The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series)

by Miranda Davis

  “And if he wants you?”

  “How could he possibly want me in particular? We’ve never met. Never danced. Never so much as exchanged a how-do-you-do.”

  “You objected to the betrothal?”

  “Well, no, I didn’t, but only because it was too preposterous to take seriously. The earl told me about it, swore me to secrecy and then nothing happened. More than a year passed and we heard nothing more from the baron. So, I assumed it came to naught and my father hadn’t mentioned it, for fear I’d become emotional. As if I’d care a jot — a spangle — if I didn’t marry a man I’d never clapped eyes on.”

  “No, of course not,” he said in a bland tone, “not a whit or a fig. And now?”

  “To insist that I marry him after all this time would be peevish, don’t you think? We live in an enlightened age, after all. What gentleman with all his faculties would take a bride sight unseen?”

  “Perhaps Lord Clun is old fashioned.”

  “That’s not old fashioned, sir, that’s medieval. Lord Clun would have to be a hoary, desiccated old—”

  “Now, now. How could you possibly know what he is or isn’t?” Said the man walking behind her.

  “Well, I do know that if he weren’t completely awful, there’d be any number of young ladies eager to be his baroness,” she retorted and felt badly when she saw him flinch at her blunt assessment. Outspokenness was one of her besetting sins.

  Perhaps he knew Lord Clun, she reproached herself. But then if he did, it was bad manners not to say so. Besides, the whole business was infamous. She refused to feel too badly for the ancient baron or his nosy acquaintance.

  * * *

  “If he weren’t completely awful,” she’d said. Unfortunately, the chit had a point. Although he towered over every female except this one, Clun knew his size was the least off-putting of his attributes. His reputation and demeanor had proved inconvenient while prowling the Marriage Mart soon after returning from the continent. Granted, Clun never made much of an effort. He’d grown disgusted quickly.

  Was it his fault he had heavy black brows and a propensity to glower from under them? Or to issue monosyllabic responses to silly chatter? Or to dress with monochromatic austerity, as his valet reproached him? Well, yes, most of it was. But it was certainly not his fault that his supposed ‘ferocity’ had became firmly fixed in the minds of querulous Society debutantes.

  Thanks to hyperbolic newspaper tales about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, men respected him, virginal women feared him and even experienced women treated him with trepidation. Put simply, he was too big, too dark and too daunting. In bed play, merry widows wanted to be teased and seduced, not overpowered, plundered and practically left for dead. Not that he would do that. He took great pains to be a generous lover. Still, only a female with considerable intestinal fortitude could overlook the former attributes to discover the latter.

  In any event, another Horseman of the Apocalypse, his well-informed friend, the Hon. George Percy,3 had suggested the Earl of Morefield might consider an arranged match for his daughter, given it was three years since her come-out and the elderly earl wanted her settled. Thus, Clun’s betrothal to Lady Elizabeth Damogan was contracted sensibly, with a minimum of fuss and bother, between two rational men of sound character and ample means.

  After finalizing the betrothal, he heard nary a squeak of protest from that quarter. So he assumed either Lady Elizabeth accepted her father’s arrangements stoically or had no notion who he was.

  Ah well, it could never be that simple for a de Sayre, could it?

  “And what if the baron is a beast?” Clun asked his betrothed finally.

  “Why must I be the virgin sacrifice?”

  Clun burst out laughing, much to her chagrin. He threw his head back, leaned into his horse and let his deep chuckle rumble up like lava from a fault in the earth’s crust. Her disgruntled look sent him into higher-pitched howls of laughter. The baron eventually wiped his streaming eyes and calmed himself enough to say, “Perhaps Lord Clun isn’t decrepit, merely a sensitive soul who fears rejection of his suit.”

  “Which would make him a spineless coward! Is he man or mush? The more we talk of him, the less I like the baron,” she concluded and marched off in the direction of an old cottage on the edge of his home wood.

  “Aren’t you afraid of being recognized and handed over to the hoary, old baron?” Clun called out after her.

  “Not at all. No one knows me here. I’ve only ever lived in London and Devonshire, and visited Bath a few times. I’ve never set eyes on the baron, or he me. What’s more, he isn’t expected back here for some time. He planned to collect me in London, where it so happens I am not. And this,” she said, spreading her arms wide, “is the very last place on earth my father would ever think to look for me, don’t you think?” She crossed her arms over her chest with a self-satisfied smirk that Clun wanted to kiss off her lips.

  “Obviously, you’ve thought of everything,” he said. “Poor Lord Clun.”

  Lord Clun followed his runaway fiancée through the woods that stood along his estate’s southeastern border to a small, thatched cottage near a stream that flowed through the property. Autumn wildflowers dotted the open space around the cottage. A well-worn hard-packed dirt path led to its low, arched front door.

  “Wonderful, isn’t it? So charming.” She faced him. “I’m afraid we’ll have to eat tepid stew. I’ve run out of firewood.”

  “There’s a pile there.” Clun indicated a heap of logs nearby. A large, flat stump had a weathered axe stuck in it and scars from countless axe falls. Few split pieces remained stacked nearby.

  “They’re much too big.”

  “Would you like me to chop you some firewood?”

  “Yes, please.” She gave him a dazzling smile and disappeared inside the cottage. He let Algernon graze.

  When she came out again, Clun removed his greatcoat and redingote and handed them to her. Before unbuttoning his waistcoat, he removed his thick, gold signet ring and tucked it into the watch pocket for safekeeping. His smallest finger felt too light, liberated from its weight.

  “May I have my stew piping hot?”

  “You may,” she said and sashayed to a crude bench to drape his coats over it and sit down. He shrugged out of his waistcoat. When he looked around, he noticed her watching him. Rapt. He liked the way she stared. He tossed the waistcoat on the pile of logs and went to work.

  * * *

  It was utterly improper.

  Elizabeth knew dining with this man would give the earl and all of Society spasms if ever they heard of it. Being alone with a strange man, much less sharing a meal without benefit of chaperone, guaranteed scandal. There would be dire repercussions, if they were anywhere near the watchful eyes of the ton. But this wasn’t London. One needn’t put too fine a point on social niceties in a wilderness. Besides, this man rendered an invaluable service, a service moreover, which might have endangered him, so Elizabeth quickly determined that here, in the western reach of England hard by the wilds of Wales, she could safely ignore the nit-picky strictures of Polite Society.

  Nit-pickiness aside, she knew full well that she ought not to watch any man undress, even if it only involved outer layers. She simply could not pass up the opportunity to see more of this particular man.

  As he rolled up his linen shirtsleeves, she fixed on his thick, well-muscled forearms. He hefted the large axe effortlessly in big hands. He braced long, strong legs and bent down to snatch up a log. Standing it on the stump, he swung the axe in a smooth, blurred arc, splitting the wood in one stroke. His shoulders bulged and tensed with efficient movement. He split log after log. The pile of firewood grew, as did Elizabeth’s agitation.

  “I don’t see why I should marry some decrepit old aristocrat,” she picked up where she’d left off. “I’d rather marry someone who can do, uh, useful things.” She couldn’t take her eyes from him, as he swung and struck the logs with a mastery that heated her fair skin f
rom head to toe.

  “Aristocrats can do useful things,” he argued. (Thunk!)

  “Not the ones I know,” she sighed. “Except my father.”

  “Why assume Lord Clun is decrepit?” (Thunk!) “For all you know, he’s a man chock full of practical skills of which you’d approve.” (Thunk!)

  Elizabeth harrumphed. Her henchman-cum-woodsman had the cultivated speech of a gentleman, although he spoke in a deep, melodic voice sweetened with Welsh. He subtly rolled the hard r’s and caressed and tr’s of English. It was nothing like the Scottish brogue of Mr. MacAvoy, her father’s man of business, or the Irishmen she’d heard in London. Each time he purred ‘LoRrd’ Clun, she shivered.

  She could listen to him all day, even when he glanced at her over his shoulder and rumbled, “It’s hard not to conclude that Lord Clun has the poorer part of the bargain!”

  “Is that so?”

  “What practical skills do you offer, my lady? Needlepoint-pillow making? Watercolor painting? Flower arranging? Menu planning? Singing?” (Thunk!) He snorted as he struck another log apart with a solid blow.

  “I can’t carry a note,” she admitted. “But I have managed an earl’s household for years. I can cook, bake and milk a cow, along with numerous other, more typical feminine accomplishments.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Is that so hard to believe? Oh, never mind, there’s enough to warm our meal.” She got up, strode over to him and touched his back low at his waist. He stilled. She could warm her hands on the heat he gave off. And the scent of the man! Fresh air, leather and muscular male effort, with a top note of horse, she sighed. Just as a practical gentleman ought to smell. She plucked up half a dozen good-sized pieces of wood and carried her armload away without trouble. She was capable, too, she wanted to prove for some inexplicable reason.

  A little while later, she returned and sat down again behind her hero to watch his body twist, heave and move as he worked. Now, she noticed dreamily, his damp shirt lay pasted to his body, across broad shoulders and wide back, narrowing to his waist and trim hips. His hard buttocks were sculpted like a Roman athlete’s. Oh, she thought, here was a man.

  She was enchanted. Until, that is, he opened his mouth and ruined everything.

  “Yes indeed, I pity the baron.” (Thunk!) He picked up a log and pointed it at her for emphasis. “Even a doddering, old man deserves some peace and consideration in his dotage.” He stood it on end and swung the axe. (Thunk!) “No doubt you will drive him to an early grave.”

  “I will not.”

  “Oh no? If the baron’s as old as you say, he won’t survive the trouble. And you, my lady, are nothing but.” (Thunk!) He glanced at her over his shoulder and said, “I suppose, you can pray that he’ll expire on your wedding night, and leave you untouched, widowed and wealthy. Best of all worlds.”

  “You, sir, have an inappropriate sense of humor.”

  “Do I?” He mocked. She opened her mouth, but he cut her off, “Yes, you just told me I do.”

  “I will not be the death of him,” she said with starchy dignity, “because I shall spare him the fatal vexation of me entirely. I shan’t marry him.”

  The man stopped chopping and leaned an elbow on the axe handle on the stump. “Though you’re well intentioned, somehow I can’t imagine he’ll escape his fate. And I’d wager your father is anxious to be rid of you, too.”

  “You’re probably right,” she snapped. “But you’re cruel to point it out. I vow I won’t go back to the earl unless he ends this farcical betrothal and promises not to attempt such a travesty again on my behalf. He thinks that I need a strong hand to guide me. He’s often said he regrets having been lax. Lax. His parenting never involved indulgence, just benign neglect. And having let me do as I wish for two decades, it seems a mean trick to impose discipline by marrying me off to some relic from another age.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Who knows if the old baron is even up to the task of managing me! You say I’ll give him fatal spasms.”

  “Only if the drink doesn’t kill him first,” Clun quipped.

  “He’s a…a tippler?” She asked.

  “More than tipples, if memory serves. A bottomless cask. Mouth like a funnel on one end and a wee spigot at the other,” he concluded with a wink.

  Ignoring his wink, she quickly resumed her train of thought. “How could an elderly souse be a proper husband for me? What was the earl thinking? No. If I marry at all, I will marry a strong, practical man who does not drink to excess.”

  “A woodsman perhaps,” he teased. “Wouldn’t you miss your comforts, my lady? Hot water magically appearing in your room for your bath and disappearing again just as magically when it’s cooled.”

  “I am content to bathe in the stream and do so often.” She was only too happy to leave him flabbergasted, or scandalized, or whatever it was that left his eyes bulging and his firm, kissable lips loose as a carp’s.

  Served him right, she sniffed.

  * * *

  Clun could only stare agape at her in the autumn twilight. His mouth went dry. She flippantly mentioned bathing in the nearby stream and he blanked for an instant. First, came to mind his recollection as a young man of taking a brief dip late in the year. His frozen balls had retracted somewhere far inside his lower body and refused to descend for a full day. Next flashed a series of heated, pleasantly stirring imaginings: the glowing colors of her creamy skin touched with blushes all over, her long chestnut hair fanning out around her siren’s face, her rosy nipples gathered tight as buds in the chill water. He forcibly recalled himself to his senses. Much as he feared, her proximity, the wood chopping and the bathing-siren fantasy registered below. He took up a large log and held it before him.

  To distract her, he teased: “You would have me believe you’ll bathe in a frigid stream and kill your own meat through the winter?”

  “I’ll have you know that I’m a dead shot. The venison in the stew, that’s mine.”

  “You mean Lord Clun’s.”

  “Well, if you want to be a stickler. But I shot it.”

  “I’m impressed.” And he was. Lady Elizabeth was nothing if not surprising. And stimulating.

  “I just realized we’ve not been introduced. I am Lady Elizabeth Damogan.” She pronounced her last name with care, slightly exaggerating the second syllable, ‘da-MUG-en.’ “Those who have only read the name mistakenly say ‘DAM-o-gan,’ which I cannot abide.”

  “And you’re too polite to correct their pronunciation? I’m astonished.”

  Of course, he knew her name. He was about to marry the chit. Should he instruct her to pronounce de Sayre4 in some ridiculous way, perhaps ‘dee SAY’ or funnier still ‘de-SIRE’?

  “I’m William Tyler…That is, well, Tyler.” He bowed elegantly to cover his hesitation. Clun wasn’t sure what his intentions were at the moment, only that he wished to have a bit of fun with Lady Elizabeth ‘da-MUG-en.’

  Chapter 2

  In which our hero makes a somewhat triumphal return.

  After supping with his feral bride-to-be, Clun rode on to his country house. Though he wasn’t expected for weeks, it gratified him to see the grounds and buildings of The Graces well tended.

  In the previous century, his great grandfather had commissioned James Albright to design the place. It took twelve years to complete its construction. He might’ve been finished sooner if it hadn’t become a labor of love for Albright as much as his patron. No graceful flourish, exotic wood or subtle carved intricacy was spared or begrudged.

  Client and architect became so enamored with The Graces, as it came to be known, their wives conceived a jealous disgust of the place. Mrs. Albright ran off with a barrister (and proved de Sayre marital dissatisfaction was communicable). Thereafter, this tradition of alienated affection carried down through subsequent generations of de Sayres, finding the Ladies Clun stewing in the cold, stone castle ten miles away in Wales whilst the Lords Clun luxuriated as often as possible in so
litary, sunlit splendor at The Graces.

  Albright’s design culminated in a soaring four-storey gatehouse. Clun paused before this ‘Triumphal Entry,’ as popular guidebooks called it. The entry featured a 35-foot tall archway crowned by a peaked pediment that echoed the main building beyond. The main hall was a vast, imposing Palladian structure boasting numerous, divided light windows5. It stood along the western side of an enclosed, rectangular courtyard with short, symmetrical wings north and south. The entry enclosed the courtyard’s eastern side.

  With dusk dimming to night, the beige stone building glowed welcome to the weary baron. Its flanking wings embraced him like arms. The scent of loamy, fresh-turned earth tickled his nose and told him the courtyard garden was ready for winter. The chill, humid air made him glad of his many-caped greatcoat.

  He took one last look at the surrounding countryside before he urged Algernon forward.

  While The Graces had been under construction, Lancelot “Capability” Brown transformed the surrounding rain-soaked, Shropshire hills and dales into a captivating landscape. All that Mother Nature seemed to bestow on this parcel of heaven-on-earth was in fact placed at Mr. Brown’s direction by an army of local laborers. Even the large serpentine lake that fed from, and contributed to, the estate’s little stream was mostly manmade.

  Although situated in remote southwestern Shropshire, The Graces drew gentry on holiday tours seeking breathtaking views. Unlike the Lake District, which was overrun with visitors enjoying its famously picturesque landscape, this less-traveled treasure tucked away in Clun Forest beguiled those who sought it out because they had the luxury of imagining they alone beheld its glory, they alone disturbed its tranquility.

  Anyone applying to the housekeeper Mrs. Wirt was given a tour and a voluble discourse on the absent warrior baron, who was one of the famed Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

  “Poor little Boney,” she’d say in a tone freighted with false pity for the petite imperialist. “He cannot last with my Lord Clun at his throat and that’s all I’ll say about that.”