alice, on church business to discuss community matters. What resulted was gossip in which the baron featured large. Horatia suffered through their fulsome praise of Lord Fortescue, how he’d charmed all those who met him and how he’d offered a substantial endowment for improvements to the rectory.

  Horatia wrote letters, played the piano, and read, but even Byron’s poetry failed to captivate her and her own attempts at verse were uninspired. She organized the maids in their duties about the house and took up some sewing but, after pricking her finger for the third time, threw it down in disgust.