A Baron in Her Bed (16 page)

Chapter Eleven

The door to a private house owned by Lord Bromehurst admitted Guy and John into the smoky gaming hell in search of a high stakes card game. John’s tastes differed from Guy’s, but as the Earl’s houseguest, he was happy to keep him company. He did, however, draw the line at courtesans and opera dancers. John had accepted it good-naturedly, although he hadn’t understood. After all, Guy wasn’t married yet.

They wandered the rooms lit by a hundred candles clustered on polished tables. Even more light shone down from several impressive crystal chandeliers. He and John studied the action at the tables. Ladies milled about in their evening gowns sipping champagne, while others watched the play at the hazard, loo, and faro tables.

Strains of Handel played by a small orchestra rose above the hubbub as couples strolled to and from the adjoining supper room.

A dark-haired lady approached. “You are Baron Fortescue, no?”

Guy bowed. “Forgive me, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

She gave him a flirtatious look and fluttered her fan beneath dancing dark eyes. “Countess
Forney, Lord Fortescue. My husband, Count Forney, would have words with you.” She took a card from her beaded reticule and held it out to him. “Shall we say, Wednesday at ten?”

Guy bowed. “
Merci
.”
He
ran
his
thumb
over the
engraved lettering thoughtfully then tucked the card in his pocket. He and John moved on. At the door, John placed his hand on Guy’s arm. “It would be wise not to further the friendship with either Forney or his wife.”

“Oh, why not?”

John raised a brow. “Rumors are rife that the count is mixed up in bad company.”

“I’m sure you offer good advice, John,” Guy said. “But Forney most probably wishes to meet another countryman.”

John looked back at the lovely woman who strolled about the tables in her sheer linon dress. A pink garter at her knee showed through the embroidered cloth. “Perhaps it’s his wife who is interested to see more of you.”

Guy followed John’s gaze. Countess Forney countered with a knowing smile and placed a gloved hand to her throat, drawing attention to her shockingly low décolletage. Her bodice skimmed her nipples and the rounded globes of her breasts shimmered pearly white in the candlelight.

Guy nodded to her. “Shall we move on, John?”

An inner chamber was stuffy with the smell of beeswax and the rancid sweat of excitement and fear. In this room, the players spoke little, and the air fairly crackled with expectation.

“Fortunes are won and lost quite fast,” John said in an undertone. “Large estates have changed hands.”

“What is this they play?” Guy asked.

“A dangerous game,
Vingt-et-un
. Each player tries to beat the dealer by earning twenty-one points or reaching a higher number of points without exceeding twenty-one.”

“
Oui
. It is played in France.”

“Care to join in?” John’s voice was soft, but his eyes blazed with interest.

“Not I,” Guy said. “I don’t trust luck. I prefer more conventional ways to make money.”

“Because you are a conventional man?” John asked with an amused smile.

Guy grinned. “About gambling, perhaps.” His gaze alighted on a man at the green baize table who leant forward to place his bet. The candlelight shone on his rusty hair.

Misgivings stirred Guy’s gut as he strode towards the table. “Good evening, Eustace.”

Eustace slumped in his chair, a hazy expression in his eyes. A half-glass of whiskey at his elbow, he held the cards in a loose grasp. “Guy?” Losing the hand, he threw the cards down and pushed back his chair.

“Eustace, I don’t believe you know Lord Strathairn. My lord, this is my relative, Mr. Fennimore.”

Leaning on his cane, Eustace swayed into a bow, in danger of toppling. “How d’you do?” His gaze returned to Guy. “I’m holding a dinner party Saturday next. I’d like you and Horatia to attend.”

“We shall be delighted.” Guy watched Eustace make an unsteady movement towards the door. “May I accompany you home?”

“Thank you, Guy. I’m done here.” Eustace shrugged. “Pockets to let, old fellow.”

Guy glanced at John, whose gaze still rested on the card players at the table. “Would you mind if I leave you, John?”

“Watch your back then, my friend. I believe I’ll take Mr. Fennimore’s place at the table.”

Outside, in the shadowy street, Guy looked for a hackney.

“Best we walk to the corner. Footpads wait for those with plump pockets,” Eustace mumbled. Guy offered his arm as Eustace stumbled beside him over the gravel.

They reached the lamp-lit main thoroughfare. Moments later, a hackney swung around the corner. Guy hailed it and helped Eustace inside.

“I’m pleased you are to wed Horatia.” Eustace lay back against the squabs and closed his eyes. “I’ve grown extremely fond of her over the years. She has a good deal of resolve, and I’ve hated to see her hidden away in the country the way she has been. It has been a bone of contention between her father and me.”

Eustace eased himself into a corner and began to snore.

Guy looked out the window; he stroked his tight jaw as suspicion dissolved into deep frustration.

Horatia stood on a stool as the voluble French modiste, Madame Bernard, draped and pinned materials around her while arguing with her aunt.

“Apricot, peach, primrose, salmon, and apple green will suit,” her aunt said testily after the modiste suggested eau-de-nil and tangerine.

“That bolt of silver net is very pretty,” Horatia remarked with a wistful smile when she could get a word in.

“
Non
! Frost will not suit your complexion!” Madame Bernard cried.

Aunt Emily shook her head vigorously. “Madame is quite correct! You have golden tones to your skin, Horatia.”

Horatia sighed; at least they were in accord about something. “Ouch!” She winced as one of Madame’s pins found her derrière. She stared at the ceiling. It was going to be a very long morning.

Several hours later, Horatia followed her aunt into the house. While Aunt Emily spoke to the cook about luncheon, Horatia wandered into the bookroom. On a shelf she found a small likeness of a young man’s face. He had a pleasant open countenance and light-colored hair. Her aunt came to the door. “What do you have there?”

With a sense of guilt at intruding, Horatia swung round, the likeness still in her hand. “Who is this?”

Aunt Emily took it from her and gazed at the picture fondly. “That was my betrothed, Robert Falkner. He was a naval officer. He died at sea.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Aunt.”

“I was eighteen.”

So what she’d heard was true. Horatia’s throat tightened with sorrow for her aunt.

Aunt Emily smiled mistily. “A long time ago now. I did wish…”

“What, Aunt?”

“That I’d defied convention and been with him before he went to sea. I would like to have more precious memories of him than the few I have.”

Horatia kissed her cheek, rendered silent by the sadness and regret in her aunt’s eyes.

Horatia was always glad to see Guy, but today his big, unruffled presence so soothed her soul she wanted to throw herself into his arms.

Dressed in a multi-caped greatcoat, a brown hat at a jaunty angle on his dark hair, he assisted her into Lord Strathairn’s phaeton while the young tiger climbed up behind. The two magnificent matched chestnuts snorted, impatient to be gone.

“What’s the matter?” Guy asked, after he told the horses to walk on. “You’re unusually quiet.”

Horatia opened her white parasol. She could not divulge her aunt’s secret. “Between the modiste and my aunt, I’ve been pummeled to death. They could not agree on a thing, and I shan’t have the gowns I wished for,” she complained.

Guy laughed as he skillfully executed a three-point-turn in the narrow Mayfair lane. “Never mind, Horatia. You shall have your pick of fine dresses one day.”

“I don’t know about that, but I would like to wear them while I’m young enough to enjoy them.”

“I trust an evening gown was ordered?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Eustace asked us to dine Saturday next.”

She turned to study him. “And you accepted?”

“I did.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“I thought it judicious. I want to learn more about Eustace.”

“You may even get to like him.” She gripped the handle of the parasol as excitement threaded through her. “That’s only six days. I don’t expect my gown to be ready by then.” She frowned. “I shall have to wear my old one.”

“If the dressmaker is offered an inducement, perhaps it will be ready?”

“I can’t ask that of Father. I doubt he can afford it, and he’s already been most generous.” Unusually so, she thought.

Guy’s brows met in a puzzled frown. “I understood your father to be well off. Your dowry was most generous.”

Horatia had not queried the amount, afraid she would embarrass her father. “Is it?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

She shook her head.

“I don’t see that it should be kept secret. It’s thirty thousand pounds.”

Horatia’s mouth dropped open. Poor father! It must be every penny he had in the world. A good thing perhaps that he’d never have to pay it.

“I’d be happy to pay for your gown.”

“But, Guy, I couldn’t let you.”

“And why not? As your fiancé…”

“But you aren’t. I mean, not really.”

He narrowed his eyes. “To all intents and purposes, I am.”

“How on earth could I ever pay you back?”

He gave her a quick look, his expression warm, before returning to watch the road. “How can I ever repay you for saving my life?”

There he goes again, she thought. She wasn’t sure why she found his gratitude so disconcerting. “It was nothing,
really
.”

“Well, that’s all very well for you,” he said with a grin. “But I happen to value my life.”

They joined a line of carriages and traveled down the South Carriage Drive. Horatia became engrossed in the fashionable set, the ladies in their gay spring hats and apparel. She found them returning her gaze and wished she could strike a better figure than in her old sprig muslin gown. At least her aunt had lent her a stylish Italian straw bonnet adorned with cherries and red ribbons to match her red velvet spencer.

Enjoying the fine weather, couples ambled over the grass in the park where cows grazed, and riders cantered along Rotten Row on their mounts.

“How lovely this is.” Horatia sighed.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” Guy pulled the phaeton over to the curb. He handed the reins to the tiger, told him to walk the horses, and helped her down.

Horatia took his arm, and they strolled along a path towards the river. Early spring wild spring flowers added a kaleidoscope of color to the scene, and birds fluttered about building nests among leafy branches.

They entered a small copse of beech trees where dappled sun sparkled through a filigree of leaves. “Aunt Emily has a visitor this afternoon. The poet, Mr. Wordsworth.”

“William Wordsworth? I met him in Paris; he was visiting his daughter, Caroline. He explained his interest in exploring the relationship between the human mind and nature and allowed me to read some of his poetry. ‘Tintern Abbey’ is remarkable. A deeply thoughtful poem.”

Eager to discuss poetry, Horatia said, “Yes, I thought so, and do…”

After a quick glance around, Guy drew her off the path deeper into the shadowy copse. He took her parasol and put it down.

“What are you doing?”

The rough bark dug into her back as Guy tugged at her bonnets strings. He gazed down at her with such intent her heart began to pound, loud in her ears. “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmured, and pulled off her hat. His mouth covered hers, and abandoning her demands for propriety, she kissed him back while hanging onto his coat. Sensual pleasure made her head swim when his tongue pushed into her mouth. Her body reacted in a completely foreign manner; her knees barely held her up. Their breaths quickened as he pressed against her. She felt a strong urge to lie down on the grass and pull him with her and moaned against his mouth.

Suddenly conscious of her control slipping away, Horatia pulled back. “Guy!” She pushed on his chest with the flat of her hands. “You promised.”

“I’m sorry, Horatia.” He thrust himself away from her. He removed his curly-brimmed bevor and ran a hand through his hair with a distracted look. “I didn’t intend it to go that far.” He smiled, charmingly apologetic. “It’s just that I desire you so much.”

She took a deep breath; he was so utterly disarming. “You do?”

“Why do you think I’ve arranged all this?”

“I thought it was because you were in danger.”

“I should have left you safely in Digswell.” Guy groaned. “But I wanted to get you away from that bean pole.”

“Mr. Oakley?” Horatia was stunned. “But I refused him.”

“We’d best walk.” Guy offered her his arm.

Thrilled as she was that he felt such a strong attraction to her, she reminded herself it wasn’t love. Guy had confessed to his rakish ways when he thought her to be Simon. He would never marry her, the daughter of an army man of limited means. Even her aunt had been astonished at their engagement, although Horatia found her abrupt change in attitude difficult to fathom. Aunt Emily did appear quite shrewd when she allowed herself to focus on something other than poetry.