Free The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) by Miranda Davis Page A

Christian name — much less a pet name — whoever you are!”
    “Let me explain.”
    “Why should I, you lying, deceitful—”
    “Now, none of that. I didn’t lie.”
    “No, ‘Mr. Tyler’?”
    “Well, I omitted my surname and you leapt to a conclusion I was loath to correct.”
    “Oh, yes, let’s discuss loathing, shall we? You came thundering down a hill yelling at me, ‘The baron’s riding by!’ Did you not?”
    “Well, I was, wasn’t I?”
    She slitted her eyes at him and poked the fork in his direction. “ You had me lie face down in the dirt, with insects crawling on me, while you pretended to greet yourself.”  
    Clun couldn’t help one coughed laugh before he sobered up to look contrite.  
    “And what about ‘albino monkey hands with foppish amounts of lace’?”  
    He snorted and struggled to school his features.  
    “You, sir, are detestable.”

    * * *

    He was detestable and yet Elizabeth couldn’t detest him satisfactorily.  
    She let fly her recriminations.; yet even as she upbraided him, a corner of her mind assimilated a far more pleasant shock. He was Lord Clun. Not some ancient, swollen, monkey-pawed wineskin suffering all the symptoms of decrepitude.
    “Now, now, careful harridan or you’ll put someone’s eye out,” he said and sent a shiver down her spine.  
    Furious as Elizabeth was, his voice sang deliciously over the word ‘ha Rrr idan’ and made it sound as sweet as a term of endearment.
    He dared insult her yet she wanted to smile.  
    Again, the mellifluous quality of Lord Clun’s deep voice captivated her. His English was standard-issue upper class but within the sound of his words was a sensual something that disturbed her in the pleasantest way. The subtle roll of his r’s and the slightest whisper of a trill in his th’s, made his speech play like water slipping over stones in a stream. His Welsh-infused voice was deep, melodic and profoundly seductive. His every utterance, even crabby name calling, was a pleasure to hear. Only let him speak — recite a dictionary or even legal notices in the newspaper — and if he kept at it long enough, she would swoon in his arms. In addition to the natural music in his speech, a teasing tone every so often belied his gruff rebukes and scowling demeanor.  
    Lord Clun might do nicely.
    Elizabeth tried to remain outraged as she faced him, fork in hand, because she knew righteous indignation gave her the advantage. He’d hoaxed her and for that he must grovel. Still, she could not ignore the waves of relief she felt. Only consider, Mr. Tyler, the man she’d mourned as a Hopeless Ineligible, was her intended. On the whole, she began to feel more sanguine about their marriage.  
    Still, on principle, she held him at tine points.
    When next she glanced up at his face, she found his lips turning blueish-gray. She looked down, took in his sodden breeches and ruined boots and noticed the chill in the air. He stood before her, wet, suffering and smiling cautiously, attempting perhaps to gauge her mood.  
    “If I weren’t a Christian, I’d skewer you as you deserve.” She lowered the fork. “Well? Don’t stand there, come in where it’s warm.” She drew him into the cottage. His arm was very solid, just as she remembered from their first meeting at The Sundew. It was, she thought, so rare to find a well-born man with such brawn. Though still furious, she had to admit things could’ve turned out far worse.  
    She added wood to the fire till the blaze crackled.
    “You are wet through and shivering. How will I live with myself if you succumb to a lung fever?” She clucked and sat him down on a broken-backed chair next to the hearth. She offered him her shawl and he took it gratefully. “Can your boots be removed?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “Well?” She held out her hands and he lifted one filthy boot up reluctantly. She gripped the mud-slimed footwear by the top of the toe and back of the heel and gave it a hard