The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) (14 page)

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?”

“I do.” He glared at the bit of sausage on her fork now resting uselessly on her plate.
 

“Why?” She tucked both hands in her lap and leaned toward him to await his explanation.
 

He thought about how much distance he liked to maintain from the Fury at all times — ten miles being the barest minimum, the other side of the channel in the midst of war with Imperial France being closer to ideal — but said, “Parts of the castle were built in the thirteenth century. Say, I’m famished, aren’t you? Do eat. We’ll chat later.” So much later, he prayed, as to be, well, never.

“I take it the doorways are low and stairways narrow.”
 

“Among other things, yes.” He said. “My ancestors were shorter.” He plugged his own gob with something and chewed.
 

“Whereas The Graces has high ceilings and lovely, open spaces,” she said and took up her knife and fork-with-sausage.

Clun pointed to his mouth with his empty fork to indicate ‘Can’t talk like a savage with mouth full, must wait till I’ve swallowed.’
 

He chewed slowly.
 

Surely, she’d eat something if he took his time. But no. She waited. He swallowed his thoroughly masticated cud even though it was a cheek full of dried husks by the time it went rasping down his throat. He croaked, “The Graces is in more comfortable proportions, yes. With modern conveniences.”
 

“It’s a lovely home, so happily situated and designed. Still, I’d like to visit the castle and meet your mother,” she said, finally nipping the tidbit daintily off her fork.

‘Meet your mother.’

Clun’s heart stopped. He felt his heart muscle clench like a fist in his chest as she uttered those last three words. Nor was he able to breathe. So, his lungs must’ve collapsed from the shock as well. He wondered how long it would take for the rest of his vital organs to follow suit and shut off so he could fall to the floor insensible and die in peace.
 

She sipped her tea and dabbed her lips with her linen napkin before she said, “It will be awkward, I grant you, to meet her wearing her cast-off clothes. It cannot be helped. I pray that she has a sense of humor.”

Finally, his chest eased enough for him to breathe. First, he dismissed the footmen from the room and had them close the door on their way out.

“After we wed, we may wish to travel,” he replied carefully. “Then you’ll want time to settle in here and in London and to become accustomed to married life, don’t you think? Perhaps you’ll see her sometime afterward.”
 

Looong afterward. At her wake perhaps.

“Don’t be silly. It would be better to make Lady Clun’s acquaintance soon so we may dispense with the usual formalities. Given the awkward circumstances, for which I take full responsibility,” she added magnanimously, “a formal wedding invitation is quite out of the question.”

Clun’s heart now overcompensated for its previous inactivity and pumped gallons of blood into his head, causing a dangerous throbbing pressure behind his eyes. There was no anticipating the trouble that would come of a prenuptial meeting, particularly if the Fury disliked her.
 

“I’m not convinced that’s a good idea.”
 

 
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “In what way could it be a bad idea, Clun?”

Through the pounding in his ears and the throbbing behind his eyes, he nevertheless sensed his betrothed digging in her slim little heels and panicked. Seeing her mulish expression, he renewed his effort to avert a prenuptial introduction.
 

“It would be a bad idea in innumerable ways.”
 

“Oh? Well, if you won’t, perhaps—”
 

“You mustn’t dash off to introduce yourself willy-nilly to my mother, Bess,” he commanded. He massaged his temples. If only he could kiss away her skepticism. Dread now warred with an equally alarming, far baser inclination to sweep the table clear and have at her. At least that might distract her from her current line of questioning.

“Mustn’t I?”
 

“Absolutely not. Promise me you won’t call on the baroness. You don’t know her.”

“And how will I, if we never meet?”
 

“Promise me, Bess. Please.”

She regarded him, clearly amused by his agitation. “Very well, I promise, so long as you promise to take me to the castle and introduce us yourself. Really, Clun, I can’t think why I’d offend her.”

“That is not my concern.”
 

“Then what is?”

He brushed aside her question in the same irritating manner she avoided any number of his by offering an airy “It’s a long story, Bess.” Changing the subject, he teased, “Am I to understand that you would marry me for my castle?”
 

“Perhaps I would, if I were permitted to see it.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Come,” Clun said.

 
Tyler Rodwell appeared in the doorway of the morning room and cleared his throat.

“Roddy, come in. You’ve met my lady.”

“Your servant.” Roddy bowed and smiled. She smiled back much too warmly, in Clun’s opinion. Then again, Roddy was the damned charmer in the family. Perhaps he could dissuade Elizabeth from seeking out Lady Clun.

“Lady Elizabeth wishes to see the castle and meet my mother,” the baron said evenly.
 

Much to Roddy’s credit, he didn’t flinch, gasp, whistle or grimace when he heard the news. He replied, “Unfortunately, her ladyship is not at home. The baroness has gone to visit friends or so she told her staff before leaving a few days ago.”

“What a shame,” his lordship said, careful not to crow. “All the same, I might as well take Lady Elizabeth to see the old pile today.”

“Would you like the gig or a carriage?”

“Bess?”
 

Elizabeth gave Clun a brilliant smile, “The gig. The day is fair and I would like to see more of the countryside.”
 

The baron smiled back, happy to make her happy and utterly giddy the Gorgon
¹⁴
was gone.

* * *

Elizabeth admired Clun’s skill handling the ribbons. The bay gelding harnessed between the gig’s limbers was fresh and feisty when the baron snapped the reins to send the gig smartly around the courtyard, through the Triumphal Entry and on the way to Wales. He handled the horse with finesse, giving him his head but keeping his high spirits in check.
 

Although in gloves, Lord Clun’s hands captivated her. He had very attractive, capable-looking hands. They were large and elegantly proportioned, like the rest of him, with long, strong fingers. The pronounced, well-rounded muscularity at the base of his thumbs and the heels of his palms resembled the rest of the man. More unnerving, she knew how those hands felt when he guided her, or lifted her or let them rest on her waist. She liked his hands, especially when they handled her.

She sat pressed against him, there being precious little room left for her on the seat. Tucked at his side, she was happy to share his warmth. The day was fair with few clouds. Roddy predicted rain by nightfall, given the dank chill in the air, so it would be a brief visit.
 

Wind teased at her borrowed bonnet. It was a simple chip straw affair with a gingham ribbon that lent it dash when tied beneath her chin just so. The wind also tossed the ends of Clun’s simply-tied neckcloth and tousled his over-long black hair beneath the low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat he wore.
 

They traveled on a road that climbed gradually to a low rise. From this vantage point, she saw green, undulating fields traversed by a long, sinuous grassy mound. The embankment stretched north to south as far as the eye could see.
 

They passed through it at a low notch. Along the west side of the ancient earthwork ran a deep depression, which made it taller on that side.

“What an odd ditch that was.”
 

“It’s part of Offa’s Dyke.”
 

“King Offa of Mercia?”

“Had the thing dug and piled up along his border to keep the Welsh out. Most of my de Sayre ancestors married Welsh nobility.”

“So here you are anyway,” she teased.

“Yes, it took us, what,” he paused to calculate, “five centuries, but we’ve had the last laugh on old King Offa.”
 

“Hard to imagine anyone thinking a ditch and berm could keep your people out.”

“Recall we were shorter then,” he smiled at her, “and the embankment taller.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Just so,” he chuckled. They exchanged smiles.

“Have you a Welsh name?”

“I answer to Gwilym, also Guillaume in French and William,” he replied. “Which will you use?”

“Hmm, I prefer William.”

“And you, my lady?”

“You’ve already made free with my name and taken further liberties giving me a pet name.”

“Would you rather I give you another, say, Eliza, Betsy or Beth?”
 

“Call me Bess when you are happy with me,” she said and peeped at him beyond the brim of her bonnet. “Elizabeth when vexed and ‘my lady’ will do when you’re in a teasing mood.”

“Very well,” he said, “my lady.”
 

Chapter 11

In which our heroine is enchanted by a giant in a castle.

T
ime flew by as they teased and flirted on their way west. Before Elizabeth knew it, Lord Clun urged the bay on a long uphill grade toward a crenelated castle that crowned an imposing ridge. They approached from the northeast where the castle’s walls rose above a sheer rock face that defied all comers. The road circled around this daunting medieval façade, past the largest tower to make a final ascent into the castle’s landscaped grounds facing the south.
 

This prospect captivated Elizabeth. The castle’s foundation stood above a series of terraced flower gardens with sculpted yews marching downhill. Birds sang and flitted while the season’s last butterflies winked with bright flashes of color in the air.
 

“Oh my.”

The baron leaned forward to peek around her bonnet as she gazed right and left in delight. He examined her so closely it unsettled her. She never imagined he simply enjoyed watching her eyes dance with pleasure.

* * *

Clun followed the road to the castle’s formal entrance, a deep-set, Norman doorway with concentric arches sculpted from a single, massive slab of stone incised with zigzag patterns. Only the most prosperous in the thirteenth century could afford such craftsmanship. And Carreg Castle made abundantly clear that de Sayres had prospered from the start.
 

To Clun, it merely reminded him to duck under the lowest archways or risk cracking his forehead.

He tied off the horse’s leads and leapt from the gig to help Elizabeth disembark. He grasped her waist, plucked her up without effort and gently returned her to earth flustered. Clun waited while she fluffed and straightened her crumpled gown. And he looked forward to crumpling her again on their return.
 

A footman trotted out to greet his lordship. “Lady Clun is not at home, my lord,” he said. “Shall I fetch ap Rhys?”