How to Train Your Baron (What Happens in the Ballroom) Page 7

  “Is it working, milord?” asked Yvette.

  “Nae yet,” he replied through clenched teeth. There was an air of desperation about the servant today that unnerved Quin, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something about the girl’s manner rang false.

  “Perhaps if you removed the stained clothing it would be easier,” he heard his fiancée offer. He turned to them just in time to catch a glimmer of something in her expression. Amusement? Guilt?

  As if it had been done on purpose. The thought stilled his hand. He had no proof to accuse anyone of anything, and it certainly appeared accidental. It was difficult to think with his bollocks on fire, but he was determined not to show it. “I believe my clothes shall stay with me.”

  “Oh, of course.” She giggled and reached for her glass again.

  “It’s late, and you are starting to look a bit rosy in the cheeks. I think it best that I take my leave, and you retire for a good night’s sleep.” He moved the glass from her reach. “With your permission, I will call on you again tomorrow. Your mother has suggested a trip to the menagerie. Does that suit you?” The duchess had informed him that it was one of her daughter’s favorite diversions, and more than strongly suggested he take her there if he wished to curry favor.

  “Yesh, I would like that very much,” she answered, slurring her words slightly.

  “I’ll call at noon, then. We can tour the exhibits and enjoy a luncheon in town. We need to speak more of our plans for after the wedding. I’m sure there are things you will need to begin packing for the journey.” The hotter his skin burned, the faster he spoke.

  “What journey?”

  “To my estate.”

  Her face went pale as she asked, “And where ish your estate?”

  “Menteith,” he squeaked out, counting the seconds until he could rip off his clothes and soak his manhood in a cool tub.

  “Manteeth? No, wait—what?” She took a few steps closer until they were nearly nose-to-nose and poked her finger into his chest as she spoke. “Where in the world is that?”

  “It’s on the shore of Loch Menteith.”

  “But that’s in Scotland! That’s days and days away from London.”

  “Surely, you kenned I was a Scotsman.”

  “Of course, but I can’t go to Scotland.” She shook her head as she spoke. “I want to stay here in London.”

  “Hippolyta… Hipp—uh, Polly, I live in Scotland, and when we are married you will come to live at my estate in Scotland.” His patience worn nearly as raw as his skin, he spoke sternly, hoping to stop any argument that would keep him away from his bathtub.

  “I most certainly will not.”

  “Ye most certainly will,” he said, his brogue thickening with his irritation. “Your father and I have agreed upon this.”

  “Then my father can live there with you, because I will not.” She placed her hands on her hips and glared up at him.

  “I ken that this has all happened verra quickly, but in time, you’ll be much more agreeable to what I have to offer.” He was not yet ready to divulge the details of his offer, but after all that happened between them there could be no thought of breaking the betrothal.

  “If I am that disagreeable, Lord Graham”—she stepped away from him and glared—“then perhaps it is best that you beg off our engagement. I will bring no suit against you.”

  He stared at her in disbelief. “Your reply to my proposal led me to believe that you were amenable to our situation.”

  “My feelings have changed.”

  “Have I done something to make me despicable in your eyes?” Dear God, has she heard something? Have the whispered accusations followed me to London?

  “You’ve been a perfect gentleman, my lord.” She took a step forward and raised her hand, stopping just short of touching him again. “I thought I’d have a choice, you see. I thought I had time to experience life and do great things and, and…” She stopped and shook her head. “This has all happened so quickly.” She put a hand to her head as if trying to settle her wine-jumbled thoughts, and a single tear slid down her cheek.

  “That life is lost to you now,” he explained gently. A part of him understood exactly what she meant. “There is nae going back. You’d be ruined.”

  “I don’t care.” She lowered her gaze as more tears began to flow.

  “Your father cares about that verra much.” He tucked his finger under her chin and tilted her head back so that he could look into her eyes as he spoke. “I care as well. I would never allow you to be ruined because of me.”

  “It isn’t fair,” she sobbed. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Should I beg off or be jilted, you would be utterly ruined, and I will be rumored a despoiler of innocents. All things considered, I am not unhappy that I will be returning home with a wife.” It was a small but necessary lie meant to soothe her obviously hurt feelings. In truth, a wife complicated everything that his life had come to be.

  “I do not dislike you, Lord Graham, but neither do I love you,” she blurted out. “I don’t know you well enough to feel anything for you at all.”

  “I see,” he mumbled, shocked at her honest revelation. He chose his next words carefully. “I feel that, in time, we could develop a mutually satisfying arrangement.” He recognized the inadequacy of his words even as he spoke them, but the burning pain in his crotch was having a detrimental effect on his ability to reason.

  She sniffed loudly, and he handed her his handkerchief. As she tidied herself, Quin indulged his curiosity by drawing a long strand of her hair through his fingers. Despite his discomfort, the silky tresses brought a smile to his lips.

  “Go to bed now, lassie, and speak to your father in the morning. I’ll call at noon, and if he has changed his mind, we will speak of it then.” He leaned down and kissed a tear off her cheek. “I’ll take my leave.”

  As soon as the coachman eased out onto the road, Quin took advantage of the closed box to unbutton his breeches and allow the cool night air to sooth his ravaged skin. This was his second damp, uncomfortable ride home today. Somewhere, Bacchus was laughing at him. And so was Cupid.

  He dared not trust his fiancée, and yet he was drawn as a moth to flame. Was he being made to look the fool, or was he accomplishing that on his own? The breeches were a small matter; he had a dozen more. But the brash intent, now that was another thing. The spilled wine may have been an accident or only a childish folly like their foray in the Serpentine.

  Unless…

  The familiar face at the park haunted him. Could his fiancée’s actions be more than they appeared to be? Quin tried to shake the thought from his head. It didn’t seem possible. And yet…

  If Hippolyta—God, what a ghastly name—intended to make a habit of playing him for a dunce, how far was she willing to go? And who might influence her, his tormentor? Quin slammed his fist into the leather seat. No!

  If Hippolyta had no desire to live with him in Scotland, he could make it so. As long as she provided him with an heir she would be permitted to live wherever she pleased. In fact, it was all the better she be sent away; she’d be one less distraction. An inconstant wife could be settled anywhere. But should he be so lucky as to have another chance at fatherhood, he would keep the child close and safe, allowing no one near enough to do harm.

  The decision made, the weight of worry unsettled itself from his shoulders. He would keep Hippolyta safe while he had her, but he would guard his heart as well. He could enjoy her company and her body for as long as it suited. When the time came it would be best for all that he set her aside comfortably.

  As the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his townhouse, Quin opened the door and bounded out. Breeches still unfastened and pulled down midthigh, he fell face-first into the street.

  Apparently, the Graces had decided to deride him as well.

  Chapter Six

  “Give your new pup a chance to prove its mettle. Intelligence, like cream, rises to the surface.” Ogleth
orpe’s Treatise on the Obedient Canine

  Elsinore put a hand to her throbbing head and vowed to never drink wine again as long as she lived. She knew, however, that not all of her problems could be blamed on the wretched grape. Her father had blistered her ears this morning over yesterday’s debacle, uninterested in her claims of innocence. If that wasn’t bad enough, Yvette confessed that she’d heard from one of the housekeeping staff that the beautiful necklace Quin presented to her upon their engagement had been, in fact, purchased by her father.

  So, the baron not only proposed marriage to a woman whose name he did not know but lied to her about the gift. She couldn’t even bear to look at it now. There was no denying it; he was the sort of man she’d been warned about her entire life. And, unless she could remember more of her Oglethorpe and bring the baron to heel, she was stuck with him.

  Of course, being stuck with Quin Graham wasn’t all bad. For one thing, he spoke to her and asked her opinion as if he was interested in what she had to say. He never interrupted, shushed her with a scowl, or hurried her along. And the touches! He tucked back wild strands of her hair, teased her by pulling the ribbon on her bonnet, cradled her elbow as they walked upstairs. He covered her hand with his as they strolled, and even now his warm palm was resting against the small of her back. She quivered involuntarily as his heat seeped through the fabric of her gown. She was very much afraid she was starting to enjoy it.

  “Milady?” Yvette, the only chaperone her father’s household could spare for their outing today with the rest of the staff busy with the wedding preparations, begged her attention.

  “Yes, Yvette, what is it?” she answered, still distracted by her dilemma.

  “I need to be excused to find”—her maid leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper—“the necessary.”

  “Oh, of course. Lord Graham and I won’t wander far. You can find us after.”

  “I was wondering, milady, if I might just wait for you with the carriage. If his lordship doesn’t mind, that is.”

  “Of course, Yvette. Your mistress is under my protection now,” Quin replied, not sounding the least bit sorry they’d be left alone for a few hours.

  Elsinore watched her maid walk away and sighed. Yvette would be no help to her today. She’d have to come up with a plan on her own. Sometime during her long, restless night she thought to wonder why it was that Lord Graham happened to be looking for an empty room during a crowded ball. Had he really gone there just to steal a few puffs off his cigar and perhaps sneak a tot of brandy? Or had he planned an assignation with some other young lady, one who was ultimately clever enough not to have shown up? While it seemed unlikely, she had to at least consider that she’d been sought out and ruined for no other reason than the increased income it would bring to the baron’s family coffers. Trouble was, short of stealing the man’s wallet and looking through its contents, she didn’t know any other way to confirm he might be after her father’s money.

  “Hippolyta?”

  “I’m sorry, Quin, I was wool gathering. What did you say?”

  “From the look on your face it must have been some very poor wool indeed. I asked how your head was feeling. Ye seem to be troubled by it today.”

  “It’s fine really.” She managed a bright smile, despite the throbbing.

  “Feeling a little jug-bit, I ken. I’ve a cure for that. Or, at least, a tolerable treatment.”

  “Ladies do not get jug-bit. Your cure doesn’t involve anything called ‘hair of the dog,’ does it? Because my brother explained that one to me.”

  Quin laughed. “Certainly, not. Besides, that only works for hard spirits, not for wine, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s your tolerable treatment?”

  “Time spent in my company, enjoying a relaxing stroll, in good weather,” he said, as they passed the tower gate and entered the menagerie.

  “So, you’re a curative, now, are you?” she asked, as they walked along the wide path surrounded by thick stone walls and iron-barred cages.

  “Well, I’ve improved your health.”

  “How so?” she asked.

  Quin pulled his hand up into his sleeve and held the empty cuff up as a reminder of her near miss with the guillotine.

  “Cheeky,” she scolded.

  “Snatched you from a watery grave just yesterday, too,” he boasted.

  Elsinore was trying hard to ignore his charms, but his good deeds were stacking up. “Oh, look,” she said, glad to be changing the subject, “the wardens are feeding the crocodiles.”

  They watched as the curious reptiles snatched whole chickens from outstretched hands. “Imagine having one of those in the Serpentine,” she mused.

  “Chomp, chomp, chomp,” Quin whispered beside her as he playfully tweaked her waist.

  “Stop it,” she whispered back, pushing his hand away. “People will see.” The poor man was trying so hard to be bright and witty this afternoon. Too hard. His cheer bordered on false and forced, and after his behavior at the start of yesterday’s outing in the park, she was beginning to wonder if he had a nervous condition.

  Or, perhaps, he was only nervous of losing her sizable dowry. Once suggested, it was hard to erase the notion from her head. Her father should have seen right through the shady finances of a fortune hunter. Had the joyous thought of releasing his last daughter into matrimony overcome his senses? Her mother had her hand in it, too. It had to be her who suggested this outing. The menagerie was indeed one of Elsinore’s favorite destinations—when she was nine.

  They walked farther along, admiring the regal lions who lay against the bars of their too-small kingdoms trying to soak up a little of London’s elusive sunshine. At the aviary, Elsinore threw comfits to the squawking birds as they craned their necks through the bars, calling out for more.

  “Careful.” Quin’s arm tightened around her as they approached the pit holding two large brown bears sent to the king all the way from the Americas.

  “Don’t tell me you’re worried about those lazy old things,” she said as one of the beasts lifted a massive paw to swipe at a butterfly and missed. “I hear they sleep half the year and eat and laze about the other half.”

  “They look slow and numpty now,” he said, shaking his head, “but they’re right crabbit bastards up close. Had one take a swipe at me once.”

  “Really, Quin. Even I know there aren’t any wild bears in all of Scotland. Pull the other one while you’re at it.” Still, she allowed him to lead her around the pit at a more than safe distance without further complaint. His cheer, whether genuine or false, became contagious. She relaxed and began to enjoy the outing. Elsinore’s smile widened even more as they approached what had been her favorite exhibit.

  “Isn’t she magnificent?” she exclaimed. “And look, they’re giving her a bath.” Two large water-filled wooden tubs had been placed in the elephant’s enclosure, along with a long-handled scrub brush.

  “Your favorite?” Quin guessed.

  “Oh, yes, ever since I was a child. Zooella has always been my favorite.”

  “Zooella?”

  “That’s what I named her the first time I saw her. Officially she’s just King George’s birthday elephant, but I have always called her Zooella.” Elsinore peered through the iron bars separating her from the great beast. “Look how she loves the water. Do you suppose something that large can swim?”

  “I suppose, but I can’t imagine reeling it into a fishing boat.”

  “Quin, I’m serious. Don’t you ever wonder about extraordinary things?”

  Several moments passed before he nodded and then looked away. “Would you like to get closer?” he asked.

  “Oh, could we?”

  “Wait right here.” Quin walked to the warden’s door and motioned the man over. A few words were exchanged, and she was sure she saw Quin pass the man a coin or two. So, not as flat as all that if he can still bribe an animal warden.

  “The warden says she’s as gentle as a kitten.” Quin r
eturned to her side with a confident smile and offered his arm. “Dare we, my lady?”

  “Try and stop me.” Elsinore grabbed his hand and pulled him along, until they were standing next to the warden inside the elephant’s cage. As a child, she had dreamed of being able to touch the gray wrinkled skin, and now she was finally close enough to do it. “She seems so much bigger without the bars between us,” Elsinore marveled.

  The warden, clearly proud of being in charge of such a large beast, was eager to show her off. “Smart girl, knows a bit of English she does, but mostly we use hand signals and the like.”

  “Hand signals?” Elsinore asked, intrigued. The warden raised a closed fist to his forehead, and they watched, amazed, as the elephant raised her trunk in a regal pose. “Oh, how clever!” she exclaimed. “Can she do more?”

  The warden showed them a few more simple tricks before asking Elsinore, “Would you like to shake hands with her, miss?”

  “Absolutely,” she replied, holding out her hand. Before she knew it, Zooella’s flexible trunk wrapped itself around her palm, dribbling water down to the hem of her skirt. “Oh, my goodness, it’s…wet.” So strange was the sensation she couldn’t find the proper words to describe it.

  “That’s from the water, milady. You see, she snorts it up her trunk and then can blow it right out like a fountain, she can.” He gave another hand signal and the elephant dipped her long trunk into the water tub, before curling it back and blowing the water over her own broad back.

  “Oh, what an amazing trick!” Elsinore said, reaching out to stroke the rough and wrinkled skin on the animal’s large head. Impulsively, she pulled off her glove and stroked the great beast with her fingertips. It was everything she’d imagined and more. Warmer, rougher, stronger—if gray had a feeling, it would be elephant flesh. But, just as she praised the beast, Zooella reached out with her trunk and gave Quin a not too gentle push against his chest, and he stumbled back a half step.