The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) (6 page)

“Did your robbers bother you last night, my lady?” Clun asked, knowing full well that if they had, he’d have shot two out of hand.

“They wouldn’t dare come on the baron’s land. And today, his men were clearing brush just beyond here. So, all’s well, Mr. Tyler. Thank you.”

“I’ve been thinking on your predicament.”

“Predicament?”
 

“That of an unwanted marriage,” he explained.

“Have you?”

“I just said I have.” He leaned very close to tease, “Are all females such goose caps?”

“You were saying,” Lady Elizabeth ground out.

Clun clasped his hands behind his back and walked a slow circle around his lady. “I think it best you return to London at once and tell your father you want nothing to do with the hoary, old baron.”

“Do you?” She replied, her head turning to follow him first to the right then from the left until he stood before her once more. “And why is this your concern?”

“How can you marry me if you’re betrothed to him?” He said this within inches of her lush lips as they formed a surprised little o.

“M-Marry me?” She stuttered. “The earl would n-never countenance it, I fear.”

“Is that so?” He grinned down at her, enjoying her discomposure.

“Until I reach my majority, I may only marry with his consent,” she said, her cheeks aflame.

“And if I could convince him of my worthiness?”

She hesitated.
 

The devil in him wanted to know if she would take him plain, not that he sought a love match. Still, he did hope she felt some degree of compatibility or perhaps even a physical inclination similar to his own for her.

“I don’t know how you could convince him, Mr. Tyler,” she bit her lip. “Lord Clun is rich and well established.”
 

He liked her regretful tone. “So the baron has some attributes you admire.”

“One must respect his noble lineage and the sound management of his estates, I suppose.”

“So my suit would be hopeless, even if he’s a toothless old macaroni?”
¹⁰
 

“No teeth?” She cried.
 

“I might’ve heard that,” Clun replied with a careless shrug. He smiled broadly, displaying his own toothy, white grin.
 

“Oh Mr. Tyler, my partridges!” Lady Elizabeth cried and rushed into the little cottage. He sauntered to the open doorway. She bent over the hearth holding a spit with two small game birds — his game birds, he suspected. The aroma made his mouth water.

“Would you care to join me?” She asked and swung her thick braid of honey brown hair out of harm’s way.
 

“I would, Lady Elizabeth. My thanks,” he said, wondering what her hair would look like unbraided. He walked into the room and stood by the table. “The baron’s?”

“No, I purchased them today in the village. I haven’t the slightest notion how one goes about shooting game birds with a dueling pistol or whether there’d be any left if a bullet struck one. Sit, please. Let’s not stand on ceremony.”

“And the glaze?”

“Black currants. There’s a thicket not far from here near the stream. I found some dried on the bush.”

This enterprising female bore no resemblance to the simpering, timid misses he met in the Marriage Mart. Here was a woman
after his own heart. He watched as she pried the birds off the spit onto a chipped stoneware plate. She put the plate down and turned it so the larger bird faced him. He sat after she did.

“Let it cool. I have just the one plate and no utensils yet.” She smiled shyly again and his heart seized for a second.
 

“I may have to risk burnt fingers.” He leaned to the plate and inhaled.
 

“No! We’ll distract ourselves until it’s safe to tuck in. Tell me about growing up here. You’re a native, I presume.”

“Born and raised just over the border in Wales.”

“I thought yesterday you had the look of a soldier. Did you fight?”

“Yes.” He studied his bird and touched a drumstick to test its heat.

“Infantry?”

“Late of the Household Cavalry, Royal Horse Guards Blue.” He gripped a small leg between thumb and forefinger and twisted it clean off with a hiss.
 

“That explains Algernon. He could be a knight’s destrier.” She dipped a finger into the mashed black currants on her bird and licked it. “Haven’t I read about special cavalrymen? I don’t much read newspapers, but what I do recall was dramatic. ‘The Horsemen of the Apocalypse broke the French line’ or ‘cut a swathe through the enemy’s infantry’ or ‘routed the flank and turned the tide of battle.’ Were they with the Blues? Was it a special regiment?”

“Lord, no. Not a regiment, just four of them. And quite informal.”

“Oh. Who were they?”

“Hardly matters now,” he said.

“I suppose you’re right. I’d be too intimidated to say a word if ever I met them.”

“Having seen you at The Sundew, I’m certain they have more to fear from you than you from them.”
 

“Such daring exploits, if one can believe the reports. They must be very brave men.”

“Newspapers exaggerate to sell copies,” he scoffed.
 

“Envious, are you?”

He snorted, “Not in the least, Lady Elizabeth.”

* * *

Mr. Tyler put the entire drumstick in his mouth. His lips pursed around it and Elizabeth imagined the taste and texture of his kiss. That thought alone should’ve scandalized her, but she was too pleasantly distracted. His lips were firm and full, especially his lower lip. And they looked soft when he wasn’t scowling at something she said. He sucked the meat from the bone with his eyes half closed and she heard a low, deep hum as he savored it. The sound skittered over her skin and left her body tingling. He pulled meat from the breast, nibbled at the well-crisped skin and licked the tart black currants. She stared, transfixed. The man’s unvarnished pleasure was so riveting that she failed to notice he balked at discussing his war. She leaned closer to watch him eat.
 

“Your family lives here?” She asked somewhat breathlessly.

“A half-brother.”
 

“Wouldn’t London be more exciting for a man who’s seen the world?”

“I’ve seen war, Lady Elizabeth, not the world. Though I enjoy London, I had to come back.”

“Why?”

He popped a final tidbit of meat into his mouth and, much to her growing discomfort, refrained from answering until he’d chewed, swallowed and licked his lips clean. Only then he told her, “I am to be married.”

“Married?” She straightened up in her seat. “Oh. I see.”
 

Nasty, teasing man.
 

“Is she a local girl?”

“You might say so, yes, but not originally,” he replied, eyes twinkling.

“Have you known her a long time?”

“Long enough to have formed an opinion.”

“Are you very much in love with her?” She asked with a nonsensical, sinking feeling.

Here, he turned serious. “No. Not at all.”
 

“Tell me you jest!”

He licked the grease from his fingers slowly as he stared at her mouth. The way he stared made her lips dry as dust.

“No, I am in earnest,” he finally said.

“Does your betrothed know how you feel?” She demanded.

At this, his eyes took on a dark, devilish glint. “If asked the same question, I have no doubt she’d say the same. Like yours, ours is an arranged marriage not a love match. She can hardly expect a man she’s met once or twice to be in love with her, now can she?”

“Poor girl.” Elizabeth shook her head in disbelief. “I had not thought such a thing still common and yet here we are the two of us facing the same dreary fate. Unlike me, you seem quite resigned to yours.”

“Not resigned, Lady Elizabeth, I welcome it. I believe I will enjoy a more peaceful, fruitful union without histrionic romantic expectations to bedevil my wife and plague my married life. Perhaps the same is possible with your baron.”

“Never, sir. I’m against the match and ever will be,” she declared and muttered to herself, “Not the least because he’s a toothless, drunken fop.”

“So if you had your druthers, you wouldn’t marry him even if the two of you might do well enough together?” Mr. Tyler asked quietly.

“I shall marry for love or not at all.” She stood up to add emphasis.
 

He stood as well. At least he had manners.
 

“The hour is late Mr. Tyler, I must bid you good evening.” Elizabeth dismissed the man, embarrassed that she allowed him to turn her head.

Picking up their plate, he walked out the door and tossed the bones far away. He returned the dish to her and bowed elegantly, “I thank you for the feast, my lady. I’ve never tasted better partridge. I must admit Lord Clun would be a lucky man, if only he could win your favor.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Tyler,” she said, meaning nothing of the sort. “Good night.”

He left her with a smile and a wink that made her even more disgusted with him.
 

She busied herself cleaning their plate with the last of the water she’d hauled up from the stream and went to toss the waste water out the door.
 

“Lady Elizabeth!” Mr. Tyler cried, leaping over the splash of water as it hit the ground. He jogged to a stop, his expression greatly alarmed, “The baron. He’s coming this way. Hurry. Out of sight.” He snatched the bucket from her, dropped it and took her hand to pull her out the door.

“But—”

“No time to explain. Come,” he said and crouched down. He glanced this way and that before taking each step. Being that he held her hand in a vice grip, she had no choice but to follow suit, bent over nearly in half. She struggled to keep up. He dragged her in this crab-like scuttle to the largest, entwined yew tree nearby and yanked her behind it. He threw an arm across her body to hold her in place.
 

Having flattened himself and her against the trunk, he hissed, “Shhh!”
 

She stood hard against the knotty tree, which stabbed and poked her back. He leaned in the other direction to look around the yew’s bole and snatched his head back. She gasped and he dared shush
her again without ceremony.
 

Lummox.
 

They waited, stock still, plastered up against the tree until Mr. Tyler peeked again, leaned forward a few more inches and relaxed.

“His lordship must’ve chosen a different path for his post-prandial walk. That was fortunate. You could hardly wish to bump into the old baron when he’s out and about, eh?”
 

Mr. Tyler lowered his restraining arm only after she cleared her throat. Twice.

“No, indeed, not in this lifetime, sir. Thank you for the warning.”

“Your servant, my lady. ” he said with a bow and raised her hand to his lips for the merest brush.
 

She shivered.
 

“I believe it’s safe to bid you good night.” He smiled at her and chuckled.

“Thank you, Mr. Tyler. You are very kind.”

“Not so kind, perhaps, but I will help you whenever I can.”

Good as his word, Mr. Tyler warned her of the baron’s being in the vicinity early the next morning.

Mr. Tyler appeared first riding at a leisurely pace over the low rise of an overgrown pasture where Elizabeth was calming a cow in order to milk her. The cow kept moving away, forcing her to scramble around to coax the beast to stand still.
 

When Mr. Tyler caught sight of her, he reined in Algernon, stood up in his stirrups to look over the rise some distance then wheeled abruptly to charge straight down hill at a gallop.

“Get down!” He ordered and waved an arm wildly at her. “On the ground. Now!”
 

The startled cow trotted away, much to Elizabeth’s chagrin. She shaded her eyes to look past Mr. Tyler.
 

Again he called out, “The baron’s out for a ride. Get down. Now!”

Elizabeth shrieked and dove face down, tucking her chipped pitcher under her arm. She could only hope the tall grass and scrub would provide sufficient cover.
 

Mr. Tyler’s horse danced in circles and he called out loudly, “Good day to you, my lord.” To her, he growled, “Don’t move, my lady.” He muttered, “I say, his lordship can’t even be bothered to say hello, eh? A mere wave of his pale, little hand.” He tsk-tsked to himself. “Got hands like an albino monkey,” Mr. Tyler drawled. “Or it’s his lace flapping in the breeze.” He reined in Algernon, sat at his ease in the saddle, still keeping his eyes pinned on some distant point. Elizabeth dared do nothing more than peek up at him. Mr. Tyler explained under his breath, “He favors great spills of lace at his cuffs. A bit old fashioned, but then, so is he.”

“Is he gone, Mr. Tyler?” She asked, growing cold and itchy where she lay sprawled on bent stalks and hard ground. The pitcher gouged her armpit, too.

He glanced down and warned, “Not quite. He can’t trot, canter or gallop, what with his chilblains and gout.”

Minutes passed while Elizabeth lay face down.

“All’s clear. He’s gone, Lady Elizabeth,” Mr. Tyler finally said. “Must say, you’ve the Devil’s own luck to have
twice
escaped his notice. I’d best be off now,” he said with a hearty laugh. “Good day!” And away he rode at a gallop.

Chapter 4

In which our hero is no longer the lord of a ring.

S
till in his shirtsleeves the next morning, Lord Clun almost tore through the lining of the watch pocket in the waistcoat he’d worn the day he met his betrothed. As one does when something too dear to lose is lost, he poked two fingers into the small pocket over and over, finding nothing the fifth time, just as he found nothing the very first. Despite his state of undress, he strode down the long hall to the staircase. He clutched the waistcoat in one hand and ran the other down the walnut banister as he descended the stairs to hail the head butler.

“Penfold, I need you!” He threw on the waistcoat as he paced up and down the first floor hallway peering into the various saloons.