Page 19 of Beguiling the Baron

Chapter 12

A hiccupping sob from Polly broke the stunned silence following Lord Ansford’s outburst. As Mama put a comforting arm about the girl’s shoulders, Tia marched the irate baron out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

“I presume you intend to apologize.” His blue eyes glittered with anger, his voice harsh.

He expected her to say sorry? He’d reduced his daughter to tears, insulted her and her mother and threatened to throw them all out. The urge to slap Lord Ansford’s maddeningly handsome—and, she suddenly noticed, fashionably beardless—face was almost overwhelming.

“My lord,” she began, battling to keep her tone low and even, “we were not aware singing was forbidden. Had I known you meant to deny us every pleasure known to humankind, I’d have stayed in the poorhouse. At least I’d have been able to do some good for the children there.”

Ansford caught her by the arm and gave her a light shake. “Miss Wyndham,” he snapped, his voice hard, unyielding. “My house, my rules. There’s been no music here since Lady Mary died. I find I much prefer the quiet.”

“Must there never be music again?” Tia was very aware of the pressure of his warm fingers on her upper arms. He was close enough for her to recognize the fury emanating from his body.

“If I decree it, yes.”

“And Polly is never to touch the pianoforte, or hum a melody? How will she fare in the drawing rooms of the ton? How can she attract a husband if she is unable to play? Would you deny her the chance for future happiness, of future security?”

His fingers tightened, forcing into Tia’s mind all the rumors about the baron, all the cruel things he was considered capable of doing. He wouldn’t hurt her, surely? Nonetheless, she went completely rigid, fearing she’d said too much.

“I’m trying to help the child,” Ansford persisted. “She needs to be impenetrable. I don’t want her to care for anyone so much she can’t bear to be parted from them, and I don’t want her to suffer the pain of a loss so great she can barely live with herself. I don’t want her to lose a loved one and wish it should have been her who was taken rather than the one robbed of life many years too soon.”

Like a physical touch, his eyes raked her face, his gaze dark with anger, his lips trembling with the effort to quell the rage.

The man revealed a great deal more about himself than he had about his plans for Polly. Tia’s fury ebbed away as she relaxed in his grasp.

“You forget, sir, I too have loved and lost. I lost a sister before I lost my father. Both were taken away far too young. I continue to grieve for them, in my own way. Mama and I have faced great hardship and seen all safety and security stripped away from us, yet we’ve never given up hope. We’ve never given up seeking whatever happiness life has to offer.” It was hard to keep her voice from quavering at the remembered misery and loss.

“I’m sorry for your suffering, truly I am, but you bring it all on yourself. The time for mourning has passed, and you must learn to live again. If not for yourself, for Polly. Do you want her to be a timid mouse all her life, forever afraid to enjoy herself, or make music or laugh for fear of censure? No, I can’t believe you do. You were a great man once, sir. You can be that man again. But don’t leave it too late, or you’ll find there is nothing left of him.”

Ansford’s fingers slipped down to her elbows. They were standing breast to breast now, two foes locked in mortal combat, with words for swords and each with their own pride and stubbornness to shield them.

Tia’s eyes slid from the man’s freshly shaven chin to his white cravat, his broad chest heaving with the strength of his anger, the black, featureless clothing that signaled to everybody he was dead to the world.

And found herself fervently wishing it were otherwise. What if those hands were to draw her closer, the strong arms to cradle her against his firm chest, the warm fingers to stroke her hair and tell her it was all right, that everything was going to be well?

Comfort, indeed. Something she had not, until this moment, known she either needed or desired.

She gulped, and the tears brimmed up. This could not be allowed to happen. Wrenching herself from Ansford’s grasp, she pushed past him.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I’ve said too much. Forgive me. You don’t need to send Polly away, for I promise there will be no more singing at Foxleaze.”

He reached for her, but she evaded him.

“Miss Wyndham, wait. Please, Galatea!”

She ran down the echoing passageway, blinded by tears. The encounter had opened old wounds. Why waste any more time on Henry Pelham, eighth Baron Ansford? He was beyond her help. He was beyond the help of anybody.

The sound of hurrying feet pursued her. He mustn’t see he’d made her cry. She burst into the entrance hall, ran up the stairs, thought briefly of hiding behind the suit of armor, and decided to make for her bedchamber. Her adversary wouldn’t follow her there.

Ansford would have no wish to entertain his staff by pursuing her through the whole length of the house, only to be left locked out and looking foolish before her door.

Damn, the man was fast when he wanted to be. He caught up with her at the top of the stairs, seized her arm, and steered her wordlessly through the connecting door and into his wing of the house. She found herself being frog-marched down a passageway, around a corner, and eventually into the corridor that held the library. Exactly what he intended to do with her, she’d no idea. Had she left it too late to scream?

Next minute, they were in his study, with the door shut behind them. She had to hope he hadn’t really murdered his wife in a fit of rage.

He held her at arm’s length, and she raised a defiant chin to him. With any luck, he’d never know how close to despair he’d driven her.

“Galatea, don’t run away from me.” His voice was soft and earnest. “I’d never harm you, trust me. I may be a hollow shell of a man, but I’ve not lost my humanity. I’ll argue with you, yes, and I have every right—you stubbornly refuse to understand me, or why I live by the rules I do. It makes me angry. It would make anyone angry. But I beg you, don’t be frightened of me and don’t let me hurt you. I’m not worth it.”