The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) (23 page)

An ample dowry usually offset any number of disadvantages in whatever unfortunate combination they might occur. A pudgy, whey-faced asthmatic with a markedly low center of gravity, for example, still had charm when considered properly from the perspective of her £20,000 dowry. Whereas, all despaired of a pretty enough miss with a paltry £1000.
 

As a result, they were fascinated by the social singularity of Lady Elizabeth Damogan’s unmarried state three years after her come-out.

If her betrothal to Lord Clun had been public knowledge, it would have silenced the snide witticisms about over-tall Lady Elizabeth’s shortfalls, such was the prestige of Lord Clun’s lineage.
¹⁸
Instead, these harpies entertained themselves by dissecting Lady Elizabeth’s and Miss Constance Traviston’s divergent experiences in the Marriage Mart.

Everyone agreed the two ‘gels’ were fabulously dowered, lovely in face, lissome in figure and well spoken. Both dressed with quiet elegance, each to suit her own looks. It was their
differences
, declared the tabbies, that brought a charming viscount up to scratch for the Traviston chit and left Lady Elizabeth as yet unclaimed. They held forth on the causes of this discrepancy, offering a thorough exegesis of each contributing factor behind their fans.

First, catty matrons pointed out, the two were physical opposites with wildly dissimilar abilities. Constance was a petite blonde who excelled at all feminine accomplishments; Elizabeth was a brown haired Long Meg who couldn’t sing or play the pianoforte or the harp. (Here, the eye rolling began.) There were even rumors that Lady Elizabeth’s ‘instrument’ was a sailor’s hornpipe, for heaven’s sake. Furthermore, she gladly joined other instrumentalists at informal dances. To this, a matron might add with a smirk that ‘by happy chance, the hornpipe fits in a reticule so she might exhibit at every opportunity.’

Second, Constance was demure; Elizabeth was rather too straightforward and outspoken. What’s more, her independence savored of bluestocking tendencies. Constance was ethereal; Elizabeth her earthy opposite. Constance attracted men; Elizabeth challenged them. And few men, these ladies agreed, ever enjoyed being proved wrong or looked down upon. Though (titter, titter) she could hardly help looking down on most men, could she?

Third, Constance had a mother who was alive, mindful of the proprieties and very good
ton
; while the late Countess of Morefield, though very good
ton,
was all but forgotten twenty years after her passing. Furthermore, the earl’s eccentric cousin Mrs. Abeel, a widow with marked bluestocking proclivities, had raised Elizabeth and influenced her unduly.
 

Fourth, Elizabeth might have formal precedence over Constance as the Earl of Morefield’s daughter, but the origins of both families were essentially commercial. The ennoblement of one and not the other was the merest happenstance. Besides, the difference wouldn’t matter much longer. The title would be vacant upon the earl’s death, amounting to little more than a line in
Debrett’s Peerage & Baronetage
.
 

The earldom in its third creation began with Lady Elizabeth’s grandfather. When George III needed to finance a war against the rebellious American colonies, Mr. Damogan’s low-interest loans bought muskets and hired Hessians aplenty. The king elevated him to an earldom in gratitude. It was well known that George III would’ve also ennobled Constance’s grandfather, Robert Traviston, if only the king hadn’t gone off barking mad in the meantime.
¹⁹
 

Lady Elizabeth’s father, the second Earl of Morefield, was in order of preference a scholar, a nabob and a peer of the realm. He took little pleasure in the
ton,
these women observed. He was not antisocial so much as he was distractedly asocial. When he wasn’t accumulating more parcels of real estate, he was collecting English words of Anglo-Saxon origin into a dictionary for the three or four other people in the kingdom similarly enthralled. To that end, he happily holed up in his library with antique reference books for hours on end, which did Lady Elizabeth no earthly good.
 

True, he lavished on his daughter a dowry that would boggle the most avaricious mind , yet she was still unmarried. If
such
a dowry couldn’t help her, they pointed out, the earl would be of little practical assistance until he left her an obscenely rich orphan. The entailed estate in Devonshire would revert to the crown, of course. The bulk of Damogan property was his to bequeath to his only child, which made Elizabeth an heiress with few peers. Yet, she proved an impossible young woman to woo if a gentleman was of average height and normal
libido
²⁰
.

All material considerations being comparable, these matrons concluded, responsibility for Elizabeth’s difficulties must be laid at the late Mrs. Abeel’s feet. She had overindulged — if not actively encouraged — the girl’s headstrong nature.
 

As a result, no one was surprised Constance Traviston and Viscount Speare became, according to the
Observer
, “twin stars in the social firmament.” Their love developed with charmed inevitability and to universal approbation. Meanwhile, Lady Elizabeth glared down at men and was dismissed by all but craven fortune hunters as freakishly tall and dashed difficult to please.
 

Though society matrons might label her upbringing her life’s greatest misfortune, Elizabeth felt blessed to have known Mrs. Abeel, who ‘had no toleration for polite stupidities that kept an intelligent, enterprising young girl from living her dreams and seeking adventure.’ Mrs. Abeel proved that, despite the constraints of privilege, a genteel woman could have the time of her life whilst married to her beloved.
 

Most important, Mrs. Abeel loved and respected Elizabeth and taught her to love and respect herself.
 

If
 
Society considered self-respect an unfortunate character trait, Elizabeth decided, that was just too bad.
 

Chapter 20

In which a minx lets the cat out of the bag
.

D
ays passed. Clun waited for word that, with sincere regret on the Earl of Morefield’s part, Lady Elizabeth wished to end their betrothal. None came. Part of him wanted the pain over quickly, especially when gripped by irrational impulses whilst watching her dance with every benighted bachelor on this side of the English Channel. Another part of him, equally irrationally, hoped she would change her mind, hold her nose and marry him.
 

At one such social torment, the Berkeley fête, fellow Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Mr. Percy, Lord Seelye and the Duke of Ainsworth, with his new duchess, found Clun muttering
to himself.
 

“Surrounds herself with fops, peacocks and dandiprats,” the baron growled to no one in particular.

“Stop grumbling and offer Percy your congratulations,” Seelye instructed Clun as his friends gathered around him.

“Whatever for?”

“After all of his mysterious doings on the continent, Percy shall achieve nobility of the sword. He’ll be elevated to a viscountcy in his own right,” Seelye explained with an exaggerated bow to Percy.
 

“Only if the Prince Regent doesn’t think the better of it in the meantime,” Percy said with characteristic self-deprecation.

“Property?” Clun asked.

“Small estate and a London townhouse, nothing lavish, but it’s more than I deserve.”

“I detest false modesty, Percy,” Clun snapped. “About time Prinny acknowledged your post-war efforts, whatever they were.”

“You’re always so deuced vague about it. What have you been up to, Percy?” Seelye asked.

“This and that, nothing much of note,” he replied smoothly.

“And you were doing those where exactly?” Seelye pursued, trying to discomfort the unflappable Mr. Percy by probing his mysteries.

“Here and there,” he replied with a shrug. “I must say, Ainsworth, your duchess looks remarkably well.”

Seelye threw up his hands. “The man’s an enigma.”

The baron helped divert attention from Percy by asking, “Any other glad tidings of which I should be aware?” He looked directly at Prudence, Duchess of Ainsworth, who blushed and instinctively brought a hand to her belly. “Good God, Ainsworth, already?” Clun reproached the grinning duke then turned back to his duchess of a few months to warn, “Early success will only encourage him, Your Grace.”

“That is my hope, Lord Clun,” she replied with a madonna’s smile. “Have you any news you wish to share at this point, your lordship?” Lowering her voice, she added, “I understand congratulations are due for an engagement.”

“Been betrothed for ages. All very hush hush. You’re bad as Percy, Clun. Why not go on and marry the chit? Might improve your mood,” Seelye said.
 

The baron harrumphed but remained otherwise silent.
 

“He’s in foul temper because the Fury’s underfoot and circulating in the
ton,”
Seelye explained to the rest. “Might scare off the fiancée.”
 

“Then marry sooner than later,” the duchess said with an encouraging smile.

“Not likely,” Clun muttered. “My betrothed has decided against me.”

“A few more years of freedom then, lucky man,” Percy said and patted his back.
 

“She hasn’t seen fit to end our engagement either,” Clun replied.

An awkward silence ensued until Seelye and Percy sputtered. Ainsworth tried to remain solemn. His nostrils flared suspiciously and he had to clamp his lips closed. Her Grace rolled her eyes while most of the tall men around her convulsed as quietly as possible.

“Chit won’t have you and won’t let go? She’s got you by the short hairs, eh?” Seelye chortled and shook his head. “First Ainsworth, now you. Demme if this doesn’t prove there’s a curse on us Horsemen. No other explanation for why women would be so reluctant to have you two. You’re the
eligible
ones.”

“Cursed, quite,” Percy said, wiping his eyes and trying to compose himself. “Most unfortunate,” he squeezed out. “My sympathies, Clun. Truly.” He turned away to muffle his snorts in a handkerchief while Seelye and Ainsworth struggled with themselves and failed.
 

The duchess ignored them. “What will you do, Lord Clun?”
 

“Can’t do a thing,” Clun said and scowled all around. “It’s for the lady to cry off, as they well know.” A fresh barrage of sputters and spittle came from Clun’s loathsome friends.
 

“Do you wish her to?” The duchess asked gently.

“I wish whatever the lady wishes,” he said and shifted restlessly as the sniggering ninnies brought themselves back to order. “But I wish she’d make up her infernal mind.”

“You can imagine how little Clun enjoys being led around by the nose,” Seelye added, huffing to prevent another, unseemly collapse. “But by God, it’s rare entertainment.”

“Maybe she’s waiting for an appropriate moment,” Percy suggested.

“And when would that be?” Clun growled.

“When you’re deep in the forests of Shropshire far, far away,” Seelye piped up and set Percy off again.

While Clun’s friends failed to cheer him, Prudence whispered to her husband, “I don’t believe the baron wants his engagement to end.”
 

“Did he say that?” The duke murmured in her ear.

“He didn’t have to, Jem,” she replied.
 

“As always, nymph, I defer to your omniscience.” The duke brushed a surreptitious kiss on her ear.

“God only knows why she hesitates, given the opportunity to be shot of you!” Seelye teased the baron.

“The feeling is mutual,” Clun retorted.
 

From behind him came the voice that sent lightning down his spine. Elizabeth said only “Lord Clun” and his heart missed a beat.
 

Clun turned slowly and took in the gossamer hint of a gown she wore. It was the damnedest dress in all Christendom. Its color almost matched exactly the color of her skin blushing. Its bodice somehow fluffed her bosom and the rest of it flowed over her body to catch the light and allow shadow to pool between her legs as she sauntered toward him. It was the most distracting garment any female had ever worn in the entire history of mankind.
 

With his luck, he fumed, he would dream of peeling the frock from her and wake up stiff as a fence post each morning for a fortnight.
 

She dipped into a graceful curtsey.

Damnable, damnable gown.
 

* * *

Elizabeth overheard Clun’s friends tease him about being unable to extricate himself from their engagement. The only lady in the group tried unsuccessfully to quell them then whispered something to the tallest man. Elizabeth heard with mortifying clarity Clun’s last riposte. Her temper boiled over.
 

A few by-standers also overheard enough to be intrigued. They watched and waited for worse.

In her fury, Elizabeth made an impetuous decision. Rather than slip away humiliated, she stalked up to Clun and his friends.

“Lord Clun,” Elizabeth said evenly. He turned to face her and she curtseyed. At least he had the good grace to blush at his
faux pas
.

“Lady Elizabeth. Good evening.” The beef wit bowed to her finally after he quit gawking.

“Is it?” She kept her tone light, but he heard her meaning. He looked from face to face among his friends.
 

The lone woman spoke up, “Clun, would you be so kind?”

“Your Grace, Duke, may I present Lady Elizabeth Damogan, the Earl of Morefield’s daughter,” Clun began.

Elizabeth curtseyed deeply.
 

The duchess smiled warmly at her; the duke remained remote and formidable.

Clun continued, “Lady Elizabeth, may I present the Honorable George Percy and Lord Seelye.” She acknowledged with perfect propriety the leonine Mr. Percy and the slimmer, more fashionable Lord Seelye. The men bowed. Percy’s tawny gaze lingered on her bosom, fouling Elizabeth’s mood and making her more rash.