The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) (20 page)

“There is that,” Clun said, without smiling. “You shall find the love you wish for. You deserve that and every happiness.”

“As do you,” she replied. He grimaced and she corrected herself. “Oh, how silly of me. I am to wish you good luck finding a wife you will never know and a marriage untroubled by emotions. Better?”

She turned to look out her carriage window practically opaque with city grime. Beyond the smudged glass, the London streets were enshrouded. One could barely make out the thoroughfare from the buildings in the gloom.
 

The carriage followed Park Lane down the east side of Hyde Park.
 

Neither lord nor lady could look at the other as the carriage trundled along. Elizabeth stared out her window, sad they would share nothing — not even a view of the city — during their last few minutes together.

“Mustn’t linger when we arrive,” she said aloud, assuming he was anxious to be rid of her. The carriage slowed to make the left turn into Sloane Street. She grasped the door handle to stay upright. Soon, they would circle Damogan Square and arrive at the earl’s residence and her purgatory.
 

Clun remained preoccupied, staring out his window. Elizabeth hated departures she couldn’t prevent even more than she hated being left behind. She hated most of all saying good-bye to this frustrating man. Oh, how she wished she could run and hide until he drove away!
 

Well, why not?
 

She considered this and liked the notion. It was childish, but she didn’t care. With a flick of her wrist, Elizabeth opened the carriage
 
door latch and swung out of the creeping vehicle, clinging to the door.
 

When she dropped to the ground, she cried out in pain. Excruciating pins and needles shot up her legs from her numb feet with each halting footfall. Her wretched feet had fallen asleep while wedged in one position in the carriage. Thus crippled, she stumped awkwardly away. Hampered by numbness, she couldn’t hope to evanesce like a wraith into the mist. Her escape became a plodding, lurching stumble nothing like the mysterious vanishing she’d envisioned.
 

Drat.

Behind her in the fog, Clun bellowed “Hell and damnation!” as he struggled through the narrow carriage door to chase after her. He called to his coachman to wait for his return.

She picked up her gimpy pace, hissing at each painful, tingling step, trying to run from the footfalls on the cobblestones as he gave chase. The sounds of his boot heels echoed off unseen walls and seemed to come from all directions. As she limped disoriented this way and that, he loomed out of obscurity to stand before her in the blink of an eye. She gasped and lurched away.

“Elizabeth,” he growled.

“Just go,” she bit out. Her lower extremities finally felt more like feet and less like stumps stuck full as a pomander with cloves. She darted to her right. He cut her off, arms outstretched. She dodged toward a mews entrance just to the left, and he almost caught her. Panting, she backed away from him slowly, looking right and left. He advanced as slowly as she retreated, matching her step for step, just a few yards away.

“Damn it, stop this!” he commanded. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

She stayed out of reach and darted to the right. He moved much quicker than a man his size had a right to and prevented her escape. Indeed, he seemed to anticipate her moves and place himself wherever it was most inconvenient.
 

The fog confused her, her feet slowed her and his irritating agility had finally turned her in circles so she had no idea where she was in relation to the square. In desperation, she spun and ran for all she was worth with Clun on her tingling heels.
 

He followed her a few paces behind. She had little time to ponder this, because she ran pell-mell into the wrought iron fence enclosing the side garden of her father’s imposing city residence.

“Elizabeth,” the Earl of Morefield called out from his town carriage. A footman put down the step for him and the earl unfolded himself to stand on the pavement. He was tall, gaunt and immaculately turned out in evening clothes with
chapeau bras
tucked under his arm. Wisps of soft silver gray hair curled on his close-cropped head. Sharp gray eyes were deep set under prominent, exuberantly beetled brows. He scanned her appearance up and down then looked to her right and left, his expression tight with disapproval.
 

“You look a positive fright, child,” he said and tapped his sterling-topped ebony cane on the pavement for emphasis. “Where are your gloves?”

“Father!” Elizabeth gasped, still breathless from trying to dodge around the baron who’d herded her to her own house and disappeared.

“I heard a commotion and — what in God’s name are you doing? I find you skulking about in the dark, your hair tumbling down. Where is your bonnet? Where is your maid, Elizabeth? I see nothing of you for days and when I do, you look like this!”

“I’ve endeavored to stay out of your way.”

“Yes, well, I commend you for finding your own entertainments, but I cannot approve of your going about like this. Really, daughter, you mustn’t be such a shag-rag. You’ve a dressing room full of pretty gowns, have you not?”

“Good evening, my lord,” Clun said, strolling down the pavement out of the deep gloom.
 

The earl’s head swiveled from her to Clun. “Lord Clun, good evening. My daughter was having a lark. Harmless fun.” Turning back to her, he chastised, “Whatever is Lord Clun to think? Run along, Elizabeth, off you go.” The earl enunciated each syllable to propel her up the front stairs and out of sight without argument.
 

Elizabeth did not run along. Though the earl was insensible of it, she immediately recognized Clun’s gathering temper. His brows were drawn together, eyes hard, his mouth a thin, taut line. The muscles at the corners of his jaw pulsed. She thought she heard a knuckle or two crack as well. The bottom fell out of her stomach as she stood rooted to the spot. Perhaps she shouldn’t have leapt from the carriage. His expression made her repent all her rash actions for the last month at least.
 

The earl still faced her and nodded as if to remind her she was no longer needed. And just over his shoulder loomed a dark, menacing giant. As the baron approached, she tried to catch his eye. Funny, Clun wasn’t fixing
her
with his death-to-all-before-me gaze. Rather, he was attempting to penetrate the back of her father’s skull with his most lethal look.
 

“She sent her maid ahead,” the earl said over his shoulder, “but I promise, Clun, when next you two meet, my daughter will be a pattern card of propriety. Please, don’t mind an innocent girl’s, er, foolishness.”

* * *

The earl hadn’t noticed his daughter’s absence.
 

From where he stood in the shadows, Clun saw that Elizabeth bore this shock stoically. And unbidden, Clun’s heart bled for her.

Possibly worse, the earl’s reproaches took the starch out of Elizabeth’s spine, leaving her with head bowed and shoulders bent. This infuriated Clun. The fault had been his, not hers. If he’d paid closer attention, if he’d caught her arm in time, she wouldn’t have been scuttling about Damogan Square at all.
 

Rather than listen to more of her father’s reprimands out of sight, the baron strode forward, temper rising, to end the diatribe. The earl greeted him and dismissed her, but she refused to leave.
 

When Clun glanced up at her, she shook her head slightly. Her solemn eyes beseeched him. And in that instant, he saw it all: the pain, the pride, the fortitude, the unequivocal love for her father, everything that made Lady Elizabeth Damogan so heartbreakingly perfect.
 

“Please don’t mind an innocent girl’s, er, foolishness,” Lord Morefield said.

Clun took a deep breath and bowed to her father, “I assure you, my lord, I appreciate your daughter’s unique spirit, she is perfectly delightful —” here he caught himself and added, “although our acquaintance has been brief, I am charmed, Lady Elizabeth.”

“Gracious of you, young man, I vow.” The earl glanced back at his daughter, “What, still here Elizabeth? Go inside, if you please.”
 

She accepted the earl’s dismissal meekly. Clun hated seeing her that way. Meek did not suit her any better than the Fury’s out-of-date carriage dress.
 

“Till we meet again, my lady,” Clun called out to her as she climbed the stairs to the front door. “I am ever your humblest servant,” he added, just to annoy her. She straightened up stiffly and looked down at him. He smirked for good measure. Behind her father’s back, she pulled a face before flinging herself inside. Clun chuckled.

That’s better.

Hard to believe the earl hadn’t missed her for the weeks she’d run off. Clun couldn’t imagine anyone failing to notice Elizabeth’s absence. Even now, after hardly any time elapsed, he ached. He felt it clearly, a distinct, uncomfortable hollowness in his chest.
 

By God, it was true. Hearts ache
,
damn it all.

Hard on the heels of that unwelcome realization, came another. He’d let her go — insisted on it. And she’d ripped something out of him and took it with her when she flounced away. That explained the void he felt.
 

Well, that just tears it.
 

He was a prize idiot, make no mistake. How else would one describe a man who articulated the sensible thing to do and then out of sheer, unadulterated stupidity did the opposite? Of all the wretched luck, he was not ‘fond’ of her. Not a bloody thing he could do about it. He’d have to ignore his not-fondness and carry on as he ought. At least, he promised himself, he’d never forget that de Sayre men do not figure in fairy tales. This, he knew in his bones.
 

He pondered the many evils of his present situation. He’d intentionally lost Elizabeth, and must now suffer through Christmas, New Year and possibly the Season next spring to find some milquetoast alternative to marry instead. But the bitterest pill to swallow was this: he would have to stand by while some poetry-spouting, hair-for-brains beau wooed and won his Bess.
 

Wait.
 

Not
his
Bess, he corrected himself. He’d just forfeited use of the possessive. She would never be his, and this stuck firmly in his craw.

The earl had been talking while Clun explored the far reaches of his own idiocy. He heard not a word the older man said.

“Lord Clun,” the earl repeated, “would you care for a brandy before you go on your way?”
 

He accepted, if only to postpone his departure from Elizabeth’s life.

The two men climbed the stone stairs to enter the house. The earl leaned heavily on the wrought iron banister and his walking stick.
 

“Thank you for your patience. As I was saying, Elizabeth is a good girl, impetuous perhaps, but clever and loyal, if one makes allowances for her occasional over-enthusiasm.” A liveried footman held open the door and the men entered the grand foyer. “She did not grow up with her mother’s moderating influence, I’m afraid.”
 

“It’s nothing a sound spanking won’t put to rights,” Clun enunciated as Elizabeth reached the top of the stairs to the second floor. As he’d expected, she spun around to fix him with a filthy look. He answered with a grin calculated to exasperate her. Her eyes started from her face and her cheeks flamed quite satisfactorily. Then she stuck out her tongue at him.

Ha!

“Yes, well, I never resorted to corporal punishment myself,” the earl said without enthusiasm. “I doubt it would have the desired effect.”

“Probably not, but always worth a try,” Clun said, letting her digest his comment as she eavesdropped. Clun finally admitted, “In truth, I jest, your lordship. I would never raise a hand to a woman, even if she were the most vexatious among her gender.”
 

He looked up at her and she mouthed the word “wag” before storming out of sight.

Once in the library, the earl poured two brandies and handed one to the baron. They raised their glasses.

“To your happy marriage,” the earl proposed.

“My lord,” Clun replied and brought his glass lightly against the earl’s. Clun did not correct him. Elizabeth wanted to be rid of him and would inform her father so in the next few days. After that, he would be free — not free exactly — but he would be unencumbered and again in need of suitable encumbrance.
 

One question still nagged at Clun. “Though it’s long after the fact, my lord, may I know why you thought I might suit your daughter?”

The earl leaned back in his wing chair and steepled his thin hands. He contemplated his fingertips to gather his thoughts and replied, “The Earl of Uxbridge
¹⁵
speaks highly of you.”
 

“Does he?” Clun swallowed much of his brandy in one go and let it sear his throat. Uxbridge had the Devil’s own sense of humor
¹⁶
and he could be counted on to amuse himself by sowing mischief wherever opportunity left a fallow field.
 

“I understand he will attend your nuptials.”

“Yes. He lost a wager.”

“A wager, you say?”

“With my friends.”

“What was the bet?”

“To quote Uxbridge, ‘that no female with rank, dowry and all her faculties’ would marry me. Though in my defense, others in the regiment gave me almost even odds.”

“Ah,” the earl said. “I’ve heard you cavalrymen are given to japery. Why wouldn’t such a lady wish to marry you?”

“Why indeed, my lord,” Clun murmured. Elizabeth’s voice in his head began to tick off his faults: stubbornness, high-handedness, doltishness, insensitivity, pessimism, especially pessimism, and generally being a lummox.

“My wife married me for my fortune,” the earl stated as he poured another measure of brandy for each of them.