The Baron Next Door (Prelude to a Kiss) (14 page)

She didn’t wait to see his reaction. Honestly, she didn’t think her nerves could take it after such a bold speech. Turning sharply on her heel, she drew a bracing breath and stepped for the door.

His hand snaked out and caught her wrist before she could go any farther. Gasping, she turned with widened eyes, the skin beneath her gloves nearly vibrating with awareness at his touch.

“I do have faith in you, Miss Effington. It’s me I have trouble with.”

Releasing his hold, he bowed, his eyes never leaving hers. Her heart broke for the return of the pain she could see lurking there. “Good day,” he murmured, his voice slightly raspy. He left then, his long-legged stride carrying him away from her with telling speed.

What had he meant? Did he really not trust himself? He had seemed so brusque, conceited even, in the beginning. Now she wondered what was truly going on deep inside. When he turned the corner and disappeared from view, she drew in a fortifying breath and faced the Assembly Rooms door. She didn’t have a spare moment to give the subject the time it deserved. Her trio was waiting.

When she walked in, Sophie was pacing just inside the door. “Oh, thank God. Come along. We’ve got to go. I want to hear everything, but it will have to wait!”

As Sophie grabbed her hand and dashed back toward the Great Octagon, where the rehearsal was to be held, Charity tried to get her poor skittering heart under control. It was no use. She was a proper mess by the time they collected May and headed for the inner door. There was simply too much going on in her rioting thoughts to have any hope for calm.

“Ready?” May asked, her smile bright and completely unconcerned.

“Do I have a choice?”

She shook her head decisively, making her curls bob. “No.”

Charity drew a deep breath, exhaled, then nodded. “All right, then. Lead the way.”

*   *   *

“You’re distracted.”

“Exceedingly.” Hugh agreed readily, lifting his chin for Jacobson to have better access to his cravat.

“Is something amiss? I don’t mind keeping your schedule, my lord, but you do have to participate in the making of it.”

“Yes, right, the schedule. What was the question again?”

Jacobson chuckled, amusement crinkling the corner of his eye. “Does his lordship wish to attend the theater on Saturday evening?” He spoke slowly, enunciating each word. At Hugh’s rolled eyes, he grinned and said, “Just making sure you’re listening. As for the invitation, remember that Lord Derington has offered the use of his box at the Theatre Royal.”

Hugh considered it for a moment. “Yes, actually. Why not?” He was feeling good, after all. It was the best stretch he’d had since the injury—more than a week now with no headache. The theater, with its dimmed lamps and quiet audience, was the perfect way to branch out.

Years ago, he may have scoffed at the thought of attending some boring play. But at that moment, the unmistakable buoyancy of hope lifted his heart at the prospect of spending the evening out in the world. Optimism was a dangerous thing, as was hopefulness, but he wanted to give in to it. To allow himself to feel anticipation again, and excitement.

Almost at once, Charity’s lovely face popped into his head. Their encounter today had been unexpected in every way. He’d been shocked to see her, of course, but he certainly couldn’t have foreseen the progression of the conversation. From fury one minute to quiet assurances the next, the pendulum had fully swung by the time they parted.

She wanted him to have faith in her. To allow them to be friends. It was foolish and reckless . . . but tempting as hell. Even when they bickered, she still had a certain lightness to her soul that he couldn’t help but be drawn to. Nothing had beaten her down in life yet. She’d never known the meaning of the word
devastation
, and he was incredibly glad for it.

Although . . . apparently there had been at least some scandal in her short life. A broken betrothal? Curiosity flooded him all over again as he wondered what exactly had happened. She was young and pretty, certainly from a good family, and of decent means. When not reacting to him, she seemed to have a rather nice disposition. He couldn’t imagine her breaking a betrothal, but neither could he imagine a man walking away from her.

With the cravat in place, Jacobson helped him into his forest green waistcoat, followed by the deep gray jacket. Once Hugh was jacketed, buttoned, and properly groomed, Jacobson stood back and inspected him with a critical eye.

“Will I pass muster?” Hugh asked, spreading his arms.

He waited for the customary flippant remark, but instead was surprised to see the batman’s thoughtful expression. “Your clothes are perfectly acceptable, my lord, but it is your eyes that make me happy. It is rare to see you in such fine form, sir.”

“It is good to feel in fine form.” Hugh cleared his throat, shrugging off the somberness. “Now, then, go do whatever the hell it is you do all day while I’m forced to entertain distant relatives.”

“Lady Cadgwith’s brother is hardly distant, and I believe the card game is meant to entertain
you
,” he pointed out, his eyebrow raised. “However, if you are through with my services, I shall avail myself of the
Times
that arrived this afternoon.”

“Sure, sure—one of us should be up on current events.”

Jacobson excused himself, and Hugh, ready earlier than necessary, wandered over to the balcony door and idly glanced out over the long, narrow garden. The sun had set some half hour earlier, and only the pale gravel path was clearly visible in the twilight. He had yet to make use of the gardens, including as a view. He tended to look up, not out, when enjoying the small balcony.

His eyes roamed to the adjoining garden, separated from his by a six-foot-high stone wall. As his gaze skimmed along, a puddle of white among the dark greens caught his attention. He squinted, trying to discern details in the failing light. A woman sat on a narrow bench, her head bowed and her hands crossed tightly. Charity—it must be. No other finely dressed young woman would be in her garden. He breathed in, a frisson of awareness skirting straight through him.

He watched her for a moment, not daring to move lest he somehow alert her to his presence. Something was wrong. His brow furrowed as he strained to better make out her form. She seemed crumpled, dejected.
Rejected.
What would have upset her so much from the way she had been only hours earlier? When they had met on the street, she had been initially angry, but very much mollified by the end of the conversation.

Straightening, he glanced to his watch fob—still a quarter hour before he needed to leave. He looked back out on her, debating what to do.

It wasn’t his place to intrude, but he was absolutely certain something wasn’t right. It was in her posture, her position, even the tilt of her head. Her distress called out to something in him. He couldn’t say exactly why, but he just knew that she was hurting. The urge to soothe her was almost overwhelming. This was his sweet, infuriating, kind, and spirited neighbor. He didn’t want to see her spirits brought low.

He knew all too well the posture of a person in a bad place. He waffled for a moment longer, then made up his mind. Opening the door, he stepped out onto the balcony.

“I
f you’re lost, I may be able to guide you home from this vantage point.”

Hugh waited, negligent grin in place, as her head jerked up at his words. Even from twenty feet away, he could tell he’d been right. Charity was definitely upset. Her body was as tense as a drawn bow, and even with the waning light, there was no missing the unguarded dismay that turned her normally expressive face to a stony mask.

“I’m not in the mood, my lord,” she responded, her voice uncharacteristically wooden. She swiped at her cheeks with her ungloved fingers and gave a quiet sniff.

His gut twisted. Had she been crying? Damn it all—what happened to upset her so? He leaned against the railing, offering a subdued smile. “I can see that. However, if I am to be a proper friend, I feel I must offer my services.”

She blew out an unladylike breath and leveled unhappy eyes up at him. “And what services would those be?”

There was absolutely no humor or levity in her gaze—or her entire countenance, for that matter. But still, he pressed on. “I’m quite handy with a pistol. Decent with a sword and downright deadly with my fists.”

He had her attention now. She blinked up at him, tilting her head to the side. “My lord?”

Keeping his voice deliberately light, he said, “I’m merely pointing out all the handy ways with which I can kill a man, should you chose to make use of my services. Whoever caused those tears clearly doesn’t deserve to live.”

She gave a quiet, horrified little half laugh, half snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

He smiled. Good, she was at least not dismissing his company out of hand. “It is my duty as a former officer in His Majesty’s Army to protect all of Britain’s citizens, particularly lovely young women who’ve had their hearts broken.”

And he would murder the idiot who had caused this—especially if it was a suitor Hugh didn’t know about. And, no, he had no intention of examining why he felt so strongly about such a thing.

“Unless you are prepared to take out an entire committee, there is nothing that you can do for me.” She sniffled, pulled a square of linen from her lap, and blew her nose. He almost smiled—clearly she felt no need to impress him.

“I’m quite prepared. Now, why don’t you come up here where we can plan their demise without tipping off the neighbors?”

She bit her lip, looking up at him with uncertainty. “Such a thing is to be avoided at all costs, remember? God forbid someone sees us conversing.” She rolled her eyes at the last word—even if he hadn’t seen it, he could hear it in her voice. Throwing his stupid words back at him again, it would seem. He drew the inside of his cheek between his teeth, reevaluating the situation. God, he sure as hell hoped he wasn’t somehow the cause of her upset.

With a soft, self-mocking grin, he said, “I think I can withstand the risk, just this once. Now, do come up, or I shall be forced to scale the wall to join you down there, which I really don’t want to do. New jacket, you know,” he said, pulling at the lapels.

He didn’t know where this teasing demeanor was coming from. All he knew was that the faster he could help make her feel better, the faster the knot in his stomach would go away.

With a loud, exasperated sigh, she came to her feet and brushed off her gown. “Very well,” she said, retrieving her shawl from the bench. “However, let it be noted that it was at your insistence. I won’t have you accusing me of harming your precious reputation.”

At least some of her spirit was intact. Biting back a grin, he solemnly nodded. “Duly noted.”

*   *   *

What was she doing?

Even as Charity trudged up the stairs toward the music room, she couldn’t quite figure out why she was doing so. Hugh had made no bones of his wish to stay clear of her company in the future, and yet here she was, responding to his summons.

She sniffled yet again and rubbed at the remaining moisture on her cheeks. Not that she cared what he thought of her appearance. Yes, she undoubtedly had puffy eyes, a red nose, and pale cheeks. This was how one was supposed to look when one was dealt a crushing disappointment. And, really, he was one reason she was in this mess in the first place. She couldn’t prove it, of course, but their encounter surely hadn’t helped anything.

She padded past the pianoforte, twisted the lock on the balcony door, and stepped outside. Darkness was rapidly falling, but she could clearly see the baron in the gray light. He leaned negligently back against the black railing, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked immaculate, perfectly ordered, and oh, so handsome with his crisp white cravat and well-tailored jacket. The consummate gentleman, while she no doubt looked like a paper doll left out in a rainstorm. Despite her resolve not to care, she smoothed a hand down the rumpled fabric of her skirts.

“Well?” he prompted, raising his eyebrows in invitation.

“Well, what?” Yes, she was being contrary, but damn it, she was
feeling
contrary. This day had been a total disaster, and being polite wasn’t high on her list of priorities at the moment.

“What has stolen the joy from those pretty gray eyes of yours?”

Her stolen joy. If that didn’t sum up the way she was feeling, she didn’t know what would. Even his unexpected little compliment wasn’t enough to raise her spirits. With her disappointment washing over her anew, she fished out the crumpled letter from her bodice and thrust it at him. “Here.”

The look on his face was almost enough to make her laugh. One would think she had just, well, pulled a letter from her bodice. She bit her lip. Her mother would have fainted dead away if she could have seen her. But Mama would never know, and she wasn’t terribly concerned with the baron’s tender sensibilities. “Go on,” she said, waving the paper at him.

Visibly working to straighten his expression—and, yes, she did see the humor flaring his eyes—he plucked the letter from her fingers, unfolded it, and scanned the three-sentence note. She could have told him exactly what it said:

Dear Miss Effington, Miss Wembley, and Miss Bradford,

The committee is honored to have been able to experience your performance. Unfortunately, we have discovered that the event has been filled beyond capacity, and we simply cannot find the room for all registered performances. As the last to register, we regret to inform you that your trio cannot be included in this year’s recitals.

With our sincerest apologies,
The Summer in Somerset Musical
Selection and Assignment Committee

Hugh looked up, his eyes clouded. “What a terrible disappointment. No wonder you are upset.” He held the letter out to her, shaking his head. “One would think they would have worked out those sorts of logistics before the process was this far along.”

“Oh, I don’t for one second believe it is because they can’t seem to find a time slot. How hard is it to tack an extra five-minute performance to the end of an evening? No, this was directed to us personally.”

Hugh lifted an unconvinced eyebrow. “Personally? I rather doubt that. Have you managed to offend the committee somehow?”

“No, not directly. But Lord Wexley’s daughter is no friend of mine, and our music was exceedingly unusual, and Mr. Green already despised us. . . .” She trailed off when she saw the look on his face. “You think I’m mad, don’t you?” Blast it all, she didn’t know why she was telling him any of this in the first place.

“No. Slightly delusional, but not in a bad way.”

She scrunched her nose up in dismay. “Delusional! You didn’t see their expressions when we finished our piece. Lord Wexley looked as though someone had switched his snuff with ashes.” Actually, at least one of them had seemed intrigued, and two others moderately impressed. But Wexley’s look had spoken volumes about how he felt about the performance. Whether Marianne had poisoned him against her or not, the result was still the same: They couldn’t perform.

“Then to hell with them.”

Her wandering gaze snapped back to his. “What?” she squeaked.

“If they don’t want you, you don’t want them. Do you really need this? It’s just a silly showcase to give bored aristocrats a reason to show off.”

Indignation flooded her veins. “I beg your pardon, but I’ll have you know this happens to be very important to us. It is not some silly amusement for people with nothing better to do.”

He sighed, letting his arms drop to his sides. “Yes, of course. And I know how hard you and the others have been practicing for this. I’m sorry for your disappointment.”

Did he ever hear the words coming out of his mouth? The insensitive lout. Not that she should have expected anything different from him. For heaven’s sake, he couldn’t even be bothered to stay in the room for one song at Dering’s dinner. What a fool she was, thinking he might actually be a comfort when she’d decided to come upstairs.

Straightening her spine, she snatched the missive from his fingers and balled it in her hands. “Oh yes. I’m sure you are absolutely devastated to hear that we no longer have a reason to practice.”

His brows lowered over reproving eyes. “That’s not fair, Miss Effington. Just because your music isn’t for me doesn’t mean I don’t know how much it means to you.”

Annoyance burned in her belly, making her more reckless than usual. She took a step closer to him. “Actually, that’s exactly what it means. If you had any idea what it meant to me, you would have never demanded that I stop playing.”

The beginning of annoyance tightened his jaw. “Again, that is unfair of you. That was before I had ever laid eyes on you. How could I have known then what I know now?”

He knew full well his dislike for her music went far deeper than that. “Before you knew me, huh? Well, that doesn’t explain your fairly running from the room at Dering’s party. Or throwing coins at my window in order to beg my silence.”

That at least elicited a cringe from him. “I’ll admit, that wasn’t very well-done of me. You have every right to enjoy your hobby.”

Hobby?
He had no idea how much music truly meant to her. He simply dismissed it as an annoying way for her to pass time. Her brow furrowed as she glared at him. “What you scorn, I love. What you see as noise, I see as my very heartbeat. What you call a
hobby
, I call my purpose in life. I exist in this world, but I come alive when my fingers hit the keys. You have no concept of the passion I feel for music.”

Any lingering humor in his eyes was completely gone now. “Come, now. I may not be passionate about the same things you are, but I understand passion, for God’s sake.”

Cadgwith? Passionate? He had no idea of the meaning of the word, as far as she could tell. “Do you? Because I have yet to see any evidence of that. All I see is a haunted shell of a man who shuts himself up in his home at every opportunity, and flees the moment things progress beyond his comfort level.”

His nostrils flared as he snapped his body upright.
Dear Lord
. The bitter words echoed through her brain, seeming to amplify instead of diminish. She slapped a hand over her mouth, horror widening her eyes. Before she could speak—apologize, grovel, recant,
anything
—he took an ominous step forward.

“Is that what you see when you look at me?” His voice was deadly calm, his green eyes piercing in their intensity. His scars seemed to whiten as his face grew taut.

She shook her head, swallowing convulsively. “No, of course not. I was angry, and—”

“And decided to speak the truth? Ire, like jealousy, loosens the tongue more effectively than any alcohol.” He took another step closer, forcing her to tilt her head back in order to meet his gaze. Her heart pounded at the fire she saw burning in his eyes. “You think I know nothing of you, but I
promise
you that you know nothing of me.”

“You’re right,” she said, her voice little more than a strained whisper. “I don’t know you. You won’t let me. Every time I try to, you push me away.”

He was so close, she could smell the spicy scent of his shaving soap, see the pounding of the pulse at his neck, feel the force of his barely leashed emotion. “Did it ever occur to you,” he said, his voice quiet, “that I may have good reason to do so? That you wouldn’t
want
to know me?”

There—that flash of pain was back. His wounded heart had shown itself again, drawing her to him like a flame beckoned a moth. Sucking in a deep, bracing breath, she boldly took a step forward. “No. Not once.”

Only the warm metal of the railing separated them, leaving mere inches between her breasts and his chest. Her skin tingled with the knowledge that if either of them leaned just the slightest bit forward, their bodies would touch.

He gazed down into her eyes, studying her as if trying to divine her innermost thoughts. “Charity,” he said at last, his voice full of regret.

“No,” she said, cutting off the words she knew he would say, but that she was determined not to hear. “You don’t get to back away. Not this time.”

He shook his head, and she could almost see him mentally stepping away from her. Not again. She wouldn’t let him run away this time.

Without stopping to think, without considering a single consequence, she rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his. He sucked in a shocked breath of air through his nose, the sound sharp in the evening hush. Her nerves rioted at the sensation, making her ears buzz and her stomach drop to the ground at her feet.

Only he didn’t move. He didn’t respond to her kiss at all. Instead he held himself rigidly still. Her bravery began to waver, especially since she had no idea what to do next. It was as though he were made of granite. Dear heavens, what if he didn’t want her? What if he was disgusted by her kiss? Mortification began to take over, and she broke away, dropping back down off her toes. Even though she didn’t want to, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from looking up into his eyes.

He gazed back at her, his expression utterly unreadable. He hadn’t moved, not even an inch. The moment stretched for one second and then two, punctuated only by their breathing. Just when she couldn’t take it anymore, when she was sure she had utterly lost her gamble, he came alive, a statue breaking free of his bonds.