Beauty and the Baron. Deborah Hale
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him he heard footsteps hurrying to catch up.
“Please, Lord Daventry, will you wait a moment?”
Lucius did not slacken his pace, though he fancied he could hear the Iron Duke bellowing, “The little baggage has you on the run, eh, Daventry? Stand and take it like a man, why don’t you.”
When he reached the front door, Lucius wheeled to face his pursuer.
Clearly Miss Lacewood had not anticipated this, for she failed to curb her headlong chase. As he pivoted toward her, she barreled into him. If the door had not been at his back, they might have crashed onto the floor of the entry hall in a tangled heap. Instead, Lucius felt his arms rise to enfold her for the third time that afternoon.
Her wild tumble of curls tickled his nose. They smelled as fresh and sweet as the garden from whence she’d been summoned by his call. If sunbeams could have substance and texture, surely they would feel like Miss Lacewood’s golden tresses.
She raised her face to his, and for one mad, fleeting instant Lucius wanted to give her the kiss she’d asked about. The kiss her lips had been made for.
But before he had the chance, words gushed from between those provocatively parted lips. “I’m sorry!”
It brought him back to his senses with the cold shock of ice water.
“I’m so sorry I bumped into you.” She sounded thoroughly rattled. “And I’m sorry if I embarrassed you with my question.”
She lifted her hand to his face.
Lucius flinched at the soft, pitying caress of her gentle fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated in a whisper as her hand strayed closer to his mask, making the mangled flesh beneath it burn.
Though part of him longed to thrust her away with all his strength, Lucius exercised every crumb of his considerable restraint to detach Angela Lacewood from him.
“That, my dear, is precisely the problem.”
Sorry? Angela fumed as she watched Lord Daventry ride away, the wide brim of his hat pulled low to his brow and his dark cloak billowing behind him. She was sorry, to be sure.
Sorry that insufferable man had come calling with his distressing news, his bewildering proposal and his abrupt departure! Yet it was only when he had disappeared altogether from sight that she marched back into the house.
For the first time in her life, Angela slammed the heavy front door of Netherstowe behind her. She had never been given to venting her feelings. Indeed, she’d spent most of her life trying to avoid strong emotions of any kind. They served no purpose but to cause a variety of unpleasant physical sensations—racing heart, breathlessness, bilious stomach, headaches.
In the past hour, Lord Daventry had whipped her emotions to such a pitch it was a wonder she hadn’t broken out head to toe in bright red spots!
From below stairs wafted the comforting aroma of freshly baked gingerbread. Angela gulped a deep, soothing breath of it and immediately felt her agitation begin to ease. Determined to put Lord Daventry out of her mind, she followed the mouthwatering smell down to the kitchen.
There, true to her nose, she discovered two large pans of gingerbread cooling on the counter, permeating the air with their spicy sweetness. The cook, a tiny scrap of a woman, was endeavouring to wrestle a large roasting pan into the oven.
“Here, Tibby, let me help.” Angela scrambled to bear some of the pan’s considerable weight. “What’s for supper?”
“A roast of mutton and batter pudding,” replied Mrs. Tibbs as she shut the oven door. She pushed a few lank strands of grizzled hair back up under her cap. “It’ll be a while yet. Do you fancy a cup of tea and morsel of gingerbread to stay your stomach until then, my pet?”
Angela nodded readily as she pictured Lucius Daventry buried beneath a sweet, stodgy mountain of gingerbread, seed cake and lemon tarts. She fetched cups and saucers, while Tibby cut her a morsel of warm gingerbread that would have satisfied a starving field laborer.
“I hear tell Lord Lucifer ventured out in broad daylight to call on you,” said Tibby a few moments later, as she poured the tea. “I told Hoskins he ought to have stood guard by the sitting room door to see that no harm came to you. He just laughed, the old fool. Won’t hear a word against his lordship.”
“While you never have a good word to say about him,” Angela reminded the cook, as if she needed to. In an effort to distract Tibby from the subject, she added, “This gingerbread is heavenly! Just what I needed after working up a sharp appetite in the garden.”
Never would she admit, least of all to a notorious tattle like Tibby, that it was not her hours digging in the garden but his lordship’s unexpected call that had sent her scurrying for the kitchen.
“What did Lord Lucifer want with you?” The cook peered over the rim of her teacup at Angela, her small black eyes glittering with curiosity.
“I wish you wouldn’t call him that,” Angela protested. She should have known Tibby would not be diverted easily from her favorite subject of gossip. This quiet corner of Northamptonshire provided few quite so piquant. “The poor man was wounded in the service of his country. We should take pity on him, rather than pay heed to all that ridiculous talk about deviltry.”
She had never quite managed to reconcile the dutiful grandson of the earl’s fulsome accounts or the brave but sardonic cavalry officer of his own letters with the sinister reputation Lord Daventry had acquired since retiring to Helmhurst.
Their meeting this afternoon had only perplexed her further.
“Humph! You wouldn’t call it ridiculous if you’d ever met him walking abroad after dark.” Tibby shivered. “Mrs. Hackenley vows he put a curse on their well and the Babbits had two swine disappear without a trace.”
Angela’s mouthful of tea sprayed out over her gingerbread in a fine mist. “Tibby! Surely you aren’t accusing the heir to an earldom of being a common pig thief, on top of everything else?”
The cook raised her sharp, thin shoulders almost to her ears. “I don’t say he is, and I don’t say he ain’t.”
Her eyes narrowed to mere slits and her voice dropped to an eerie whisper. “But I hear tell pigs’ blood and entrails is used for…sacrifices.”
The back of Angela’s neck rose in gooseflesh, but something compelled her to scoff, “Nonsense! His lordship doesn’t go out much in the daytime, because his eyes are sensitive to strong light.”
Tibby digested that scrap of information. “You still haven’t told me what he wanted with you.”
If she didn’t tell Tibby something, it would probably be all over the neighborhood by tomorrow morning that Lord Daventry had been recruiting her to join his coven, or something equally daft. Though Angela herself had sensed a dark, even dangerous, side to the man, she knew he could not be as evil as ignorant gossip painted him.
“Did I not mention it?” She tossed the words off in the most casual tone she could feign. “His lordship came to ask for my hand.”
Tibby’s pointy little chin fell, leaving her mouth agape. Her eyes looked in grave danger of popping out of their sockets and rolling across the table.
Angela struggled to keep a sober face as she ate more of her somewhat soggy gingerbread. The mellow sweetness on her tongue and the warm weight of it in her stomach were providing their accustomed comfort. Or perhaps it was Tibby’s excessive suspicion of Lord Daventry that made her own earlier misgivings about the man seem so foolish.
Whatever the reason, Angela found herself becoming more favorably disposed toward Lucius Daventry by the minute.
“Lord-a-mercy!” The cook crossed her flat bosom. “What did he say when you refused him? I heard him stomping off, then the door slam shut. He hasn’t put a