How to Train Your Baron (What Happens in the Ballroom) Page 8
“No worries, milord,” the warden said. “I keep a few boiled sweets in my pockets as a treat for her. She’s just checking to see if you’ve brought her any.”
“Had I only known,” Quin said as Zooella’s trunk became more and more intrusive in her search for treats. She checked under his hat, his breast pocket, his armpits, and was now concentrating her efforts on the placket of his breeches. He tried gently pushing the intrusive appendage to less scandalous anatomy, but a determined elephant was not easily dissuaded.
As a crowd gathered to watch the elephant’s bath, there were a few gasps and snickers as Zooella became more and more intrusive in her efforts to investigate the contents of Quin’s breeches. “Shoo,” he muttered, stepping back once again, backing himself against the wall of her enclosure. As if she realized he could retreat no farther, Zooella began molesting him with renewed vigor and Elsinore heard the fabric rip.
“A dhiabhail!” he shouted.
“Warden?” Elsinore looked around in panic. The man did no more than glance their way with a bemused smile as he continued scrubbing away at Zooella’s prodigious hindquarters while prattling on about the many amazing attributes of the Indian elephant. He thought the gathered crowd was there for him, unaware that their attention was now riveted on the other end of the elephant. Elsinore pushed at the beast’s enormous head as Quin struggled again to redirect its nimble trunk.
Fearing there was no time to attract the warden’s attention before the beast managed to unman her fiancé, in a flash of inspiration, Elsinore duplicated one of the hand signals they’d seen earlier. She breathed a brief sigh of relief as the animal stepped back far enough to drop its forcefully inquisitive trunk into one of the tubs of water.
That relief was short-lived however, when playfully, or perhaps simply confused by a hand signal from someone other than her keeper, Zooella aimed a loud and forceful blast of water directly at them. Elsinore was hit full force and staggered back into Quin. Drenched again! She could hardly believe her bad luck.
“Let’s get out of here,” Quin sputtered in her ear, as he pulled her toward the door. He pushed his way through the laughing crowd, dragging her along behind him. Free of the spectators, they quickly found a secluded niche in a large aviary away from prying human eyes.
As soon as they were out of sight, Quin began struggling with the buttons on his sodden tailcoat and shrugged it off his shoulders. “Here”—he handed it to her—“wear my coat. I don’t want anyone else seeing you like this.”
Like this? She looked down. The fashionable pink walking dress she’d so carefully picked out less than an hour ago now clung to her like a second skin. The pale pink matched her complexion so closely that she appeared to be wearing nothing at all. She clutched his coat to her chest. “Thank you, I—” Her speech ended with a squeak as she put one hand over her eyes and turned her back to him. The elephant had managed to tear off an entire row of buttons along one side, leaving the placket hanging open. Thank God for long shirttails. “Quin…I…um— Oh, just look down.”
“Hell.” Quin blushed like a schoolboy, using his hands to cover himself the best he could. “I don’t suppose you’d have anything quite as helpful as a hair pin, would you?” he asked with measured calmness.
Keeping one hand over her eyes, Elsinore felt around her head until she found a pin, removed it, and held it out to him. Managing to peek only twice, she watched him make an attempt at securing the fabric, give up, and untuck his shirttail to cover the offending rip and what it almost exposed.
“You might as well remove your hand, Hippolyta. I’m as decent as I’m going to get for a while.”
“Oh, Quin, what are we going to do?” The day was clear but not warm, and as the damp seeped into her skin, her teeth began to chatter. “I’m drenched yet again, and we were seen. The nannies were laughing at us even as they covered the eyes of their charges.” His laughter was an unexpected response.
“We’re going to do what few men have done before.” He grinned and shook his head.
“What’s that?” His mood was once again contagious, and she felt the corners of her mouth begin to rise despite her shivers and their scandalous circumstances.
“We’re going to escape the Tower of London.” Quin reached out to take his coat from where she clutched it and helped her into it. The front was damp but considerably less wet than she, and she welcomed its warmth as she slipped her arms into the overlong sleeves.
Quin pulled the collar tight, and his hands went to the buttons before they stilled and his smile changed. It went from playful to reflecting an emotion she did not know. Or, at least, she could not name it. Still a smile, she decided, but a serious one, like a smile shared over a private joke or vulgar comment. She’d once read a Gothic novel where the hero “smoldered.” If she didn’t know better, she’d say Lord Graham was smoldering.
She looked up into his eyes with unspoken questions on her lips. What are you doing? What are you feeling? He buttoned the first button slowly, letting the backs of his knuckles brush hot against her chilled flesh.
Then, hidden from the world’s view by the wide lapel of his coat, he rested his palm against one firm, round breast. Elsinore struggled for her next breath, but she made no move to be free of him. His hand, the very hand she’d admired the night before, rested warm against her breast. His fingers, long and strong, held her so gently, reverently. One wayward thumb, clearly with a mind of its own, stroked against her damp, puckered nipple.
His desire was palpable and as contagious as his smiles. She raised her hands, lost in his coat sleeves, and pressed them gently against his broad chest. And yet, she craved…more. Pushing his cravat aside, she pulled at the front of his shirt, knowing that to touch her hand against his bare skin would be heaven. Between cravat, shirt, and waistcoat she managed to expose a sliver of naked flesh. With a smile of contentment, she turned her head and rested her cheek there. Right above his heart. The wet, the cold, the crowd—none of it mattered anymore, they ceased to exist. When she could breathe again, she exhaled his name on her breath. “Quin.”
His hand made its way to her chin, tilting her face upward. Elsinore’s heart raced; she was about to receive her first proper kiss. Oh, she’d pressed her lips against his the night they met, but he was not much more than a helpless participant. This kiss was his idea, and it sprang from his heart. Never in a million years did she imagine such a magic moment occurring under these circumstances. As he lowered his lips to hers, her eyes drifted closed.
“Bum-licker—squeee! Cunt biscuit—squawk! Eat me—tallywacker—squeee!” A colorful macaw, watching with beady-eyed interest from the nearest perch, cut loose with a nonsensical tirade of the most foul, vulgar, and creative cursing she’d ever heard.
Quin’s shoulders began to shake as he started to laugh, and she couldn’t help but join in. Her first official kiss was ruined by a foul-mouthed parrot. The sailors who took their leave here must have taught the bird every shady phrase known to man. Insults and curses rained down around them, punctuated by shrill whistles and raucous squawking. It became impossible not to laugh at the absurdity of it.
“I’m sorry,” Quin managed, still trying not to laugh as he resettled his clothing. “I shouldn’t have…”
The vulgar bird managed to ruin the mood and sever whatever connection she’d felt between them. “There’s no way out of here but the way we came in,” she said at last, raising her voice to be heard over the still-shrieking parrot.
“We’ll just have to make a break for it. If you keep my coat on, and I walk very closely behind you so no one can see the state of my breeches, we just might get away with it.”
“And then what?” She shouted to be heard, as the bird screeched again.
“We make for the exit as quickly as possible. The key is to keep moving, avoid eye contact, and pretend to be completely oblivious to our scandalous state.”
“One would think you’ve done this sort of thing before.”
Elsinore laughed and shook her head. “You continue to surprise me, Quin.”
“It bodes well that you enjoy surprises,” he mumbled as he positioned himself behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Step lively now, left, right, left, right—focus on the exit and just keep moving.”
“We look ridiculous.” They started walking, but Elsinore was forced to reach down every other step and pull at the damp fabric clinging to her legs. “We are never going to get away with this,” she said, as he bumped into her yet again. “We’re going to get arrested”—she began to giggle—“or worse.”
“What’s worse than being arrested?” he asked, stumbling into her yet again.
“Having someone tell my parents.”
“Good point. Walk faster.” They passed through the gate, ignoring the curious stares that followed them. “Almost there,” he whispered in her ear.
Elsinore sighed with relief as he helped her into the seat of their carriage. “We made it.”
“Where the devil is your maid?”
Elsinore looked all around and frowned. “I’m sure she’s nearby. She said she’d wait with the carriage.” Sadly, her servant’s romantic life was in much better fettle than her mistress’s, and Elsinore suspected the girl had taken a few minutes to visit with a certain footman she knew of.
“Well, clearly she isn’t with the carriage,” he replied testily. “I’ll go look for her.”
“You should take this.” She reached for a button on his coat.
“No,” he said quickly, and she blushed as she knew he was also still thinking of the scandalous touches they’d shared hidden by the lapels. “Keep it with you. I’m less scandalous in my shirtsleeves and damaged breeches if I’m traveling alone. Besides, I don’t intend to go far. If she’s not at the end of the lane, we’re leaving without her.”
A chill shivered through her as he walked away, as if her body felt bereft of his heat. Grasping the lapels of his coat, and pulling them more tightly around her, she imagined she could still feel his hand resting on her breast. A smile played at her lips as she remembered the scandalous sensation. Without thinking, she raised her own hand to the place where he’d touched her so intimately.
Her smile faded as she realized what lay there, in his coat. His wallet. The object that only a few hours ago she’d been so eager to examine. Did she dare do it now? Did it even matter anymore? Elsinore looked up and down the street but could no longer see him. What harm would one little peek do?
Slowly, she reached into his coat’s breast pocket and slid the wallet out. Feeling guilty, she flipped it open and looked inside. There were a goodly amount of crisp pound notes, some in large denominations, a blank bank draft, and nothing else. It was probably more blunt than an insolvent man would carry around. Satisfied, she lined up the pound notes and made to close the wallet. But there, wedged back in a corner, a small folded bit of paper caught her eye.
She dug the old, much folded, small square of foolscap out of its hiding place. There was writing on it, but the ink had run and smeared into intelligible lines. It must have gotten wet just the previous day when they fell into the Serpentine. She could no longer make out any of the words, but one symbol commanded her full attention.
It was the unmistakable mark of a skull and crossbones. What would Oglethorpe make of that?
…
Elsinore rubbed her temples and sighed. This morning’s shopping trip might well be the start of the longest day of her life. She closed her eyes, wishing once again that she’d met Quin in the ballroom. He would have spied her across the dance floor, begged for an introduction, and then made his bow. She would have favored him with a dance. Maybe two. When the call to supper came, he’d position himself at her elbow, and she would have allowed him to walk her into the dining room. Her parents would smile approvingly. Later, over brandy and cigars, Quin would ask her father for permission to call on her. Of course, being only a baron, and Scottish at that, he’d probably have been denied.
“Are you ill, dear?” her mother asked. “You look peaked. I swear all that water lately has given you the ague.”
“I’m fine, Mama.” She sat up straighter and willed color to her cheeks in an attempt to look healthy. The last thing she needed now was one of the housekeeper’s tonics that would do nothing more than give her a wicked case of the urgencies just in time for tomorrow morning’s wedding.
“I hope so. Your father had a note sent around to Lord Graham, asking him to dine with us tonight. I thought you might wear the yellow dimity.”
Elsinore forced a smile. The yellow dimity not only made her look sallow but the gown was fashioned for a girl of six. Experience had taught her that there was no point in arguing about it now, because her words would fall on deaf ears. Until Friday, all decisions would be made by her family, and after Friday all decisions would be made by Quin. When would it be her time to make decisions for herself?
Elsinore looked across the coach from face to face as her sisters, united in their determination, confronted her. There would be no last-minute jilting. She wasn’t even to consider it. They had explained, in no uncertain terms, what happened to the sort of woman who would do such a thing. She’d be branded loose and unstable, men would presume to molest her person without consequence, and well-bred women would give her the cut direct. For the sake of their children and husbands’ good standing, her sisters would be obliged to refuse her entry into their homes. It would be a nightmare from which she would never awaken.
She didn’t bother telling them she’d never seriously entertained the notion. They wouldn’t take kindly to being deprived of the lecture they’d obviously worked so hard to prepare. She managed a nod of acquiescence.
“Of course,” she heard herself say. Marriage to Lord Graham couldn’t possibly be any more miserable than the constant reminders from her family that she wasn’t living up to their expectations. Besides, she had another pressing problem to consider and only these few hours to come up with a solution. She had to confess her true name, and tonight would be her last chance before the wedding. What had seemed such a clever ruse only a few days ago now stuck out like a thorn—a petty, childish thorn. What remained to be seen was which one of them would get pricked by it.
Chapter Seven
“The decision of whether to cast a new hound on mink, fowl or fox is an important one. Choose wisely with consideration to temperament.” Oglethorpe’s Treatise on the Obedient Canine
Quin sat in the study of his rented townhouse on the edge of Mayfair. The place was nice enough, he supposed, but he was more than ready to return to his beloved home. He hated London. Hated the yellow-tinged fog, the smell of coal smoke intermingled with horse manure, and the moldy rot of ancient architecture dying a slow death. He especially hated London because his troubles had followed him there.
Two notes had been delivered to the house that morning. Neither one had been welcome. One had been delivered by a well-dressed clerk representing the duke’s solicitor. The other had been waiting for him inside the stables when he returned from the menagerie. The note in the stable was brief and echoed the previous missives he’d received.
Murderer! I know you killed your wife, it said, followed by I will make you pay. It was unsigned, as the last two had been.
He’d turn it over to the runner he’d hired to investigate. Clan affiliations ran deep, and Quin had traveled all the way to London to hire a discreet man of investigations with no Scottish ties to cloud his judgment. Quin hadn’t expected his troubles to follow him here. He was already looking over his shoulder, peering into dark corners, and searching faces for hints of recognition or shades of malice.
Receipt of the note cast the incident at the Serpentine in a more sinister light. His soon-to-be wife had been right to be suspicious. If he’d been alone, he would
have run the rascals down and demanded answers. But with Polly there, he dared not make too much of it. Of course, if he’d been alone, he’d have never been on the Serpentine in the first place.
It was one thing to make threats against him, but his unlucky fiancée might have drowned. Whoever was behind this, they enjoyed the slow torture of leaving him vague threats to be discovered when he least expected it. Did they watch him open and read each one? Were they trying to drive him mad? They nearly succeeded.
The runner had assured him that notes such as these rarely resulted in any physical confrontation—it was money they were after. Trouble was, they hadn’t yet asked for any. And while the runner considered this good news, as it gave him more time to root out the culprit, Quin had already grown tired of the constant reminders of the mess his life had become. He would pay a great deal to make it all go away. If innocent, Lady Hippolyta must not be tainted by any of his life’s ugliness. If complicit, he’d know soon enough, and then nothing would save her from his wrath.
The solicitor’s note still lay on the desk before him. They were terribly sorry, there was an unfortunate inkwell mishap, it had said. The documents would be with him as soon as possible, but the set that ought to have been ready were unreadable. Sincerest apologies were extended. Tomorrow he was getting married, and the settlement papers had been befouled by a clumsy clerk and an overturned inkwell. There was nothing he could do until they were recopied and delivered to him. Why had the liquids of the world declared war against him?
As to liquids, he hoped Lady Hippolyta’s family, in whose keeping she was today, had the presence of mind to keep the girl away from large bodies of water. And, perhaps, large animals as well, since she displayed all evidence of being accident-prone. The thought made him smile. His Hippolyta was certainly an original.