The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) (24 page)

“I assume Clun has mentioned we are engaged,” Elizabeth said with a dry laugh, as she slipped to the baron’s side and curled her hand around his arm. She drove her fingernails into his bicep till he winced. “I hope you’ll wish us luck,” she concluded with a challenging smirk up at him.

“I certainly do,” Percy said smoothly. “Best wishes, my lady. Sincerest congratulations, Clun.”

Seelye said what was proper, muttering afterward about the chit needing more than luck under his breath.
 

“Every happiness, Lady Elizabeth,” Prudence drew her away from Clun to kiss her cheek and whispered, “Men can be such clods, but Clun is dear, as you must know.”

While the unhappy couple collected best wishes from Clun’s circle, word spread. Lady Elizabeth was betrothed. The lady herself announced it. The ballroom buzzed with the news: Lord Clun had won the plushest prize of recent Seasons.
 

Most of Elizabeth’s beaux had known their chances with her were almost nil so they accepted the news philosophically. Only one suitor was put out by her disclosure, but he was badly put out indeed.

* * *

Stunned by her indiscretion, Clun stood rooted to the spot. He couldn’t very well contradict her. Nor could he make sense of this development. He prided himself on the thoroughness of his mental preparation for calamity. By anticipating the very worst that could happen, he always had an appropriate response for any eventuality. In this instance, even he hadn’t foreseen this disaster. Was it a fit of pique or had she changed her mind?
 

Elizabeth certainly didn’t appear particularly calm. Her nails nearly drew blood and she looked daggers at him, which made her disclosure even more confounding. He wasn’t the husband she wanted and she intended to cry off as a result.
That
made sense. Announcing their doomed betrothal to a ballroom full of
ton
tattlers did not. She was playing too damned deep for him to fathom. This left him feeling uncharacteristically off-balance. And ever so slightly pleased.

The emotion was, of course, short lived.

Clun knew one thing for an absolute certainty: Lord Morefield’s worst fear was about to be realized. Betrothed was not yet married. And every scheming fortune hunter would now draw a bead on Lady Elizabeth and her dowry. They would seek to snag her by hook or by crook before a wedding put her safely out of reach.
 

She’d done this to herself — without his doing anything — and still she glared up at
him
as if it were his fault.

And if that wasn’t bewildering enough, his stupid heart kept thumping maybe-maybe-maybe.
 

Chapter 21

In which our hero is afflicted with popularity.

C
lun enjoyed immersing himself in the
haute ton
almost as much as a cat enjoyed a sudsy dunk in a hip bath. Nevertheless, as Lady Elizabeth Damogan’s betrothed, he was inundated with invitations that he accepted. Clun found himself attending countless social functions not because he wanted to, but because he must. Had he been honest with himself, he would’ve acknowledged that he went to these hellish, frothy affairs to see Elizabeth and to flick off any nits that pestered her. Instead, he told himself he must know the lay of the land to find a tolerable substitute once she flicked him off.

Whenever their paths crossed, Elizabeth remained aloof. She allowed Clun one set, though they could’ve danced a second without raising any eyebrows. To his chagrin, one was not enough. Nor did being denied sit well. His pretense of indifference was hard enough to maintain while he endured countless insipid affairs just to claim his one dance and to insist it be a waltz.
 

Finally taxed beyond all endurance, he started demanding a second merely for appearance’s sake, or so he growled at her, “Wouldn’t do for a lady’s betrothed to ignore her for all but one dance.”

She smiled demurely and allowed it.

The Duke of Bath’s November birthday ball for his youngest sister Lady Jane was a crush. Lord Seelye found the baron brooding in the shelter of a sprawling potted palm against the ballroom’s far wall after his first dance with Elizabeth.
 

The unseasonably mild evening encouraged the crowd to overflow onto the terrace through several pairs of tall French doors.
 

“God awful,” Clun greeted Seelye while a frond tickled his neck and made him twitch. “Where’s Percy?”

“Hallo to you, too! Percy’ll show up later or not, man of mystery, et cetera. Enjoying yourself, Clun?”

The baron swatted at the frond again. “Don’t be a chucklehead.”

Seelye reached up and broke off the irritating frond. “Tsk-tsk-tsk, why all the glowering? No one’s forced you to attend, has she?” He tickled the baron with the frond till Clun snatched it away from him and threw it into the palm’s pot.

“What is Wilder doing?” Clun demanded. Seelye peered around through his quizzing-glass till he found the subject of Clun’s grim scrutiny.

“It appears he is dancing with the fiancée you don’t wish to marry.”

“I didn’t say that. And he doesn’t know that,” Clun growled. “Nothing but a fortune hunter, that one.

“He needs to marry well, as many of us must,” Seelye acknowledged tartly, “Who can blame the man for trying to obtain a tolerable female in the bargain?”

Clun curled his lip and remained watchful.

“The only other dowry as rich as hers is Lady Jane Babcock’s. No one’s up to snuff for the infamous ‘Ice Maiden,’” Seelye ground out.

Clun said, “He’s a scoundrel.”

“Wilder’s no worse than any of others who’ve danced with her tonight. The belle of the ball, she is. Lady Jane’s taken quite a pet,” his lordship sniggered. “After all, she’s been eclipsed by your Damogan chit at her own ball.”
 

Clun corrected Seelye, “Not mine.”

“Right.” Seelye paid him no mind but continued to gloat, “I do so love seeing Lady Jane in a pet, don’t you?”

“Not particularly, you’ve developed a particular aversion to her.”

“Have I?”

“So I gather. Why not make her misery complete and dance with her? I’m busy.”

“I think I shall,” Seelye said. “You’re a crustier crab than usual, Clun.”
 

“I have a great deal on my mind.”

“You have one thing on your mind and she’s got you by the short and curlies.”
 

Clun watched his friend saunter off, swinging his quizzing glass, to claim a dance with Lady Jane.
 

He knew it was none of his business if Elizabeth wanted half of London dangling after her, but so long as she was his betrothed, by Jove, he’d see that every last man behaved himself. He grew alarmed when the not-at-all Hon. Henry Wilder maneuvered her through an open door and out into the darkness.
 

Without being aware of it, Clun found himself standing outside the nearest door. Across the terrace, he spotted Elizabeth arm in arm with Wilder, who was leading her to the stairs that led down to the torch-lit garden. It was full of tall hedges and dark nooks ideal for assignations.
 

“Lady Elizabeth,” Clun spoke her name in a low voice.

She stopped and turned to face him, a flush stole up her neck to redden her cheeks.
 

“Lord Clun,” Wilder said with a false smile pasted on his face. He was a blonde, flash sort of fellow, dressed in vivid color like a fop on the strut in Hyde Park. Clun saw no more reason to tolerate the man now than he had at High Wycombe.
 

“Wilder, have you exhausted Lady Elizabeth with your dancing?” Clun inquired quietly.

Wilder’s eyes glittered as he replied, “So it would seem. I thought merely to—”

“Clun, really,” Elizabeth said, “I wanted some air.”

“Then I will be happy to provide it,” he said and skewered Wilder with a look pointed enough to draw blood.

“I had no idea you have a monopoly on fresh air, my lord,” Wilder said with hollow bravado. “No wonder you’re so well situated.”

Clun stared the man out of countenance.
 

“Your betrothed wishes a word, I take it,” Wilder said to her. “Lady Elizabeth, as always, your servant.” He bowed over her hand and left, skirting around Clun.

“Was that necessary?” She snapped. “You’ve humiliated me with that ridiculous display.”

“No. I have saved you from scandal,” he lectured. “He’s a louse of the first order. Never, I repeat, never go skipping off into the moonlight with a loose screw like Wilder unless you wish to marry him. Or you wish him dead.”

“I only wanted some air.”

“And he only wanted your dowry.”
 

“Oh, I see.” She turned away and said nothing more.

Too late, Clun realized he’d hurt her feelings.
 

Rather than let the waterworks start where she might be seen or heard, he placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her down the stairs into the shadows of the garden. They walked together some distance in silence.

“I didn’t mean to imply—” he said eventually.

“—that a man could only find my fortune appealing?” she faced him and finished in a breathy whisper.
 

He stopped. She wasn’t crying, which was a relief. But she watched him much too closely, which unnerved him.

“I didn’t mean to generalize,” he said. “To be clear, Wilder only wants your money. A worthy man wouldn’t give a snap about your dowry. He’d know how fortunate he was to be with you. That dandiprat Wilder is unworthy.”
 

The sounds of the ball filtered out into the garden. She moved closer.
 

“Now Bess, hold there!” He retreated further as she pursued with slow, hip-swinging steps. The devilish look in her eyes made his mind stutter.

“I would ask you this, my lord,” she murmured. “If you don’t wish to marry me why snarl like a dog in a manger to keep others away?”
 

Her lower lip, the one he often dreamt of nibbling, caught Clun’s eye. It looked edible. Again, she advanced and he retreated. This was his first tactical error.

He cleared his throat, “Wilder’s a scoundrel. Trust me on this.”

“Trust you?” She asked, taking one last step forward. He stumbled up against a large tree.

“For your sake, yes,” he said. Tree bark dug into his back.

“How considerate of you, Clun. I am deeply touched,” she said softly. Her fingers touched her chest just where her bodice ended and her creamy, full breasts met. “Why have you steered me all the way out here? We’re quite alone.”

“I meant to keep your crying private,” Clun explained. He glanced right and left. They were alone in the dark.
 

“Am I crying?” She whispered.
 

He bent closer to hear her and looked into her eyes. This was his second tactical error.
 

“Ahhh, no. I thought you might. I hurt you, I saw it.”
 

“I knew you meant to protect me and I appreciate it, Clun. I find your gallantry endearing, if at times a little bruising.”
 

She closed the distance between them. Clun looked down in alarm. Her breasts were nearly brushing his chest. Her pale skin glowed in the moonlight.
 

He babbled, “Until you bring our betrothal to an end, I’ll presume only to keep louts at bay.”
 

She touched his forearm lightly. “You still wish me to cry off?”

No! No, no, no!
His heart pounded in answer, but he said nothing. She smelled so delicate. Sweet and fresh.
 

“What in God’s name am I to do with you?” Clun groaned and glanced down at her, imagining what he would like to do, all the unspeakably carnal things he longed to do to her, with her, for her. He tried to pry his slavering mind off the subject of her pleasure; it was too happily engaged to oblige. What’s more, his body was in wholehearted agreement, so he faced full mental and corporeal mutiny. This happened more often than he cared to consider in her company. And it was damned inconvenient.

Nor could he defuse the situation. Strive as he might to ignore her beauty, he still suffered the ache in his loins he’d come to associate with her. Wherever he looked, he found greater torment. He couldn’t glance at her shoulder for it led to the long, silken column of her neck, which drew his attention lower to her breasts. Avoiding her shoulder, neck and breasts, his gaze rested on her nose, which was unbearably pert, then slid to her cheek, which was far too soft to contemplate, and finally in exhaustion, he eyed her lips.
 

With that, he’d flung himself from the frying pan into the fire. Every benighted syllable her full, teasing lips let fall only heated his aching man parts to a hotter sizzle. Then, to add to his discomfort, she licked her lips. Even if he
shut
his eyes, the scent of her sun-ripened sweetness drugged him.
 

Well, what was he supposed to do?

* * *

Clun was confused, Elizabeth could see that. His actions contradicted all his ill-tempered grumblings put together. And when he started growling about having a second dance, she’d wisely withheld comment even as her heart took wing.
 

After their first waltz at Lady Jane’s birthday ball, she’d danced a country set with Mr. Wilder and wished to take the air after the rigors of the reel. He escorted her from the ballroom to the terrace outside. Whereupon Clun emerged looking murderous, scowled, growled and chased Mr. Wilder away.
 

It was a primitive male display that called up an equally primitive response in her. After he led her into the garden,
she followed Constance’s advice instinctively. Whisper, wait and see.
 

At first, he retreated from her, looking stone-faced. When she whispered, he did lean closer. He looked her over, perused her carefully, with dark, restless eyes. So she tilted her head up to wait, just as Constance suggested. He blinked. His Adam’s apple bobbed. She inhaled his clean, masculine scent and sighed. Well, it was more of a low moan that escaped her. She couldn’t help it. Even in London, he smelled perfectly right somehow.