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

by Miranda Davis

  “Having seen you at The Sundew, I’m certain they have more to fear from you than you from them.”

  “Such daring exploits, if one can believe the reports. They must be very brave men.”

  “Newspapers exaggerate to sell copies,” he scoffed.

  “Envious, are you?”

  He snorted, “Not in the least, Lady Elizabeth.”

  * * *

  Mr. Tyler put the entire drumstick in his mouth. His lips pursed around it and Elizabeth imagined the taste and texture of his kiss. That thought alone should’ve scandalized her, but she was too pleasantly distracted. His lips were firm and full, especially his lower lip. And they looked soft when he wasn’t scowling at something she said. He sucked the meat from the bone with his eyes half closed and she heard a low, deep hum as he savored it. The sound skittered over her skin and left her body tingling. He pulled meat from the breast, nibbled at the well-crisped skin and licked the tart black currants. She stared, transfixed. The man’s unvarnished pleasure was so riveting that she failed to notice he balked at discussing his war. She leaned closer to watch him eat.

  “Your family lives here?” She asked somewhat breathlessly.

  “A half-brother.”

  “Wouldn’t London be more exciting for a man who’s seen the world?”

  “I’ve seen war, Lady Elizabeth, not the world. Though I enjoy London, I had to come back.”

  “Why?”

  He popped a final tidbit of meat into his mouth and, much to her growing discomfort, refrained from answering until he’d chewed, swallowed and licked his lips clean. Only then he told her, “I am to be married.”

  “Married?” She straightened up in her seat. “Oh. I see.”

  Nasty, teasing man.

  “Is she a local girl?”

  “You might say so, yes, but not originally,” he replied, eyes twinkling.

  “Have you known her a long time?”

  “Long enough to have formed an opinion.”

  “Are you very much in love with her?” She asked with a nonsensical, sinking feeling.

  Here, he turned serious. “No. Not at all.”

  “Tell me you jest!”

  He licked the grease from his fingers slowly as he stared at her mouth. The way he stared made her lips dry as dust.

  “No, I am in earnest,” he finally said.

  “Does your betrothed know how you feel?” She demanded.

  At this, his eyes took on a dark, devilish glint. “If asked the same question, I have no doubt she’d say the same. Like yours, ours is an arranged marriage not a love match. She can hardly expect a man she’s met once or twice to be in love with her, now can she?”

  “Poor girl.” Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief. “I had not thought such a thing still common and yet here we are the two of us facing the same dreary fate. Unlike me, you seem quite resigned to yours.”

  “Not resigned, Lady Elizabeth, I welcome it. I believe I will enjoy a more peaceful, fruitful union without histrionic romantic expectations to bedevil my wife and plague my married life. Perhaps the same is possible with your baron.”

  “Never, sir. I’m against the match and ever will be,” she declared and muttered to herself, “Not the least because he’s a toothless, drunken fop.”

  “So if you had your druthers, you wouldn’t marry him even if the two of you might do well enough together?” Mr. Tyler asked quietly.

  “I shall marry for love or not at all.” She stood up to add emphasis.

  He stood as well. At least he had manners.

  “The hour is late Mr. Tyler, I must bid you good evening.” Elizabeth dismissed the man, embarrassed that she allowed him to turn her head.

  Picking up their plate, he walked out the door and tossed the bones far away. He returned the dish to her and bowed elegantly, “I thank you for the feast, my lady. I’ve never tasted better partridge. I must admit Lord Clun would be a lucky man, if only he could win your favor.”

  “You’re too kind, Mr. Tyler,” she said, meaning nothing of the sort. “Good night.”

  He left her with a smile and a wink that made her even more disgusted with him.

  She busied herself cleaning their plate with the last of the water she’d hauled up from the stream and went to toss the waste water out the door.

  “Lady Elizabeth!” Mr. Tyler cried, leaping over the splash of water as it hit the ground. He jogged to a stop, his expression greatly alarmed, “The baron. He’s coming this way. Hurry. Out of sight.” He snatched the bucket from her, dropped it and took her hand to pull her out the door.

  “But—”

  “No time to explain. Come,” he said and crouched down. He glanced this way and that before taking each step. Being that he held her hand in a vice grip, she had no choice but to follow suit, bent over nearly in half. She struggled to keep up. He dragged her in this crab-like scuttle to the largest, entwined yew tree nearby and yanked her behind it. He threw an arm across her body to hold her in place.

  Having flattened himself and her against the trunk, he hissed, “Shhh!”

  She stood hard against the knotty tree, which stabbed and poked her back. He leaned in the other direction to look around the yew’s bole and snatched his head back. She gasped and he dared shush her again without ceremony.

  Lummox.

  They waited, stock still, plastered up against the tree until Mr. Tyler peeked again, leaned forward a few more inches and relaxed.

  “His lordship must’ve chosen a different path for his post-prandial walk. That was fortunate. You could hardly wish to bump into the old baron when he’s out and about, eh?”

  Mr. Tyler lowered his restraining arm only after she cleared her throat. Twice.

  “No, indeed, not in this lifetime, sir. Thank you for the warning.”

  “Your servant, my lady. ” he said with a bow and raised her hand to his lips for the merest brush.

  She shivered.

  “I believe it’s safe to bid you good night.” He smiled at her and chuckled.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tyler. You are very kind.”

  “Not so kind, perhaps, but I will help you whenever I can.”

  Good as his word, Mr. Tyler warned her of the baron’s being in the vicinity early the next morning.

  Mr. Tyler appeared first riding at a leisurely pace over the low rise of an overgrown pasture where Elizabeth was calming a cow in order to milk her. The cow kept moving away, forcing her to scramble around to coax the beast to stand still.

  When Mr. Tyler caught sight of her, he reined in Algernon, stood up in his stirrups to look over the rise some distance then wheeled abruptly to charge straight down hill at a gallop.

  “Get down!” He ordered and waved an arm wildly at her. “On the ground. Now!”

  The startled cow trotted away, much to Elizabeth’s chagrin. She shaded her eyes to look past Mr. Tyler.

  Again he called out, “The baron’s out for a ride. Get down. Now!”

  Elizabeth shrieked and dove face down, tucking her chipped pitcher under her arm. She could only hope the tall grass and scrub would provide sufficient cover.

  Mr. Tyler’s horse danced in circles and he called out loudly, “Good day to you, my lord.” To her, he growled, “Don’t move, my lady.” He muttered, “I say, his lordship can’t even be bothered to say hello, eh? A mere wave of his pale, little hand.” He tsk-tsked to himself. “Got hands like an albino monkey,” Mr. Tyler drawled. “Or it’s his lace flapping in the breeze.” He reined in Algernon, sat at his ease in the saddle, still keeping his eyes pinned on some distant point. Elizabeth dared do nothing more than peek up at him. Mr. Tyler explained under his breath, “He favors great spills of lace at his cuffs. A bit old fashioned, but then, so is he.”

  “Is he gone, Mr. Tyler?” She asked, growing cold and itchy where she lay sprawled on bent stalks and hard ground. The pitcher gouged her armpit, too.

  He glanced down and warned, “Not quite. He can’t trot, canter or gallop, what with his
chilblains and gout.”

  Minutes passed while Elizabeth lay face down.

  “All’s clear. He’s gone, Lady Elizabeth,” Mr. Tyler finally said. “Must say, you’ve the Devil’s own luck to have twice escaped his notice. I’d best be off now,” he said with a hearty laugh. “Good day!” And away he rode at a gallop.

  Chapter 4

  In which our hero is no longer the lord of a ring.

  Still in his shirtsleeves the next morning, Lord Clun almost tore through the lining of the watch pocket in the waistcoat he’d worn the day he met his betrothed. As one does when something too dear to lose is lost, he poked two fingers into the small pocket over and over, finding nothing the fifth time, just as he found nothing the very first. Despite his state of undress, he strode down the long hall to the staircase. He clutched the waistcoat in one hand and ran the other down the walnut banister as he descended the stairs to hail the head butler.

  “Penfold, I need you!” He threw on the waistcoat as he paced up and down the first floor hallway peering into the various saloons.

  “Yes, my lord?” Penfold said. He blinked at his master’s dishabille, but remained otherwise unperturbed.

  “Where is the greatcoat I had on the other day, the dark gray one I wore from Town?”

  “I’ll fetch it directly, my lord,” Penfold replied.

  “Bring it to me in the library, if you will.”

  “Of course, my lord.” He hurried as much as a head butler could without compromising his dignity. Clun stalked into his bookroom and flung himself into his desk chair. Unaware, his fingers stole once again to the empty watch pocket.

  I’ve lost it. Hell and damnation.

  Penfold brought the baron’s greatcoat to him. He snatched it up and delved into each deep, flannel lined outer pocket. Nothing. The inside chest pocket perhaps, he thought, now feeling panic congeal into a hard clot of despair. Nothing.

  It’s gone.

  The weight of the signet ring alone would’ve announced its presence in the waistcoat where he knew he’d tucked it or in the greatcoat where he hoped he’d moved it and forgotten. But no. It was gone. His father’s father’s father’s etc., heavy, gold signet ring had somehow slipped from the watch pocket while his betrothed distracted him with her green eyes and tight frock and God knows what else.

  It could have fallen out whilst he chopped her damned wood or ate her damned stew or camped out under the damned yew to safeguard her that first night. Or perhaps it fell out when he rode to and from The Graces in a Damogan-induced mental fog. It could be anywhere. He might have realized it sooner, if he hadn’t been so busy pulling pranks on his refractory wife-to-be.

  It was his rotten luck to be so easily diverted by the woman. They’d only just met and behold the consequence of simple curiosity about her. Part of his legacy, nearly an ounce of Norman gold, lay sunk in the mud somewhere in the acres between the little cottage and The Graces.

  He held out no hope his ring would turn up miraculously if he retraced his steps; yet retrace them he must, if only to reassure himself that he’d done all he could to find it before giving up.

  He called for his horse.

  * * *

  As soon as Elizabeth heard the hoof beats, she dodged into the cottage and peeked through a shuttered window, her heart pounding. It wasn’t the baron.

  She was treated instead to the sight of a bareheaded Mr. Tyler galloping up to the cottage and reining in his big, gray horse. He was barely dressed in linen shirtsleeves and unbuttoned waistcoat despite the chill in the morning air. He leapt down from the saddle, but issued no dire warnings about Lord Clun. She came out of hiding to greet him.

  “Good morning,” he said tersely, as if she’d angered him somehow.

  “Is it, Mr. Tyler? You look thunderous.”

  He stopped short and blinked. “My apologies, I’m distracted. I lost something when first I was here. Have you found anything lying about? A ring perhaps? Gold. Big.”

  “You lost it here, sir?”

  “I took it off to chop wood and put it in my waistcoat pocket. Perhaps not.”

  “As I recall, you removed your greatcoat and coat —” At this, she blushed. She shouldn’t admit she watched him while he undressed. He blinked again then shook his head as if to clear it.

  “I did, didn’t I?” He scanned the yard. “Where did I put them, do you recall?”

  “You handed them to me and I put them on the bench. Let me look.” She knelt down to peer under the rough bench where she’d sat in a daze admiring him. He joined her, sweeping his hand through the grass between them. He stood up impatiently and walked over to the stump.

  “And my waistcoat?”

  “I don’t recall,” she felt herself blush hotter. She’d been far too engrossed to notice. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Nor was I,” he said, his tone impatient. “I stood here to chop the wood.” He looked at the ground and circled the stump slowly. “Then I put the pieces over here.” He walked to the woodpile and pulled away some firewood to look beneath. Roddy’s men had done their work and a cord of firewood lay stacked in a neat round.

  Meanwhile, Elizabeth walked slowly from the woodpile through the cottage doorway and called out, “You were wearing your waistcoat and coat when you came in here.”

  She crouched down to look at the packed dirt floor. He came in behind her just as she stood up so she bumped against him and tottered off balance. He steadied her, and they both stilled.

  “Don’t fall,” he ordered unnecessarily still clasping her arms.

  “Of course not, thank you, Mr. Tyler.” Once he let go, she smoothed her hair back with a nervous hand and turned to face him. He stared at her as if he’d forgotten why he’d come. And at the moment, she was having difficulty recalling his purpose as well.

  With a start, he muttered, “The yew! Mustn’t forget the yew.”

  She followed him partway to the old yew near the cottage.

  He circled it, head bent, kicking in the grass. Looking glum, he said, “It’s gone. Lost. I am a fool.”

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Tyler. I’ll keep looking for it.”

  “No use, that. It could be anywhere,” he said and swept a hand to encompass the entire horizon before he let it fall to his side.

  “Still, it will turn up, I’m certain of it.”

  “Then you are a greater fool than I, Lady Elizabeth. It’s gone.”

  “Optimism doesn’t make me foolish and it won’t lessen the chances of finding your ring.”

  “Nor will it improve them, but the expectation of finding it worsens one’s disappointment when it fails to turn up.”

  “But,” she argued, “if it does turn up, it justifies one’s hope. That cannot be a bad thing.” He stared at her as if she were simple-minded. “We must do as our disparate natures dictate, sir. I shall expect to find your lost ring with luck and enough looking whereas you shall find nothing because you refuse to look for fear of greater disappointment.”

  The man glowered at her as if she were talking nonsense, which she knew perfectly well she was not.

  “Don’t you glare at me.” She thrust an accusatory finger at his nose. “You are the one who makes no sense.”

  His black brows shot up and he blinked. “Well. I’ll be off then. Might as well search the meadow.”

  “Would you like some help?”

  “No need to waste your time, too. Good day.”

  “I’ll find it, Mr. Tyler, I will.”

  He merely bowed to her and hoisted himself into the saddle. Without another word, he rode away.

  She searched the cottage yard on hands and knees, combing slowly through the tall grass. She looked inside the cottage. Outside again, she paced, head down, slowly around the stump where he chopped wood for her. She removed more firewood from the pile. Around the base of the yew where he’d looked cursorily, she made a minute examination. Nothing. She widened her search.

  It had to be somewhere.

&nb
sp; After hours on her hands and knees, she turned up nothing but partridge bones.

  Chapter 5

  In which other hopes are dashed.

  Carreg Castle, Wales.11

  “I’m tempted not to pay you for failure but I want you gone back to Ludlow without a fuss,” Lady Clun said without emotion to the four rough characters standing before her in the castle’s great hall.

  “Yes, y’ladyship,” the leader of the loutish foursome said. “Didn’t get a name. It’s for sure she’s no local girl. That’s a fact.”

  “Oh? And how did you deduce this?” Lady Clun asked. The man’s face blanked so she closed her eyes, inhaled slowly to count to five and rephrased the question, “How do you know she isn’t local?”

  “She don’t know anyone in the village and no one knows her. Just appeared one day not long ago. A bit out of the ordinary, you might say.” He refrained from mentioning they’d not only asked around about the girl at Lady Clun’s behest but also robbed her. It was an impetuous act inspired by the sight of a particularly fine engraved gold locket hanging around her neck and a pair of lustrous pearls dangling from her ears. Jewelry like that just didn’t come along in Clun Forest. Or Ludlow for that matter. The man added, “Her brother threatened us wi’ harm so we made ourselves scarce. Thought you should know she’s not alone and seems like to stay.”

  “Is she pretty?”

  “I’d say so. Folks say she’s queer in the head and steer clear o’ her, ma’am. They knew her brother in the village, though. Big man, he. Didn’t like us, er, snooping about her,” he fibbed.

  “Strange,” the baroness hissed, eyes narrowing as she considered the likelihood of a local man with an unknown sibling. She dismissed it. Next she considered who in the vicinity would confront four men to help an unfamiliar girl. Two came to mind. One was steward of The Graces, the other had been in Bath and was expected in London the last she’d heard. She fingered the Staffordshire china dog on the table beside her. It cost three times what she would pay these ineffectual fools.