Читать книгу Beauty and the Baron - Deborah Hale, Deborah Hale - Страница 6

Northamptonshire, England, 1818

“Who shut the curtains on such a lovely day?” Angela Lacewood darted into the drawing room at Netherstowe, her bonnet pulled back off her head and a pair of thick gloves in one hand. “It’s like a tomb in here!”

She’d been working out in the garden, basking in the lavish sunshine of late May when the butler had summoned her to receive an unexpected visitor. Why anyone would be paying a call at Netherstowe when the family was traveling abroad, Angela could not guess. Nor did she much care, to be truthful.

She would deal with them as quickly as possible, then reclaim her privacy.

As she crossed the darkened room to open the curtains, her eyes not yet accustomed to the dimness of indoors, a deep masculine voice reached out of the shadows, like a foot to trip her up.

“Leave the curtains be! I shut them and I wish them kept that way until I go.”

Startled by the brusque order, Angela dropped her gloves and took a stumbling step too near her aunt’s favorite footstool. Her foot caught on the low hurdle and she pitched to the floor.

Or would have done, had not a powerful pair of arms unfolded out of the darkness to catch her.

“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The voice clearly belonged to the same person as the arms, for it wafted into her left ear from so intimate a distance it might almost have been a kiss. But could that voice—smooth, rich and beguiling—be the same gruff one that had frightened her into a humiliating stumble?

Perhaps they did have one thing in common, after all, she decided. Both made her heart flutter and her breath hasten…for quite different reasons.

“W-who are you, sir, and why have you come to Netherstowe?” The questions had scarcely tumbled from her lips when Angela guessed the answer to the first. Her pulse raced faster still, though from fright…or something else, she could not be certain.

The visitor set her on her feet again, but not before she felt the moist caress of his breath against her bare throat. For an instant she sensed a hint of reluctance to let her go. Or was it her own reluctance to break from her first time being held in a man’s arms?

Even if that man were the devil himself.

“Lord Lucius Daventry, Miss Lacewood.” He executed a stiff bow over her hand. “At your service.”

Not the devil perhaps, but as close as she was likely to encounter deep in the sleepy countryside of Northamptonshire. Even so isolated from London society, Angela knew her guest had been dubbed “Lord Lucifer” by wags of the ton. Lately, the village folk had begun to use that name—though never in his lordship’s hearing.

“I beg pardon for startling you, and for taking liberties with your domestic arrangements.” He gestured toward the window. “My eye is sensitive to bright light.”

Could that be the reason he seldom ventured abroad by day? Gossip ascribed far more sinister motives to his lordship’s nocturnal habits.

Her own vision had adjusted to the room’s dimness enough for Angela to make out the sharp shadow of a curious demimask that gave Lucius Daventry a diabolical appearance to match his reputation. A large patch of black leather concealed half of his upper face, from cheekbone to temple, with a narrow slit to expose his left eye.

Was it only his eye that could no longer abide the light? she wondered. Or was it his pride as well? Before Waterloo, his lordship had been hailed as the handsomest beau in Britain. Though she’d had little experience on which to base a comparison, Angela had thought that reputation scarcely did him justice.

“To what do I owe the honor of your call, sir? Lord and Lady Bulwick and my cousins departed a fortnight ago for their tour of the Continent. I do not expect them back for some months.”

Hard as she tried to purge the sweet ring of satisfaction from her voice, Angela could not. Weeks and weeks of lovely spring and summer with the whole house to herself and nobody to criticize or patronize her. That was as near heaven as she was apt to get for some years.

“And my brother is away at school,” she added as a hasty afterthought.

Usually Miles was foremost in her mind, but today she’d consciously turned her thoughts in other directions. It did no good to fret about her brother’s future when she had no means to help him.

Lord Daventry shook his head. “It is you I’ve come to see, Miss Lacewood.”

“Me? Whatever for?” Too late Angela tried to bottle up her unmannerly question by pressing her fingers to her lips. Really, though, she’d asked the man his business twice, already. And twice he had failed to enlighten her.

Nor did he this time.

“May we sit?” he asked, instead.

“Of course.” As Angela sank onto her aunt’s favorite chair, her tardy manners caught up with her. “Would you care for some refreshment, my lord? You must excuse me for being such a poor hostess. I’ve never had company of my own to entertain before.”

“Nothing, thank you.” His lordship chose a seat some distance from her, and more deeply in shadow. “This is not exactly a social call.”

The man was beginning to vex her. First interrupting her jolly afternoon in the garden, then giving her a fright, and finally stirring up all kinds of bewildering feelings she had no desire to experience.

“If not a social call, then, what exactly is it, sir?”

Aunt Hester would have had a fit of the vapors to hear her addressing a gentleman of wealth and title in such a tone, but Lord Daventry did not lose his cool aplomb.

Angela wondered if he ever did.

“All in good time, Miss Lacewood, if you will be so patient as to indulge me. For my grandfather’s sake,” he added, in a tone that betrayed more emotion than he had shown since ordering her to keep the curtains closed.

“Your grandfather?” Angela surged up from her seat. “Is something the matter with the earl?”

Her guest motioned for her to resume her seat. “The two of you have become great friends these past few years, have you not?”

Did the man ever answer a direct question when one was put to him? Angela wondered. Perhaps she should demonstrate how to accomplish such a feat.

“I cannot answer for your grandfather, but I am fonder of him than of anyone…except my brother.”

The dear Earl of Welland had a knack for making her feel clever and graceful and capable—all the things Angela had given up hoping she would ever be.

“Be assured, Miss Lacewood, my grandfather also holds you in the highest regard. It was good of you to visit him so often while I was…absent.”

On the Continent, serving under the revered Duke of Wellington. Was Lord Daventry aware how much she knew of his service in the cavalry? All his letters she’d read aloud to the earl, marveling at the adventures of which he’d made light with wry, self-deprecating wit.

“I did hate the thought of him over there in that big house,” she said, “with no company but the servants.”

“My grandfather is rather a pet project of yours, is he not? I gather you have a number of other such persons in the parish.”

Though her caller did not raise his ripe, resonant voice or sharpen his tone, Angela felt a subtle sting in his remark. Did he imagine she’d implied some criticism of him for putting his service to king and country ahead of filial duty to the grandfather who had raised him?

“There are others besides your grandfather in need of a little cheer, sir, which I do my best to provide since I have not the means to dispense more practical comforts.” How often Angela had regretted that lack. “Loneliness takes no account of rank or wealth.” Against her inclination, her tone sharpened. “But if by project you mean to suggest I condescend to my friends or think well of myself for what little service I do them, I hope you are mistaken.”

Why was she bothering to justify her motives to this arrogant man? Her penchant for nurturing what Aunt Hester called “Angela’s strays” had long been considered a joke by the family. Even she did not fully understand what compelled her to care about people for whom no one else spared a thought.

Could it be because so few thoughts had ever been spared for her that she felt such kinship with the neglected?

His lordship’s fine wide mouth lifted for an instant in the ghost of a smile. “Come, Miss Lacewood. I vow, you’re as prickly as a hedgehog. I meant no slight on your kindness, truly. You have far better right to think well of yourself on that account than others who pride themselves upon the happy accident of birth or beauty, which they’ve done nothing to merit.”

It was a bald sort of compliment, neither lavish nor lyrical. Angela thought she detected within it a backhanded rebuke of himself. Yet, the very frugal nature of his praise pleased her, somehow. If it had been a whit more extravagant, she might have supposed he meant to mock her.

“If I seem prickly, sir, it is because I find myself quite out of my depth.” She fumbled to untie the ribbons of her bonnet. “You have arrived out of the blue to call on me, who never receives guests. You say this is no social visit, yet rather than reveal its purpose, you question my friendship with your grandfather. I feel as though I’m engaged in a game of blindman’s bluff.”

Lord Daventry clasped his large, long-fingered hands together and rested his chin upon them. “Some consider blindman’s bluff a diverting pastime, Miss Lacewood.”

“Not those who must always play the blindman.” She had good reason to know.

To her astonishment, his lordship laughed.

Once, Angela had run her hand over a sable collar her cousin Clemmie had received as a Christmas gift. She’d never forgotten the lush texture of it. His lordship’s laughter reminded her of that fur—rich and deep, with a provocative whisper of darkness lurking beneath.

“Touché, Miss Lacewood! I begin to see why Grandfather cherishes your acquaintance so.”

Cherish. Surely she’d heard that word before. Angela knew what it meant…in an abstract fashion. Hearing it spoken by Lucius Daventry, caressed by his tongue and lips, was to hear it for the first time as Nature had intended it to be uttered.

A chill, part dread, part reluctant anticipation, quivered through her, for suddenly she glimpsed the reason behind Lord Lucifer’s visit. Like his namesake had to other mortals throughout the ages, he had come to make her a bargain.

And to steal her soul.

He was making a botch of it.

The knowledge put Lucius Daventry in a vile temper, though he flattered himself that he hid the fact from Miss Lacewood, the way he hid most of his emotions. Few things vexed him worse than performing poorly at any task he set himself. This one more than most, for so much depended upon his success.

The young lady wanted to know why he’d come. The longer he delayed telling her, the less likely she would be to oblige his request. And he must win her cooperation.

If only he could secure his own!

Lucius Daventry was not accustomed to being of two minds about anything. He’d always prided himself on setting high goals, then committing all his energies to achieving them…until today.

Miss Lacewood was the problem. He had come to Netherstowe expecting to find the poor little pudding of a child he remembered, grown into stout, dowdy womanhood. Such a creature would surely have been eager to accept his offer without placing his heart in jeopardy.

Instead he’d found the dumpy little caterpillar transformed into an exquisite Regency butterfly. When she’d fallen into his arms, Miss Lacewood had reminded him of how long it had been since he’d held anything so soft and fragrant. Her tantalizing beauty and her charitable nature posed a grave threat to his lordship’s hard-won peace. Though it shamed Lucius to admit it, even to himself, the lady frightened him worse than a unit of French cavalry at full charge.

For the sake of his grandfather, Lucius was prepared to brave his worst fears. Though perhaps he might not have to…

“No doubt there are gentlemen much younger than my grandfather who also value your acquaintance, Miss Lacewood. I hope you will pardon my curiosity for inquiring if there is any one in particular paying you his addresses?”

For a moment she made no reply. Lucius wondered if he had trespassed too far on her privacy.

When it came, her answer held none of the indignation he’d armed himself to repel. Instead, Miss Lacewood spoke in a tone of gentle reproach that slid beneath his defences.

“Must you mock me, sir?”

“Indeed, I do not!” Lucius sprang from his chair, retreating to the deepest shadows of the drawing room, where he paced in the restless manner of a wild beast caged. “Why would you suppose I mock you?”

“Why would you suppose I might have an admirer?”

Pulling off her bonnet, Miss Lacewood set it on the footstool that had launched her into his arms. Then, she rose from her chair and withdrew to the opposite side of the room, where a few stray sunbeams had pierced small gaps in the closed curtains. One lit on the crown of her head, like the magic wand of a fairy godmother, gilding her tawny tumble of curls.

The answer to her question was so manifestly obvious Lucius could only stand dumb and gaze.

If he’d had to choose a single word to sum up her appearance, it would have been generous. Eyes large and luminous, the warm brown of a yearling fawn dappled with golden sunshine. Lips so lush they fairly demanded to be kissed. Features with a rounded softness that put him in mind of peaches ripe for the plucking.

Her beauty cast a spell over him, lulling to sleep the stern guard he had set to govern his tongue.

A bemused whisper of his true thoughts escaped. “I only wonder that you do not have a hundred.”

Her eyes fixed on him then and something stirred in their russet depths, a power that made him fear for his cherished self-control. “I would say you flatter me, sir, but I do not think you are much given to flattery. Unless there is something you want from me?”

Her wariness called to his own, whispering vain promises of sympathy. Promises Lucius knew he dared not trust.

“I do want something from you, Miss Lacewood.”

He had roused the slumbering censor. No further word, inflection, gesture or look of his must convey to this woman any more or less than he wished to convey. The thoughts that sang like cold steel in his mind and the emotions that seethed in his heart must be his alone to know.

“I want something, and I am willing to compensate you handsomely for it.”

“Indeed?” She tensed. “I suspected as much. What is it you desire?”

Her alarm was so palpable his lordship’s nostrils flared as though greedy to catch the subtle redolence of it. Try as she might to hide behind a mask of bravado, she feared him.

What woman wouldn’t?

Better fear than pity. Since Waterloo, that had become Lucius Daventry’s creed.

“Let us first speak of what I will give you in exchange.”

“As you wish.” Miss Lacewood took a step nearer the window. Perhaps she planned to blind him by ripping the curtains open if he menaced her. “I must warn you, though. My situation may be modest, but so are my needs. I doubt you have anything with which to tempt me.”

I wish I could say the same of you. The words prickled on his tongue like lemon juice, demanding he spit them out. By an act of will, Lucius managed to swallow them, only to find they had a seductively sweet flavor.

“Judge for yourself, my dear.” The latter word had a toothsome taste as well. If he did not exercise some restraint soon, he might become a glutton for such dainties. “I believe your brother wishes to take up a commission in the cavalry.”

A tremor ran through Angela Lacewood such as his lordship had seen soldiers give when they tasted cold steel in the belly. She managed to answer with a steady voice, however, which Lucius could not help but admire.

“Your information is correct, sir. Ever since he was a young lad, Miles has longed to return to India, as an officer in our father’s old regiment.”

“Commissions are costly.” Lucius leaned against the back of the chair on which he’d been seated earlier. “As is the proper kit to outfit an officer bound for India.”

“So I have discovered, sir.”

“Lord Bulwick will not support your brother’s ambition?” Lucius knew the answer well enough. He asked merely to enhance the value of his offer in Miss Lacewood’s eyes.

“His lordship is only a relation by marriage.” Clearly Miss Lacewood was parroting back the answer her entreaties to her uncle had received. “He feels He has fulfilled his obligations by taking my brother and me into his household after our parents died. He wishes Miles to find a post in the city.”

Lucius nodded. He’d expected no better from the odious Lord Bulwick. “I would purchase a commission for your brother and see that he is suitably outfitted for it.”

“And what would you expect from me in return?” Angela Lacewood squared her shoulders.

Lucius found himself wishing he could see those shoulders bare and admire their contours, for he had no doubt they would equal her graceful neck in beauty.

How might Miss Lacewood react if he approached her with slow, deliberate steps, then raised his hands to push down the brief sleeves of her gown?

Swoon dead away perhaps? Run screaming? It was a dangerous weakness for him to entertain such fancies.

Dangerous? Perhaps. But he had once courted Lady Danger and been seduced by her lethal charms.

“I would ask only one favor of you, my dear.” Emerging from behind his fortress of furniture, the baron approached Miss Lacewood with slow, deliberate steps. “A trifle, really.”

Some subtle cant of her posture and a rapid sideways glance told Lucius the young lady wanted to retreat from his steady advance. Yet, she managed to hold her ground. “One man’s trifle is another man’s treasure.”

“So it is.” Lucius halted his advance.

There was not much distance between them now. If he held out his hand and she held out hers, they might touch.

“Your words are most apt in this case,” he added. “What I require from you will cost only a little time and less effort on your part. But it will bring a treasure’s worth of pleasure to someone else.”

“To you?”

“No.” At one time it might have, but those days were past.

“To whom then?”

“Perhaps you will guess when I tell you what I want.”

“I shall be glad to hear…at last.”

Balancing on the balls of his feet, Lucius sank slowly to his knees. It was a ridiculous and unnecessary bit of ritual, but he felt compelled to it all the same. “Miss Lacewood, I am asking you to become my fiancée.”

The lady did not move, speak or even blink. She stood there like a golden statue, staring down at him.

Her eyes were alive, though. Alive with wariness and aversion and other things the baron could not so easily identify. It took every crumb of his considerable will to hold her gaze in his, issuing her a mute challenge to accept his offer.

At last she drew a deep breath and wet her bountiful lips with a dart of her tongue that made Lucius ache with sensations he struggled to ignore.

“I am sensible of the honor you do me by proposing, my lord.” She shook her head. “But I cannot marry you.”

Lucius heard himself laugh for the second time in half an hour. It must be some sort of record. For a moment all the cares that weighed on him eased.

“I understand, Miss Lacewood.” As slowly as he had sunk to the floor, the baron rose again until he looked down into her eyes. “But, you see, that is not what I am asking.”