The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) (10 page)

“Right. Say I hunt up another female and, for argument’s sake, let’s pretend my hair fails to terrify her and my elusive smile somehow charms her. What then? One day, the scales will fall from her eyes. She will realize the truth about me and make us both suffer for her disillusionment. No, my lady, I’d rather take my chances with you.”

“Even with your scowls and foul temper, you’re quite a catch, Lord Clun.”

“So says my betrothed who ran away and hid rather than meet me.”
 

“I must point out that I didn’t run away after I met you. So you see, it’s not that I took exception to you, per se. It’s that I didn’t want to marry a stranger.”

“Why didn’t you speak up before now?”

“I thought it obvious to my father that I wouldn’t wish to marry a man I’d never met.”

“Given his arrangements, it’s more obvious your father thought it best that you marry a man who hadn’t met you.” Clun scraped a hand down his face. “And having met you, I must agree.”

“By that, you mean I’m a termagant, a harpy, a harridan. Have I forgotten any?”

“Minx.”

“Fine, and a minx.”
 

“She-devil.”
 

“That’s quite enough, Clun,” she chuckled despite herself.
 

“Vixen,” he said with quite a few more to suggest. “Troublesome baggage—”

 
“It would serve you right if I did marry you,” she sniffed.

“Wouldn’t it just!” He said with growing exasperation. “But fortunately for me, you’ve run off and hidden God-knows-where to avoid marrying me and your poor father can’t possibly find you.” He roared so loudly a startled woodcock burst from the meadow grass ahead and pelted away. “I’ve a mind to write to the earl immediately and demand he produce my bride-to-be.”

“You wouldn’t.” She shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge.

“It would serve you right if I did,” he replied, mirroring her narrowed eyes and forward thrust chin with his own.

“I forbid it,” she said.

“I would and will.” Clun spun on his heels and strode away.
 

“Say, don’t go off and do something you’ll regret, Lord Clun,” she called after him.
 

“Regret, hmphf!” He snorted at her over his shoulder and stomped off.
 

She gave chase. “Don’t leave in a snit.”

“A snit?” He stopped abruptly. “A snit, you say, little Miss Poaching-Termagant-Bane-of-Robbers-and-Thieves. I will leave in a snit if I wish to. A snit,” he hissed, his black eyes drilling into her. Though he snorted like an enraged bull, she didn’t step away. He admired her for this grudgingly.

“Heavens, you’re fractious. You must be hungry.”
 

He blinked at this unexpected salvo.
 

“Would you like something to eat while we argue?” Lady Elizabeth tucked her hand back into the crook of his arm. They had strolled no more than a few hundred yards.

“I am not fractious, you are infuriating,” he replied as she tugged him back toward the cottage. “Poach any more of my partridges?”

“No, and as I told you, I traded for those, Clun. Today, I baked scones, but they’re getting cold while you fly into a pucker.”

“Fly into a
what did you say
?” He cried. “Wait. Scones?”

“Just baked.”

“Don’t think I’m forgetting my annoyance.”

“I understand. It’s a temporary suspension of hostilities, nothing more.”

“Yes.”

“I accept your terms. Come while they’re still warm.”

With a shock, he realized Lady Elizabeth had spiked his guns with fresh-baked pastry. And she’d done it so adroitly that he wouldn’t have noticed at all had she managed to school her features.
 

Smug puss.
 

Still, he felt no lingering animosity. In truth, he felt quite the opposite.

“Is that how you manage your father?” Clun inquired to let her know he was aware of her ploy.

For an instant, he saw her expression cloud over. “No. I don’t manage the earl. I would’ve thought our betrothal made that plain.”

They walked together in silence back to the little cottage. Inside, she brought mugs and the chipped pitcher to the table and motioned for him to be seated.
 

“Milk?” He asked and poured some into each mug.

“I milked one of your cows while she pastured,” she grinned. She placed a plate piled high with warm scones down before him. He sat down after she did.

“You milked a cow?”

“She wasn’t keen at first. I succeeded eventually.”
 

Her cool dignity aroused all kinds of mischief in him. “So you’d prefer to be a gypsy dairymaid than my baroness?”
 

“Might I remind you, we are enjoying scones during a suspension of hostilities.”
 

“Merely curious.” He drank his milk in a gulp.
 

“I understand. More milk?” She offered equably without answering him.
 

Hoyden.

Clun enjoyed her scones. He enjoyed even more watching her eat a scone. She broke it into small bites and dipped each in her mug before popping it between rosy bee-stung lips. The silence lengthened.
 

He let out a sigh, almost a groan, and asked, “What is it you wish to know about me?”

“Are you poxy from all your warring and whoring on the continent?”

He choked and sputtered, “What?”

 
She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing further, bite of scone poised over her mug ready for dipping.
 

“No,” he replied, badly ruffled. “I am not.”

“How can you be certain?” She popped the morsel into her mouth.
 

“I won’t tell you until we’re married.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair when she licked her finger.

“I won’t marry you until you tell me.”

“Ah well, we’ve reached an impasse and you’re welcome to cry off.”
 

“I won’t cry off either.”

“Who’s being peevish now?” He muttered between savage bites of another scone.

“Any children born on the wrong side of the blanket?”

“What lady asks such a thing?” Clun exclaimed.
 

She waited.
 

He growled, “There are ways to prevent it.”

“Such as?” Her face was a picture of innocent inquiry as she popped another bite of scone between her lips. The tip of her tongue licked at a crumb at the corner of her mouth. She blinked several times as if waiting for a matter-of-fact answer to her outrageously inappropriate question. Worse was the effect her little kitten tongue was having on his peace of mind.
 

“Won’t you take my word for it?” He sighed and stretched his neck to right and left till it cracked. “It’s not something I wish to discuss with my betrothed.”
 

“Yet you’d be willing to discuss it with your wife? That’s nonsense, Clun. I’m just curious.”
 

He stared at her, with lips clamped shut and the corners of his clenched jaw popping out of their sockets.
 

“Glare all you want, my lord, I’m not the least intimidated.”

He groaned deeply and scraped both hands slowly down his face.
 

“French letters, you minx,” he ground out. “But I will not satisfy your curiosity further.”

“Mrs. Abeel always said ‘warring and whoring rhyme for a reason.’”
 

“Did she? And has this oracle anything else to say about men?”

“Well, no. She passed away two years ago. She used to say ‘even a fine gent can be poxy as a doxy,’” she added, quite matter-of-factly.
 

In contrast, Clun was shocked. And oddly relieved. Lady Elizabeth Damogan was not a female with easily overset sensibilities. She brought up questions no other well-bred lady would and stood her ground till answered. He was proving far more missish than she.
 

* * *

As they ate, Lord Clun choked on his scone several times. Odder still, he looked wary of becoming acquainted. Elizabeth wanted to reassure him and set the example by revealing a little about herself.
 

“I’m told I resemble my late mother.”

“When did you lose her?”

“She died in childbirth. I nearly died, too, apparently. I love to read. The earl taught me how when I was little. I saw less of him as I grew up. Mrs. Abeel said I was the image of my mother. Perhaps it was too much for him to bear, he loved her very much, you see.”

“Your father never remarried?”

“No. I had a nurse until he invited Mrs. Abeel to be my governess and ultimately my chaperone. She was father’s cousin, a naval captain’s widow left in difficult circumstances. Mrs. Abeel taught me deportment, manners and accomplishments — I can paint watercolors and embroider well enough. And bake. I’m not supposed to — you don’t mind, do you?” Elizabeth held a piece of scone up.
 

He shook his head, his mouth full.
 

“I cannot sing or play anything more complicated than the hornpipe.”

He choked and swallowed quickly. “A hornpipe? No.”

“Quite well and don’t look at me that way. It is an instrument,” she said, a bit defensively.
 

He laughed.
 

“Mrs. Abeel taught me to behave like a lady, but think for myself. She was a much freer thinker than the earl realized. I could ask her anything. If she didn’t know the answer, off we’d go to Hookham’s subscription library in Bond Street or to Bloomsbury and the universal museum in Montague House.”
¹²
 

“Sounds like a carefree childhood.”

“No. Not carefree,” she said. “From an early age, I loved looking at books. I would hide away in the earl’s library when he wasn’t at home. My favorites were the dictionaries, Dr. Johnson’s and more exotic ones, a dusty old tome about Norman French for one. I spent hours on end reading them. I also admit to enjoying novels as well.”

He stared at her in silence till she, too, fell silent.

“Have other women in your family died giving birth?” He asked quietly.

“None that I know of, why?”

“I was a large baby.”

“I imagine you were,” she said with a chuckle. His tense look and sudden pallor gave her pause. She cast about for a way to reassure him and yet avoid indelicacy. “I won’t die, er, doing as God intended, I assure you.”

“You can promise that, can you?”

“I suppose I can’t guarantee it. You must console yourself that if I do die, you may choose a bride more to your liking in the next go-round.”

“There is that,” he grumbled, but his troubled eyes robbed his words of any levity. Women did die in childbirth, as Elizabeth knew only too well.

“William Tyler de Sayre I am a strong, healthy woman.” She discarded delicacy to state, “I will not expire giving birth to your babies. I may wish you dead. That’s common among women in labor, or so Mrs. Abeel told me. You needn’t fret or fuss about it prematurely. I cannot credit that a battle-hardened soldier should be so squeamish.”
 

“You’re resigned to our marriage then?”

“Perhaps. Do stop glowering at me.”
 

“I wasn’t.”

“You were!” And he was, she thought. He looked gray, grim and glower-y.
 

“I was watching you,” he protested.

“It’s of no consequence.” She dipped her scone slowly and changed the subject. “What would you expect of me, if I became your wife?”

His eyes were flat, his tone neutral, “After producing an heir, we wouldn’t have to have much to do with each other, if that was your wish.”
 

“That would seem a bad bargain for both of us,” she cried. “What of affection? What of love? Do you imagine I will give up all hope for it in marriage?”

He swallowed hard. “We can hope, I suppose.”
 

“You don’t sound optimistic about the possibility. Why not expect it? Demand it? Why would you settle for so little, Lord Clun?”
 

“And why must you expect so much? It’s just fairy dust and moonbeams,” he snapped. “What is the point of this discussion? Either you will marry me or you won’t.” He closed his eyes. “I would prefer that you do, however, I won’t demand it. If you wish to cry off, Lady Elizabeth, our betrothal will end as quickly and discreetly as it began. I will not sue for breech of promise, but I’ll see you home without delay. If you marry me, I will do my best to make you content. Failing that, I promise not make you miserable, if I can help it. Otherwise, there’s nothing to add. But I vow, if you won’t have me, that will be the end of it,” Clun concluded. “Let the earl sort you out, I say.”

“I believe enduring love is the only sound foundation for marriage,” Elizabeth said.

“By Jove, what claptrap! Love can turn to contempt in the blink of an eye. And when it sours, believe me, only bitterness and misery remain. Such disappointment spoils all other affection. Whereas mature, reasonable expectations cannot be disappointed, my lady, because they can be fulfilled.”

“I will not marry without love, my lord.”

“Nor will I pretend to love in order to marry,” he growled in reply. “I won’t spout drivel to stoke your overheated fantasies. If we can rub along, that is enough for me. In return, I will honor you, provide for you and protect you.”
 

“My father loved my mother deeply, devotedly. He loves her to this day. That is perfect, enduring love.”
 

“I cannot promise you perfection.”
 

“It’s not impossible to love with devotion. Swans mate for life. Why can’t I?”

“Perhaps because you’re not a waterfowl with a brain the size of an acorn. You have the option to act as a rational creature and accept that there is no such thing as perfect love in reality.”

“I won’t settle for less.”

“By all means, don’t
settle
, Lady Elizabeth,” Clun spat out and rudely stood to leave. “Don’t settle for me. Hold out for a poet. Or more appealing poultry for all I care. In the meantime, do not presume to lecture me about the proper basis for marriage, as if you knew better than I.”