Page 9 of Beguiling the Baron

Chapter 6

As Tia went through the doorway, a breath of cold air made her shiver. She had emerged into the abbey’s medieval cloister, with the rose garden at its center. As she gazed around, empty doorways gaped with black maws from the walkways, and when she glanced up, it was to find herself being leered at by roof bosses carved into grotesque creatures.

She repressed a shudder. What would she discover if she explored this place? The skeletons of innumerable murdered wives and relations? An antiquated torture chamber? Her sense of unease was not improved by the fact the weather had now broken. Dark clouds scudded across the sky, casting fistfuls of rain against the windows, with only a crash of thunder or a blast of lightning lacking to complete the melodramatic effect.

Tia hurried on until she came to a stretch of cloister apparently more inhabited than the other parts. At the foot of a stone stairway stood a shoe rack, a boot remover, and a foot-scraper, set beneath a line of pegs containing a range of caped coats, cloaks, and gentleman’s hats.

So, Lord Ansford was human after all. Here was the paraphernalia of everyday existence, items belonging to a flesh and blood man. Not a wife-killing fiend or lunatic flagellant, but a real being who got his boots muddy and enjoyed protection from the cold.

This was the staircase she must try, in hopes of finally meeting the master of Foxleaze face to face. The steps led up to a corridor lined with bookcases. Tia gasped as she scanned the titles—histories, geographies, art engravings, travels, Chapman’s Homer, Dryden’s translation of Virgil, Caesar’s The Gallic Wars.

When all the Wyndham’s books had to be sold, she’d been distraught. How ungenerous of the baron to forbid them this treasure house of knowledge. But perhaps he didn’t know of her deprivation and would perfectly understand if she asked for access to his library.

Remembering the prime reason for her foray, Tia dragged herself away and continued her exploration. A bit farther along the corridor, she came upon a gentleman’s study, complete with walnut-topped desk, studded leather chair, and various writing implements. The room boasted a magnificent marble fireplace, currently sporting a display of lilac blooms, lavender, and white roses.

The guilt-ridden, wife-murdering, relative-hating Lord Ansford receded into the background of her imagination and an accomplished scholar with excellent taste took his place.

Glancing about in pleasant surprise, Tia noticed a large portrait hanging above the fireplace. A closer examination revealed the skill of its painter. He—or she—had captured the skin tones of the female subject perfectly and had picked out where the light reflected in the woman’s gray eyes and gleamed in her guinea-gold locks. The artist’s brush had recorded every fold of the gown and the individual curls of the sitter’s hair where they caressed her face.

This was Polly’s mother.

There was no doubting the similarity. The late baroness was portrayed as a breathtaking, golden beauty. With her own dark curls and brown eyes, Tia considered herself no more than a common country wench in the presence of so much ethereal pallor.

So absorbed was she in contemplation of the former Lady Ansford, she didn’t hear the measured tread behind her, nor the sharp intake of breath signaling the newcomer’s arrival.

A harsh voice behind her rasped, “This room is private.”

Tia jumped in shock, spun around, and found herself face to face with the owner of Foxleaze Abbey.

Fortunately—or otherwise—the man was fully dressed. Had he not been, it would have been a struggle to keep her eyes from straying admiringly across the superb musculature of his torso. Now it was hidden beneath somber black clothing, which accentuated the paleness of his skin and echoed the dark circles around his eyes. Did he never raise his face to the sun? Did he never sleep?

If any gentleman had set out to make himself appear frightful, Lord Ansford was that gentleman.

He continued to glare at her, his words a challenge hanging in the air between them like a duelist’s glove.

She met his regard directly, and suddenly the masculine beauty hidden behind the unkempt hair and straggling beard was revealed to her. Long, dark, feathered lashes. High, aristocratic cheekbones. Combined with the black slashes of his eyebrows, his features looked as if they’d been applied by the hand of a master.

Her eyes snagged on his firm mouth—it had a fascinating tilt at each corner, though his lips were unsmiling. He boasted a straight nose and determined, square jaw, speckled with dark stubble.

Here was a man with enough excellent physical attributes to make every woman in the land fall at his feet—but he didn’t give a damn.

Moistening lips gone suddenly dry, Tia started forward, one hand outstretched in greeting. “Lord Ansford, we meet at last. I am Galatea Wyndham. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“I know who you are.” As his hands remained clasped behind his back, she dropped her own in confusion and fiddled with a fold of her skirts. How unforgivably rude! But she mustn’t rise to the bait and forget her purpose in coming here.

Polly. It was all about Polly.

“You should not be here,” Ansford continued in the same colorless tone. “You must leave at once.”

Not only rude but hurtful. How did one make any headway with such a creature?

By setting a good example and by not sinking to his level.

“Forgive me, my lord. I didn’t mean to intrude upon your privacy. I thought the place empty and was just admiring the splendid portrait above the fireplace.”

Ansford continued to observe her in a disinterested fashion, which, paradoxically, unnerved her more than outright animosity would have done. Should she swallow her pride and go?

He was waiting for her to do exactly that. She sensed stubbornness behind the facade of indifference, willpower that would eventually drive her from the room with nary a word spoken.