Page 18 of Beguiling the Baron

Chapter 11

Hal stalked across the Turkish carpet and gazed out the study window. The Wyndhams were still here. If Lynch hadn’t contracted that damn quinsy, he’d have been rid of them by now.

Of course, he could have dealt with the matter himself, but it would mean he’d have to face up to them. Talking was so awkward. The more one spoke, the more entangled one became in the conversation, and he hated the impression of being trapped.

An image of Galatea’s beautiful, bright face swam before his mind’s eye. She’d have told him straight what she thought of him for so heinous an act of betrayal. He couldn’t help but applaud her courage in standing up to him, even when in his darkest mood.

He drummed his fingers on the stone windowsill. He wouldn’t have been able to remove the Wyndhams from Foxleaze immediately in any case, as he’d not yet decided how close, or how far away, their new home needed to be. He was their benefactor, after all, and would have to continue dealing with their business issues.

So, in the interim, he would simply have to cope with the bloodless battle going on between himself and Miss Wyndham-she with her desire to amend his manners and behavior, and he equally determined to change nothing.

Hal knew she disapproved of his appearance. Her lips flattened when they encountered one another, and she always ran her eyes over his black-clad form. Well, he’d made a concession by wearing a white shirt and cravat. That was all, for he was in mourning and only he would decide when to come out of it.

He’d seen her eyeing his hair too. Perhaps she believed, because it was often damp, he’d combed oil into it. This was not the case, of course—where was the point in putting pomade on one’s hair if one went for a bracing swim every day? It would be a waste of money.

He didn’t care what she thought of his appearance. Although the glimpse of himself in the lake the other day had given him pause for thought.

Hal stroked his chin. When had he last accepted a shave? He couldn’t remember. And the beard—if he intended to keep it—needed a trim, or it would become as straggly as his hair.

Not that it mattered.

It was warm, standing here with the rectangular glass panes intensifying the sunlight. If he were in the folly—where he ought to be currently—he’d be unaware of either the light or the warmth. He really ought to go and get on with his project.

Instead, his fingers reached for the window catch. This was a sash window, and he couldn’t recall the last time he’d opened it. The sound of the lead weights moving down inside the frame grated in his head, but it was worth it for the sweet air he sucked into his lungs.

A swallow skidded past, and moments later he heard the faint peeping of chicks from a nest nearby. Mary had always loved summer here, and so had he. The place was full of teeming life, with the lowing of cattle in the distant meadows, birds frantically proclaiming their territories, and the bees buzzing around the bobbing flower-heads.

Once he used to enjoy watching Polly from this window—she’d emerge onto the grass trailing a skipping rope, and she’d try to beat her previous total of jumps, counting out to herself under her breath. It was amusing when she became entangled and had to start again.

But nothing amused him now.

Turning away from the window, Hal clenched his teeth against the memories and the pain. Everything had changed so much in the past three years. There was no way of reversing the clock, of recapturing his lost happiness.

But he could make at least one change. The weather was balmy, after all—they’d already reached midsummer, and it wouldn’t be long before the blazing days of August arrived. Did he truly want to be sweltering under long hair and a beard?

A pull on the bell-rope brought his footman, Aldergate, to the door.

“Find Symons, will you? Tell him I’d like a shave.”

Was that an expression of triumph on the footman’s face? Surely a decision to shave wasn’t that significant an event?

A short while later, Hal was settled in the chair in front of his dressing table. He could see Symon’s face in the mirror as the man placed a towel around his shoulders. Like Aldergate, he seemed excessively cheerful today.

“Mrs. and Miss Wyndham have opened up the morning room, sir, and settled themselves down to their needlework because the light there at this time of day is exceedingly good. Or so they informed me.”

Hal’s reflection scowled at him. How dare they open a room in his house without his express permission? Or that of Mrs. Dunne? Had the irksome Miss Wyndham found a way to compel the servants to do her bidding?

Infuriating. But Hal shouldn’t admit to it, because being angry suggested he cared.

He’d made up his mind long ago to care a good deal less than he used to.

It hurt too much.

All the same, as soon as his shave was complete, he set off for the morning room to express his displeasure, but the scene before him brought him up short.

The Wyndhams had shifted the sofa around and now sat facing the window, accompanied by Polly on a small footstool. All three were absorbed in their tasks. Polly was trimming an old bonnet, tongue clenched between her teeth in concentration. Mrs. Wyndham was crocheting with hairpins, and Galatea embroidered a thin square of lawn. She gazed down at her needlework frame, her long dark lashes caressing porcelain cheeks, her luscious mouth pursed in concentration.

She was so lovely, his heart lurched.

Hal shook away his inappropriate, unwelcome response. But he couldn’t help continuing to observe her. The light was so clear today, it picked out every curl of her shining hair, every fold of her sprigged muslin dress, the delicate curve of her shoulders, and the tempting swell of her breasts.

She seemed as if posed for a portrait, but if he attempted to capture the moment, he’d need to fetch his drawing things. By the time he’d done that, the moment would have passed. Better to stand quietly in the doorway and commit the sight to memory while he waited for someone to notice his presence, allowing him to penetrate the bubble of domesticity.

Miss Wyndham beamed to herself, sucked in a breath, and hummed a few bars of what sounded like a sea shanty. When her sweet voice broke out in song, her mother and Polly laid aside their work to watch and listen. There was a chorus, which Polly, ever a bright child, quickly picked up, and soon all three were raising their heads and adjuring the spirits of Foxleaze to, ‘Haul away the bow-line, the bowline haul.’

Something snapped inside Hal, propelling him into the room in a blaze of fury.

“Silence!” he roared. “Don’t you know this is a house of mourning? I will not have common sea shanties sung here. You will desist at once or leave now.”