A Baron in Her Bed

by Maggi Andersen

  “Mr. Oakley?” Horatia was stunned. “But I refused him.”

  “We’d best walk.” Guy offered her his arm.

  Thrilled as she was that he felt such a strong attraction to her, she reminded herself it wasn’t love. Guy had confessed to his rakish ways when he thought her to be Simon. He would never marry her, the daughter of an army man of limited means. Even her aunt had been astonished at their engagement, although Horatia found her abrupt change in attitude difficult to fathom. Aunt Emily did appear quite shrewd when she allowed herself to focus on something other than poetry.

  Ahead, sunlight danced on the Serpentine. “Shall we walk to the lake?” Guy asked, apparently now well in control of his emotions.

  “Yes, I’d like that.”

  He seemed intent on his own thoughts, and she returned to hers. Had he considered how a broken engagement would affect her life? That a scandal would ensue once she’d cried off? They had hardly been discreet; they had openly displayed themselves before the ton. Perhaps these things were done differently in France. The French were so much more relaxed about matters of the heart. It was second nature to them, while the English… Horatia gazed at Guy’s troubled face, a face she’d grown to like very much. If scandal were to follow her home, why not have a good reason for it? Guy would know how to protect her, and they could both gain much from it. After all, she would never marry anyone back in Digswell.

  They paused at the riverbank to watch a man propelling a rowboat over the water with strong strokes of the oars. “An affair might be just the thing for me,” Horatia said.

  Guy’s eyes widened, and his eyebrows shot up. “Quoi!”

  She had hoped he would fall at her feet but accepted that this was hardly the place. Trying to disguise the excitement building within her like a small flame being fanned into a roaring blaze, Horatia continued to stroll along the bank. “An affair is an excellent idea, as I prefer never to marry. You must agree that I shall write far better poetry with some experience of life.”

  Guy’s hand on her arm swung her around to face him. His hot blue eyes flashed. “So, if not me, then Mr. Windlestraw will provide your life experience?”

  “Good heavens, no.” Horatia laughed at his description. “You’re not jealous of Mr. Oakley?”

  He pressed a kiss on her gloved palm, which produced a cry of encouragement from an elderly gentleman sitting on a seat nearby. “I shall be the one to make love to you.”

  “You shall?” Horatia widened her eyes. “Oh, Guy, I want that too.” She stared at the man, thankful he was out of earshot. “But where? Not here in the park, surely.”

  Guy pulled her by the hand. “Come on.”

  Thrilled, she gasped. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Back to your aunt.”

  “What? Why?” Guy’s stride was so much longer than hers. He dragged her along. Her bonnet fell back onto her shoulders suspended by its cherry ribbons, and she almost dropped her parasol.

  “Because if I ever climb out of this mess I’m in, I intend to do the thing properly.”

  Horatia wasn’t quite sure what he meant by “the thing”, but she was more than keen to find out.

  She was not to learn of it today, however. Guy, tight-lipped, escorted her to the phaeton and drove her straight home. He answered her questions in monosyllables, and she eventually gave up trying. Then he left her with her aunt with a bow and his apologies, murmuring that something had called him away.

  Her aunt frowned. “You didn’t have an argument?”

  “No. At least I think not,” Horatia said, bemused.

  “A business concern, perhaps?” Aunt Emily suggested with a hopeful lift of her brows. “Never mind, Mr. Wordsworth is to arrive soon. You’ll enjoy meeting him, I’m sure.”

  In normal circumstances, Horatia would enjoy it immensely, but her own concerns intruded. Was it possible to shock a rake? What did Guy have in mind for them? Her mind whirled, and when introduced to the slim, brown-haired man of some forty-five years who would once have made her speechless with delight, she offered him an abstracted smile.

  All through Mr. Wordsworth’s scholarly conversation and her aunt’s animated replies, Horatia pondered on Guy’s behavior. She came to the conclusion he waged a war within himself. The passionate rake railed against the conservative man with strong values. She wondered which one would win where she was concerned.

  The week proved busy with trips to the mantua maker and the modiste for further fittings, in between sojourns to the museum and the Tower with her aunt. She saw little of Guy, who came to take tea with them on one occasion. He was busy searching for a suitable London abode.

  The modiste triumphed, producing the gown by Friday afternoon. Horatia loved the luxurious cream silk, lavishly decorated with silk gauze and floral work. Aunt Emily’s maid, Sarah, did wonders with Horatia’s hair, confining her curls with a stylish bandeau. Horatia wore white satin slippers, white French kid gloves and the pearl necklace and earrings which had belonged to her mother. She carried her aunt’s ivory fan and a white silk reticule decorated with silver spangles and tassels. Never having been dressed in the first stare of fashion, she quite looked forward to Guy’s reaction.

  She heard him arrive and waited until he walked into the room. He stopped and looked at her, his gaze like a physical touch, and her heart jolted. “De toute beauté.” He kissed her trembling hand and turned to compliment her aunt before whisking her away.

  Horatia studied him in the dim glow of the carriage lamps. How handsome he looked in his dark evening clothes, his crisp cravat white against his brown throat. “We’ve hardly seen you this week. Did you find a house?” Was he ever going to discuss her suggestion of an affair? He appeared to be distancing himself from her.

  “No. I’ve been too busy organizing new staff for the Hall.” He leaned back against the corner of the seat.

  The carriage pulled up outside a townhouse in Curzon Street. Well-dressed occupants climbed the stairs and disappeared inside.

  Inside, the house was neat and unassuming. Eustace, elegant and brighter than usual, took them round and introduced them to the couples chatting in the drawing room. His guests were exemplary; Horatia met the Earl of Liverpool, England’s prime minister and his countess, plus a famous actress and a foreign prince who clicked his heels and bowed over her hand.

  An enthralling conversation took place during the lavish and delicately flavored courses. Liverpool spoke emotionally about the state of the country, the depression, and political uncertainty, social discontent and unrest and the difficulty of reform, while the dishes were brought and covers removed. Mouthwatering aromas blended with the scent of hyacinths in a silver bowl and the ladies’ fragrant perfume.

  While a footman poured gravy onto her veal olives, Horatia listened to a discussion on the social movement called the Luddites, who were opposed to progress. Its members had already destroyed or damaged machinery in the industrial northwest of England.

  When the conversation turned to the unsuccessful march of the Blanketeers, Horatia asked the man beside her for more details.

  Mr. Randall, who was in publishing and harked from Fleet Street, explained in an undertone how four hundred spinners and weavers marched from Manchester to London to hand the government a petition. They were named thus, because they carried their blankets with them. Most were turned back or arrested by the magistrates and yeomanry before they reached Derbyshire.

  “And not one made it to London?” Horatia felt incensed for them.

  He smiled. “Rumor has it one protestor did, and handed over his petition.”

  Napoleon’s name entered the conversation with the general belief expressed he would never leave Saint Helena, where he had been sent in October of 1815. He was seen to be a spent force, his health reported to be poor.

  Horatia craned her neck to see Guy where he sat farther down the table. He appeared to listen intently. He still had not revealed to her his true feelings about Napoleon. The discussi
on of politics came to a halt when the actress, Sarah Siddens, a forthright older lady, declared the conversation had become far too serious. An amusing diatribe continued through the dessert course and the nuts and sweetmeats that followed until they rose from the table, and the men left the ladies.

  The men returned from their port, and Eustace stood with his butler at the door as his guests departed into the night. It had begun to rain, and footmen scurried about with umbrellas. Horatia waited for Guy, who had not re-appeared.

  Finally, in search of him, she wandered down a corridor into the library. She found Guy seated behind a satinwood desk, scanning a sheath of papers.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” He dropped the papers into a drawer and rose, crossing the room to her. “Now don’t frown at me. You don’t need to know everything. Come, we must say our goodbyes to Eustace.”

  She stepped in front to him. “Don’t be insufferable, Guy. You were spying on Eustace.”

  Voices sounded in the corridor outside. Eustace said in a loud voice, “I can’t think where they’ve gone.”

  Guy pulled Horatia into an embrace and kissed her.

  “Well, here they are,” Eustace said, smiling, the reverend at his side.

  Guy laughed. “I guess we’ve been caught red-handed, Eustace.”

  “You young people had best be married without delay,” Reverend Dewhurst said. “The bans can be read this Sunday. I believe the first of April is free for a wedding.”

  “But the bans would have to be read in my parish of Digswell, Reverend,” Horatia said hastily, embarrassment making her cheeks burn.

  “Not if notice is sent,” the reverend answered. “Would you not prefer to be married at St. George’s?”

  “We should be delighted, thank you, Reverend,” Guy said. “But I have matters to settle before I can make a firm commitment.”

  “Very well. Let me know as soon as you can.”

  With the rain loud on the coach roof, Horatia tried to read Guy’s expression, aware they would reach her aunt’s in a matter of minutes. “Have you changed your opinion of Eustace?”

  “I’m beginning to understand how things stand,” Guy answered. Something in his voice made her shiver, and he put his arm around her and drew her close against him. “Are you cold?”

  “No.” Horatia laid her head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat. “You still don’t know who tried to kill you?”

  “No.”

  “But you don’t think it is Eustace?”

  “Not directly.”

  “There hasn’t been another attempt on your life, has there? You would tell me?”

  He sighed. “No. Eustace approves of our marriage. Perhaps there won’t be another.”

  “Then we can call this engagement off before everything gets even more complicated.” She bit her lip as bitter disappointment took hold. It had cost her a lot to say it.

  “I know it’s difficult. Can you be patient for a little while?”

  Horatia nodded. She wanted to ask him about their affair but was afraid he’d reject her out of hand, and that would hurt too much.

  As if in answer to her unspoken question, Guy tapped on the roof with his cane. The panel in the roof slid back. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Drive through the park.”

  Guy closed the blinds as the carriage turned into Tiburn Lane and rolled on towards Hyde Park Corner. He pulled Horatia onto his lap. Cradled in his arms against his strong hard body, she put her hand to his nape. Pulling his head down to hers, she kissed him.

  “Horatia,” he murmured against her lips. He untied her cloak and slid it off her shoulders, bending to kiss the rise of her breast. “You smell so sweet, mon amour,” he said, “like violets.” His voice was muffled against her skin. Her body grew warm and felt strange beneath his touch. An odd kind of yearning. Horatia stroked his dark hair, sliding thick and silky through her fingers.

  When Guy untied the strings at her back and slid her dress down to reveal her chemise and stays, she grabbed his hand.

  He paused and smiled. “Shall I stop?” He looked different, dangerous, intense. It thrilled and disturbed her. Still unsure, but curious, she shook her head. He slid the straps of her chemise off her shoulders. She stilled, and he drew back with a sigh. His large hand almost swallowed her smaller one as he laced his fingers with hers, the touch electric. His skin felt slightly roughened, not the pampered hands of a lord. “Where were you before you came to England?”

  “I will tell you, but not now, Horatia.” Guy gazed at Horatia’s hair, a halo of rich color in the dim light from the carriage lamps. Heat pooled in his groin and his determination not to give in to desire, wavered. He could stop. He would, but not yet. He took a curl in his fingers and raised it to breathe in the sweet fragrance. He was determined to loosen it from its bonds to swing free over her naked shoulders. Soon. He trailed a finger down the smooth column of her neck and dipped beneath her clothes to fondle a breast, rolling a nipple between his thumb and finger. This time Horatia didn’t stop him.

  “Oh, that’s lovely,” she whispered.

  Her husky voice sent another wave of heat to his groin. “I want to see you.” Guy pulled down her chemise and bared her breasts to the dark rim of her dusky nipples.

  She took a deep breath, breathing in his clean spicy odor. Sensual pleasure raced over her skin like fire as he took a nipple in his mouth. “Oh, Guy…” She went limp as her breast swelled in his hands. Threads of fire traced their way to pool and throb between her legs. He turned his attention to the other taut, sensitive nipple. She inhaled sharply when he pulled up her skirt, his fingers stroking the bare skin above her stocking.

  “Très doux.” His voice was a ragged whisper as he stroked higher.

  “Are you going to…” she asked between great gasps.

  His mouth found hers and silenced her.

  He drew away. In the dim light, his eyes were serious and passionate with intent.

  “Guy…” Horatia couldn’t finish the sentence for the life of her. She loved to lie in his arms, her body tensed with longing for his touch. She wanted… she wasn’t sure what it was she yearned for. But, perhaps not yet. Not here. Powerless to stop him, she grew afraid it would spoil something they shared. Something fine.

  Suddenly, Horatia found herself deposited back on the seat. Guy cursed and rearranged himself. “I’m not taking you here in the carriage. It’s not right. Not your first time, Horatia.”

  He wasn’t a rake. Horatia gave a sob, feeling part relief and part disappointment.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you,” he said in a gruff voice.

  “I want you as much as you want me,” Horatia said. She hated the distance that had sprung up between them. “But it should feel right for both of us.”

  “Well, I don’t believe it to be right now.” He eased away a lock of her hair from her cheek. “I haven’t forgotten your odd notion of remaining a spinster.”

  She stiffened. “Is it so odd?”

  “’Twould be a dry and passionless life. And you are not passionless, Horatia.”

  She huffed out a breath. “I shall meet great poets while in London. Aunt Emily expects Wordsworth to call again, Byron too, when he returns to England.” She knew she sounded half-hearted. Did the notion still have the power to thrill her?

  “Byron again,” Guy muttered through tight lips. He tapped on the roof with his cane. “King Street please, John.”

  “Right you are, my lord.”

  Horatia felt rather flat. Her gaze drifted down as Guy adjusted his pantaloons. She was thrilled by her power to excite him, and her need to argue evaporated. Studying his serious profile, she placed a tentative hand on his arm. “Don’t you wish to make love to me?”

  He gave a laugh, which became a half-growl, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, I do. I definitely do.”

  Thrilled, she said, “Then why can’t we…”

  A firm light e
ntered his eyes. “You will never be my mistress.”

  “Oh.”

  He turned to take her hands in his. “Would you make an exception for me, Horatia? Marry me when I am free to ask you?”

  Horatia was so surprised she could hardly speak, and when she did, she sounded accusatory. “You’ve never said you love me.”

  “How can I when I don’t know if I’ll live from one day to the next? As things stand, I have little to offer you. I cannot ask you now.”

  “Oh, Guy. I’ll wait for you.” Her lips trembled into a smile. “If you do want me.”

  “I do, Horatia. When I consulted the solicitor about the codicil to the will, I asked him to draw up the marriage settlement.”

  She gave him a mock frown, unable to be angry at him for taking her for granted. “You assumed I’d say yes?”

  He shrugged, looking disarmingly helpless. “Do you think I’d deliberately gull your father? I always intended to ask you. I hoped ‒ trusted I could persuade you. I sensed you cared for me. Is it true?”

  “Oh, Guy, I love it that you are so honorable. I love you.”

  “Do you?” He studied her mouth, his dark lashes shadowing his cheek. His eyes met hers. “Enough to give up your dreams of becoming a famous poet?”

  She laughed and nodded.

  He took her mouth in a scorching kiss then pulled away. “It might be best if we talk.”

  Knowing the danger that stalked him gave her little peace. “You have made no inroads into discovering who was behind the attacks?”

  “Strathairn is making enquiries.”

  She remembered John’s steely gaze. “Lord Strathairn would be a good man to have on your side, I should think.”

  “He made some useful connections during his years away at war,” Guy said. “You’re right, a better man at my back I couldn’t find.”

  The carriage approached her aunt’s house. Guy tied up her gown and pulled her against his hard body. His lips found the sensitive skin below her ear. “I’ll see you as soon as I can, ma douce.”

  Horatia smiled to herself as she swept inside the house, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses. Her aunt appeared on the stairs in her dressing gown and nightcap. “You gown is rumpled, and your hair is coming down. I hope you acted with decorum, Horatia.”