A Baron in Her Bed (7 page)

With a sinking heart, Horatia spied her father’s carriage standing in front of the house. She rode straight to the stables where Simon rushed out to greet her. “We’ve been very worried, Miss Horatia.” He helped her down. “The storm was so wild we couldn’t look for you until this morning. Joseph and I went out at dawn; we’ve just got back.”

Horatia felt a stab of remorse. “I’m so sorry, Simon. Please thank Joseph. As you see The General and I are safe and sound. I had to spend the night in the old Fortescue hunting lodge when the weather turned nasty. How long has my father been home?”

“His carriage has just arrived. I’m so relieved you’re here. I was wracking my brains for a way to tell him.”

“Before you tend to the carriage horses, could you see to The General, please? He is very hungry.”

“At once, Miss Horatia.” He led the horse away.

At the relief on Simon’s face, prickles of shame climbed Horatia’s neck. She ran through the kitchen garden. Entering by the back door, she flew up the servants’ stairs and arrived at her bedchamber to hear her father’s voice in the hall below.

“Are you there, Horatia? Where is that girl? Doesn’t she wish to greet her father?”

Horatia rushed into her room and threw off the offending clothes, tucking them back into their hiding place in the clothespress. She glanced at her bed, which not been slept in. Sally would say nothing to give her away. Hastily buttoning her morning gown, she left the room. She hurried down the corridor, hearing her father’s purposeful tread on the stairs.

“Why does no one know where my daughter is? I have news.
Horatia
?”

She met him on the landing. “Here I am, Father. What’s amiss? Did you have a good trip?”

“My trip was satisfactory. I’ve been home for fifteen minutes. Why did you not come to greet me? Have you been in your chamber all morning?” He sat his pince-nez on his nose to study her. Through them, his magnified grey eyes looked suspicious. “And I smell wood smoke! Have you had your fire lit again? I don’t like that unhealthy bloom in your cheeks.”

“I was reading.”

“Reading? I hope it’s not that fellow Byron’s poetry again. I’ve heard distressing rumors...oh well, never mind that. Why don’t you read Pope? Now’s there’s a poet. But I digress. We have been invited to dinner this Saturday evening!”

“How nice, Father, where?”

“Lady Kemble.” He beamed and tucked his thumbs into the plaid waistcoat that strained over his stomach. “I’m sure you’re as pleased as I am. She always puts on a magnificent dinner.”

“Yes, she does.”

He held up a finger. “Wait until I tell you all. Lady Kemble plans to invite Lord Fortescue to attend. The sixth baron, that is. At long last, he’s arriving from France to set his estates to rights.”

Horatia chewed her bottom lip. “I see.”

He rubbed his hands. “She plans to kill the fatted calf in his honour.”

She followed him down the stairs. “I’m not sure if I’ll be well enough by Saturday. I think I must be coming down with a cold; my head aches.”

“What? But you always wish for more society! Of course you have a headache, reading all morning in that over-heated chamber of yours. Come and have a cup of tea. I’ll tell Mrs. Bentwood to make you a tisane.”

Short of being on her deathbed, Horatia realized her father would not take no for an answer. She sighed and followed him into the breakfast room.

“Wear that gown the color of a new penny, which suits your lovely hair, just like your mother’s,” he added in a wistful tone. He eyed her askance. “I’m not sure I like the way you’re wearing it today.”

Horatia put her hand to her hair. Drat. She’d forgotten she’d dragged it back to wear under the hat. It must look like a fright. “It was an experiment, Father, a new style in a magazine.”

“Hmm. Don’t care for it. Well, there’s naught that can take away from your looks, Horatia, but you should embellish them, my dear.” He put his hand to the fringe of greying hair that clustered around his ears. “A few curls, you know, the way women do.”

“Very well, Father. I’ll tell Sally to arrange it like that.” Horatia settled at the table. She buttered a piece of toast and forced it down with a sip of tea, almost choking at the thought of meeting the baron again, but she had to admit the prospect was exciting. He was by far the most fascinating man she’d ever met, although, by his own admission, he had certainly been a rake like his father. He intended to find a suitable wife, but would that put an end to his rakish ways?

He might break other women’s hearts, but he would not break hers. She had the advantage of being forewarned.

Chapter Five

Even though Horatia hoped Saturday would never come, it finally did. Her stomach churned every time she thought of the evening ahead.

In the afternoon, Fanny Kemble arrived in her carriage and hurried up the steps in her fur-trimmed blue pelisse and bonnet, her hands thrust into a fur muff.

Horatia rushed to greet her. She drew her into the parlor. “Fanny, how nice. I’ll ring for tea.”

“I had to promise to be home by four; otherwise, Mother would not have let me come. But to tell you the news,” Fanny said. “We had a visit yesterday from Lord Fortescue.”

Horatia’s stomach turned another revolution. “How did you find him?” She had never told Fanny about riding The General, aware that she would think her mad. And she thought it wise not to mention it now. Dear Fanny couldn’t always be relied on to keep a secret. Not that she would deliberately hurt a living soul, but her inherently honest nature made it impossible to keep things to herself.

Horatia envied Fanny for being one of those domesticated women who would be content to discuss menus with the cook and immerse herself in the running of her household. She couldn’t wait to find a husband and since her emergence from the schoolroom had gazed at every single male under five and thirty with that aim. Fanny’s Aunt Caroline was to chaperone her for the London season, which was only weeks away.

“Oh, Horatia, the baron is so handsome.” Fanny clasped her hands at her breast. “And so charming. What is it about the French accent? It makes even the most prosaic words quite romantic! The whole village talks of nothing but the prosperity his return will bring to the area. He told us of his plans to improve the house and grounds. I thought Rosecroft Hall was in need of refurbishment when last there.” She trilled with laughter. “Mama is beside herself!”

“He sounds interesting,” Horatia said.

“Interesting? Is that all you can say? Dear Horatia, if you won’t take your nose out of a book, I declare you’ll end up a spinster. And you are far too pretty for that.”

“I don’t have a particular wish to wed,” Horatia said. “Husbands have such power over their wives. As a single woman I may inherit, buy, sell, and own my own property. If I marry, I lose my independence.”

“Oh, pooh.” Fanny crinkled her pert nose. “No woman would pass up someone like the baron for spinsterhood. And why would you want to worry about all that when a husband takes care of it for you?”

“And become devoted to the idle graces? Married to a nobleman, my life would consist of visits to the dressmaker, card playing, and formal visits. Not like my grandmother who lived a useful life and managed my grandfather’s estate after he died. Why, today, noblemen even have a way to prevent women having children once they have their heir and a spare.”

Fanny’s eyes widened. “My goodness, Horatia. You put me to the blush. Where do you learn these things?”

“I heard it discussed in India. On a hot night, after a long protracted dinner, all manner of things were considered.”

Fanny giggled. “Your poetry won’t warm you at night. But I’m sure the baron would.”

“He was born in France. Not all the villagers will put out the welcome mat for him.” Horatia knew she sounded like a mean-spirited old spinster. What was wrong with her?

“He is an English nobleman by birth. And Mama has learned on good authority that, although property was seized in France by the government, he is still quite wealthy.”

“I suppose he will be of benefit to the village,” Horatia said grudgingly.

“Oh my, you are like a bear with a sore head today. What has happened?” Fanny didn’t wait for a reply before rushing on. “What are you wearing tonight? I have the most exquisite new gown. It has been made especially for my come-out, but Mama told me to wear it.”

“Father wants me to wear the bronze with the figured lace.”

“What? That old thing? Buttoned up to your chin? Finish your tea and let’s go up to your chamber. You must have something better.”

“If I had something better, I would wear it.” Horatia wished her father’s economizing didn’t extend to her wardrobe.

“We have hours to spare. Come on, let’s see.”

In the bedchamber, Fanny pulled out all Horatia’s dresses and threw them on the bed. None were particularly alluring. There hadn’t been much call for glamour in this quiet place, but Horatia had a sudden urge for it.

“All right, it’s the russet silk,” Fanny said with a moue of distaste. “We might lower the neckline. Do you have any spare lace?”

“I do as it happens; it was brought home from India. I’ll fetch my sewing box.”

Several hours later, Horatia tried the gown on again. Fanny had cut the neckline into a deep scoop and edged it with a border of fine old lace that Horatia had been keeping for a special occasion. What better occasion than now? There was enough lace left to embellish the hem, shortened to give a glimpse of the ankle. Fanny was an enthusiastic seamstress but had little chance to enjoy it for her mother had all her gowns made.

“You are the best of friends, Fanny.” She gave her friend a hug. She gazed in the mirror, and her hand fluttered over her chest. “But it is barely decent. Perhaps I should add a tucker.”

Fanny gasped. “You know they aren’t worn in the evening. Why, Mrs. Braithwaite at the lending library might wear one, but she’s close to seventy and no doubt feels in need of it, but a young woman in the prime of life, like you, should not.” She took the scissors and cut a thread. “The neckline is perfect. You have very good skin, Horatia. And it’s quite modest, really.”

That evening, Horatia took an unconscionable amount of time with her appearance, and when she came downstairs, her father remarked on how well she looked.

“That gown complements your fine brown eyes, my dear. Was it always so . . .?” He waved a hand across his chest. He shrugged. “Perhaps a shawl? We wouldn’t want you to catch a cold. Those curls frame your face so becomingly. I’m pleased you took my advice.”

More ringlets clustered about Horatia’s ears than she cared for, preferring smooth braids. Aware that Fanny would hate it, she had added a little black net to cover the crown of her head, like a dowager in mourning, in the faint hope it might disguise more of her appearance. The low neckline of the gown afforded her figure some womanly curves, and she trusted she now bore no resemblance whatsoever to the groom with whom Lord Fortescue had spent the night. At this thought, she bit her bottom lip in dismay. What a fool she’d been! If their night together were discovered, the ramifications would spread far wider than she had considered. She decided the baron would be too distracted by Fanny’s loveliness to notice her, but it failed to provide her any comfort.

The carriage passed through the gates at Kemble Court and approached the symmetrical building of stucco brick. It pulled up in front of the porch. Two solid pillars flanked the front door. The property was situated farther from the town than Malforth Manor and enjoyed a much larger park. However, it was nowhere near as imposing as the magnificent Rosecroft Hall. Lady Kemble had mentioned on more than one occasion that, although smaller, her property was much better laid out with very little wasted space. Horatia thought her a fearful snob, and it was fortunate that such an attitude had not rubbed off on Fanny.

A footman helped Horatia down from the carriage. She eased her tight shoulders, sure that an awkward and disconcerting evening awaited her.

Horatia entered the hall on her father’s arm. She deposited her evening mantle in the maid’s arms. Her hands trembled as she smoothed the skirts of her gown and waited while a footman took her father’s evening cloak.

Lady Kemble’s husband had gained his knighthood for services in the navy shortly before his death. His widow stood waiting, eager to present her special guest. “So rarely are we honored with a visitor of this stature in our part of the country,” she gushed. Lord Fortescue stood beside her, handsome in dark evening clothes of exquisite tailoring, his linens white against his dark skin. “And such a prepossessing personage,” Lady Kemble added with a flirtatious glance in his direction. She introduced Horatia’s father to the baron. Her glance alighted on Horatia, and her features took on a disgruntled expression. “Miss Cavendish, permit me to introduce you to Lord Fortescue.”

Horatia forced her knees into a curtsy after taking note of the small bruise on his forehead and the cut, which was healing well.