The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) (16 page)

“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 learn 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.
 

“Clun, I simply cannot credit that you have no wish for a loving marriage,” she said quietly. “How can that be?”
 

He sighed, sat up again and scraped the blowing hair back off his forehead. “Bess,” was all he said in a long-suffering tone. “I will not promise you the fairy tale romance you expect. I’m bound to disappoint you. Evidently, it’s hereditary.”

“Why in God’s name must you be so pessimistic?”

“Not pessimistic, realistic. And if you cannot accept me as I am, do not expect me to change to suit you. And do not pretend you can love where you will always find fault.”

“Does expecting the worst make you happy, Lord Clun?”

“I expect what is possible and that cannot make me miserable, Lady Elizabeth. That is the blessed point.”

“Won’t you even try?” She asked around the lump in her throat.
 

“Only to fail?” Clun glanced at her and said, “No. I won’t.”
 

His finality stunned her. For a moment, he looked as miserable as she felt. He turned away to stare fixedly at the bare, thorny rose canes.
 

“Then, much as it disappoints me, I must end our betrothal.” She tried to read his expression. His profile revealed nothing.

“Very well, Lady Elizabeth,” he replied, “We leave at first light for London tomorrow.” Still polite, he stood up quietly, bowed, excused himself and left her.
 

It was over.

* * *

“Much as it
disappoints
me,” she’d said. Better to disappoint her now than later when nothing could be done about it.
 

Clun left Elizabeth on the terrace without a backward glance. He was determined to escape before she dissolved into tears. For that’s what women did when disappointed. They wept. They whimpered to win arguments. They bawled their dissatisfaction till you wished yourself deaf or them mute. His mother was not the only female in his acquaintance to resort to tears, but she was the subtlest practitioner he’d met so far. Tears were a woman’s weapon of choice because they disarmed and wounded simultaneously.
 

Morbid curiosity almost kept Clun on the terrace to compare Elizabeth’s lachrymose collapse to the reigning mistress of romantic martyrdom. Instead, he decided to give her some privacy. Or rather, to deprive her of an audience.