How to Train Your Baron (What Happens in the Ballroom) Read online

  He needed fresh air and time to think. He knocked on the roof of the coach and instructed the driver to pull aside. He’d ride for a bit, clear his head. And, once again, try to come up with the proper words to explain to Elsinore what sort of mess she’d married into. If he was eloquent and very, very lucky, maybe she wouldn’t try to kill him.

  Chapter Twelve

  “New hounds, like young children, will, on occasion, grievously err. Exercise patience in the instruction of which way you mean to go.” Oglethorpe’s Treatise on the Obedient Canine

  The yard of the Three Finches Inn was bustling with activity when they arrived. The late afternoon sun hovered just above the tree line before beginning its final descent to slip beyond the horizon. Still simmering with anger, Elsinore allowed Quin to help her down the metal steps only because she did not want to risk falling on her face in front of him.

  The arrogant man had not only lied to her, and then taken her virtue in the back of a coach as if she were a common trollop, but he had the nerve to abandon her alone there in favor of his horse’s company for the last few miles of their journey. She snatched her hand away from his as soon as both feet were firmly planted on the rutted ground.

  “I’ll speak to the proprietor about our room,” he said, not looking at her. “Wait here with the coachman by our things, if you would.” He walked away without waiting for a response.

  Elsinore scowled at his retreating back, trying to think of every foul word she’d ever heard. “Bum-licking tallywacker,” slipped from her lips before she realized the coachman stood near enough to hear.

  “Beg pardon, milady?”

  She tried to smile at the man. “Nothing.” She was saved any further embarrassment by the loud arrival of several outriders, each trailing a lead attached to several horses. They rode through the yard, kicking up dust and splattering mud as they went. “My goodness,” she exclaimed, watching the sudden commotion of grooms and stable boys snapping to attention to assist the new arrivals. “What’s going on?”

  “Looks to be a delivery, milady. Some gent’s got himself some fine cattle there.”

  “Cattle?”

  The coachman cleared his throat and looked down at his feet as if suddenly embarrassed to be conversing with her. “Horseflesh, milady. I suspect they’ll try to sell a few as post horses along the way. ’Tis only the good bloodlines that the squires want in their stables.”

  “I see. Can you tell just by looking? About the bloodlines, I mean.”

  This time a blush reddened his cheeks before he was able to look away. “Milady, I…um, well, the intact stallions is for the…breeding stock, as it were.”

  Breeding stock. She had more in common with those animals than she cared to think about. It was her turn to blush, and she wondered for the first time just how much Quin’s servants knew of his plans for her. “Thank you,” she finally managed just as Quin returned.

  “All is in order,” he announced. “John,” he said, addressing the coachman. “There’s room in the far stable for our horses and a place for you and Angus to sleep in there, as well.” Angus, the large and mostly silent footman who served as their armed insurance against highwaymen, had followed Quin into the inn and now stood behind him. Elsinore wondered how much he, too, might know of her fate.

  “Unload only the things we’ll need for the night. My brown portmanteau and Elsinore’s small trunk should do it. Leave them by the door; the proprietor said he’d have a boy run them up forthwith.”

  As Quin spoke, a familiar and unwelcome feeling descended over her like the creeping damp of a cold fog. He was speaking as if she wasn’t even there. It was the same thing her mother and sisters had done to her for years. And she decided in that very moment that she would put up with it no longer.

  “Excuse me,” she said loudly enough that all three men stopped what they were doing and stared at her. “I shall need my small red trunk and my red valise as well. I should like to freshen up before dinner. When is the wagon arriving with Yvette? She and I can share a room.”

  “She won’t be sharing your room.” Both the coachman and the footman looked away and made themselves suddenly busy rearranging the parcels loaded onto the coach. Quin managed to maintain eye contact, but the sour look on his face told her he wasn’t pleased to be having this conversation in front of the servants.

  “Did you get her a private room? How generous of you, but quite unnecessary. She and I get on well and should be able to share quarters for a few nights.”

  “I did not get her a room at all, as she will not be arriving. And,” he continued, lowering his voice so the other men could at least pretend not to hear, “you’ll be sharing a room with me.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Quite possible, I assure you. The wagon with your many, many trunks took a more direct route. They’ll camp along the way as necessary and should arrive at my estate well ahead of us.”

  “Oh, Quin! You’re making the poor girl sleep out-of-doors on the ground? She’s a lady’s maid, not a farmhand.”

  “Yvette has been discharged. I sent her back to your parents. She needs to consider the error of her ways. I’ll not tolerate that sort of interference from anyone again—it was foolish and dangerous.”

  “And accidental,” she added as a challenge. She could only imagine the fuss her mother would have made had her father dared such a thing without consulting her first. Oh, how Elsinore wished she had a copy of Oglethorpe’s with her now. She’d break Quin of this nasty habit. She wanted to be more outraged, but Yvette never wanted to go to Scotland anyway. The young maid would pine for her beloved footman too keenly and wouldn’t have lasted a fortnight.

  Quin gave her a hard stare. “You should go to the room and freshen up before supper,” he said, handing her a small iron key.

  “Without a maid, there isn’t much point. Besides, I want to go look at the horses.” The animals and the men attending them had moved to a corral behind the inn and a crowd of men began to gather there.

  “Let the men do their work, Elsinore. Go and wait in the room.”

  She smiled sweetly to cover her inner turmoil. “I don’t wish to go to the room. I wish to see the horses.”

  He leaned in closely and spoke so that no one but her would hear. “You should go freshen up, dear. You rather look like you’ve just been tupped in a coach.”

  Elsinore tried hard to keep her outrage from reaching her expression. “You got tupped, sir. I got nothing but deceived.” With all the bravado she could muster, she gathered up her skirts and turned toward the corral. “I’m going to see the stallion,” she proclaimed, deciding to get a better look at the animal with which she and Quin had so much in common.

  “That’s no place for a lassie, Elsinore,” Quin replied, catching her by the arm and steering her back toward the inn.

  With her grasp on her temper wearing thin, she smiled at him as if he were both feeble-minded and hard of hearing. “I’m going to see the stallion,” she repeated, speaking slowly and enunciating each word. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one before.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t if you spend most of your time in the city. Willful things, stallions, hard to train, and they can be mean as the devil’s minions when there’s a mare around. Only a fool would drive one down Rotten Row. I know nothing of this horse’s temperament. I’d rather you stayed away.”

  “Do you own one?”

  “A stallion? Of course.”

  “But why, if they are so mean and willful?”

  “Breeding stock, of course.”

  “Oh, yes.” Elsinore turned and caught his eye. “Breeding stock.”

  His eyes narrowed a fraction, and he leaned in close before he spoke again. “There’s a bit of blood at the hem of your dress. Proof enough that you already had all the stallion you’ll ever need this afternoon. Now run along,” he whispered.

  Shocked to the toes at his crude remark, Elsinore looked down to see the small red stain that screamed her
shame for all the world to see. “Sometimes I truly despise you,” she managed to whisper before running to the inn.

  By the time she reached their room and their bags had been delivered, she’d already made up her mind. She pulled at her soiled gown, sending one of the fastening pins skittering across the floor as she ripped it from her body. The hateful man had lied to her about everything, and now he thought to treat her like a bothersome child to be shooed from the room. She’d endured that from her family for too many years, but she wouldn’t tolerate it from him. According to Oglethorpe, bad behavior should be ignored. Therefore, she would ignore Quin’s edict to stay away from the stallion.

  Knowing he would not recognize her new wardrobe, Elsinore exchanged her dress for her plainest gown, a dull shade of dun that her mother claimed favored her eyes but Elsinore thought rather resembled mud. She exchanged her hat for a plain straw bonnet and her pelisse for a brown velvet spencer. She was a grown woman who was going outside to admire a bit of horseflesh. Afterward, she would write a letter to Libby back in London telling her all about it. She’d make it sound like an adventure and pretend that all was well. Not even her bosom friend should know of the unhappy mess Elsinore’s life had become.

  She descended the stairs quickly, keeping her head down and her hat pulled low. If she could only slip out unnoticed by their coachman and footman, she’d be free.

  “Watch it!” one of the serving girls called to her as she balanced a large tray of food. “Begging your pardon, milady, I wouldn’t want to spoil your fine gown with a bowl of Billy’s lamb stew.”

  “Oh please, I beg your pardon; I wasn’t minding where I was going.” Flustered, Elsinore turned her back to the dining room crowd and kept her voice low.

  “I see.” The serving girl who was, Elsinore realized, a small, older woman, winked. “Making a break for it, are ye?”

  “A break for it?”

  “Skipping out on your gent? Change yer mind, did you?”

  Elsinore blushed. “Of course not,” she said in a voice that sounded unconvincing even to her ears. “I just want to go look at the horses.”

  The woman studied her closely. “Ain’t thinking of stealing one, are ye?”

  Elsinore stared back in shock. “My goodness, no, I just want to make my way outside and back without being”—she lowered her voice—“seen.”

  The server shrugged her shoulders and balanced her tray on her hip. “Best go through the kitchen, then.” She motioned with a nod of her head. “Back that way.”

  “Thank you…”

  “Goldie,” the waitress replied. “They call me that because of my yellow hair.”

  “Thank you, Goldie.” Elsinore hurried down the dark hallway toward the sound of clattering pots and pans. The cook didn’t even look up as she scurried out the back door.

  She was immediately assaulted by the stench of rotting food and garbage and drew her handkerchief to her nose. Gingerly picking through the rotten potato peels and wilted cabbage leaves, Elsinore found her way to a well-worn path that she hoped led back around to the corral.

  She heard the men before she saw them, and while she didn’t recognize Quin’s voice, they all seemed preoccupied with their conversation. A small cloud of blue-white smoke proved that more than one man was enjoying a cigar away from the company of women. She could see the corral just beyond them and caught sight of the most beautiful animal she had ever seen.

  It was huge and well-muscled and the most amazing shade of chestnut and black she could imagine. That, she instinctively knew, was a stallion. Having now seen it, Elsinore knew she wanted a better look. Getting past Quin and the men was going to be a little trickier than sneaking out through the kitchen, and she frowned in concentration.

  And then she spotted it—a low hedgerow ran along the back of the property. If she could make it to the fence without being seen, she could crouch down and follow along the fence until she got to the far side of the corral. Once there, she hoped the men would be too involved in their conversation and cigars to take much notice of her.

  Without another thought, she stuffed the handkerchief back up her sleeve, hiked up her skirts, and made a mad dash to the fence. Encouraged by the fact that no one called after her, she leaped over the lowest point and quickly dropped to her haunches. Breathing hard, she paused a few moments before creeping along the fence line.

  It was harder than she’d imagined, and she fell to her knees in the soft soil more than once. Brushing herself off, she continued as far as she could before she would have to reappear on the other side.

  Daring a peek over the nearest stump, Elsinore saw the men turn their heads in unison at the sound of another incoming carriage. She stole the opportunity to step over the fence and into the open. She was set to run pell-mell toward the far side of the corral when she heard the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric.

  Botheration. The hem of her skirt snagged on a thorny bramble. Heart racing and fingers fumbling she tore the long tatter of fabric free and ran as fast as she could. When still there were no shouts of alarm, she hid behind a post and crouched there a moment to catch her breath.

  She closed her eyes to concentrate and gather the nerve to stand when she heard a loud snort from somewhere behind her left ear. Opening her eyes, she turned her head and found herself nose to muzzle with the great beast himself. He sniffed and snorted again before pawing the ground and tossing his head.

  “Good boy,” she whispered. “Pretty boy.” The stallion was magnificent in its barely restrained power, and larger up close than she’d imagined. Much larger. She stood slowly, seeing that the stallion backed away a few steps as he noted her every movement. “Nice horsey,” she whispered.

  Elsinore admired the strength and power of the animal before her. No wonder Quin chided the men who rode them along Rotten Row. A horse this size would frighten the hooves off any of her father’s matched pairs.

  The stallion approached again and sniffed the air around her. “Do you like it?” she asked softly. “It’s verbena oil,” she said, naming her perfume. She cautiously slipped her hand through a gap in the fence. “Good boy.” Her fingers fairly itched with the want of touching his velvety muzzle.

  She stretched her arm toward the beast and wiggled her fingers. “Come on, boy. I won’t hurt you.” The horse nickered and took another tentative step closer.

  He was so close; if only she could reach a tiny bit farther she’d be able to touch him. Pressing herself as close to the enclosure as she could, Elsinore waggled her fingers and spoke to the beast. “A little closer, Sir Stallion. Let me admire you.”

  The horse took another tentative step closer, ears back and eyes alert. With one last stretch Elsinore managed to stroke the tips of her fingers down the side of his face. And then, with horror, she watched as her small linen handkerchief slid out of her sleeve and floated down to land at the stallion’s feet.

  Rearing back on his hind legs, the stallion pawed at the air above her. She could only stare in silent awe at the animal looming over her. A split second before it happened, she realized the animal’s intent to smash through the enclosure.

  Snatching her hand away quickly, she turned and ran as the first shouts of alarm echoed in the air behind her followed by the sound of splintering wood. Elsinore threw herself over the stump fence, losing her hat, and kept running all the way back to the kitchens. Gasping for air in the too warm room, she looked up to see that this time she’d caught the cook’s attention.

  Like a bad pantomime, the round-bellied cook stood perfectly still, mouth open with a tasting spoon frozen only inches from his lips, his eyes fairly bulging out at the sight of her. And what a sight she must be, Elsinore realized. With her bonnet gone missing and her dress ripped and soiled she must look like a bedlamite.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said as she inched slowly toward the hallway. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m looking for my room.” She ran into the hallway and once again narrowly missed a collision with
Goldie.

  “God’s elbows, what happened to you, milady?”

  “I fell,” Elsinore lied.

  “That got anything to do with the commotion out in the yard?”

  “What commotion?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

  “Looks like one of them fancy horses got loose from what I can tell. There’s men running hither and yon outside. I figure I’ll wait another few minutes for them to play at hero before bringing out a pan of oats to lure the beast back.”

  “So, you think it will turn out all right, then?” Elsinore cursed herself for not considering the consequences of the stallion’s reaction. Her father had always told her she acted first and considered after the fact. Yet another one of her faults she needed to rectify now that she was a married woman.

  “We ain’t lost a horse yet, milady. No worries for you except that dress. I doubt that there’s anyone here with dab enough hand for sewing to mend it.”

  Elsinore smiled sheepishly. “It looks to be a total loss along with my bonnet,” she said as she tried smoothing her hair back into place. “I don’t know much about horses it seems, but I’d be glad to help recapture the stallion before any more damage is done.”

  Goldie led her to the kitchen where they found a large bowl and filled it with a few dried oats, a quartered apple, and a couple of carrots. “Ain’t met a horse yet that didn’t know what supper sounded like,” Goldie explained. “Just rattle that apple around the bottom of the bowl so he hears it, and he’ll come running soon enough.”

  The men had scattered in all directions, and luckily Quin was nowhere in sight. Elsinore stood alone near a small open paddock and rolled the apple bits around the edge of the bowl and rattled the oats, then waited. Goldie, who apparently knew quite a bit about horses, had been right. The stallion appeared from behind the hedgerow, his ears perked up. Elsinore shook the bowl again. This time the stallion lifted his nose into the air. She waited, not daring to move again, until the animal started toward her.