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

by Miranda Davis

  Happily, one thing hadn’t changed. He fell asleep as soon as he settled down.

  It was afternoon judging by the height of the sun. Trees cast dappled shadows on the stream. Clun stood transfixed by what – or rather, who — he saw. Most of him was transfixed. What wasn’t grew taut and heavy in his buckskins. She floated in the water on her back, her eyes closed, arms outstretched. Her pale skin glowed in the dark, cool water. Between her long, lean legs, dark curls barely broke the surface. Water lapped between her full breasts and turned her nipples into ripe berries.

  Clun kicked off his boots, stripped his shirt over his head, fumbled with the buttons on the falls of his breeches and shucked them and his small clothes. All of it flew off him. He stepped into the water cautiously and bit his lip to keep from gasping at the cold. Moving stealthily, he sank into the quiet pool, now barely feeling the water climb up his thighs.

  A cool rush ran down his back between his shoulder blades when he slid under the water’s surface. Another stroke and another cool ripple of water flowed down his back.

  He touched her.

  She gasped and righted herself to stand shoulder deep, her green eyes wide. She met his gaze and smiled. Without a word, he turned and she slipped her arms around his neck and rode his back as he floated into the stream’s current.

  Almost immediately, some damn thing barged into his slumbering mind. Some nagging awareness insisted there was more to this particular dream. It had unusual heft.

  At her small sigh, all his senses blared reveille and jerked him into full consciousness.

  “Are you awake, Clun?” He froze and squeezed his eyes shut. “This is rather delightful,” she murmured close to his ear.

  “For you, perhaps.”

  “Are you uncomfortable?”

  “I’d prefer to be belly up,” he said, hoping to frighten her off. But no.

  “Why?”

  “Only a maiden would ask that. Let me up, Elizabeth.”

  “We’re betrothed, Clun.”

  “But not yet married,” he retorted. She settled herself on top of him more fully instead. When he peeked over his shoulder, he found her regarding him, resting her chin on stacked hands on his shoulder blade.

  “Why are you letting me do this if you disapprove?” She teased.

  “How was I to prevent it? You climbed on me while I slept.” He dared not reveal how well he liked her lounging on him, even if she interrupted what promised to be another arousing bathing siren dream.

  Wait.

  Only an idiot would mourn a dream when the very real breasts of its inspiration pressed against his back. He instantly imagined her more pleasurably arranged: face to face, her lips in easy reach of his mouth, her hips cradling his erection, her breasts against his chest where he could appreciate them properly. Fortunately for her, she pinned him face down. (Though his burgeoning cock-stand might start ratcheting his hips off the floor at any moment.)

  “What brings you here, Bess?”

  “Curiosity. I like to open closed doors. Do you object?”

  “I do,” he said over his shoulder.

  “I wonder what this would this feel like the other way around?”

  “What other way around?” he asked, now alarmed.

  “How would it feel if you rested on me,” she explained.

  “No, Bess. Beyond the pale.” He turned his face away, grumbling about infernal, curious females. She slid off his back to lie on her side next to him. She waited. He remained on his belly and turned his head to watch her.

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

  “No,” he lied.

  “You don’t have to do anything, just let me feel the weight of you. That’s all.”

  “That is all you say? Again, no.”

  “You’re being silly.”

  “No, I’m not. You are being difficult.” He rolled on his side to mirror her insouciant pose, his head in hand on bent arm. “I shouldn’t have let you lounge on me. See what my tolerance achieves?” Blood pounded in martial cadence on its march to invade and occupy his defenseless netherlands.

  This distracted him but not for long. With a jerk far stronger than he could’ve anticipated, she grabbed his shirt collar and yanked him to her. Momentum landed him on her and rolled her onto her back with an ‘Oof!’

  He stared down at her from inches away. Her green eyes had a corona of gold near the irises and tapestry threads of blue. Those eyes and her smile wreaked havoc on his gentlemanly restraint. He could feel it snapping like fine strands of a violin string being tuned too tight. He flailed for a moment trying to find a handhold that didn’t involve soft breast tissue.

  She squeezed out, “My, you are a solid man.”

  He hoped she wasn’t referring to his state of excitement.

  “Let me up, Bess!”

  Finally, he braced his hands on the floor and pushed up to put distance between them. Her green eyes had dilated nearly to black. Her lips parted. A flush crept up her cheeks. She held him and he couldn’t — wouldn’t — remove himself.

  “Oh Clun! This is—”

  He tensed, anticipating a complaint.

  “Scandalous,” she finished with a happy sigh. Her hands slid up his ribs in a slow caress.

  “Oh, hell.” He rolled over with her and now she lay upon his chest with their legs all a-tangle. She huffed a little laugh down at him.

  He was hard, she was soft and he would’ve liked nothing better than to pleasure this woman before the fire for as long as the estate had firewood. She lowered her mouth to kiss him and he waited, his breath caught in his lungs as she descended in torturous increments.

  The dainty clock on the mantle began to strike the hour: one, two, three, four…His lust-clotted brain functioned far more slowly than the parts of him now over-supplied with blood. He was only beginning to consider how best to relieve her of the rumpled dressing gown as the clock chimed five and six then stilled.

  “The maid, oh dear,” she gasped and scrambled off his body, all knees and elbows. He grunted in pain. “I told her to dress me at six o’clock!”

  And with that she disappeared through the communicating dressing room doorway.

  Rrrrgh!

  * * *

  Elizabeth’s temporary lady’s maid at The Graces helped slip one of the baroness’ forgotten dresses over Elizabeth’s freshly laundered chemise, stays and fine flannel petticoat and did a credible job dressing Elizabeth’s hair in a braided bun. The gown’s rose color was unobjectionable. It was too short, of course, and a bit loose in the bodice, a relief from her skimpier theatrical frocks. She put on her only pair of gloves. Lilac with rose was unfortunate. Still, she was far more presentable than she had been to date.

  She descended the stairs on her own and Penfold showed her to the dining room. Clun lounged at the head of the table and leapt to his feet when she entered the candlelit room. At each end of the long table was a cover, a large silver candelabrum bristling with candles to illuminate it and a footman ready to serve. Ten pairs of chairs separated Clun at the head of the table from her place at the foot. She moved there and stood.

  “Good evening, my lady,” the baron said with a warm rumble in his voice that she quite liked to hear.

  “My lord,” she replied. Their voices echoed.

  He held out his hand to her and smiled; he wished her to sit at his immediate right. Both footman sprang to relocate her table setting. When she approached him, Clun pulled her chair out and seated her himself. When he sat, he extended his bare right hand to her, palm up. She looked first at his hand, then at him, slipped off her lilac gloves — they were about to dine anyway — and lay her bare hand in his.

  “Did you enjoy your afternoon, my lady?” His thumb made gentle circles around her knuckles.

  “Very much.”

  “And how did you to pass the time?” He asked with feigned innocence.

  She slanted a look at the footmen.

  The devil would have his fun, would he?
So be it.

  “I explored The Graces,” she said, perfectly nonchalant. “There are so many delightful surprises.”

  “And you are a curious puss by nature, are you not?”

  “Very. It’s my besetting sin.”

  “Well, sin or no, I approve. By all means, make yourself at home anywhere, my lady.” His grin almost made her giggle, but she tamped it down.

  “In my explorations, I came across a drawer full of medals.” His thumb stilled.

  “Did you,” the baron said, his playful look gone and in its place a guarded reserve. “They handed out a few, Lady Elizabeth.”

  “There were quite a few more than just a few. You fought in the Household Cavalry. With the Blues, as I recall. Why didn’t you tell me you were one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?” Clun’s expression stiffened. She persisted, “You were very heroic.”

  “We did our duty and came back no worse for the wear. Well, three of us came back mostly unharmed. For Jem Maubrey it was a close run thing, as Wellington would say.”

  “And now you’re home to start your peaceful life.”

  “I suspect life with you will be no such thing.”

  “I am not as incorrigible as all that, my lord. I know how to behave.”

  “Or not,” he murmured.

  She enjoyed the soft, amused look now back in his expression. He’d enjoyed misbehaving on the bearskin rug as much as she had.

  Under his drugging influence, it would be easy to forget oneself before the staff, so well trained and unobtrusive were they. Elizabeth slowly withdrew her hand and smiled at Clun as the first course was set before her. The footmen kept glasses replenished, whisked courses away and held serving dishes at just the distance and height she needed. With the last, dessert course, Penfold brought wine to the table for the baron. The butler excused himself ‘to stir the fire in the library and ready tea for her ladyship.’ Like her father’s household staff, Clun’s army of servants were numerous and nearly invisible, the sign of a well-run establishment and a testament to the quality of his butler and housekeeper. After sampling the pudding, she excused herself to leave Clun to his port.

  She’d only just settled on a settee in the library when Clun joined her, glass of port in hand. He sat with her and arranged himself comfortably. In a companionable silence, she poured tea for herself. There was much to discuss, but she decided to wait until morning.

  For poor Clun, it was the calm before the storm.

  Chapter 10

  In which our heroine stops our hero’s heart with three little words.

  Elizabeth was not comfortable with passivity. For years, she’d tried to develop a lady-like capacity for it, working diligently to find reserves of patience within and cultivate them. With no success. She simply could not let be what would be. Mrs. Abeel was less than helpful in this aspect of her upbringing. She corrected Elizabeth obliquely saying, ‘For God’s sake, child, do as I say not as I do. We mustn’t both alarm the earl.’

  Like her strong-minded mentor, Elizabeth was naturally industrious when assisting others, whether asked or not. Where she saw a need, it was her habit to address it. This made her difficult to dissuade when being ‘helpful’ and impossible to deter when she encountered resistance. She admitted to this tendency because she did not see it as a fault the way others did.

  Elizabeth wisely confined her efforts to her circle of close friends and three things saved her from being shunned by them: first, was the absolute purity of her intentions; second, were the undeniably happy outcomes she often engineered with her ‘helpfulness;’ and third, was the fact that she had none of the characteristics of a know-all busybody like her friend Lady Jane Babcock who, though pure of heart and dear with friends, was nevertheless considered conceited, judgmental and condescending. Rather, Elizabeth was an intelligent, highly perceptive listener who seemed to intuit what others wished but never dared say aloud. Guided by her perception, she worked tirelessly to help those she loved attain their hearts’ desires.

  After beneficiaries of her efforts recovered from their exasperation and/or mortification, they were usually grateful for her interventions on their behalf. Constance eventually thanked her for thrusting Viscount Speare at her repeatedly.

  Early on, Elizabeth’s interference was most unwelcome. At any number of balls and at Elizabeth’s urging, the dashing viscount and Constance sheepishly acknowledged each other, blushed, stammered, chuckled weakly about her clumsy matchmaking then avoided one another. Gratitude came only after the two were forced to speak at length when Elizabeth accidentally-on-purpose locked them in the butler’s pantry during an opera recital at No. 1 Damogan Square.

  No one heard the captives’ cries for help over the continental soprano’s voluble warbling. So Lord Speare climbed out, dangled and dropped from the narrow pantry window to secure Constance’s freedom. In the process, he won the blonde beauty’s heart — just as Elizabeth planned.

  For the most part, that is.

  Elizabeth couldn’t have anticipated that the viscount would risk breaking his neck to save Constance from the pantry. It was a thirteen-foot drop to the ground, for heaven’s sake, and Elizabeth wasn’t omniscient.

  Fortunately, Lord Speare only limped for a week or two and he did that anesthetized by new love. All the while, he lapped up Constance’s homemade nostrums, solicitude and admiration of his fortitude. So it worked out nicely in the end. The viscount wasn’t permanently crippled and the two were madly in love.

  In sum, Elizabeth made every effort to contribute to the happiness of those she loved and almost always succeeded. Her only failure to date involved her father. She never penetrated his reserve or relieved his melancholy. With Mrs. Abeel to raise her, the earl had never considered remarriage, preferring solitude to a second wife. Elizabeth made any number of attempts to make her father happy with her while growing up, but she learned at an early age to let him find comfort in the etymology of the English language.

  Between Mrs. Abeel and Lady Petra, Elizabeth managed to have a successful court presentation and first Season. The earl declared himself ‘satisfied.’ The following year, Mrs. Abeel fell ill and died in January. Elizabeth mourned her as a parent, though the anxious earl pointed out Elizabeth might participate in the latter part of the Season. Propriety required only four weeks half-mourning for a relation twice removed. As always, Elizabeth did as her heart dictated. She missed the Season.

  In her nineteenth year, Elizabeth stopped trying to please the earl. It seemed only marrying her off would gratify him so she didn’t rail against her betrothal at the end of her belated second Season. That is, she didn’t object until the baron cropped up out of nowhere the following year and made known by post that he would soon fetch her away. By then, the earl said, it was much too late to take exception to the scheme.

  So she ran away. And ran into the only other impossible man she’d ever met, her betrothed.

  Lord Clun had potential if only he were not so awfully pessimistic. She sensed a mutual connection deeper than attraction between them. It felt like two puzzle pieces coming together. Each had an essential something the other needed. She welcomed this. Clun did not, which baffled her. She was determined to help him.

  To do that, Elizabeth knew she must speak with Lady Clun.

  * * *

  The baron sat in the morning room with a substantial breakfast heaped on his plate when Elizabeth entered. She looked dewy fresh, with laughter on her lips and mischief in her eyes. All he could do was stand and gawp.

  It took a moment to find his voice, “Elizabeth.”

  “Good morning, Clun.”

  “May I?” He came to her side, took up a plate and accompanied her along the sideboard arrayed with country fare: kippers, sausage, beef, bacon, porridge, sweet buns, toasted bread, poached eggs and sheep’s cheese. As she pointed to things she wished to eat, he put them on the plate he held for her. He leaned too close, he couldn’t help it. She drew him like a bee to clover.


  No, not a diligent little bee, Clun felt more like a big, stupid, self-destructive moth, a moth moreover that knew better than to come too close but could not stop himself. Her skin appeared to be lit from within and she smelled of fresh air, clean linens and something else pretty and feminine. He sighed.

  “Do I take too long in choosing, Clun?”

  “What? No. I was thinking how lovely,” he hesitated, “the day is and wondered how I might entertain you.”

  “I recall that the family seat is a castle in Wales, is it far from here?” She pointed to sausage, toasted bread and finally the poached eggs. He followed her, taking up what she desired. He spooned the egg with great care so as not to break its yolk.

  “Not far, a few miles across the border.” He put her plate at the seat to his right and frowned at the nearest footman to keep him against the wall. Then Clun held out Elizabeth’s chair to seat her himself.

  “Why don’t you live at the castle?” She slipped her gloves off.

  The cowed footman filled her teacup only after receiving Clun’s nod.

  “My mother lives there.” Clun sat and snapped his napkin into his lap. He prayed she would start eating and cork up further questions with egg, sausage or toast. Anything.

  She cut and pierced a piece of sausage with her fork and knife. “Oh? Is there a dower house on the estate?”

  “Yes, and another in Ludlow. She prefers to bli-inhabit the castle.” He almost said blight the castle. That would require explanation, which he was unwilling to provide. He wanted to enjoy his meal in peace. “Do try the sausage. It’s best when hot.”

  She put her utensils down instead. “You prefer The Graces?”