In the Baron’s Debt by Roselyn Francis
Chapter Six
Augusta knew it was Loftus before she saw him. He was chasing her through the garden of his house. She was laughing as she was trying to escape him, running between the border of oak trees that lined the grass.
He caught her. Softly he took hold of her waist and pulled her back to him. She collided against him, their bodies pressing together. She was the one to instigate the kiss – she could not look for very long at those green eyes without kissing him.
She reached up on her toes and wound her hands around his neck, pulling him towards her. With the press of their lips together, both of their movements became something more passionate.
Augusta was pushed against the trunks of one of the trees behind her. Loftus melded their bodies together as he parted her lips. The first touch of tongue had her moaning against him. She pulled on the buttons of his high-waisted jacket, desperate to touch him. His hands went to help her – together they unbuttoned the garment and threw it from his shoulders.
He returned his hands to her afterwards. As she ran her hands over his shirt-covered arms, trying to feel the tone of muscle beneath, his hands were dropping from her waist to her hips. The move had her gasping into his mouth, feeling a wetness pool between her legs.
He pulled away from their kiss and began to pepper her neck with small open-mouthed kisses. He nibbled as well, leaving her with love marks across her skin and small flicks of tongue.
“Loftus…” She moaned his name as his hands grasped her hips tightly. “Please, Loftus.”
He did not need asking twice. His hands grabbed the skirt of her dress and began to lift it up. He held it around her waist as he took hold of the skirt of the chemise too and bundled it high.
He returned his lips to hers, inviting her tongue with his easily this time.
Augusta felt her legs being separated by his thigh. His knee nudged hers a little to the side, opening her to him.
He moved but an inch back from their kiss. Both were breathing heavily, his green eyes watching her closely with a small smile playing around his lips. His hand moved from her hip to her center – touching her in her most secret place.
Augusta woke up with a start.
It took a moment for the dream to leave her. She sat up in bed, clammy and heated. She tossed the bed covers off her body onto the floor, pulling at the neckline of her nightgown to release herself from some of the heat. She was still breathing heavily.
She moved to the end of the bed, as though crawling away from the center would help her move away from her dream, yet she could not escape it. The dream image of Loftus with her against the tree in his garden would not dissipate.
She covered her face with her hands as her breathing began to return to normal. She had experienced such dreams of him before when they had been courting, but nothing so heated nor as full of anticipation and tension as that one had been.
He is taunting my mind again.
She jumped from the bed, shaking her hands and trying to regain some sense. She felt as though she had been struck by lightning with as much desire and anger. The emotions coiled together, directed at Loftus. She thought back to what she had seen those eight years ago, how she had seen him with another, how he had destroyed her heart.
Loftus was dangerous to her. Last time she had been with him, she had ended up destroyed by him. Her crumpled heart like a screwed-up piece of parchment he had tossed away on the floor.
She could not do it again.
She had an obligation to him to help with Markus, but she did not have to see Loftus as much as she had that day. She did not have to take tea with him. She did not have to take his hand as she had done when they were saying goodbye at the end of the afternoon. It had been her own doing.
I will not take part in my own undoing anymore. I must put some distance between us. Then I will be safe from him.
She moved to the window and peered beyond the curtains down to her own garden. It was lit by soft silver moonlight that was peeking between the clouds. She tried to persuade herself that it was being in Loftus’ garden that had caused the dream. After all, during their courting days they had spent much time in his garden. Yet she knew it was not true. He had been the cause of the dream.
She needed to make a plan. She straightened her spine as she looked out of the window. She would help Markus for a few days, encourage the boy to be at peace with women and to relax, but she did not have to see Loftus. After she had helped Markus, she would return to who she was before. She would ride in the morning, read in the evening, spend days and evenings with her friends and their children. There would be a good deal of distance between her and Loftus.
She moved away from the window and collected a candle from her bedside. Clutching it tightly in her hand, she left her chamber and hurried down the corridor, searching for a familiar painting that she had always known. At the end of the corridor, she came to a stop and held the candle aloft.
It cast an orange glow onto the painting before her. It was a portrait of her family. Her father and mother stood together, while she and James as children stood in front of them. Her mother had her hands on Augusta’s shoulders.
Augusta could remember that moment. The soft touch of her mother’s hands on her shoulder. Such an expression of love without words.
The pain of losing her own mother brought Markus’ plight into sharper focus. He had lost his mother at a very young age indeed.
That must be why he is nervous around women. He is still grieving.
She had to help him with the grief. There had to be the way to make him happy again.
She stayed for some time looking at the painting, wondering why of all the women in the world Markus was for some reason comfortable with her. She toyed with the idea that they had a bond but pushed this thought away. It had to be that she was good with children. She knew how to put him at ease whereas the women in Loftus’ staff may not have been as practiced with children.
I will help Markus, then I will leave and not see either of them again.
She had made her decision.
* * *
Why did she break off our betrothal?
Loftus was plagued by this infuriating question as he sat at his writing desk in a loose white shirt and his tight-fitting pantaloons. He had felt such guilt and anger at himself after she had left his house that afternoon. Guilt for thinking so much of her, anger that he had allowed his mind to wander so.
He had barely stopped thinking of her. As the day had turned to night, still he had been unable to stop. This was the question that kept coming back. He wanted to know why she had broken his heart all those years ago.
His place at the writing desk was lit by the moonlight through the window, turning the pages of the parchment from his hidden leather folder even whiter. He was drawing again, something he had not done for many years, his fury made his hold on the pencil tight.
He was drawing Augusta.
With careful pencil lines he was replicating her image. He was copying a memory from that afternoon. Augusta striking the shuttlecock with the battledore. Her skirt was lifted slightly, revealing a glimpse of calf. Her chin was tilted high and her eyes were wide. It was a striking image of her.
He was urgent with the pencil, keen to commit the memory to paper before he could forget it. This was his outlet for his desire of her, recreating her beauty by pencil. As he finished his drawing, he sat back in his chair, looking at her pencil facsimile in the moonlight.
My siren…
The thought seemed to bring a little sense to him. He threw the pencil across the writing desk surface, the sound clattered noisily. He had to stay away from her. She had already upset his life once; he did not want to see if she would do it again.
* * *
“The master is not at home, my Lady,” Holmes said as he took her pelisse from her.
“He is not?” She repeated in surprise. She should have been happy at this news, she knew it. It meant there was a little distance between her and Loftus, a distance that she did not have to orchestrate. Yet there was a little disappointment there too. She attempted to shake off the feeling.
“No, my Lady. Markus is in the drawing room; I shall escort you.”
She nodded and followed Holmes to the drawing room. Markus was sat on one of the chairs, fiddling with his hands, apparently waiting for her.
“Markus!” She called before Holmes could introduce her formally. She was keen for Markus to feel comfortable with her, that a certain informality could exist between them. “How are you today, dear?” She hurried forward and around Holmes who was bowing to leave.
Markus was jumping off the chair, his face spreading into a smile at the sight of her. He nodded in reply to her question.
“That is excellent news. Now, I have had a little idea. Do you know how to play the pianoforte?” She pointed towards the grand piano in the corner of the room. Markus followed her gesture but shook his head. “Would you like to learn?”
He nodded again.
“Wonderful,” she held out her hand to him. He took it easily, without hesitation. “Come with me and we shall have a little play together.”
Sat side by side on the piano stool, a couple of hours passed easily. Augusta found Markus a keen student who was eager to learn. By the end of their time with the pianoforte, he could play a simple tune with one hand. Augusta found him more and more responsive to her conversation, his face showing his replies and depth of emotion. When she jested, he laughed easily without hesitation.
Keen to help him beyond just having a good time, they soon retreated to the library where Augusta began pulling out some of her old favorite books from her childhood.
“Would you like me to read a story, Markus?” She turned her head round to see him sat on a stool, nodding eagerly. “ I always had my favorites when I was your age. I had a particular liking for Aesop’s fables and of course, Robinson Crusoe. Do you know the story? The tale of the sea traveler who washes up on a deserted island?” The boy nodded again.
Augusta turned her eyes to the book spines in the shelves. She knew she could not tackle Markus’ grief head on, it could risk the boy retreating once again from her. The best plan she could think of was to tackle the matter indirectly. Her eyes landed on the title of a perfect book to discuss.
“How about Tales of Mother Goose? Have you heard of this one?”
Markus shook his head.
“It is a collection of fairy tales. Of strange and wonderous stories, and of course, magic.” She hurried to the chair beside him. “Would you like to give it a go?” The boy nodded eagerly, so she pulled back the cover and launched into the first tale.
Markus loved them all, but soon Augusta turned her eyes to the tale of Cinderella. Though a sad tale to begin, as the protagonist suffers bereavement of both of her parents, in the end, she finds a happy life.
Augusta knew it was a far cry from Markus’ own experience, but she wanted to slowly show him that bereavement was not the end. That life can continue, and great things can still be enjoyed in the world. To her relief, Markus seemed to greatly enjoy the narrative. She made no comment on the story and drew no parallels between them. She was simply happy to sew the seed in his mind that grief can be overcome.
It was in the last tale from the book of fairy tales that she realized Markus was no longer showing any animation at her side, no longer responding to the twists and turns of each story. He had fallen asleep, with his head resting in her lap. She placed the book on the arm of the chair beside her and turned her attention to him. As he slept, she stroked his brown hair back from his forehead, admiring the peace with which he could sleep. There was a small smile around his lips as he rested on her knees.
* * *
As daylight faded beyond the windows, a storm blew in. The wind and the rain battered the glass panes, leaving Augusta nervous as she stood in the hallway, preparing to leave. She had pinned her hat in place and pulled her pelisse around her chest, but nothing could protect her from the gale outside.
When the footman had come to announce dinner for Markus, she had to raise him from his slumber and help deliver him to the small dining room. He was a little sad when she had to go, but she made a promise to see him again the next day.
She peered through the window beside the front door, her anxiety growing by the moment. The rain was already streaming from the houses down to the pathways, flooding the street and creating a shallow river. A flash of lightning blinded her for a moment, followed shortly by a boom of thunder. It was hazardous; to take a carriage out in such weather could mean risking the life of the driver.
I cannot stay here.
The option to stay was not practical. To stay into late evening at the house of a widower when she was a spinster? Would it not spell scandal? Especially as they used to be betrothed. She knew she had no choice. She buttoned up her pelisse, preparing to search for Holmes and ask for the use of the carriage when the door opened in front of her.
It was the Baron. He walked through the door, sodden to the bone, struggling to close the door again behind him from the strength of the wind. As he finally managed to close it, he leaned against the door and removed his hat. His brown hair was flattened, water running from the tendrils down his forehead and across his cheeks. His clothes were stuck to his skin, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders.
Augusta had to force her eyes up from his body to his face. Her mind more than a little distracted by his appearance.
“A little wet out, is it?” She teased as he snapped his head round to see her. He had not realized she was stood nearby.
“You could describe it so,” he smiled in return. It lit up his features. Augusta felt an ache in her stomach to make him smile again. His eyes moved from her face to her clothes, taking note of the pelisse and her preparations to leave. “You cannot leave now Miss Creassey. The weather is far too dangerous for travelling. The carriage could tip and endanger both you and the driver.”
“I have no wish to endanger anyone,” Augusta flinched as another crack of thunder sounded overhead. It rumbled for a few moments over the top of the house, urging them both to cast their eyes to the ceiling for a moment. “But you and I both know that I cannot stay here. I must leave.”
She watched as the Baron rested his head back again on the door in resignation.
“Yes, I suppose you are right.” He moved away from the door, took off his high-waisted jacket and began to squeeze the excess water from the garment – the rainwater fell in dregs to the floor. “At least wait a few minutes until the storm has lightened. I could not see for the rain out there.”
“No,” she said firmly, walking towards the door, close to his side. She had made up her mind. Seeing the Baron with his jacket off was making her remember the dream of the night before. It made her anger at him spike, anger that he could make her want him in such a way. She could not possibly stay. It was too dangerous for her crumpled heart to bear. He was too much of a temptation. “I must leave now.”
“Do not be foolish. Would you walk the whole way home?” His voice was sharp.
“If it comes to it.” She jerked her chin, defiance in her countenance.
“Anything could happen to you in that storm,” he gestured to the door as he threw his jacket on the nearby coat stand.
“I am stronger than I look,” she turned her head towards him and tilted her chin high.
“Are you indeed? Well, I struggled against that storm, and I remember a particular evening in our past where we proved that I was the stronger one of the two of us.” The smirk and taunt from the Baron nearly made Augusta laugh. The reference certainly startled her.
It had been an evening in their courtship. They had stolen out of the main room of an assembly together when conversation had turned flirtatious, Loftus suggesting he could carry her easily, that he would show her how once they were married. She had defied him, teasing him that he might not be strong enough to carry her. It had ended in a competition of strength with an arm wrestle. Augusta had lost.
“Perhaps I have grown stronger since then,” Augusta challenged again, noting how the Baron was trying to hold back his own laughter.
“Miss Creassey be serious for a moment. It is far too dangerous out there for you to attempt to walk such a distance.” He stood pointing at the doorway with one hand on his hip. His white shirt and waistcoat were wet, sticking to the outline of his arms and chest. Augusta was finding it even harder to tear her eyes away from him. She could not stay in his company.
“Perhaps you could lend me a horse then?” She asked, determined to leave. “With a horse I would only be risking my own health, not a coach driver’s.”
“Miss Creassey –”
“I cannot stay here, Baron Bardolf.” The seriousness with which she spoke appeared to connect with him. He adjusted his countenance for a moment. He turned away from her and snatched his jacket off the coat stand again.
“Very well, upon one condition,” he was frustrated, pulling his wet coat on over his arms with some difficulty.
“Which is?”
“I will ride with you.”
“That is not possible,” she scoffed and stepped towards the door again, her voice harsh.
“You are a guest in my home,” the Baron moved to her side, preparing to open the door. “What kind of host would I be if I allowed you to travel home in such dangerous weather? I could not countenance it. I will ride with you as far as the road of your house, to ensure you make it safely home.”
“I do not accept your terms.” She shook her head, trying to look away from him.
“Then no horse.” He shrugged as if it did not matter to him. “I leave it in your hands, Miss Creassey. Would you like me to escort you through the storm? Or would you prefer to stay here and risk scandal?”
She did not need to consider the question, she moved again towards the door, wordlessly giving him her answer.