Free A Baron in Her Bed by Maggi Andersen Page A

towards her. “Trust that I will say nothing.”
    “Thank you, my lord.” Relieved the matter was now well in hand, she turned and led him back to the crowd clustered by the fireplace.
    “My lord, ladies, and gentleman, dinner is served,” Lady Kemble’s long-faced butler announced in a grave voice. One might think a tribunal awaited them instead of a meal.
    Lady Kemble tucked her hand through Guy’s arm. She glowered at Horatia. “Mr. Oakley is to escort Miss Cavendish.”
    When Frederick Oakley, a rejected suitor of Horatia’s, offered his arm, it caused an embarrassing moment to pass between them. He managed a faint smile that spoke of deep regret, and they proceeded through the doorway in a stately manner. Once seated at the long dining table, Horatia found herself between Mr. Oakley and the curate, at some distance from the baron, who sat at Lady Kemble’s right. Eustace sat on her ladyship’s left with her father across the table next to an attractive widow in a gown of deep violet silk. Mrs. Illingworth had just emerged from her period of mourning.
    While Mr. Oakley paused to draw breath during his account of the abundance of vegetables produced by his new hot house, Horatia picked up her glass and sipped the light, fruity wine. The result of her conversation with Lord Fortescue was not as tidy as she hoped. His flippant attitude had failed to reassure her. Would he keep his promise? Well, you wished for excitement and now you’ve got it, she told herself sternly.
    The servants served soup, followed by halibut in cream sauce and a variety of vegetables. The delicate, buttery aromas reminded Horatia of how little she’d eaten all day.
    The curate talked of the weather, the babies christened in the last month, and last Sunday’s sermon in which he’d discussed dealing with disappointments and quite cleverly, he thought, based it on Moses. Then, to Horatia’s relief, having been in attendance last Sunday and suffered through it; he turned his attention to dissecting the fish. From the other end of the table, Lady Kemble begged Lord Fortescue to describe his ordeal from beginning to end.
    Horatia’s shoulders tensed. “There’s very little to tell,” he said. “I do not wish to scare the ladies. The worst thing to happen was that I rode into the branch of a tree and lost my seat.” He laughed and put his hand to his forehead. “Then I lost my horse and almost lost my head.” His gaze slid down the table and alighted on Horatia. She almost choked on a mouthful of fish.
    “And did you find your horse again?” asked the curate, who preferred all the threads of a story tied up.
    “Fortunately, it turned up at Rosecroft Hall before I did. It had more sense than I.”
    At his words, a concerned murmur went round the table but faded as the third course – a dressed goose, roast beef, and a loin of pork – were brought in. The baron’s gaze sought Horatia’s, and his eyes twinkled wickedly. We have a secret , he seemed to say. She shivered, and her knife slipped from her nerveless fingers.
    Then conversation turned to other matters. Horatia motioned to the footman to pour her another glass of wine and earned a disapproving look from the matron across the table. As she sipped her second glass, her tight muscles loosened and her head swam in a not unpleasant fashion.
    Why did Lord Fortescue stare at her so? If he intended to torture her, he was succeeding. She clung to the hope that she had allowed her imagination to get the better of her, that he hadn’t discovered the truth, and she would emerge from this escapade unscathed.
    At the completion of the meal, Lady Kemble clapped her hands to gain everyone’s attention. “In honour of the Prince Regent, who some months ago introduced a new dance into society, the musicians will play a waltz. All those who feel brave enough to attempt it are invited to participate. But I warn you, those in poor health should just watch!”
    With a murmur of delight,