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

  His instinctive pleasure at his fiancée’s appearance evaporated to dust when he spied not only a maid as their chaperone but Her Grace, the Duchess of Wallingford herself, gathering up her reticule and shawl to join them. Apparently, her parents thought to head off any undue speculation by throwing a high-ranking member of peerage into the hot seat of the carriage beside them. Whatever people might think of him or his intended, no one in town would dare cut the duchess. Tactically, it was brilliant. But for practical purposes, it was going to make it deuced difficult for him to have any sort of conversation with the poor girl.

  “Your Grace,” he said, bowing low. “How delightful that you’ll be joining us today.” For a second, he thought he saw his intended suppress a smile, but the moment passed as her mother made for the door.

  “This will never do,” Lady Wallingford announced upon spying his carriage. “Watson,” she spoke to the butler who was still holding the door. “Have a footman deposit this contraption in the mews, and tell the coachman to bring the barouche around. Tout de suite.”

  “Immediately, Your Grace.”

  Fifteen minutes later, with Quin’s embarrassing transportation safely hidden from view, they set out in the family barouche. With the unmistakable ducal seal emblazoned on the door and accessorized by a driver and footman in full Wallingford livery, it was the next best thing to taking out a full-page advertisement in The Times announcing their engagement.

  Hyde Park was a crush of carriages, riders, and crowds of strolling elite enjoying the temperate weather. As the driver inched them along Rotten Row, more than one passing carriage passenger called out a greeting to the duchess. Much to Quin’s disappointment, not one addressed his fiancée directly, leaving him scrambling for endearments to use in place of her name.

  Farther into the park, their coachman found a patch of unclaimed greenery and pulled off the main roadway. “You may stroll,” the duchess announced. “Within my sight, mind you, and with a footman.”

  Quin helped his fiancée down from the carriage and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  “I should probably mention,” she said, after they’d walked a few steps. “Due to our inappropriate conversation at the ball, my mother has directed me to restrict my comments in public to those regarding the weather and your good health.”

  “Did we have an inappropriate conversation? I’m rather sorry I missed it.”

  She smiled. “I’ve been told it was beyond the pale. Although that certainly was never my intention.”

  “Nor mine. I suppose any conversation could be considered lewd if taken out of context.” He turned away and tried not to grin. If memory served, and that was a big “if” considering the amount of alcohol he’d consumed later that evening, he had made at least one overtly suggestive comment during their short time together. He’d thought her too innocent to understand it then, if only he’d known there were less innocent ears listening just outside the door.

  She’d proven to be a clever conversationalist, even under the duress of a guillotine. It was odd how much he missed something as simple as a civil discussion. An exchange of words and thoughts, the unspoken private communications between friends and lovers—this woman would not demure from it, not turn away in cool silence—she would banter, spar, and shout. He was looking forward to it.

  The thought made him turn back to see how closely the footman followed. It was likely the servant would report any untoward behavior to Lady Wallingford and that would include any more wayward conversations. But it was not the tall, stalwart Wallingford footman who caught his attention, it was another face, one that seemed both familiar and yet not. Who was it?

  He’d seen that man before. But where? The ball? Possibly. Quin racked his brain but could place no name to the stranger, neither could he quite remember where he’d seen him before. And yet he had, he was sure of it. Was his guilty conscience playing tricks on him, or were they being followed? There was only one way to tell.

  “Shall we stroll by the water’s edge?” he asked, nodding toward the Serpentine before turning abruptly and quickening his pace.

  …

  “Oh,” Elsinore gasped as she did a half step and a hop to keep up with him. What on earth was the man doing, trying to rip her arm clean off? Wouldn’t that please her parents, being saved from losing her hand in a guillotine only to have her arm broken off in the park. “Why are we running?” She turned to see if perhaps a rider was coming up behind them, but Lord Graham tugged at her arm again, propelling her forward.

  “Not running, kitten, just a vigorous pace for our good health.”

  Kitten? Elsinore frowned. She’d given up on sleep last night to ponder her situation. Short of running from the room as soon as he dropped to one knee there wasn’t much that could be done about his proposal. It would take three weeks to read the banns before they could wed, so there was a window of opportunity for her to mold him into the sort of husband she wanted. She badly needed something that women were seldom granted—options.

  Lucky for her, she hadn’t spent last season’s banishment whiling away the hours with needlepoint or watercolors. Her brother had an extensive library, and she’d made good use of it. One book in particular kept coming to mind—a thin, well-worn volume titled Oglethorpe’s Treatise on the Obedient Canine.

  She’d picked up the book by accident one rainy afternoon. And, rather than the dry discourse she expected, it was filled with clear and logical methods for bringing any hound to heel. And Lord Graham was showing signs of being a hound.

  “Shall we discuss my general good health now?” he asked, as he slowed their pace at the water’s edge.

  “You appear quite fit to me,” she blurted out, and nearly bit her tongue to keep from elaborating. What had the book said? Oh, yes, give praise only when praise is due. He had yet to do anything that warranted praise today. If she had to put a name to it, she’d say he looked anxious. She looked back hoping to catch sight of whatever or whoever might be making him so nervous.

  “Oh, look, ducks!” He slid his arm around her shoulder to turn her attention back to the water.

  “Yes.” She nodded feebly. “They’re quite common here.” Honestly, had the man never seen a duck before? She would have to ask her father if they had ducks in Scotland. He’d gone hunting there once, but when he returned, he admitted he hadn’t been impressed with it. According to him, the country was riddled with naught but scrawny cows and barking spiders. She was quite intrigued by the thought of barking spiders and went searching for some until her brother explained the expression to her.

  A few brave young lads with a handmade raft laughed uproariously as they punted back and forth across the rushing Serpentine, scaring the ducks into quacking, splashing flight. One of the boys steered his craft in their direction and performed an equally grand and cheeky bow. “Penny for our ferry, miss. Only a ha’penny each.”

  Wicked excitement pinched at Elsinore. Maybe it was time to test her intended’s mettle. She reached for her reticule. “I’ve a penny, boy.” Feeling generous, she placed two pennies in his outstretched hand.

  “Cor.” The boy stared at the coins. “This will take you all the way to the gate and back.”

  “A short ride is all I need,” Elsinore said, already lifting her skirts to step onto the rickety boards making up the vessel.

  “Hold on.” Lord Graham grabbed for her arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “A short adventure, that’s all. I’ve already paid the passage.”

  “But…it doesn’t appear sound.” Quin shook his head and Elsinore smiled inwardly. Hadn’t there been something in her book about challenging your hound to prove dominance? It was time to show Baron Hound just which one of them was in control.

  “My mother can still see us, and the footman as well. What harm could it do?” No time like the present to show him that she expected to be able to do as she pleased.

  Quin threw her a dubious look that she chose to ignore. As he stepped
aboard the craft, the boards creaked and lurched under his weight. “I really must protest. I’m not convinced this thing is seaworthy.”

  “You worry too much.” Elsinore laughed and shook her head. “Baron Hound,” she added under her breath. The raft lurched again as the young boy hopped on. He swung his makeshift punting pole around, managing to cuff Quin in the shoulder in the process. A shiver of apprehension snaked up her spine as the boy finally managed to push away from the shore with a loud grunt.

  She looked back at the shore in time to see the family footman register his shock and horror at this new development. For a moment, it seemed he might jump in and swim in pursuit, but she was relieved when all he managed was to shrug his shoulders in abject defeat. It would only be for a few minutes, she promised herself. Just enough to let his lordship know she meant to be allowed to make her own decisions.

  They were in the middle of the waterway, making their way downstream when she spotted a narrow skiff slicing through the water with efficient speed. It gained on their small makeshift raft until silently pulling alongside. With two more oar-strokes they’d be overtaken, the younger boy’s skill with a pole no match for adolescent muscle applied to strong oak oars.

  She envied both their strength and their freedom for a moment before the sharp crack of wood against wood pierced her thoughts. One of the skiff’s oarsmen had caught the edge of their raft with his oar and sent them spinning. The raft stopped with a jolt as it collided with the sturdier craft. Elsinore crouched down and braced herself as their raft was rent nearly in two.

  She watched in silent horror as Lord Graham lost his footing and disappeared into the dark water, leaving only his hat as floating evidence that he’d ever been there at all.

  Good heavens, I’ve killed him.

  Absent his weight, the remaining boards tipped in the opposite direction, and Elsinore found herself scrambling for a foothold. Her heeled half boots slipped against the waterlogged wood, and she cried out with alarm as she hit the water.

  “Help!” Her cry, cut short as her mouth filled with shockingly cold water, didn’t reach the shore. Her dress, quickly saturated and heavy, caught in the current and wrapped itself around her legs, pulling her down.

  Frantically grabbing at the fabric, Elsinore managed to free her legs as her lungs screamed for air. Tumbling in the current and unable to see through the murky water, panic set in. Spreading her arms wide, searching for any handhold, her fingers brushed against something solid and she grabbed at it. When she was certain she could hold her breath no longer, a pair of strong hands circled her waist and pushed her to the surface.

  She gulped in the precious air, spit, coughed, and grabbed at her rescuer, afraid she’d slip under the water again. “The boy,” she finally managed to choke out.

  “The lad’s fine.”

  She pushed aside the hair that had fallen into her face and saw the boy sitting on one sturdy plank, steering it toward the safety of his laughing friends on the opposite shore. There was no sign of the skiff, no evidence they had stopped to help with the turmoil they’d caused. Elsinore turned to her savior.

  “Oh, Lord Graham. Thank you,” she managed through chattering teeth. It was her good fortune that Baron Hound turned out to be a retriever. To reinforce good behavior, it should be rewarded immediately—the words from the training book echoed in her mind. Immediately? Elsinore pursed her cold lips and pressed them against his.

  She felt his arms tighten around her. In her fear and panic, she’d attached herself to him like a limpet—arms around his neck, breasts flattened against his broad chest, and her legs wrapped tightly around his narrow hips. He pressed closer, prolonging the kiss. Through the sound of her own heartbeat pulsing in her ears, she felt one sturdy hand slide down to cradle her backside and then give it a gentle squeeze.

  “Sir!” she said, as she broke their connection. His hand settled once again at her waist.

  “Am I allowed to blame the faeries?” he asked, as a cold rivulet of water bisected his forehead and ran down his nose.

  “Certainly not. I was merely attempting to thank you for the rescue. These skirts make swimming most difficult—I might have drowned if it weren’t for you.”

  “In that case,” he said, brushing his lips against hers. “You’re verra welcome.”

  “Milady, milady!” the footman called from the shore, his voice pitched with panic.

  Quin raised an arm and waved. “All is well,” he called back. “Hang on,” he instructed as he fought the current to bring them closer to shore. He managed a few wobbly steps before turning his back to a quickly gathering crowd and whispering in her ear. “I believe you can touch terra firma now,” he said, as he returned his hands to her waist. “Make your dress decent, and I’ll bring you to shore.” He set her down on her feet and she enjoyed, for a scandalous moment, the sensation of her body sliding against his.

  With his broad back blocking most of the gathering crowd’s view, she pushed the wet fabric of her skirt back down to cover her legs the best she could. “I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry,” she repeated through chattering teeth.

  “Nonsense. It’s not as if you pushed me in.” He reached out and snagged her bonnet from the sights of a hungry-looking duck who quacked his displeasure.

  “I was so worried that you could not swim. I hate to insinuate, but it seemed as if it was done on purpose.” She crushed the sodden hat on her head and attempted to tie the ribbons with wet and trembling fingers.

  “Children can be reckless.”

  “They were hardly children; they were delinquents. They didn’t even stop to help—we might have drowned.” Numb with cold, her fingers refused to cooperate, and she gave up on tying the grosgrain ribbons.

  “I’ll speak with them. Where the devil have they gotten to?” he asked, looking up and down waterway. The wariness he’d shown earlier returned, betraying the fact that he found the incident as suspicious as she had. Elsinore rubbed her hands up and down her arms as her teeth began to chatter.

  “We need to get you warm, lassie. You’re shivering enough for the both of us.” He pulled her close and rubbed her arms with his palms. His wet hug did little to warm anything but her feelings, but for the moment that was enough.

  Unfortunately, the gentle slope toward the water was now downstream, and she struggled to gain footing on the steep, slippery bank they now found themselves. With the footman teetering on the edge pulling and her fiancé behind her pushing, she managed to fall face first into the muck only once. Lord Graham wasn’t as lucky.

  While she was quickly wrapped in what she recognized by smell as one of the coachman’s spare horse blankets, Lord Graham’s dishabille was on full public display. His tailcoat was muddy from wrist to elbow. His once intricately tied cravat now hung from his neck like a noose, and his polished hessians squeaked and squished with every step. They were most likely beyond salvation. At this rate, he’d run out of footwear before the end of the week. More alarming was the thought that any reputation she had left after the ball had just drowned itself in the Serpentine.

  “Good heavens! Whatever have you done now?” her mother gasped from her perch in the carriage as they approached.

  Elsinore opened her mouth to speak before Quin silenced her with a protective arm around her shoulders. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he said. “I thought a bit of rafting might be just the thing for such a beautiful day, but alas, our craft proved unseaworthy, and we were obliged to go down with the ship.”

  Elsinore’s mouth fell open in shock. With that one blithe comment, he’d taken responsibility for the entire fiasco and saved her a stern and most likely lengthy lecture on recklessness. She owed him a boon for that.

  “Come and sit,” the duchess said stiffly. “Coachman, take us home, and quickly, before my daughter catches her death.” As the coach lurched into motion, she turned to Elsinore and muttered, “This wedding can’t come soon enough.”

  “Have you made your visit to Doctor�
��s Commons for a special license yet, Lord Graham?” she asked Quin, never taking her eyes off her daughter.

  “I have an appointment this afternoon,” he replied.

  “You’re getting a special license?” Elsinore asked through chattering teeth.

  “Of course he is,” her mother replied. “The wedding is Friday.”

  Shocked, Elsinore looked from her mother to Quin and back. “But that’s only three days away.”

  “Like I said,” her mother harrumphed, “hardly soon enough.”

  “Why did no one think to tell me?” Elsinore’s face went hot with outrage.

  “Leave these things to your mother, dear. Your father and I will have you well settled before the end of the week.” The duchess leaned over and patted her daughter’s wet knee as assurance.

  Elsinore looked to Quin. The poor soaked fellow offered a half-hearted encouraging smile, but it was no match for her irritation. So much for having three weeks to whip him into shape; she had only three days.

  Chapter Five

  “’Tis wiser, in this author’s opinion, to reward the good more than punish the wrong. Too heavy a hand will confuse and frustrate an otherwise lively goer.” Oglethorpe’s Treatise on the Obedient Canine

  Elsinore walked up the steps to her room, dragging her waterlogged bonnet by a single damp ribbon. “All is lost,” she said aloud, feeling wet, miserable, and sorry for herself.

  Her maid, Yvette, walked slowly behind her. “Now, now,” Yvette soothed as she helped Elsinore to her room so she could remove her soggy gown. “If you don’t wish to marry the Scottish gentleman, I’m sure in time your papa will reconsider.”

  “Didn’t you hear? It’s all been settled without me—the wedding is in three days’ time.”

  “Lady Elsinore, as your maid it is my business to watch over you. It is not necessarily my business to listen as well,” Yvette replied as she helped her into a dry gown and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. The maid was a French orphan not much older than herself and had encouraged, if not actually participated in many of Elsinore’s recent indiscretions.