Beauty and the Baron

“That champagne has put lots of clever ideas in my head.” Angela held Lucius in her gaze. “Could we not make this outdoor ball a masquerade, as well?”

A masquerade? What could he say to that? His appearance might not draw a single curious glance among a throng of masked guests.

“If you are both so resolved upon it—” Lucius looked from his grandfather to Angela “—I suppose I have no choice but to surrender. A ball you want, then a ball you shall have. So novel and magnificent a ball it will give the ton something pleasant to gossip about for a change.”

“Do you mean it?” Angela looked ready to throw her arms around him, but at the last moment she curbed her tipsy elation in favor of grasping his hand instead. “Thank you!”

Lucius almost succeeded in convincing himself that he approved of her tardy display of discretion.

Was it the champagne making her throw caution to the winds? Angela wondered in a curiously detached sort of way as she clung to Lucius Daventry’s hand. Or was it the unsettling effect his presence continued to work upon her?

So much about his stance and manner demanded she keep her distance. Yet, some contrary force, of which he seemed unaware, called to her. As potent as it was puzzling, that force left her with no choice but to respond.

If his lordship had intended the swift, heart-stopping kiss he’d thrust upon her to punish her for opposing him, or frighten her into being more compliant in future, he had made a grave miscalculation. From the moment he’d left her clinging to the mantelpiece to keep from melting to the floor, she’d begun to wonder how she might provoke him into another one.

When he’d executed a sudden about-face, agreeing to host a ball for her, Angela had wanted very much to kiss him.

But she couldn’t, no matter how much champagne she had in her belly. For many years she had made the mistake of trying to give affection where it was not wanted. Bitter experience had cured her of that tendency.

“I knew you’d come around, my boy.” The earl could not have sounded better pleased if his grandson had agreed to the ball straightaway.

Lord Daventry extracted his hand from Angela’s eager grip. “If there’s one lesson I learned under General Wellington, it’s to know when I’m outgunned.”

“Don’t sulk,” said the earl. “You’ll have a splendid time. We all will.”

Before Lord Daventry could phrase a pithy reply, a familiar, discreet knock sounded on the library door and the earl bid his valet to enter.

“The household wishes to thank milords for the champagne and to extend our compliments to Lord Daventry and Miss Lacewood on the happy news of their engagement.” The only sign that Carruthers had partaken of the celebratory refreshment was a rather glassy stare. “Also, milords, Cook begs to inquire whether Miss Lacewood will be staying to dinner.”

“Indeed she will.” Belatedly the earl cast a glance at Angela. “You will, won’t you, my dear? We can discuss the guest list for this ball of ours.”

A wave of dismay broke over Angela as she exchanged fond smiles with her dearest friend. Nothing would induce her to shadow his remaining time with the knowledge of how brief it would be. But the champagne had loosened her tongue and eroded her natural discretion.

She had better not stay to risk a blunder from which Lord Daventry might not be able to rescue her.

“I wish I could.” She shook her head. “But I promised Tibby I’d be home for supper. She’ll worry if I don’t get back soon.”

Seeing the earl’s disappointment, she added, “Tomorrow night, perhaps? Now that I’m to be one of the family, may I invite myself to dinner?”

“From now on, a place will be set for you every evening,” the earl assured her. “Carruthers, order the gig harnessed so Lord Daventry can drive Miss Lacewood back to Netherstowe in time for her dinner.”

“That’s not necessary.” Angela was not certain she could trust herself alone with Lucius Daventry in her present condition. “I’ve been coming and going from Helmhurst on foot for years.”

“Never this late,” the earl countered. “Besides, it looks apt to rain.”

The set of his countenance told Angela he was no more likely to be swayed over this than he had in the matter of the ball.

“Very well, then. Thank you.” She stole a quick glance at Lord Daventry.

Though he had raised no objection and his features betrayed nothing beyond polite resignation, Angela knew he could be no better pleased with the arrangements than she.

Indeed, Lord Daventry’s silence spoke eloquently for him. He uttered scarcely a word as Angela and the earl said their goodbyes and made plans for the next day. With mute courtesy he escorted her to the forecourt, where a trim two-wheeled carriage with a leather canopy awaited them.

The distance between Helmhurst and Netherstowe was much greater by road than crosscoun-try. Lord Daventry appeared ready to maintain his silence the whole way. As they drove along the deserted country road, rain kept up a gentle patter against the canopy, while the horse’s hooves beat a muted rhythm. Dark, weeping clouds dimmed the waning daylight to a level the baron seemed able to tolerate but which Angela found dismal.

Her light, bubbly humor, induced by the champagne, had since soured and gone flat. Lord Daventry’s brooding, stone-faced silence reproached Angela more harshly than words could have done. In Lord Bulwick’s household, displeasure was frequently expressed by not speaking.

Angela’s accustomed response to such wordless censure had always been to make herself as inconspicuous as possible until she was tacitly forgiven, soothing her injured feelings with sweets from Tibby’s pantry. But there was nowhere to hide in the little gig and not so much as a peppermint drop or lemon pastille to comfort her.

A tempest brewed in Angela’s breast until she could no longer contain it. “Go ahead and say what you’re thinking, Lord Daventry!”

Her sudden outburst startled the horse, who tossed its mane and whinnied.

Lucius Daventry kept looking straight ahead at the road. “I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about, Miss Lacewood.”

Angela knew she should not say anything more, but it was such a great relief to vent her feelings that she couldn’t turn back. “If you expect me to believe that, you must think me insufferably stupid, in addition to everything else.”

“Everything else?”

Though she could only see the masked half of his face in profile, Angela could picture his other brow raised.

“You know,” she insisted, “bothersome, unreliable and…about as pleasant to kiss as that horse!”

The flesh of his lean, angular cheek tensed. Could he be fighting back a smile?

Lord Daventry pulled hard on the reins. The horse and gig came to a stop on a lonely strip of road that skirted the base of a tall hill.

The baron looked more than a little menacing as he turned to face her. Suddenly Tibby’s dire warnings about Lord Lucifer did not seem quite so ridiculous.

“Very well, Miss Lacewood. Since you demand to know what I’m thinking and since you seem determined to attribute all manner of disagreeable opinions to me, I am compelled to set the record straight between us.”

Angela braced herself.

Lord Daventry looked so severe. Perhaps he thought even worse of her than she’d suspected. Bad enough imagining someone’s low opinion of her. Were there enough jam buns in the whole county to soothe her crushed feelings once she’d heard the blunt truth from his lordship’s own lips?

“I think you are every bit as meddlesome as my grandfather, in your own way,” the baron began. “And I fear the two of you will use this betrothal to reform a reputation I would prefer to keep. Not to mention turn the life with which I am perfectly content upside down and inside out.”

Compared to what Angela had been expecting, this sounded almost like praise.

She opened her mouth to reply, but Lord Daventry raised his hand. “You ordered me to tell you what I think, Miss Lacewood. Kindly have the courtesy to hear me out.”

So there was more to come. Angela pressed her lips together.

“I think you had better avoid champagne in future unless you wish to commit an indiscretion. And finally, though I have never touched lips with a horse, I believe I can say with some authority that yours are far preferable to kiss.”

As abruptly as he had stopped the gig, Lord Daventry flicked the reins again and turned his attention back to driving. Angela sat beside him, steeled for a blow that had never come.

Perhaps his gruff but temperate words emboldened her. Or perhaps the aftereffects of the champagne continued to loosen her tongue. “You’ve kissed a lot of women, haven’t you?”