The Baron Next Door (Prelude to a Kiss) (9 page)

Humming beneath her breath, she slipped into the music room and carefully set down her candelabra atop the polished surface of the pianoforte. So much music filled her head, the silence of the room didn’t even register. The evening was magical, even now. Especially now. She wanted to set fingers to keys before the notes got away from her.

The room was stifling compared to the cool night air she had just been in. Letting her shawl slip off her shoulders and pool on the bench, she walked around to the narrow glass doors and pulled them open. She shivered as the chilly air touched her warm skin. There was a hint of moisture in the air, though not enough to cause fog. The stars were visible from where she stood. They twinkled like a million tiny pieces of crystal as the moon shed white light over the narrow balcony.

Shadows at night—who would have thought?

One of the shadows moved, and she squeaked in surprise. With her heart racing, she leaned over the threshold, her eyes adjusting to the darkness as she peered toward the balcony next door. A figure emerged from the gloom as her vision improved.

“Lord Cadgwith?” She didn’t hide her shock at finding him there—it was well past midnight! Why would he be sitting out here, alone in the dark?

“Good evening, Miss Effington.” His voice was low and quiet in the stillness of the night. He sat in a simple wooden chair, his feet propped on the metal railing.

She froze, unsure of what to do. She hadn’t seen him since the encounter out front almost a week earlier, when they had parted on less than cordial terms. But tonight he seemed subdued, docile even. He stayed where he was, not bothering to rise at her presence. She was glad for that; she didn’t want him towering over her. He was less intimidating like this, especially with his unkempt hair and the first hints of a beard shadowing his jaw.

She drew in a startled breath as she realized his shirt collar was open and his neck cloth quite absent. The darkness between the split white panels of his shirt had to be his skin.

His
bare
skin.

Her mouth went dry. She shouldn’t be out here. She certainly shouldn’t be seeing him in any state of dishabille. “I, um, beg your pardon, my lord. Do excuse me.”

Clumsy with nerves and bit too much drink, she turned, almost banging her elbow on the door casing in her haste.

“Wait,” he said, his voice sharp.

She stopped. Did he, of all people, actually want to her to stay? Taking a tentative step onto the balcony, she said, “Yes?”

He sighed, dropping his feet to the floor and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Running a hand over the back of his neck, he said, “It occurs to me, Miss Effington, that I have not been the consummate gentleman where you are concerned.”

She quirked an eyebrow. A bit of an understatement.

“Therefore,” he continued, dropping his hand and looking directly at her, “I feel I must apologize.”

Apologize?
She gaped at him for a moment, at a loss of what to say. Was this the real Lord Cadgwith? Or was he going to confuse her again, acting as though they were enemies the next time they met?

She tilted her head, scrutinizing the words. He did seem quite earnest. There was absolutely no irony, no sarcasm, no ambiguity in his tone. Though she couldn’t see his eyes clearly in the shadow of the moon, he actually sounded sincere. Tired—exhausted, even—but honest.

“Er . . . thank you?”

He chuckled quietly, a rusty sound from deep in his chest. “I must not be doing it right if you’re questioning your response.”

As her eyes adjusted further, she could see his ragged, almost haggard expression. Something within her softened. He looked beaten, as though he hadn’t any fight left in him. It was so starkly different from the other times they had been together, she had no idea what to make of it. Where was the brusque manner she associated with him? Was this what Grandmama had sensed within him when she spoke of his wounded heart?

Charity stepped closer to the railing separating their balconies. The landlord had mentioned that the two townhouses had originally been one. Apparently, his solution to the single balcony was to have a waist-high decorative metal divider installed to split it in two. Since this was her first time to actually use it, it hadn’t occurred to her before now how very unprivate it could be.

“Thank you,” she said with more conviction. “And you’re not the only one. I think the both of us could have a lesson in manners, when it comes to the other.”

“Indeed.” He settled back in the chair, letting his head fall against the high back. “My brother’s widow, Felicity, has quite given up on her quest to civilize me. You see how in vain her efforts have been thus far.” He gave a tired, self-deprecating half smile that somehow made her belly give a little flip.

“It would seem that they are starting to have an effect. Her efforts, I mean.” She curled her fingers over the cool metal railing. Her training, on the other hand, seemed to have abandoned her completely. She couldn’t seem to force her gaze away from his open collar.

“Something like that.”

Belatedly the implication of his words occurred to her: his brother’s widow. A piece of the mystery that was the Baron Cadgwith clicked into place. “So, was it your brother, then? Was he the one from whom you inherited the title?” It was too bold a question by half, but the lingering effect of the Madeira made her brave. Or was it nosy?

He sighed heavily and nodded. “Yes.”

A wealth of sadness resided in the word. Regret? Pain? His grief pulled at her, softening her heart further. “I’m so very sorry.”

“No one is sorrier than I.” He gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “In more ways than one.”

She knew some men who would consider it a boon to inherit a title from a brother’s untimely demise, but clearly that couldn’t be further from the truth in this case. She had never had a sibling, but she had dearly wanted one. It was a relationship she envied, and she felt his loss keenly. It was in the rasp of his voice, the slope of his shoulders, the tightening of his jaw.

His meaning sank in then, that he himself was a sorry person. She shook her head. “As much as I might have agreed with you yesterday, I think there is some goodness in you yet, my lord.”

He tilted his held up, searching her expression. Did he expect sarcasm? Irony? She allowed his inspection, allowed him to see the truth in it.

The silence stretched for a few moments until at last he let his head rest back against his chair again. “How was the ball?”

She blinked at his sudden change in subject.
The ball?
What did that have to do with anything? “One of the finest I have ever been to. It is a pity you did not attend.”

“As I said before, I am no music lover. For me, there is no more pleasing music than silence.”

Loosening her grip on the railing, she tucked her hands beneath her arms and leaned a shoulder against the exterior wall. “I find you are an enigma. Why come to a city in the midst of a music festival if not to enjoy the music? It’s not as though you’re here for the waters,” she said, wry humor lifting her brow.

“No, indeed,” he said, so softly she almost missed it. Blowing out a breath, he unfolded himself from the chair. His shirt, unrestricted by waistcoat or jacket, billowed loosely where it tucked into his pants. The wanness of his countenance struck her again. Was he unwell? Something he ate, perhaps?

“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Effington, I believe I will retire.”

“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, straightening her posture and dropping her hands to her sides. “Good night, my lord.”

He nodded before disappearing inside. The air stirred as he closed the door, and she detected the slight hint of spice and spirits. Could that be the cause of his subdued mood and quiet reflection? Could spirits be responsible for softening his normally sharp temperament?

As she slipped back inside, she realized that the music in her head had left her, and was replaced by the low, dark tones of a piece utterly foreign to her. She shook her head—the wine must be playing tricks on her.

The baron desired silence, did he? Well, tonight, just this once, she would grant his wish. It was the least she could do for the pain she had seen deep within him tonight. Clicking the door closed, she retrieved her candelabra and padded back to the corridor. For now, she was content to let the music within her remain where it was.

Tomorrow they might go back to disliking each other, or at the very least avoiding each other, but as she glided up the stairs, her hips swaying in time with her internal music, she decided that in that exact moment, she might actually like the baron next door.

*   *   *

Not bothering to light a candle, Hugh pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the end of the bed. God, but he was weary to his very marrow. Today’s attack had lasted upward of six hours, the pain throbbing in his head like waves pounding a shipwrecked vessel. He had already been torn apart, but still it hadn’t stopped.

He undid the fastenings of his pants and let them drop to the floor before climbing into the tall, imposing master bed. As exhausted as he was, he was so damn grateful to feel no pain, no lingering pressure or residual throbbing.

Few people realized how freeing such a state was. To be able to move and see and speak like a normal person. Although he couldn’t say how normal he had been with Miss Effington just then. She had looked gorgeous, fresh and sweet and alive with the joy of her evening. For once, he had wanted to talk with her. To exchange civil words while his mind was relatively unclouded and her claws were retracted.

He was glad for the encounter, no matter how unorthodox. Even though she had scoffed at the idea of someone like him needing the medicinal waters. Few people ever looked at him and suspected he would need such a thing. They looked at someone like Jacobson or any of the thousands of other gravely wounded soldiers and saw that they may require such treatment. But him? Besides a few old scars, he looked perfectly hale and hearty. Normal. The extent of his injury would be unfathomable to most.

And yet it was there.

He was an infirm, whether he wished to admit it or not. And though his attacks had been less frequent since his arrival, they were by no means gone. The idea of going home and being able to take up the full mantle of his responsibilities still seemed almost laughable.

He slid beneath the cool sheets and lay back against the fluffy goose-down pillow. What would Miss Effington think of him if she knew what sort of man he really was? Would she think even less of him than she already did? Was that possible? After the way their encounters had gone, it was hard to say.

Only tonight, he had glimpsed something different in her moonlit eyes. Compassion? Understanding? Pity? He wasn’t sure, but he felt whatever it was, she had seen him in a whole different light tonight.

She’d caught him at a moment when his defenses were weak, his body exhausted, and, because of that, she’d seen a glimpse through the door he usually kept locked tight. How much of the real Hugh had she seen? He shifted uncomfortably beneath the covers, disliking the sudden surge of vulnerability.

The less she saw, the better.

“G
ood afternoon, my lady. How do you do?” Careful to adhere to proper etiquette, Charity greeted May’s aunt with a solemn curtsy. Lady Stanwix could not have been in starker contrast to her niece. Everything about the woman demanded propriety and perfect manners.

The older woman peered up at her from beneath the lace of her generous mob cap. “I am well, Miss Effington, as I hope you are. How fares your grandmother in this dreadful heat?”

Charity wisely refrained from pointing out that the lady was wearing easily twice the amount of fabric necessary by today’s fashion standards. No doubt she was of the opinion that modern gowns were dreadfully revealing and sorely lacking in the sort of voluminous skirts she clearly favored.

“She is well. Thank you for asking. I shall pass along your kind concern for her health.” It was odd to discover that the two women knew each other. Though Grandmama had declined to elaborate, apparently Lady Stanwix had caused quite the uproar in her day by ensnaring the old earl some thirty years ago. Looking at her now, with her exceedingly modest style of dress and wisps of gray hair framing her somber face, it was impossible to believe she ever been anything but a stern matron. “And thank you for allowing us to rehearse in your lovely home.”

The former countess pinched her lips together and glanced toward the door. “I daresay it will be a welcome change to hear good, respectable music in this house again.”

Charity bit her lip against responding to such an underhanded insult to May’s unusual but beautiful music. Better to fight with kindness—and deliberate obtuseness. “Yes, you must be so pleased to have such a talented musician staying with you now. My grandmother has said frequently how glad she is to hear song in her home once more.”

Lady Stanwix’s mouth flattened into a thin line, clearly displeased with Charity’s response.

“Good afternoon, Charity!” May’s greeting preceded her into the drawing room, her soft pink skirts swishing as she hurried in. She wore a pink sari-style sash across her chest, with golden flowers and deep green leaves embroidered along both edges. It was a much more exotic choice than usual. Perhaps it was because they were meeting here today, and she likely wouldn’t be leaving the house.

It was a shame, if that was the case. May looked like a golden-haired goddess of the Far East—a perfect mix of two normally disparate worlds. Fitting, since that was exactly what she was.

“Good afternoon! You are looking quite lovely today.” Did she imagine the soft, disagreeable sound from Lady Stanwix’s direction? Charity smiled broadly to her friend. “Are you ready to rehearse? I’m eager to begin.”

“Certainly. Hargrove,” she said, turning her attention to the loitering butler, “do please see Miss Wembley to the music room when she arrives.” At the man’s silent nod, May led the way to the small music room tucked at the back of the townhouse.

For such an enlightened purpose, the room was decidedly drab. The quality of the fabrics and furniture was obviously superior, but a less inspiring color palette, Charity could scarce imagine. Olive green and dark brown were the exact wrong choice for the dark wood of the pianoforte and trim. Even the antique brass frames and sconces seemed dull.

Closing the door, May offered an apologetic cringe. “So sorry about that. I don’t know why Hargrove took you to the drawing room instead of straight here, where I was practicing. Was she very awful to you?”

“Not so bad,” she said running a finger over the yellowed keys of the pianoforte. “Has this been used in the past decade? It’s so fine, I hate to think of it sitting here unplayed.”

“Only a half decade, I think,” she said with a laugh. “My cousin Elizabeth married five or so years ago, and as far as I know, she was the last one to use it.”

Charity played a few scales. “Remarkably in tune. This shall do beautifully.”

“My aunt is very particular about all things in this house. She wants everything just so—including for me to set aside my dreadful ways and act like a
proper Englishwoman
.” The last was said in a fair impersonation of Lady Stanwix’s clipped nasal tones. May rolled her eyes. “If she is how a proper Englishwoman should behave, I think I’d rather stow away on the nearest ship.

“Oh,” she said, brightening, “speaking of ships, that reminds me.” She hurried to a credenza pressed against one olive-toned wall. She lifted one of the two bolts of fabric from its surface and turned to present it like an offering to the gods. “For you, madam.”

Charity stepped forward, her hand coming to her mouth. It was exquisite. “Oh, May,” she breathed, running a reverent hand over the shimmery peach satin. “It’s gorgeous!”

Elegant cream, blush, and peach embroidered blossoms unfurled across the length of it, the vines swooping and curving like a living thing. Ivory-colored birds with hints of teal and purple on their chests nestled among the foliage. Crystals had been sewn in place of eyes, giving a hint of sparkle as the fabric moved. “You cannot give such a thing away—you must keep it for yourself.”

“Not at all. I prefer the more dramatic colors to accentuate the embroidery. And at the time I bought it, I was still bronzed from the tropical sun. Now I’m as pale as a fish belly and would look dreadfully washed-out in it. You, on the other hand,” she said, holding the bolt just beneath Charity’s chin, “with your auburn hair, will look like an irresistible confection. Perfection.”

Charity moved to the brass-framed mirror hanging between the room’s two windows. It really was glorious. Sumptuous, rich, and perfectly suited to her unusual hair and lightly freckled skin. Marianne would eat her words if she ever saw Charity wear it. Out of nowhere, she wondered what the baron would think of her in something like this. A thrill raced through her veins, spreading through her whole body. She did her best to ignore the sensation—it shouldn’t matter what the man thought of her.

Yet last night she had seen him in an entirely different way. A small part of her wanted to see more of
that
Lord Cadgwith.

“What do you think?” May asked, snapping Charity from her wandering thoughts.

She smiled at May’s reflection. “I think you are much too kind for offering such a thing. I also think that I am much too selfish to refuse.”

May grinned, her white teeth flashing brightly. “Thank God.”

The door opened then, and they both turned just as the butler let Sophie in. Instead of her usual palette of yellows and whites, she wore a pretty pale blue dress with a matching ribbon threaded through her hair. Even without the cheery color, her smile was as sunny as ever.

“So sorry I’m late. Mama snagged me as I walked out the door, to discuss our plans for this evening. Not that she couldn’t have done so during any of the previous five hours in which I was awake and unoccupied. Anyway, are either of you attending Lord Derington’s dinner tomorrow? Please say that you are. I would rather not spend the entire evening attempting not to make a ninny of myself in front of a bunch of strangers. Though I do wonder how many will be strangers. It could be all the same people we always see in London, for all I know.”

May shook her head. “Unfortunately, I shall be right here. I don’t think my aunt is keen to foist me on society again just yet. I think she’s holding out hope of civilizing me between now and the recital.” Her tone was dry, though exasperation lurked behind it. “Thank goodness she let me attend the ball last night, though she is still upset with me for striking out on my own.”

“Well, I certainly hope you resist her efforts to tame you,” Charity said wryly, setting down the fabric before reaching out to give her fingers a squeeze. “I think anyone would find you interesting and intriguing, as evidenced by how brilliantly you did last night. And speaking of the ball . . .” She trailed off, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

“Oh
yes
,” May said, grinning devilishly. “The
ball
.”

They both turned to Sophie, who cringed, her cheeks brightening all over again. “You didn’t forget that, I see.” She sighed dramatically, then plopped down onto the nearest chair. “I may or may not have made a complete fool of myself the last time I spoke to Lord Evansleigh, and I wasn’t expecting to see him there at all, so when I spotted him I more or less panicked. Not terribly sophisticated of me, to say the least.”

Charity sat in the opposite chair and patted her friend’s knee. “Oh, you didn’t make yourself look the fool. And besides, the earl is always so nice, he’d hardly hold it against you if you did.” He was one of the few people who had neither avoided her nor gossiped about her after she and Richard parted ways. In fact, Lord Evansleigh was the first to ask her to dance at her first ball of the past Season.

Sophie pressed her palms to her cheeks and shook her head. “I know, I know, I should just forget it. But you know me and my mouth; sometimes it has a mind of its own. The last time I saw him, I asked him how his
father
was.”

“Ah,” Charity said, cringing a bit on her behalf. The old earl had been dead for years. “Well, I’m sure he’s probably already forgotten about it. I wouldn’t worry with it overmuch.”

“Says the woman who always gives her words due thought,” Sophie grumbled good-naturedly. “Of course I know you’re right. Maybe someday I’ll be able to face him again. In the meantime, I shall simply have to hope he won’t be at Lord Derington’s party. I’m quite looking forward to it and would hate to have to spend the evening hiding in the retiring room.” She gave a teasing wink. “Which brings me back to my original question. Will you be attending, Charity?”

Nodding, Charity said, “Grandmama and I shall be there. Lord Derington is well-known to my family. His father, the earl, is a longtime friend of my father’s.”

This was a dinner that she was actually looking forward to. Derington had always been an admirer of Charity’s playing. He was tall and broad enough to almost be intimidating, but his jovial disposition made him infinitely approachable.

“Oh, thank goodness. Though we shall miss you, May. Oh!” she exclaimed, noticing the fabric for the first time. “How beautiful is that?”

Charity couldn’t help but laugh at Sophie’s quick change of topics. Her mind moved as fast as a runaway carriage at times. “Isn’t it, though? May very generously gave it to me just now, though I must think of a way to repay her.”

“Not at all. And, Sophie, I have one for you as well.” She returned to the credenza and presented a bolt of creamy butter yellow silk. Both gold and silver thread twined to create a brilliant metallic design that gleamed in the afternoon light.

Sophie couldn’t have been more thrilled. After much exclamation and admiration, draping the fabric this way and that over her own gown, she looked up with wide eyes. “I know! Why don’t we have special gowns made just for the recital? We can choose a common design, and each use our own special fabric. We could let May consult with the modiste so we all look properly exotic. What do you think?”

“I think,” May said with a grin, “that is a perfect idea.”

“Seconded,” Charity added. She could hardly wait to have a gown made of her peach satin, and the recital would be the perfect place to wear it. “However, if we are to be ready for the recital, we must get to rehearsing!”

They quickly took their places at their respective instruments. Charity rolled her shoulders and tilted her neck back and forth to stretch the muscles. Between their practices and the work she had done preparing the pieces, her muscles seemed to protest every time she sat down at the bench. But she wasn’t about to allow a little pain to get in the way of her music.

She did a few more scales, feeling out the new instrument. “We won’t be bothering anyone, will we?”

May looked up from tuning her strings, her brow lifted. “Lord Cad has made an impression on you, hasn’t he?”

Lord
Cad
?

Her knowing look somehow made Charity blush, and she rushed to fill the silence. “No! Well, I mean, yes, in the sense that I am more mindful of those around me. But that is the only thing he has impressed upon me.”

Her mind leaped straight to the image of him draped across his chair in the darkness, his feet propped against the railing. None of his insolence or arrogance had been apparent. Up until yesterday she would have said Lord Cad was the perfect term for him. But now . . . well, it just did not seem so fitting anymore. She absently rubbed at the back of her neck, easing the tightness even as she remembered him doing the exact same thing last night.

May’s hands went straight to her waist. “Charity Effington, your cheeks are bright as hot coals. I thought you thoroughly disliked the man. Have there been any developments we should know about?”

Both her friends stared at her with great interest, making the blush that much worse. There had been developments, but for some reason, she wasn’t quite prepared to share the intimacy of the late-night visit. “I’m blushing because you are both looking at me. Nothing out of the ordinary with the baron. He’s still our neighbor, and I don’t see how that will change between now and the end of the summer.”

Sophie exchanged a wide-eyed glance with May. “I must say, that sounds quite a bit less disagreeable to you than it had a week ago. Was he at the ball last night? Drat it all, I will never forgive my mother for delaying our arrival so long. I just knew I would miss all the best parts of the evening.”

That was the good thing about Sophie: her comments were generally so meandering, one could choose which question one wished to respond to. “He was not in attendance last night, and you really weren’t that late—only a few minutes behind May and me.”

“You’re still blushing,” May pointed out, a bemused smile lifting her lips.

“I am ginger-haired and fair-skinned—I’m
always
blushing. Now, do leave me be, and let’s begin our practice.” She lifted her chin in her best no-nonsense impression, and May relented with a chuckle.

“Very well, have it your way. Sophie and I will simply have to fill in any details with our exceedingly overactive imaginations.”

Well, wasn’t this just mortifying? Especially since she wasn’t even sure what she thought of the man. He was still the same person who had barged rudely into her own home to insult her, not to mention pounding on the wall and hating her music.