A Baron in Her Bed (11 page)

Her father’s brow puckered. “Where have you been, Horatia? I sent Molly to find you ten minutes ago. As you see, we have a visitor.”

“I was out in the garden, Father, and had to tidy myself. “

“I see you’ve changed your gown,” her father said with a nod of approval.

Heat flooded her cheeks as Henrietta curtseyed. “So nice to see you again, Lord Fortescue.” Unable to risk meeting his eyes, she stared at his left ear. “I expect you find the English weather deplorable.”

He angled his head so that his gaze met hers. What she found there surprised her. Sympathy and compassion. Or was it pity? Her throat closed in horror. “Nothing about England is deplorable, Miss Cavendish,” he said. “The beauty one finds in the countryside fair takes one’s breath away.”

“Well expressed, Lord Fortescue,” her father said. “Horatia, that’s more persuasive than that poet Lord Byron you’re always quoting.”

“Oh, not so very often, surely, Father.”

“Lord Byron is a favourite, Miss Cavendish?” Guy seized on the information, and a delighted gleam entered his eyes. He was not about to let such a moment pass. “Surprising that a
roué
and a rake can produce such finely penned and passionate verse, don’t you agree?”

Horatia scowled. “I agree that his poetry is very fine.”

Knife poised, her father raised his head before buttering another slice of cake. “
Roué
? Rake? These are not words often bandied about in English drawing rooms, my lord.” He looked at her with a worried frown. “But if Byron is one of those, I forbid you to read any more of his work.”

Guy’s eyes twinkled.

She glowered back at him. “I wonder that his poetry is popular in France, my lord.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Do you mean that French poets are so sublime we tend not to read beyond our shores? We are a nation of romantics.” He put down his cup. “I recently discovered a new poem of Byron’s. Written this year, I believe.” He began to recite it, his voice lending it just the right tone of regret.

“Fare thee well!
 
and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well:

Even though unforgiving, never

‘Gains thee shall my heart rebel.”

Horatia released the breath she’d held. She had hung on every word. She wasn’t sure what she thought about him quoting Lord Byron as if he understood the meaning of every word. Coupled with the memory of his kiss, it almost made her swoon, and she desperately tried to distance herself from the emotion it stirred in her.

“Written to his wife, when his marriage ended after one year, I believe,” Guy added, helpfully bringing her back to earth.

Her father replaced his cup in its saucer with a rattle. “Modern verse!” He shook his head and climbed to his feet. “I declare, I can’t follow what you young people talk about nowadays.” He bowed. “I’ll just pop across to the library. But please finish your tea, Lord Fortescue. It was a pleasure to see you. Call on us again.”

Guy rose and bowed. “
Merci,
Colonel Cavendish. I should be delighted.”

With both doors left ajar for propriety’s sake, her father settled by the library fireside.

With a glance at her father rustling his newspaper, Guy turned to her. “Horatia,” he said in a quiet voice, edging closer to her on the sofa. “Might we be friends?”

She needed time to build some sort of resistance to his charm. “Friends don’t treat each other the way you have me,” she said in a small voice.

“I know. I am sorry.” He gave a Gallic shrug and grinned. “I could not resist.”

“You don’t look sorry.”

“You did trick me, Horatia.”

“I had no choice,” she said, watching her father intent on lighting his pipe. “I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

“But you can, don’t you see?” He gazed into her face with a gentle smile on his lips. “No one has been badly wounded by this escapade, have they?”

His words sounded so convincing, and she had to admit that the last few days had been quite extraordinary. She would allow friendship; it put the relationship on a safer plane. “You’ll tell no one of this?”

“Kiss and tell? That is not my code.”

She allowed him to take her hand and began to believe him, even though his behavior had been quite disgraceful.

He turned her hand over and pressed a kiss on her palm, which sent endless quivers of feeling along her nerves. She snatched it back. “That is not within the bounds of friendship, my lord!”

He held a finger to his lips. His dark lashes hid his expression, but she was sure his eyes danced. He was so outrageous she tamped down the urge to laugh.

“Forgive me,” he said a smile in his voice. “It won’t happen again. Unless you wish it.”

“I shall never wish it. Let us talk of something else.”

“I have discovered quite a library at Rosecroft Hall. You are more than welcome to visit and investigate it, at any time.”

“That won’t be possible. For many reasons.”

His wide mouth quirked up in a grin. “Come dressed as Simon, if you must. I shall enjoy it no end.”

She couldn’t resist returning the smile. “You are incorrigible, my lord!”

He tilted his head. “But I confess, I do prefer you in that rouge-colored gown.”

She gathered the folds in her fingers. “This hue is called rose pink, I believe.”

He laughed and shrugged. “Rouge, rose pink. Red, chestnut?”

“They are all very different.” Her tone censorious, she resisted the urge to pat her hair.

“Well, you look very pretty in it.”

“You are a compulsive flirt, my lord.” She shook her head but couldn’t prevent the small smile that hovered on her lips. “Weren’t we to speak of other things? How is my godfather today?”

Guy scowled. “He has taken to his bed.”

“Poor Eustace. He suffers terribly from gout.”

“So I believe.” He fell silent.

“I’m sure he will rally and be better company.”

“I do hope so. There is much to discuss.”

“I daresay. Years to catch up on.”

“He shows little interest in my family.”

This surprised her, for didn’t Eustace wish to validate Guy’s authenticity? “Oh? I’m sure he will when he feels better.”

He looked doubtful. “Perhaps.”

“Does Eustace plan to remain at Rosecroft Hall?” Horatia wondered if Eustace would be cast out of his home after all these years. Surely Guy would not do such a thing.

“In truth, he has enjoyed my father’s hospitality unencumbered for some years. It might be difficult to relinquish it. He has a residence in town, as I’m sure
you’re aware.”

“He has always enjoyed the time he spends at Digswell,” Horatia said. “He has many friends here.”

“Did he ever make mention of my existence?”

“No, he didn’t. Why?”

“I suppose he hoped the heir would never return to England.”

“And not take your rightful place here? What nonsense.”

He shrugged. “I might have died.”

What was Guy suggesting? She cringed at the dreadful notion and knew her upset showed on her face. “Surely, you don’t think that he…”

Guy looked down at his hands. “I’ve yet to find out what has gone on at the Hall. Until then, I prefer not to talk about it.”

Outraged at even the faintest suggestion of impropriety on her godfather’s part, Horatia rose. “Eustace is a good man, Guy. He would wish to do the right thing.”

“It is hard to know the workings of a person’s mind. We are strangers, after all. He holds no affection for me in his heart.”

“That’s very different from…” She couldn’t say the words.

He stood. “I must go. I hope I shall see you again soon.” A grin tweaked the corner of his mouth. “On horseback perhaps?”

She wrinkled her nose. “I believe this episode has put an end to my rides. Alone, anyway.”

“Then I am not sorry for it. It is very dangerous, as I have taken pains to explain to you.”

Was he just like her father underneath his bravado? Did he want a wife to merely be an adjunct to him? It hardly mattered to her. Fanny would make him an agreeable wife. Horatia followed him to the door. “You have much to do to put your estate to rights, I think.”

He pulled on his gloves. “
Oui
. A difficult but necessary enterprise.”

At the parlor window, she watched him ride away through the trees. Guy must have met the real Simon, who would have returned from the village.

She shivered and moved to the fireside. Did he really believe her godfather could be capable of such evil? Although to be fair, Guy hadn’t come right out and said it. She wound the tassel of a cushion through her fingers. It appeared that the upkeep of the Hall had declined further since she and Father had last been there. She was sure that Eustace had a good reason for the neglect; perhaps his health was a more serious issue than they knew.

She heard Simon in the kitchen in conversation with Cook and was tempted to go and ask him what he thought of Guy. He was levelheaded, and she trusted his judgment. She sighed and patted the cushion back into place. Guy had expressed the wish to marry and safeguard his heritage by producing an heir. And, rightfully, his wife would come from the upper ten thousand. She must put him out of her mind.

Chapter Eight

Several weeks passed, and, to Horatia, each day was very much like the last. Their only visitors were the widow, Mrs. Thompson, and her sister, Alice, on church business to discuss community matters. What resulted was gossip in which the baron featured large. Horatia suffered through their fulsome praise of Lord Fortescue, how he’d charmed all those who met him and how he’d offered a substantial endowment for improvements to the rectory.

Horatia wrote letters, played the piano, and read, but even Byron’s poetry failed to captivate her and her own attempts at verse were uninspired. She organized the maids in their duties about the house and took up some sewing but, after pricking her finger for the third time, threw it down in disgust.

She forked the frost-hardened soil of the vegetable patch preparing it for the coming spring. She usually enjoyed gardening but failed to this time, as she found herself furiously attacking the dirt with the garden fork as if a highwayman hid there.

Horatia made daily requests for her father to accompany her on a ride and tried to quell her temper when he refused. She hated to see The General left in his stall far too often.

Her father, perhaps tired of her low spirits, suggested an outing to the village inn for afternoon tea. He would send a servant with an invitation for Lady Kemble to join them. Horatia seized the offering eagerly, even though it meant coming under the scrutiny of Fanny’s mother. She wore her favourite moss-green wool beneath her pelisse. Although the weather remained cold, the chance of snow had lessened, although it now rained almost every day.

Once past the old mill and the rectory, the grey stone church came into view. Her father cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about Mr. Oakley.”

Her heart sank. She had hoped he would forget about Frederick Oakley. They had not seen him since Lady Kemble’s dinner party.

“He’s a good fellow, don’t you think?”

“Yes, he is.”

Her father drew the rug up farther over his knees. “He has a fine property and good income.”

“That’s true.”

He studied her. “You might sound more enthusiastic.”

“I don’t love him, Father,” she said, distracted by the image of a pair of blue eyes.

“Marriage isn’t always about love.”

“You loved Mother.”

His eyes grew sad, and she wished she hadn’t mentioned it. “Our mutual regard grew into love after we married.”

As they swayed over the road, Horatia smoothed the fur trim on her sleeve. “Father, I could never come to love Frederick Oakley. We are too different in our sensibilities.”

He sighed heavily. “He dislikes poetry?”

She gave a small laugh. “He has no sense of humor.”

“Oh, very well, then. I shall not insist, although some fathers might do so.” He gave a sorrowful shake of his head. “You are two-and-twenty; most women your age are long wed.”

“Do you not like having me at home?”

His mouth pulled down at the corners. “That is the trouble; I’m growing to like it too much.”

“Oh Father!” Filled with compassion and a sense of helplessness, she kissed his cheek.

The carriage pulled up outside the Duck and Cockerel, a wattle and daub building in the high street.

“Well, I did try, my dear. But here we are,” her father said with relief in his voice.

Horatia alighted with the hope that the conversation would rise above tedious subjects such as an effective treatment for chilblains, recipes for the vegetables in season, and, of course, when the cold weather would finally abate. She yearned to know what was happening in the world beyond Digswell.

Frederick Oakley waited for them on the footpath. He bustled forward in his lanky gait to bow over Horatia’s hand.

“Mr. Oakley,” her father said, with a pleased expression, which told Horatia he hadn’t quite given up on Frederick as a son-in-law. Had he encouraged this meeting? “Good to see you. We are about to take tea. Will you join us?”

Frederick kept hold of her hand rather too long. “I shall be delighted,” he said, smiling at her. Out of the corner of her eye, Horatia saw a tall man emerge from the general store and turned to see Guy stride towards them. She pulled her hand from Frederick’s, her eyes on Guy’s face. He raised an inquiring brow as he removed his hat.

Her father promptly issued a similar invitation to Guy, which caused an unattractive scowl to appear on Frederick’s face.

While they waited for two tables to be joined together and the seating arrangements to be organized, Guy bent his head and spoke in an undertone. “I just heard from the shopkeeper that Eustace informed him he planned to remain here permanently. Only a few weeks ago.”

“Have you discussed Eustace’s plans with him yet?”

“I have not been able to talk to him. He’s still on his sickbed.”

Alarmed, Horatia asked, “Is he very ill?”