The Baron Next Door (Prelude to a Kiss) (4 page)

“You.”
The word was curse on her lips.

He couldn’t have put it better himself.

A
nd here Charity thought all the trials of this day were behind her.

The baron lifted his scarred eyebrow in condescension. “Very good, Miss Effington. Proper use of pronouns is always to be admired.”

Saints above, but the man was insufferable! She cast about for a scathing rejoinder, something to wipe the superior expression from his smug, handsome face, but of course no words would come. As frustration billowed in her chest like a building storm cloud, she crossed her arms protectively and glared at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t see how that’s any business of yours, but, as it happens, I was just leaving.” He gave a mocking little bow, then turned, preparing to depart before she ever even formulated a proper retort.
Blast it all!

“Lord Cadgwith! What a lovely surprise.” Grandmama’s booming voice startled them both, making Charity jump and stopping the baron where he stood. She had completely forgotten her grandmother was alighting behind her, thanks to the unwelcome distraction.

Blowing out a breath, Lord Cadgwith visibly worked to turn his lips up into something vaguely resembling a smile as he faced the older woman. “Lady Effington, how nice to see you.” He spoke loudly, his words carefully formed. Charity begrudgingly conceded that it was well done of him to remember to do so.
Not
that it was enough to make up for his rudeness of a moment ago, and it didn’t even begin to offset his atrocious behavior of earlier.

“You must be here for the Potters’ little soiree,” Grandmama responded, her eyes sparkling with delight in the dancing lamplight. “How fortuitous that we should arrive together.”

He cleared his throat, switching his weight from one foot to the other. “Actually, I was just leaving. But I do hope you and your granddaughter enjoy your evening.”

“Oh, you must stay for a little while longer, my lord. We’ve only just arrived, and I would so love to learn more about you.” Without waiting for him to offer—indeed, without even giving him a chance, Grandmama slipped her arm from beneath her light wrap and snaked it around his elbow. “There, now. Shall we?”

It was all Charity could do not to laugh out loud at the baron’s stricken expression. Though she held her tongue, she freely grinned at him with absolute satisfaction, positively
daring
him to extract himself from the situation.

His narrowed gaze was as cold as the Thames in January.

Charity only smiled that much more broadly. Never mind that she’d rather be escorted by Napoleon himself than the baron; it was worth the discomfort to know he was miserable. “Why, yes, Grandmama. I think we shall.”

Was that grinding teeth she heard? One could hope
.
She waited, smile in place, until at last he nodded.

“If you insist.”

With shoulders stiff and jaw clenched, he led the way to the front door. He may have had an early lead in the encounter, but she was definitely the victor. Now all she had to do was figure out how to avoid the man for the rest of the evening.

A prospect that proved much more difficult than she could have anticipated when Mrs. Potter imparted to her with whispered delight that Charity was to have the
honor
of sitting beside him at dinner. It was Charity’s turn to grind her teeth as she attempted to smile gracefully at her hostess. In hindsight, she should have realized they would likely be seated together, with him being a baron and she the daughter of a viscount.

“Lord Cadgwith is family, Miss Effington,” the older woman confided, pride beaming from her apple cheeks to her sweetly pursed lips. “My cousin was married to the old baron, God rest his soul.” She glanced briefly heavenward before meeting Charity’s gaze again, concern clouding her coffee-colored eyes. “Such a shame, that was. A terrible shock, to be sure.” She shook her head gravely.

Despite herself, curiosity tugged at Charity like an insistent child.
What
had happened to the old baron? Clearly something tragic. Had the man been the new Lord Cadgwith’s father? Brother? A cousin or uncle? She wasn’t normally the overly curious type, but, for some reason, she couldn’t suppress her interest. “Was the old baron’s death recent?”

“Just over seven months past. Poor Felicity—Lady Cadgwith, that is—was in the family way. The whole estate was in limbo until the baby was born two months ago. Unfortunately for my cousin, the child was a girl, so the title and estate passed on to the new Lord Cadgwith.”

The older woman smiled as if to reassure Charity, and patted her hand. “But the new baron will do beautifully, I haven’t a doubt. Quite the catch now, he is. Young and handsome despite the, well,
you know
,” she whispered, widening her eyes for emphasis.

Yes, Charity knew exactly. She nodded absently as her gaze flicked to where he stood talking with Mr. Potter and Sir Anthony Harrison. The scar through his eyebrow was like a stark road carved through an otherwise perfect wheat field. The ones down his temple were less distinct, but still visible even from half a room away. Did the scars have something to do with the tragic end to the old earl? No—they looked too old for that.

He nodded at whatever Sir Anthony was saying, but showed no real interest. His posture was stiff, and there wasn’t a hint of a smile that she could see. Funny, he didn’t look like a man overjoyed with his recent fortune in life. Of course, with his wet-rag personality, who was to say what his happy face looked like?

And besides, none of this was really her business. The less she knew about the man, the better. Resolutely she turned her attention back to her hostess. Her stomach sank when she saw Mrs. Potter’s sly smile. Oh no—clearly the woman had the wrong idea about Charity’s interest in the man.

She smiled tightly. “I’m sure there are those who may find him”—she cast about for an adjective that might describe him that was even remotely positive, and said at last—“interesting.” Manners were manners, and the baron was family to this woman. Never let it be said that she hadn’t learned from all the etiquette lessons her parents had invested so heavily in.

Mrs. Potter chuckled. “I imagine there are several young ladies here tonight who envy you your position.” She winked as though she had just imparted the greatest of gifts upon Charity, and not the unwanted company of her self-important neighbor. “Well, I must go chat with your grandmother. It is so nice to see her looking so well. Do enjoy yourself, dear.”

Charity nodded, holding her smile in place until Mrs. Potter walked away. Sure, she’d enjoy herself for the next half hour. But all bets would be off when dinner started.

*   *   *

Judging by the icy silence to his left, Miss Effington was about as happy to be sitting next to Hugh as he was to be sitting next to her. Which, in turn, was about as happy as he was to be there at all. He took another draft of his red wine, wishing it were something stronger.

To his right, Miss Remington, the overly perky blonde with an unfortunate tendency to nibble her food like a nervous rabbit, set down her fork and smiled. “Do tell us, Lord Cadgwith: How are you finding Bath?”

He was rusty on his societal manners, but even he knew it was best to avoid words like
tedious
when describing a person’s city of residence. “Tolerable, Miss Remington.” Hopefully, leaving the
barely
off his answer was concession enough.

She tittered nervously, her nose scrunching up as though she were about to sneeze. “Well, clearly our fair city has made little impression upon you, sir. But soon the music festival shall be in full swing, and you cannot help but be enchanted then.”

A small, barely audible scoffing sound came from his left. He turned toward Miss Effington, whose frosty gray eyes rose to meet his gaze. “I beg your pardon, Miss Effington?”

“Pardon granted,” she replied tartly, smiling mirthlessly before spearing another forkful of the cinnamon-glazed carrots.

Ah yes, his own words tossed back at him. Fair enough. He hadn’t the desire to speak with her, anyhow. He stabbed a piece of lamb and lifted it to his lips. The sooner this cursed dinner was over, the sooner he could make his excuses. His temples felt as though his head was pressed within a vise, the pressure growing by the minute.

Why the devil had he allowed himself to be coerced by her grandmother, anyway? Yes, she reminded him of his own grandmother who had died years ago, but it wasn’t as though he owed her anything. It mattered not whether she thought him rude. She was little more than a temporary neighbor—just like her granddaughter.

He glanced to the gold-rimmed plate to his left, where the granddaughter in question’s long, tapered fingers precisely worked her utensils, cutting the meat into perfect little squares. She was uncomfortable. Served her right after the discomfort she had brought his staff today in her ill-conceived effort to punish him.

“I almost forgot,” he said casually, slicing into his own meat. He waited for her to take the bait for several seconds. Nothing. Just as well—he shouldn’t have engaged her in the first place.

“Yes?”

He nearly grinned. Her tone was exceedingly reluctant. She knew he had won by getting her to reply. He took a bite of lamb, taking his time chewing. Swallowing, he indulged in a leisurely sip of his wine before dabbing his lips and turning to face her. “My staff was so
very
impressed with your serenade today. Pity I wasn’t home to hear it.”

A blush stole up her chest, momentarily diverting his attention. “Indeed,” she said making an obvious effort at nonchalance. “I’ll have to make certain you are at home next time. Early morning ought to be a sure bet.”

God, but she was a pest. He bit down on the unexpected humor that lifted one corner of his mouth. She looked sweet enough, but clearly she had spunk.

“So you
are
a music lover,” Miss Remington broke in, her trilling voice overly bright. “I myself am as well. Indeed, I have played the harp for years. There should be
much
to entertain you this summer, I’m sure.”

Hugh blinked, looking back to the blonde with a lifted brow. Was that innuendo he heard in this young miss’s voice? Good God, he hoped not.

Miss Effington chuckled softly beside him, and, against his better judgment, he looked at her. She grinned innocently at him before leaning over to address the rabbit. “Fear not, Miss Remington. I’m absolutely certain he shall find himself with more entertainment than he knows what to do with.”

Growing bolder, was she? Well, the threat was toothless, given his confidence the estate agent would be able to work something out in short order. If not, Hugh was quite prepared to bribe the man until he did. She wasn’t a terrible person, but she was most definitely a terrible neighbor for him.

Some little bit of the devil came over him, and he found himself saying, “Such confidence, Miss Effington. It is a shame that Bath has provided precious little entertainment so far. In fact, this very morning I was awakened by the most awful of noise from the townhouse next door. I can only hope it wasn’t a dying cat.”

Miss Remington’s knife screeched across her plate as she gaped at him.
Oh, for the love of God
— He’d already forgotten she was following their conversation. That’s what he got for indulging the long-dormant desire to tease. He drew a deep breath before saying evenly. “An exaggeration, Miss Remington. I apologize for my poor humor.”

Her gaze shifted slightly away from his as she gave an uncomfortable little giggle. “Yes, of course.”

Well, he hadn’t been looking to impress anyone this evening, and he was succeeding spectacularly. He longed to rub his throbbing temples or, better yet, simply abandon the evening altogether and head home. Clearly he wasn’t fit for mixed company.

“Do you often find yourself in poor humor?”

He turned his attention back to Miss Effington, who fluttered her eyelashes expectantly. She had such an incredibly innocent look about her, which irked him for some reason. She was probably eighteen or nineteen years old, with no real experiences and certainly nothing noteworthy about her. She was just one of a thousand empty-headed debutantes hoping to snag a husband. Undoubtedly, that was exactly the reason she played her dreadful pianoforte in the first place. God knew a proper English wife must have accomplishments.

He gave a careless shrug. “Depends on the company.” Not exactly the truth. He found himself in black moods more often than he’d like to admit. It was none of her damned business, though. For her, life was little more than sitting around in her pretty gowns with her unblemished skin and undoubtedly petal-soft hands.

He gave himself a mental shake. Christ, he didn’t used to be like this. It was hard to remember when he had readily laughed and flirted with young women, but it had happened. Back when he was young and naïve, and was whole in body and spirit. With the dull pounding in his head blossoming to sharp jabs, he lifted his goblet to his lips and drained the rest of his wine.

“Is that to say your humor is related to the quality of your company?” Miss Effington mused, oblivious to his maudlin turn of thought. “If so, then one must assume you find yourself in poor humor whenever you are alone.”

Her comment caught him off guard, coming from her oh so innocent, angelic facade. She sat with proud, straight shoulders and steady eye contact even as a dull pink blush rose up her neck and suffused her cheeks. Without a doubt she irritated him, but he had to admire, however reluctantly, her nerve. After a moment, he tilted his head an inch or so. “
Touché
, Miss Effington.
Touché
.”

*   *   *

Aha!
Charity bit back a grin, ridiculously proud of herself. She never thought of those sorts of witty rejoinders until it was too late to say them. And if by chance she did think of it, she never had the nerve to speak it. But really, a
dying cat
?

He raised an eyebrow, stretching the silvery scars along his temple. “Regardless, I am most often in my own company, so my humor, poor or otherwise, is my own concern.”

Somehow she wasn’t surprised that he was little in the fellowship of others. “Pray, you needn’t feel obliged to change that while here in Bath. Somehow we shall scrape along without you.”