The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) (28 page)

“Clun!” She stamped her foot, which made them jiggle hypnotically. “A gentleman does not stare fixedly at a lady’s bosom.”

“And a lady doesn’t mention her body parts to a man,” he retorted. “It only draws his attention to them.”
 

“You were staring at them long before I mentioned them.”
 

However right she was, he was loath to admit it.
 

“I’m fairly certain I wasn’t,” he snapped. His eyes had already fallen once again to delve into her décolletage. “I hadn’t noticed it…them…Not really, not until you stamped about and set them in motion.”

“Stop it!” she hissed with another emphatic stamp of her foot. There was a voluptuous bounce where he mustn’t stare but he could not help himself.

He clapped a hand over his eyes and muttered, “Have you never heard of a fichu, woman?”
 

“With an evening dress? Don’t be silly.”
 

Peeking through his fingers, he watched her smooth the long, evening glove above her elbow. Crossing her arm over her chest in that way only served to plump the contents of her bodice as she worked the glove higher. She had no idea how glorious a sight she was.
 

“This is hardly as daring as some you’ll see here tonight,” she said and started adjusting the other glove.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said. It was the God’s honest truth. He had not noticed any other female’s frock, no matter how plunging. He’d only noticed hers. And it riveted his attention. “I shall endeavor not to look at you,” he bit out, “if you would be so kind as to stop that.”
 

“Stop what, Clun?” She asked him softly. She looked genuinely puzzled. “If I make you so uncomfortable, I’ll go back.”

“Not uncomfortable.” He let his hand drop to his side to watch her leave and she turned back to dip into a low curtsey. She paused. He knew his mouth hung open in slack-jawed appreciation because her grin grew into a wide smile.
 

“Good evening, my lord,” she said.
 

Helplessly, he took in the heaps of soft, silken flesh and growled, “You torture me, Bess.”

“Don’t be a gudgeon. I’m just taking proper leave.” She straightened up to her full height. “It’s your turn to bow, Clun.”

“God help me,” he groaned audibly and bowed, “You are a minx and I am an idiot.”
 

Where, oh where, was an icy Shropshire stream when one needed it?
 

Clun turned on his heel and marched a few steps away trying to ignore her gravitational pull.
 

Damned provocative gown.
 

He was tempted to look just once over his shoulder and assure himself that she had re-entered her father’s box. He cast a glance behind. She stood watching him and her bosom rose with each inhale.
 

How could she expect any mortal man to walk away?

Before he could think another thought, he strode back and pulled her into an unlit alcove opposite the box. He yanked the curtains closed and framed her face with his hands.
 

“Say no, push me away,” he prayed. He felt her still. Hesitating for a heartbeat, he brushed her lips softly with his own, once, twice, thrice, with no more pressure than the brush of eyelashes.

Her arms stole about him and held him close. Before he kissed her in earnest, he cracked his eyes to steal a look at her and, to his dismay, found her looking back at him. With a grunt, he pulled away. There was no mistaking it. She was watching him.
 

“It’s customary to close one’s eyes, Bess,” he told her.

“Must I?” She licked her lips as if to savor his slight kisses.

“Why wouldn’t you? Makes a man dashed uncomfortable, staring that way.”

“Are you so shy?”
 

“Apparently.”

“But I want to remember this kiss forever,” she sighed.

“I will do what I can to make the sensations memorable.”

“But —”
 

“Shh, if I fail the first time, I’ll repeat myself until the impression’s indelible.”

“And if you succeed, what then? Who am I to marry if not you? Mr. Wilder perhaps?”

“No.”

“He is amusing.”

“No.”

“And dances well.”

“A dancing clown is not husband material, Bess. Even I would be better for you than that verminous fribble.”

She smiled up at him and said, “If you say so,” and pulled him tighter.

He cradled her head in his hands and tipped her face up to his. Ever so slowly, he descended to bring their mouths into perfect alignment. She went nearly cross-eyed as he closed the distance slowly. He stopped just above her lips, looked her in the eye and waited.

“Oh! Forgive me, I forgot.” She squeezed her eyes closed and they chuckled together. Her warm, sweet breath huffed lightly against his face.
 

“It’s just a kiss,” he whispered over her mouth.

“No, Clun, it’s our first kiss,” she corrected, keeping her eyes tightly closed.
 

He brushed his lips slowly, softly, across hers, and tasted her with the tip of his tongue. He brushed a firmer kiss on her smile.
 

Her sigh undid him. And with that, he crushed her to him and took her mouth passionately. His heart raced as she kissed him back, taking her own pleasure with an answering passion. The relief he felt frightened him. Terrified him, actually. He kissed her again and again, delving deeper with each.
She seemed to melt in his arms. Blood surged from his head and chest to his lower belly. He kissed her longer, pressing much too close, devouring the sweet taste of her soft lips, sucking her lower lip delicately between his own. His hand stole over her breast bound within her stays. A little gasp escaped her when he stroked a finger along the edge of her bodice across her bare skin. He dipped into her décolletage and felt her tremble. Finally, he relented so they could take a few panting breaths.

“Oh, Clun. You’re right,” she sighed with her head tilted back. “That was unforgettable.”
 

The box door opened and the sounds of warbled screeches flooded into the quiet hallway. He peeked between the curtains and watched Wilder skulk away.
 

“You’ve been gone too long, Bess. Time to return.”

“Must I?”
 

“Yes, you must,” he said and wished he could answer differently. He peeked again between the curtains. When the hall cleared, Clun led her to the door of her father’s box and bowed over her hand. She looked flushed and distracted, but somewhat short of scandalously abused. He pressed one last, warm kiss to the bare skin at the nape of her neck.
 

“I’m sorry,” he said, now ashamed of his shocking lapse in conduct. “That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No,” she said sadly. “If you say so, I suppose not.”

He couldn’t read her expression and she said nothing more before slipping into the box.

He walked briskly in the hallway for ten minutes to force blood back to his other extremities before returning to the Ainsworth box. Once inside, he bowed to the bemused duchess and seated himself without a word.
 

Without waiting for him to ask, Prudence offered him her lorgnette and this advice: “I take it you had words with her just now. You mustn’t discompose her so.”

“She looks discomposed, does she?” He whispered back. It was a relief to know he wasn’t the only one knocked top over tail by their first kiss.
 

The duchess regarded him and patted his arm, “Be gentle with her, my lord. You Horsemen have no idea how overwhelming you can be when courting.”

“I am not courting Lady Elizabeth. We are betrothed.”

“Nor did the duke court me. It was more in the nature of a full, frontal assault. I wish you’d understand such tactics overset the most sensible among my gender. You’d do well to moderate your pursuit.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Clun replied, knowing Ainsworth would flay him alive if he argued with her in her delicate condition.
 

“Would you like to know what you’ve missed, Clun?” The duchess asked.

“No, Your Grace. Ainsworth may tell me later,” Clun leaned forward to eye the duke and muttered, “if he wishes to torture me.” The men grimaced at each other and slumped lower in their seats till the last notes of the finale faded.

Chapter 25
 

In which a terror becomes all the rage.

R
e-evaluation of Clun’s off-putting demeanor occurred almost overnight. His welcome — a somewhat smothering embrace to the
ton’s
bosom — came hard on the heels of this revision of opinion.
Ton
mamas endorsed this re-evaluation enthusiastically because Lord Clun’s ancient lineage, estates and annual income were enough to make haughty matrons and parvenus salivate alike.
 

For his part, the baron became a reluctant social fixture at the festivities Advent ushered in and Twelfth Night would conclude mercifully after New Year. His primary object was to keep Elizabeth safe from rakes, fortune hunters and scoundrels. And to claim his waltzes at each opportunity.

To his utter amazement, he found his halfhearted efforts reassured the previously timid misses populating Society’s seasonal celebrations. News of his betrothal and Lady Iphigenia’s endorsement whetted other young ladies’ curiosity. It was herd mentality at work. Because one in their cohort considered Clun eligible enough to wed, and another insisted he was a charming dance partner, the rest questioned their first, terrified impression and took a closer look. Now, none of them suffered fainting spells or claimed extreme fatigue when he approached to request a dance. The vast majority hung on his lips and giggled appreciatively at his every muttering. Even when he glowered or grew irascible, they smiled, knowing it was merely a gruff façade. Beneath it, beat the heart of a sweet, grumpy man in need of feminine indulgence.
 

Almost nothing about his social rehabilitation annoyed the baron as much as seventeen- and eighteen-year-old females matronizing him one after another about his ‘silly, cranky freaks.’ Though sorely tried, he kept his irritation in check. They meant well, he reminded himself, and he must simply bear up and take it like a man. On those occasions when he could no longer stand it, he kept his snarling to a mild-tempered minimum.
They
were not the reason he so often found himself in a foul mood.

At social functions now, he partnered any number of willing young ladies and found it generally tolerable. Dancing with his little friend Lady Iphigenia was even pleasant. Elizabeth, however, stayed away. Or rather, she remained the glowing sun amidst the planetary orbiting of her coxcombs, varmints and pestilential toad-eaters.
 

Rather than vie with lesser men for her attention, Clun kept his distance.
 

Kissing her at the opera had been a grave, tactical error. Even at the time, he knew he shouldn’t have done it, not simply for her sake, but for his own. Now, he understood why. For try as he might, he couldn’t put kissing her out of mind. Elizabeth gave every indication she had forgotten all about it, her protestations in the alcove notwithstanding. She looked perfectly satisfied with her servile claque. Every so often, he caught her eye across the room. Her expression looked a touch grim, or was that merely wishful thinking?

Clun was not the only one to notice coolness between the betrothed couple. Rumors of their alienation soon circulated. Speculating about impediments to their marriage became a popular pastime among gossips and ambitious mamas with hopes of their own. White’s wager book listed ever more entries betting for and against the nuptials of Lord C. and Lady E. ever taking place.

Lord Seelye told Clun he’d put money on the betrothal coming to fruition out of loyalty and an earnest desire to win a few quid.
 

“Mustn’t bet, Seelye,” Clun advised. “She’s bound to cry off. You’ll lose your shirt. That is, if you still have one to wager.”

“I have faith in you, Clun. Always have had, because I am a born optimist.”

“And thus a fool. It’s hopeless.” Stating this as fact made it painfully real for Clun, as he stood with his friend in the card room at the Coulthard party.

“Such a gloomy creature,” Seelye drawled. “How futile can it be? She herself revealed your engagement.”

“It’s hopeless because the outcome depends on a female with a whim of steel, Seelye. She requires a romantic idiot of a man and I am not that idiot, I assure you, nor can I ever be.”

“If she’d wanted to cry off, wouldn’t she have done so without making the arrangement public?”

“Oh no, not Elizabeth. She enjoys greater popularity now that she’s unavailable. There’s not a blessed thing I can do about it.” The more he said, the more unhappy Clun made himself.

His friend stared at him for an uncomfortably long time without saying a word. Finally, Seelye broke his silence, “Time for me to fetch my gun.”

“What?”

“When we were in Bath, I distinctly recall your instructing me to shoot you and put you out of your misery if you — and I quote here – ever took such a pratfall.
²¹
If I’m not much mistaken, you’ve fallen, my friend, and you’re miserable.”

Clun scowled at him as Seelye pat-pat-patted him on the back as a child’s nurse might.

“It’s time, Clun. I do so hate to see you suffer.”
 

Clun shrugged off his friend’s condescending pats. “Go to the devil, Seelye.”

“No doubt I shall but as a feckless bachelor, Clun, mark my words.”
 

Though the baron looked daggers at his friend, he could not shut the man up. On and on Seelye chirped about Clun being in love with Lady Elizabeth. Had he been wrong, his taunts would have rankled his lordship far less.
 

* * *

In London’s fashionable shopping districts, frost decorated windows and light snow flurries danced in the air. Bright, gas-lit shop windows illuminated crowds of smiling, laughing passers by. Everyone, it seemed, was caught up in the season’s excitement. Yet despite the atmospherics before Christmas, there was no hiding the impasse between ‘Lord C. and Lady E.’