“Flutterby it is, my lady.”
‘FlutteRrrrby.’ Oh, good Lord.
All she could do was sigh and nod against him. She felt his heart beat and his laughter reverberate through her. Reluctantly, she moved away and bowed her head rather than let him glimpse in her gaze all that she felt for him. The last thing she wanted to do was repel him with emotions he disdained. So she asked about the odd flowers at her feet to distract him.
When one of the castle’s servants called to Clun, he let her wander off. In solitude, she regained her composure.
Afterward, Clun escorted her back to the castle’s main entry. He pointed out the original keep and its immense rag stones, now part of the larger structure. Inside, tapestries and medieval armaments hung on the great room walls. A fireplace tall as the baron was a great, gaping, blackened maw surrounded by a hardwood mustache of a hearth. A delicate needlepoint fire screen did little to lessen the impression of dark, infernal depths.
In the castle’s portrait gallery in the ‘new’ Tudor-era wing, row upon row of de Sayres in deep, carved and gilt frames frowned down at them. The glowering men shared Clun’s coloring and features, dark hair, black, penetrating gazes, strong, straight noses, firm jaws and mouths. Dour women stared from their separate frames. The only portrait Elizabeth liked hung at the far end. This baron had a faint smile on his lips and softness about the eyes that differed from the haughty, impenetrable stares of the rest. He looked as though he’d just heard a naughty joke or was about to tell one. This portrait reminded her most of the man at her side. She’d seen that expression in life though it was fleeting.
“Who is this?”
“William Powys Tyler de Sayre, the previous baron.”
“He looks happy.”
“He was dissipated roué so he knew how to enjoy himself.”
“That’s awful to say.”
“Couldn’t help himself, or so I’m told. He fathered me then went his merry way,” Clun’s tone was chilly.
“Well, I like him,” she said.
“Which proves you’re a lunatic.”
Ignoring him, she asked, “Where is your portrait?”
“Don’t have one yet, takes forever. Ainsworth’s nearly out of his mind sitting for his. His Grace suffers from a near fatal case of the fidgets. He’s making his wife sit beside the artist so he won’t look like a complete wretch for posterity.”
“Who will you commission?”
“Sir Thomas Lawrence, same as Ainsworth. Wellington’s sitting for him, too. Apparently, he’s found a flattering angle for the Iron Duke’s great beak. He’s a miracle worker, in other words. Though he’ll have an easy time with you.”
“Me?”
“Look around, my lady. All these surly females married one or other de Sayre. Largest collection of Friday-faced beasts I’ve ever laid eyes on. There has to be one beauty among them. That is, if you can still manage a smile after we’re married.”
“Again, the gallows humor about marriage,” Elizabeth said, blushing. She did not acknowledge Clun’s compliment for fear he’d disclaim it.
He led her from the gallery through low doorways to parlors, saloons and on through much of the castle. He avoided the wing where the baroness’ rooms were.
“That’s not all there is, but it’s everything of interest,” he said to preempt her curiosity.
“Except your mother.”
“She is not here. Nor, I believe, is she of interest.”
“You are not close?”
“Ha!” It sounded more like a bark than a laugh, and he answered, “No. Not close.”
“Were your parents happy together?”
Another bark. “Not that I know of.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Not in the least. It’s time to return. Roddy’s rarely wrong about the weather.” He offered his arm to her and she slipped her gloved hand into its crook. Over her hand, he placed his own. In a gentler tone, he said, “Don’t let it trouble you, Bess. That was their story. Ours is still to be written.”
“I am relieved to hear you say that.”
Elizabeth found the return equally as enjoyable as the trip to the castle had been. In the slanting autumn light, everything stood out in golden, high relief. Offa’s Dyke cast a long shadow.
In good time, they reached The Graces. He drove the gig to the main door and helped her down.
“I’ll have Cook delay dinner,” he said.
“No need. I can bathe and dress in time.”
Clun looked grim and distracted when she promised punctuality so she excused herself and hurried inside to make sure she was ready as promised.
* * *
God help him if she kept casually mentioning her intentions to bathe, Clun fumed.
A man’s heart could take only so many stresses before it sputtered to a complete stop. And his generative organ, he also noted sourly, could take only so much unfulfilled over-stimulation before it was rendered permanently limp by frustration.
He stomped in after her and made for the brandy decanter in the study. He needed a calming nip and a frigid dousing before dinner.
Chapter 12
In which everything that can go pear-shaped does.
When Elizabeth formed an opinion on a subject, her opinion was firmly fixed indeed. Love, she knew, was a wholesome emotion that uplifted the spirit and nurtured the soul of the person who loved as well as the person who was loved. Clun’s stubborn refusal to contemplate the possibility of love baffled her.
Following their visit to the castle, they spent two days together in Clun village and in the larger town of Ludlow. They laughed and joked easily back and forth. Indeed, Clun continued to warm up to her, until without warning he cooled to the point of icing over. The cause of this sudden freeze remained obscure.
They had returned from their jaunt to Ludlow in high spirits and she suggested they drive directly to the stable so she might say hello to Algernon.
Clun guided the gig to the stable entrance. A groom held the horse while the baron stepped down to help Elizabeth alight. Inside, they came upon Ted leaning over the top stall board offering a carrot to the big gray.
When Clun cleared his throat, Ted jerked around. Carrots tumbled to the hay-strewn floor. The boy lurched off balance and would’ve fallen had not Clun caught him up.
“If Cook finds you feeding her carrots to Algernon, she’ll have your hide,” the baron warned.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Unless you’re doing it on my orders.”
Ted’s head snapped up and the baron grinned.
Clun made sure Ted sat securely before bending down to retrieve the carrots. Holding them out, he leaned on the board next to the boy and addressed him man-to-man, “He’s a brute, isn’t he?”
“Huge,” the boy sighed. “And so handsome.”
“And you like horses.”
“No, my lord, I love horses.” Ted took one of the carrots from Clun’s hand and held it out to the horse. Algernon nibbled it daintily from his fingers. And then the next.
“We have that in common, you and I. But when I was your size, I rode a pony.” Ted pulled a face. “No scowls, boy.” Clun leaned back to address Elizabeth, who watched in wonder. “See that? The scowling starts at birth with de Sayre men.”
She laughed with him. Ted was not amused.
“I must have your word that you will never enter Algernon’s stall on your own, Ted. From now on, you will stand on the ground and hand carrots to him through the gaps. Is that clear?”
Ted nodded, crestfallen.
“Down you come.” Clun looked at him and held out his hands. “That scowl puts me in mind of something I would discuss with your papa.”
Ted eyed him uncertainly.
“Come on, then,” Clun said and plucked the boy from his perch and tucked him under an arm despite his squirming. “A tutor, Ted, that’s what’s needed.” Clun gave the helpless boy a shake. “Lessons.”
“But I want to le
arn horses!”
“And so you shall, on my word. Come, Elizabeth.” He strode out of the stable to stand beside a deep wooden trough of water. “Perhaps you should begin with swimming lessons.”
“No, my lord, please!”
“I am your uncle, Ted. And it’s my opinion you need lessons of some kind. Do you object to swimming lessons?
“Yes!”
“Should we consult your papa?”
“Yes,” the boy yelled louder and laughed.
“Off we go then. Elizabeth,” Clun called over his shoulder as he strode to the kitchen’s vestibule door, “will you do the honors?”
She hurried forward to open the door for the baron and slipped past him to open the inner door. As Cook looked on, the baron brought his giggling load to the center of the floor and gently lowered the boy to his feet. “Fetch your papa from the estate’s office, young Ted.” The boy ran down the hall relaying the baron’s summons in a high-pitched half-squeal.
Roddy appeared, looking grave, with Ted behind. “Yes, my lord?”
“I prefer you call me Clun, or better yet, Will. My nephew’s climbing the stable stalls like a baby baboon for lack of useful occupation. Can’t have him spoiling Algernon either. It’s high time he had a tutor. And before you remind me how little you and I enjoyed ours, I will only say, a gentleman must suffer through Latin, maths and history.” Clun addressed himself in an aside to Ted, “It’s the way of the world, lad, miserable but true. If only horses could teach us maths, life would be bliss.” Turning back to Roddy, Clun continued, “I’ve also pledged riding lessons in compensation for the drearier subjects. So we must see that he has a proper mount, at my expense. If you can’t find a pony here, I suppose I could in London. But,” Clun pointed his finger at the boy, “you will exercise, feed and groom it yourself.”
Ted vibrated with excitement looking from Clun to his father, disbelieving his ears. Good manners and glee warred in his expression. Elizabeth and Cook stifled their laughter watching the boy try to contain himself.
“No need for that, my lor—Will,” Roddy replied with a gleam in his eyes, “Perhaps it’s best he learn to ride as we did as lads.”
“As we did?”
“On sheep!” Roddy exclaimed.
“Ah, yes, of course,” Clun said, rubbing his chin as if in contemplation. “I’d forgotten.” He glanced over at Ted squirming in misery. “You’re so right, Roddy, a fat, wooly one with a slow, bouncy gait should do.”
“And a tinkling bell on its collar,” Roddy added.
“Naturally,” Clun agreed as if it were self-evident. “How else will we know when Ted’s in the saddle?” The boy wrung his hands. “Then again, another riding horse could keep Algernon company. He’s a bit too high in the instep to mix with the carriage cattle.”
“Still,” Roddy argued merrily, “a sheep is perfect for riding.”
“And knitting!” Clun cried.
How long the large de Sayre men intended to torment the small one would never be known. Elizabeth stepped in to end their absurd discussion. “Enough, you two, I endorse the pony.”
The brothers finally burst out in gales of deep guffaws. Ted glared at them.
“If you insist, Bess, but I vow there’s nothing like a sheep at full gallop,” he choked out. She gave him a look. “Fine. Ted shall have a pony.” Clun offered his hand to the boy to seal the bargain. Afterward, the baron turned to say, “Beg pardon, Elizabeth, am I neglecting you?”
“Not at all,” she said, loving him all the more after this ludicrous exchange. Roddy took his skipping son off to make plans. A little teary-eyed, Elizabeth took his arm and teased, “Oh, well, at least you love children. You can’t deny that.”
“Yes, well, Ted’s a good lad,” he said and looked queasy. He led her upstairs from the kitchen and took leave of her on the first floor without another word.
They dined in silence that night. She made several attempts to engage him in conversation, but he answered with whatever minimum constituted a response.
On the following day, he excused himself with a bow in the morning “to deal with estate business, if you will permit me” and left her to her own devices.
After she’d toured the kitchen, stillroom, laundry room, estate’s office, formal dining room, ballroom, guest rooms, nursery, kitchen gardens and conservatory with Mrs. Wirt, she helped herself to the library. The brass and wood ladder to the balcony posed a challenge to her modesty, so she locked the door, hiked up her gown and climbed it, content to spend hours pouring over the books she found hidden away. Some of the silliest boasted William Tyler de Sayre’s personal bookplates and had marginalia penned in his childish hand.
In this way she passed the time.
Spending hours alone in just this way was nothing new to her. She’d often hidden herself away in the earl’s library when not cultivating her accomplishments under Mrs. Abeel’s tutelage. Elizabeth understood Clun had responsibilities. His absence wasn’t meant as a snub. She accepted it without question because it was completely familiar.
That thought gave her pause.
It would not do. Not for her married life. ‘No one can give you what you want if no one knows what you want, child,’ Mrs. Abeel often said by way of encouraging Elizabeth to speak up for herself.
So she tossed a novel down to the settee, hiked up her gown and climbed down from her perch. She marched down the hall to knock on the baron’s study door.
“Come,” Clun said from the other side of the door.
She opened it and breezed in, “Don’t mind me, I won’t say a thing once I’ve settled.” She looked about the room and its dark, comfortable club chairs. She chose one partly in his view and sat down. Tucking her feet up demurely, she looked at him. “This is cosy, isn’t it?”
He watched her. He was alone. There was a half empty glass of spirits before him on his desk and piles of papers and ledgers.
“Am I disturbing you?” She asked, growing annoyed at his forbidding expression.
“You have no idea, Lady Elizabeth.”
“That is nonsensical Clun, I’ve only just come in and you’re obviously not doing anything but drinking. How could I?”
She waited for his answer. None came.
“Do you mind if I stay?” She asked sharply.
He took up his glass, leaned back and made an expansive gesture that conveyed ‘do what you will and the Devil take you.’
“Well?” She would have a verbal answer not rude, dismissive gestures or dark scowls.
“No,” he finally answered, “I do not. If you will excuse me.” And with that he rose, bowed and left her in the study. Alone. With her book.
This behavior was daunting — even to her. For a time, he’d been polite, even charming, then suddenly the baron regressed to truculence. True, theirs was only a recent acquaintance. Still, it was hard to be patient when he behaved this way. They were to marry soon. Yet, wherever she was he would rather not be.
That would certainly not do. Unless he intended to rely upon immaculate conception, he’d have to put up with her proximity at some point to produce an heir. This she knew in some detail, though a virgin of gentle birth wasn’t supposed to possess such knowledge. (Once again, she thanked the Almighty for Mrs. Abeel, who’d instructed Elizabeth about men, life in general and marital life in particular because she believed it was shameful that Polite Society kept young ladies in utter ignorance.)
Either Lord Clun had lost interest in her, was dead to finer feelings or was obstinate as a matter of perverse principle. She suspected the last. For some incomprehensible reason, he still believed it would be best to wed without any romantic attachment. And he was doing his utmost to smother any she felt for him.
But this was not the most irksome issue she faced.
Far worse than Clun’s imperviousness to her charms was the fact that she was unfairly pervious to his. She found him irresistible. Adorable. Desirable. Admirable. Charming. And lovable despite his recent recidivism
. In fact, she exhibited all of Mrs. Abeel’s signs of affection while he demonstrated next to none in return. This bothered her more than the man himself did at his most bothersome.
They’d gotten on well enough when he was Mr. Tyler, then famously before he became cold and aloof. Lord Clun had been protective and considerate; however, those impulses could’ve been nothing more than good manners. He admitted to possessiveness, but only hypothetically. She was at a standstill.
She put her book down unopened and stood up to go. Rather than trail after him into the hallway, she went outside through a French door onto the terrace that overlooked the bare rose garden in the courtyard. He sat on a bench not twenty feet away, hunched over staring at his boots with his elbows resting on his knees. He heard the door creak and looked up, his expression bleak.
“Oh, dear. I’m not stalking you, Clun. Shall I go back inside?” She retreated a step.
“No,” he said and sat up straight. “Come join me.” She took another step away and would have demurred, but he asked, “Has the library yielded any surprises?”
She hesitated. She could go off as he had without explanation or she could answer him. The temptation to tease proved too great. She spoke as she approached, “Well, my lord, I found heaps of the most torrid, melodramatic novels: The Old English Baron, The Castle of Otranto, The Romance of the Forest, A Sicilian Romance and, of course, The Mysteries of Udolpho.” She perched on the far end of the bench. “I thought your male forebears preferred this place, not their wives.”
“A man cannot enjoy a tale of supernatural mystery?”
“But Gothic romance?” she asked.
“Well, why not?” He looked away. “I read those when I enjoyed terror in all its forms.”
They sat an arm’s length apart on the bench overlooking the bare garden. The baron relaxed and crossed his ankles before him. With head bent back, he closed his eyes and let the weak sun’s rays warm his face. His arm lay along the back of the wrought iron bench, his hand just behind her shoulder. It seemed as good a time as any to address their stalemate.
The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) Page 12
