Beauty and the Baron. Deborah Hale
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“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?”
“At one time,” he replied after a significant hesitation. “See here, I’m sorry I kissed you, but not because I found it unpleasant. Now, can we talk about something else?”
Did that mean he’d found it pleasant? As pleasant as she had?
They turned into the long lane that wound its way to Netherstowe. Before Angela could think of another topic of conversation, the gig had drawn to a halt before the front entrance.
Lord Daventry climbed out, then came around to Angela’s side of the carriage to help her down. In spite of the rain, they stood there for an awkward moment of parting, forgetting to release each other’s hand.
Angela stared up at the baron, pondering the mysteries guarded by his inscrutable green gaze. “If you ever need to kiss me again…I won’t mind.”
A flash of savage intensity blazed in his eyes just then, like a jagged bolt of lightning across a dark sky. “Let us hope the need will never arise.”
If he had spit in her face, Angela could not have felt more thoroughly mortified. Wrenching her fingers from his grasp, she ran into the house and slammed the door behind her for the second time that day.
Had Lord Daventry thought she was begging him for something he could not give her? Well, she hadn’t been!
Had she?
Angela wished she could be certain.
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