“I have an understanding with Lord Charles Holmsbury, my lord.”
“That explains your lovely smile,” Clun replied, not at all disappointed by her disclosure.
The dancers enjoyed the rest of their dance in warm camaraderie.
“I don’t know why everyone’s terrified of you,” Lady Iphigenia vouchsafed.
“Am I not an ogre?”
“Not as much as I’d supposed,” she replied and gasped, “Oh bother! Beg pardon, my lord.”
Clun laughed, which flustered her until he added, “No need to apologize. I’ve cultivated my fearsome reputation for years. I’d be disappointed if my efforts had borne no fruit.”
She smiled up at him and said, “I think I like you, Lord Clun.”
“You flatter me, but if you tell anyone I’m tolerable, I will never forgive you.”
“I shall do my best, though I won’t remain silent if you’re maligned.”
“Thank you. No doubt, you are a fierce champion of your friends.”
“I am,” she replied, her face aglow. “And we are friends.”
“I’m flattered.”
The music ended and Clun bowed over Lady Iphigenia’s hand and grinned at her. She smiled radiantly back at him. When he escorted her back to her friends and their chaperones, all stood goggle-eyed until he turned away. Then, he heard gasps and whispers.
It was a pleasant interlude but it was past time to find his Delilah and make her dance with him again. He searched the ballroom. She’d left already for another jollification.
That left Clun no alternative but, he shuddered, the opera.
The Duke of Ainsworth had invited him to attend a performance of Mozart’s Così Fan Tutte. (Così fan tutte le belle meant ‘Thus, all women do,’ Clun snorted. How true.) Poor Ainsworth’s enceinte duchess had developed a peculiar taste for intolerable screeching set to tolerable music. Clun had declined the invitation out of hand and mocked His Grace up and down for suffering through an aural assault of that magnitude for the love of a woman.
Ah, well.
Clun would send word in the morning that he’d changed his mind and would like to join them if he was still welcome. Doubtless, the duke would be grateful, misery loving company as it does. His Grace would also enjoy serving Clun a generous portion of crow.
* * *
Despite the earl’s dire prognostics, Elizabeth knew how to handle ton rascals. Only one man tempted her to behave inappropriately and he kept his distance. In fact, the man she loved would not look her in the eye. So far, at various routs and balls, he’d been content with one dance as often as he’d demanded a second.
That very evening, Elizabeth was forced to endure the spectacle of her affianced exercising his considerable masculine charm on another friend of Lady Jane Babcock. At first, Elizabeth had hoped, perhaps cruelly, that Lady Iphigenia would not only blanch at the prospect of dancing with her baron but faint away in a heap. Instead, all those assembled witnessed a miracle in which Clun coaxed the chit out of awkward shyness and into radiant vivacity. Lady Iphigenia blushed and laughed for as long as the two danced.
Though anyone with sense could see how sadly mismatched they were, others said they made a charming picture. Clun certainly captivated the girl. He smiled at her, leaned close and teased her till she was beaming. Elizabeth knew that feeling well, for she herself had smiled as rapturously into those dark, dancing eyes.
Rather than stay for more, she allowed the Travistons to herd her to the evening’s next event.
In the Traviston carriage, Mr. Traviston stared out the coach window while Constance and Lady Petra marveled at The Scene of Wonder, that being a charming Lord Clun and a shy young lady being charmed by him. Lady Petra declared he had opened more eyes among the ton than just her own and that regardless of their betrothal, Clun’s eligibility was now a matter of general discussion. Such talk irritated Elizabeth no end.
“Quite a handsome man. Perhaps intimidating physically, though hardly the beast I was led to believe,” Lady Petra said. “Had you wanted him, Elizabeth, I’d have told you he was a fine choice.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said tightly.
“It would be best to release him soon, dear. Just not too soon. Ending it with so many of the ton in Town for Christmas would court disaster of another sort. Still, he mustn’t be kept waiting long. It’s only fair to let the man pursue a courtship with the prospect of a satisfactory outcome, don’t you think?” Lady Petra asked gently.
To this subtle reproach, Elizabeth bowed her head and nodded.
“Lizzy, if you still want to marry him, it’s not hopeless,” Constance reassured her. “Is it, Mama?”
Lady Petra said nothing.
“He cannot love me,” Elizabeth said in resignation. “He told me so point blank.”
“Cannot or will not?” Her friend asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Clun has not had a happy example to follow, my dear. Perhaps his reticence is understandable,” Lady Petra mused.
“I met Lady Clun tonight,” Elizabeth said. “What did she mean by ‘like father, like son’?”
Lady Petra reviewed some of the ton gossip while the carriage rumbled over the cobblestone streets of Mayfair to Cavendish Square and another ball.
“Oh my!” was all that Elizabeth could manage after Lady Petra concluded the infamous tale of the baron, the alienated baroness and his social ostracism. It explained the baroness’ pronouncements about de Sayre men.
“Elizabeth, you are nothing like Lady Clun. Not in any attribute or inclination. You’re her opposite for you are determined to be happy,” said Mr. Traviston out of the blue.
“Quite right, my dear,” Lady Petra said to her husband, who smiled and turned back to the window.. To Elizabeth she added, “I believe you could be the making of the man as a husband and a father. That is, if you wish to be.”
“He’s too determined to have his way, Lady Petra,” Elizabeth replied.
“He is afraid. He cannot relish that,” Lady Petra observed. “You need only decide if you want him. Think on it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Elizabeth said, unusually docile.
“Give it careful consideration, child,” Lady Petra urged, “Lord Clun has made an impression tonight and there will be any number of caps set at him if you cry off.” she patted Elizabeth’s clenched hands. “But take heart. His inclination is obvious, though he would rather you not see it.”
“Inclination? Toward whom?”
“You, child. Only you.”
* * *
Clun ended the night with Seelye and Percy in Grosvenor Square over tea and brandy with the Duke and Duchess of Ainsworth. Since the men respected Prudence a great deal, they paid her their highest compliment and included her as one of their own in conversation. This also meant mild profanities peppered their candid talk. The duke was the worst offender. He blasphemed on a regular basis, and Prudence didn’t blink or scold, which endeared her to all. (Ainsworth maintained that she could, if called upon, swear as fluently as the sailors she once treated at her apothecary shop in Bath.)
The baron listened as topics came and went, trying to keep a cork in his bottled up frustration. Finally, he leapt into a lull in the conversation to say, “Friends, I would ask you a question.”
All eyes turned to him, teacups and brandies poised in mid-air.
“My betrothal has hit a snag as you know,” Clun began. “She accuses me of being pessimistic about marriage, love, happiness, what have you.” He waited for vociferous denials from his friends. He heard silence and a small cough when the duchess cleared her throat.
“Well,” the duke said slowly, “you do tend to look on the dark side, Clun.”
“Look? Rather he lives on the dark side, in Dark Street’s deepest, unlit recess,” Seelye clarified.
Clun was less than pleased.
“It’s merely a tendency, Clun,” reassured Percy. “Not a fatal flaw.”
“You must admit, you can be b
loody gloomy,” Ainsworth said and added reflexively, “Beg pardon, love.”
Prudence nodded, poured more tea for Percy and handed it to him.
“How many times did you search a battlefield for one or all of us, assuming we’d been flayed, or shot, or lanced,” Seelye asked, “only to find us back at the tents having a shave?”
“Not after Waterloo,” Clun stated.
“Heard you combed the fields for a week,” Ainsworth said quietly. “I’ll never forget that, Clun.”
“We three of us did, Jem,” Clun said. “For all the good it did.”
“What about earlier battles,” Seelye said, returning to the point.
“Salamanca,” Percy offered and sipped his tea.
“Oh Lord, yes!” Seelye crowed. “Remember Salamanca?”
“I found Percy’s bloody helmet and his clothes drenched in blood by the river,” Clun said peevishly. “What was I supposed to think?”
“That he was washing off, you mope,” Seelye cried.
“Had you found my severed head in the helmet, you might’ve worried. I had a devil of a time getting you to put me down,” Percy chuckled.
“You were bleeding, damn it,” Clun snarled and added, “pardon me, Your Grace.”
Prudence shrugged and sipped her tea as she listened with amusement to the men.
“A messy flesh wound, nothing more. Hence my dip in the stream,” Percy answered.
“You were floating lifeless,” Clun argued.
“Face up, Clun, I was relaxing. That is, until you howled like a banshee and charged in after me. You might’ve drowned me for all your flailing and splashing.”
Prudence interjected, “I think your Elizabeth is quite perceptive.”
The duke raised a brow, “You hardly know her, Pru.”
“But I, too, am perceptive. It’s one of many abilities intelligent women possess.”
Clun opened his mouth to argue with Her Grace.
“Steady on, Clun,” Ainsworth said. “Women are an infernal nuisance, being right so often about such things. Take it like a man.”
“She expects me to change,” Clun growled and silenced the other men for a moment.
“Oh. That’s not reasonable. Not likely, anyway. You are who you are, warts and all,” came the mutters of male outrage from Percy and Seelye.
Ainsworth sat, silent.
“Well, Jem, what have you to say to that?” Clun challenged.
The duke smiled at his wife. “Perhaps you would be happier if you allowed for some optimism, Clun. Change can be for the better. And frankly, it happens like it or not when you’ve met your match.”
The unmarried men stared at the most implacable Horseman of the Apocalypse with jaws hanging on broken hinges. Prudence, Duchess of Ainsworth, blushed as she fussed with the teapot.
“God save me from the uxorious,” Clun grumbled.
Chapter 23
In which the Fury disapproves of our heroine, giving our hero at least that satisfaction.
“I fear your intended is barmy,” began Lady Clun a few days later when Clun could not avoid breakfasting at her usual hour.
“How so?”
“When I thought to offer her a bit of motherly advice,” she said, making his skin crawl, “she told me not to ‘matronize’ her. Matronize, Clun, is not a word.”
He gave a snort of laughter. “It ought to be. Then men can patronize and women can matronize. Makes perfect sense.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. One does not go around fabricating language in polite circles.”
“One must when an excellent notion lacks a satisfactory term. Oh, and Mother,” he lowered his voice to command, “don’t matronize my betrothed again, if you please.”
“Trust you to be perverse,” she huffed. “But then, you’ve always made decisions out of contrariness. You ran off to war and risked more than just your life on the battlefields. You gambled with the title, a proud and ancient lineage and my future as well as your own. Why? Out of spite for me or your father, I could never determine which. Or perhaps it was both. Even now, if you die without issue, I shall find myself beggared.”
“Hardly. Should I succumb at a time inconvenient to you, you’ll have the dower house in Ludlow and a townhouse in London for life as well as a jointure for your support,” Clun pointed out.
“Pft!” She flicked her hand in dismissal. “What sort of life would that be? Ludlow? Russell Square? Whilst some distant cousin inherits the barony and tosses me out of my castle.”
“Then one must hope I don’t take chill,” Clun concluded, as he scanned the Morning Post.
“And now this Damogan chit!” Her ladyship continued, giving full voice to her anxious years of uncertainty, “By all means stop wasting precious time. If you don’t care whom you marry, at least choose someone who will marry you and go about providing an heir in a businesslike fashion. Think of the barony and the future. Think of me.”
“Lady Elizabeth will do, Mother,” Clun stated. “Better than do.”
An unwelcome thought distracted the baron. The Fury was perfectly right. Before Elizabeth, he hadn’t given a hang whom he married. It’d been a duty to fulfill, nothing more. Now, he cared. In fact, it mattered a great deal more than it ought, given his lifelong beliefs.
He’d always taken such pride in his dispassionate good sense. Well, pride goeth before the fall. There was no denying it, he had tripped and somehow fallen. As he ruminated, he missed the rest of his mother’s screed until she brought her fork down hard on her china plate.
“I strongly suggest you reconsider this whimsical chit before it’s too late.”
Too damned late for that.
He’d already considered and reconsidered Lady Elizabeth Damogan in uncomfortably explicit detail. He also possessed the dark blue bollocks to show for his careful consideration. Beyond lustful fantasies, he also considered how passionately she expressed herself, how fearlessly she felt things and how loyal she was to those she loved, even when it caused her pain. He didn’t simply lust for her, he admired her and God knows what else.
His mind turned to more pleasant thoughts: how his condescending mother had matronized his spitfire of a fiancée and how Elizabeth had pick-axed her presumption with a delectable new word. He chuckled to himself, which rankled the Fury and added to his pleasure at the breakfast table. That is, until he recalled Elizabeth wouldn’t be betrothed to him much longer.
After she cried off, oh, how the Fury would matronize him! She’d exult in it and repeat the excuse given, for his mother would winkle the whole from the earl. Worse, she’d coo with delight while comforting him that he was lucky to be rid of her.
If only Elizabeth were in truth barmy enough to marry him. He gave it no more than a moment’s consideration, this deeply disturbing notion.
Like a splash of cold water, his mother said, “When you come to your senses, Clun, I have a more suitable match in mind for you.”
Chapter 24
In which our hero and heroine have quite a night at the opera.
On the evening of the opera performance, Clun’s neurasthenic valet Fewings dressed him with special care. He trimmed the baron’s hair again and saw his nails were properly buffed because he took rightful pride in the elegance of Lord Clun’s turnout.
The points of his lordship’s shirt collar were becoming without excess, simply what looked neat — nothing higher, pointier or more dandified. His dark green cutaway coat and buff breeches fit him to a fare-thee-well. The baron wore an ivory satin striped silk and wool waistcoat with buttons covered in the same fabric and a snowy linen cravat tied in a ridiculously exact series of subtle folds and creases that fluffed as a slight, white extrusion at his throat. Fewings proudly named his invention the Geometrical, though Clun suggested he call it ‘Mail Coach in a Ditch.’
The earnest valet bore his lordship’s witticisms with a martyr’s fortitude, but begged him not to fuss with the neckcloth. He also insisted on referring solemnly to the plain white
color of the baron’s stocks as blanc d’innocence virginale. His man’s man was less than two years in his position and from Shropshire, for God’s sake, so it mystified Clun where he’d picked up this nonsense. Indeed, it so amused Clun to hear Fewings say the phrase, he found every excuse to bring it up.
Perhaps once his valet settled in, he’d realize solemnity would not quell the baron’s puckish sense of humor, only exacerbate it. Till then, Clun couldn’t resist trying to lighten his valet’s over-serious perspective on the subject of cravats.
“What do you call this color, Fewings?” Clun asked, dipping his chin into it to give it a look (thus inspiring his valet’s little gasp of horror).
“It is blanc d’innocence virginale, my lord,” Fewings replied still ruffled.
“Looks more like neige blanc à la vestale to me,” Clun replied, waiting for his man’s reaction.
Fewings did not disappoint.
“Respectfully, I must beg leave to disagree, my lord, this is blanc d’innocence virginale. I’m not familiar with neige blanc à la vestale.”
“No? Perhaps I’m thinking of the color of Lord Seelye’s exquisite stocks. Pity, it’s a handsome shade. Possibly my favorite.”
He let poor Fewings digest this for a moment before giving up the jest and reassuring him gently, “Fewings, I’ve been a soldier for years, I wouldn’t know vestale from virginale. White is white to me. You mustn’t let my jokeative nature distract you.”
“No, my lord,” Fewings said gravely, “I do try not to.”
“I know you do and thus I redouble my efforts. Tonight, as a change, I will restrain myself so you may do your good work and I may look civilized.”
He smiled down at his valet. Fewings would not meet his eyes. Poor man took everything much too seriously, but this evening was not the time to tease him out of it. Clun wanted to look his best.
Arriving at the Theatre Royal, Clun sent his carriage back to North Audley Street. After the performance, Ainsworth would insist they end the evening at Grosvenor Square to recuperate from the caterwaul. The two men would play billiards, smoke cheroots, drink brandy and say nothing much about anything as compensation for what they’d suffered in the previous hours.
The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) Page 20
