A Baron in Her Bed

by Maggi Andersen

  She squealed, collapsed and opened her eyes. Guy grinned at her.

  “It was agreeable, mon amour?”

  Horatia’s eyes had a dreamy look, and her pink tongue toyed with her bottom lip. Guy struggled to inhale as he moved to ease the discomfort of his swollen shaft straining against his breeches. He wanted her so much he fought for air. Somehow, a sane thought had found its way through the fog of lust governing his mind. What if he died and left her with child? Withdrawal was never a guarantee. He groaned and moved away.

  Guy’s deep groan vibrated through her. She bit her lip, contrite. When he jumped to his feet, she saw with a measure of satisfaction how she had affected him before he turned away to adjust his clothing. “Get dressed, Horatia,” he said, his voice tight. “I’m just going outside for a moment.”

  Filled with an odd languor, Horatia struggled with the ties of her gown. Her muscles seemed to have gone to water. Tears gathered, and a sob formed in her throat. He had proved remarkably un-rake like. Had she shocked him?

  She was on her feet still struggling with the ties when he returned.

  “Let me assist you.”

  He had them done up in an instant. She studied his dark head as he helped her into her pelisse. He was so gorgeous. Her behavior had been appalling. “Thank you.” Her voice trembled, and she hiccupped.

  When Guy’s amused eyes lifted to meet hers, she gave a sigh of relief. He touched his lips lightly to hers. “I know what an innocent you are, Horatia. What motivated this attempt at seduction?”

  “I’ve grown afraid I might lose you.” She shrugged. “I can’t explain it.”

  He wrapped her in his arms, his hand gentle on her hair. “Horatia. I would like nothing better than to make love to you. But I know more about life than you do, so please, just once, will you let me take care of you?”

  “But I wanted to give you pleasure,” she whispered.

  “And you did.” He tucked a lock of her hair behind an ear and bent to give her another brief kiss. “I look forward to making love to you in the proper manner. In our marriage bed.”

  Outrage at such an unadventurous remark removed any vestiges of remorse. “Did you always make love to women in your bed? I remember the stories you told me – when you thought me a man – of making love in hay lofts, carriages, fields, and wasn’t there one incident that involved a table in the kitchen?”

  He laughed. “Knowing you seems to have changed me.” He sobered. “I see things differently now.”

  He’d done the honorable thing, and Horatia grudgingly admired him for it, but she didn’t want him to change from the passionate and thrilling lover described to her in the hunting hut. She was determined to make sure they did all those things together and eradicate the memories of all his other lovers. “Come.” She tied her bonnet strings under her chin. “Let’s see the rest of the house.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Guy left Horatia, considering how his feelings had changed, and in such a short time. He had come to England with the somewhat arrogant intention of finding a bride to fit his station. He was even prepared to set up a mistress if he had no affection for his wife. He’d been through so much he believed himself incapable of deep feeling for anyone and impervious to further hurt. Now his happiness depended upon an amber-eyed willowy young woman who was far too spirited for her own good. The thought of inviting a mistress into his life was so impossible it was ridiculous. Horatia filled his mind, heart, and soul. It had been a great struggle not to take her as she lay there on the carpet inviting him to do so, her lush mouth made for kissing and her lovely body bared to his gaze. He had to fight not to push inside her and make her his own. And he didn’t fully understand why he hadn’t done so. Perhaps, because he knew what lay behind it. How intuitive she could be. He had not been able to fool her completely when he said that all was well. Horatia’s bold attempt to seduce him came more from anxiety than desire. Far worldlier and conversant with the trouble such an act could bring, he was not about to take advantage of her vulnerability. Through Horatia, he was coming to understand more of himself it seemed.

  Guy joined John in the library after dinner, where they discussed his friend’s time spent with Wellington during the Peninsular War, heavily censored Guy suspected. Much of what John was forced to do during those years would never be told. Had it left the man scarred internally, like so many others? Although John was a stalwart friend he knew he could rely on, he could only get so close until he came up against that wall John had built around himself.

  And hadn’t he done the same? After downing his third whiskey, Guy relaxed enough to talk of his years spent on the Continent before coming to London.

  “In Paris in ’08, I had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was arrested and thrown into the Conciergerie.” Guy threw down the last of his drink to obliterate the bitter taste in his mouth. “Most don’t emerge from that prison alive, but for some reason, I was released. I didn’t wait to find out why. Over a million men, women and children died in France during that time. Many in that prison. I left France, sick to my very soul.”

  “And you took up arms against Napoleon.” John raised his glass to him.

  “Most likely another million souls perished under Napoleon. I found Spain in an even worse state than France. The land dotted with the corpses of dead soldiers and horses. Villages ransacked and burned. The women raped and murdered. Stock and grain destroyed leaving those left to starve to death. I ended up at Girona, with such anger I wanted to kill, but instead I acted as aide and secretary to Colonel Anthony O’Kelly from Roscommon, preparing dispatches, and translating documents into English, and working with the women. I refused to kill my countrymen. My hatred for Napoleon didn’t extend to the men who served him, although I hated what they had done to Spain.” He sighed. “Such foolish bravery, against such odds. Some six thousand French troops of Napoleon’s army laid siege to the fortress of Monjiuch, demanding the surrender of the Ultonia Regiment. Kelly refused. The siege lasted eight months.”

  Speaking of it tightened Guy’s throat as the words took him back to that horrendous and difficult time in his life when, as a despised aristocrat, he’d tried to help the desperate people, but there were so many and so little he could do. Until the revolution, his father had helped all those on his estates. Guy had helplessly witnessed these people die. He’d reached a point where he didn’t know or care what would become of him.

  “Those were bad times, my friend.” John broke into his thoughts as he refilled Guy’s glass from the crystal decanter.

  “I became fond of these people whose lives I shared. Particularly, Mrs. Lucy MacCarthy, wife of Colonel Patricio Fitzgerald MacCarthy who sought permission from the Spanish Army High Command to organize a women’s unit. The Company of St. Barbara, they came to be called. They carried ammunition to the troops and risked their lives to care for the wounded.”

  “Yes, they were indeed admirable.” John lit a cheroot and puffed a cloud of smoke into the air.

  “Heroines to the last.” Guy looked down at his glass, as his thoughts took him back there, amid the thunderous barrage and the confusion, the groans of the men, their blood running over the stony ground. He assisted the women all he could but could do so little. “They ran the gauntlet of shells raining down, bombs and grenades, carrying the wounded in their arms to the hospital.” His voice broke, and he took another deep sip from his glass. The whiskey rolled over his tongue thick and smoky with a hint of peat, warming the chilled knot in his chest. “When thirty-three thousand more French troops arrived and demanded O’Kelly surrender, he allowed the citizens a democratic vote.” He gave a hopeless shrug. “They voted no.”

  “Brave, but foolish.”

  A long, heartfelt sigh escaped Guy’s lips. “Over six hundred soldiers, along with Colonel O’Kelly, perished.”

  “How did you get out alive?”

  “After I saw Lucy die by the side of her husband, Fitzgerald, I gathered togeth
er a few of the civilians and we escaped during the chaos.”

  Despite the wound in his thigh where a bullet had grazed him, Guy had walked for miles and collapsed near a farmhouse. He parted company from the rest who wished to make their way further west. He found a tiny hamlet untouched by Napoleon’s forces. A peasant family took him in and cared for him until he was well, generously sharing their few provisions. When he could, Guy returned to offer aid and found the house a smoldering ruin. Soldiers had taken their livestock and destroyed the crops, they had murdered the farmer, stripped and violated the wife. She had been taken in by relatives and was like a ghost. He left what money he could and ended up in Barcelona where for a time he lost himself.

  There was a long silence as they stared into the flames remembering lost comrades.

  John stretched. “We must talk about tomorrow.”

  Guy raised his brows. “Oui, tomorrow.” He hoped those days in Spain had helped him hone his instincts for danger and to trust his gut feeling. He would need those skills now.

  “I think it might be wise if I move into a hotel, John, while this is going on.”

  John nodded.

  In bed the next morning, Horatia’s face burned as she recalled what had passed between her and Guy the previous day. She gasped and curled her toes. Sarah entered the room with her hot chocolate. The bells began to ring all over the city, calling people to church. “It’s a beautiful day, Miss Horatia. Listen, you can hear the booming bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral.” She drew back the damask curtains to reveal a patch of blue sky.

  With a yawn, Horatia stretched her arms over her head. Making love had been beyond her imagining. What she now knew of it made her impatient to experience it further. “It’s sunny. Oh how lovely. I fancy a walk in the park after church.” She remembered that she would not see Guy today and felt a sad pull of disappointment. He had some business to attend to. How adroitly he’d evaded her questions as to what that business might be.

  Horatia walked with Sarah along the path beneath the plane trees as she recalled the time Guy had taken her to the park. The thought made her heart beat faster and she longed to see him again. The clouds piling up on the horizon did not herald rain. It could not rain on such a perfect day. She returned to the house to eat a hearty luncheon of soup, whitebait, and a large helping of custard tart. Her aunt gave her a careful look but asked no questions beyond a request for a description of the house. Horatia concentrated on the food and tried to avoid her aunt’s penetrating gaze as she described in detail the impressive size and layout of the rooms. “It’s situated in quite the nicest part of Mayfair where many new houses are being built in the current style,” she said with relief, as her aunt put down her napkin and rose from the table.

  They left the dining room just as the duchess was admitted, dressed in another exquisite costume of cornsilk yellow, which made her eyes appear very green.

  “How divine you look, Your Grace,” Horatia said.

  “Merci, mademoiselle. It is impératif that we talk!”

  “Of course.” Horatia showed her through to the parlor. “Please sit down.”

  A tiny frown marred Geneviève’s normally smooth brow. She patted her breast. “I am not how you say… quiet, in here.”

  Horatia’s pulse picked up a beat. “I’m sorry. What is it that worries you?”

  “Gee. He called last evening but barely sat down before he left again. He is not himself.”

  “Oh?” Was it to do with her? She and Guy had continued their inspection of the house. Might there have been something unspoken between them? He had been less than forthcoming about his plans, leaving her wondering herself just what he was up to. “What makes you think this?” she asked uneasily, rubbing her arms.

  “You feel it too,” Geneviève said. “Gee said he could not see me for several days.” She pushed out her bottom lip. “He said he’d be delighted to spend time with me if I came to London, and now, poof!” She waved a hand in the air. “He says he has calls to make today and then disappears again! It is bizarre.”

  “I did wonder what he planned to do today.”

  “So, I followed him this morning.”

  Horatia widened her eyes. “You followed Guy?”

  The duchess nodded. “He went to a shop which sold guns. Manton’s Gallery in Davies Street. He was in there over an hour. They practice there. I saw him go upstairs and heard the sound of shootings.” She wrinkled her nose. “I could smell it to.”

  “Well, I find that entirely . . .”

  “When he came out he carried a box under his arm.”

  “Oh!” What could this mean? “Might it be a gun for hunting?”

  “Non.” The duchess looked scornful. “It was not a hunting rifle he carried but a much smaller gun.”

  Horatia looked at her speechlessly her head filled with wild thoughts. Why would Guy need a gun when they planned to marry very soon?

  The duchess edged forward on her chair, ready to rise. “He has an appointment at two. If we start out now, we can follow him this afternoon.”

  Horatia blinked. “Oh, no. I couldn’t, Your Grace. He trusts me.”

  She scowled at Horatia. “What is that? If Gee is in trouble, we must help him.”

  “But what trouble?” Horatia felt she’d done enough to unnerve him yesterday. “I thought it was all at an end. And what if he sees us? He will be so angry.”

  “Leave that to me,” Geneviève said. She nodded sagely. “I will handle Gee.”

  “If you’re sure?” Horatia was unable to resist a woman who preferred action to talk.

  “Send the servant for your things. My carriage waits outside.”

  Geneviève gave instructions for Berkley Square, and the well-sprung carriage took off down the street. They were there within minutes, for it was but a pleasant walk from her aunt’s house. Horatia’s heart beat so fast her head spun. She could almost see Guy’s scowl at the sight of them.

  They left the groom to walk the horses in Berkley Street and followed the graceful curve of the footpath to where the row of large houses faced onto the park. Unsure quite what to do next, they hovered about further down the street for some minutes.

  “If he plans to call on someone at two, he would have to leave soon,” Horatia said, half wishing to give the idea up.

  Another ten minutes passed. They were discussing whether to leave when the door to number eight opened. Geneviève pulled Horatia down the steps of the house. They watched Guy through the railings, dressed in a dark brown coat and tall black hat, he walked along the pavement swinging his cane.

  “It is as I suspected. He calls on someone,” Geneviève hissed. Guy reached the corner and disappeared from sight behind a stone wall.

  The women hurried back to the carriage. “Drive around the corner and follow the man in the brown coat,” Horatia instructed the startled coachman. “Don’t lose him whatever you do, but don’t make us look suspicious.”

  “There’ll be a bonus in it if you succeed,” Geneviève said.

  With eager agility, the footman jumped onto the box, and the coachman moved the horses on.

  They caught sight of Guy in Berkley Street. He turned left into New Bond Street. They followed smartly and arrived to see him hail a hackney.

  The carriage trailed at a discreet pace as the hackney wove through the London streets. It pulled up in Cavendish Square, and Guy alighted. He looked neither left nor right but climbed the steps of an impressive residence to knock at the door. Minutes later, a butler admitted him.

  “This square bears your name, mademoiselle. Surely it’s a family connection?”

  “I’m not sure,” Horatia said.

  “I wonder who my brother visits here,” Geneviève said. “Do you know?”

  “No.” Horatia studied the three-storied townhouse. “It might be best if we get out and let the coachman walk the horses.”

  “Make enquiries as to who lives here, Jacque,” Geneviève said to the groom.

  “O
ui, ma dame.”

  He hurried to knock at the servants’ entrance of a neighboring house.

  Moments later he returned. “A Corsican gentleman, ma dame. Count Forney.”

  Geneviève shrugged. “I do not know him.”

  The two women entered the pretty park at the square’s center. They chose a seat facing the house and opened their parasols, which would afford them some disguise if Guy should walk past them.

  Guy was relieved when the butler admitted him into Count Forney’s home. At least he wouldn’t fall at the first fence.

  In the grand salon, the count greeted him in surprise. “I did not expect to see you again, Lord Fortescue.”

  “It is my practice to be careful, Count.”

  Guy pulled back his coat to better display the bronze eagle pin nestled in the folds of his cravat. “The days grow long, and I find I miss the countryside, the charm of the wood.”

  Forney’s eyes widened when he caught sight of the pin. He gave an oily smile and shook Guy’s hand. “Then I wasn’t wrong. You are one of us.”

  “I had to make sure that no one followed me.”

  “We have not done so, I assure you.”

  “I think it’s safe to assume that no one does, Count.”

  “That is good. I shall take you this evening to meet the others. They have long since wished to meet a man of your ilk. Your exploits are legendary.”

  Guy bowed. “Merci.”

  “We are in need of your expertise to help us in our quest to destabilize the English while we carry out our rescue of Napoleon. We must act with great speed before the English have him killed.”

  “I should be happy to offer all I can. Where do we meet?”

  “My carriage will call for you. Where do you stay?”

  “I’ll be at Grillon’s Hotel in Albemarle Street,” Guy said.

  “At ten of the clock, then.”

  Guy emerged into the square. He glanced at the two women in the park who chatted beneath their parasols and continued on. He had to report to John. Tonight would put an end to the whole infernal scheme. He had no real faith in these so-called spies, for they appeared more like mischief makers. A plan to free Napoleon was bizarre. Their idolatry of Vincent seemed amateurish to him. Had the Home Secretary been ill informed? Yet, he surmised, amateurs they might be, but obsessed and determined they were nonetheless.