To Love the Brooding Baron

NINE

NINE

A charity musicale? Henry inwardly scoffed. That was the intent of the evening, yet so far, there hadn’t been a single musical note uttered, strummed, or stroked. Instead, he, his aunt, and twenty or so members of the ton stood hostage inside Lady Bixbee’s ridiculously pink parlor.

The walls were a solid deep pink. The columns framing every window and doorframe were a lighter pink. The pillows were all varying patterns and shades of pink. The drapes were a darker pink, and the sofas were—a yellowish-green.

It was all utterly absurd, as was the way Lady Bixbee managed to continuously block the face of the gentleman currently making Arabella laugh on the opposite side of the room. Why did the cumbersome matron feel the need to wear an entire peacock atop her head?

So much for distancing yourself from the lady. You cannot even keep your eyes off her, the voice inside his head taunted.

Heaven forgive him. It was impossible to keep his eyes from her.

Arabella looked resplendent in cerulean blue. Yellow-gold roses were stitched around the gown’s high waistline and cascaded toward the hem. The color matched her fawn-colored eyes, enchantingly contrasting the darkness of her beautifully arranged curls.

She smiled—the one that formed adorable creases at the corners of her eyes and made her shoulders rise toward her flushing cheeks. Henry loved that smile. It was truly genuine, and one she only used when she was enjoying herself, yet secretly self-conscious about something someone had said. And her smile was directed toward the gentleman Henry could see now that Lady Bixbee had moved.

“Henry?” His aunt gently tugged on his arm with her gloved hand. “What do you think?”

He looked down at her, and she glanced carefully toward Arabella, whose entire party consisted of her mother, Lady Bixbee, and that gentleman. Her brow rose subtly.

Henry cleared his throat, reminding himself that tonight was about fixing the damage the pamphlet had done to their relationship. “Forgive me,” he said to his aunt, and his aunt’s friend, Mrs. Fowlhurst.

“Do not tease him, Dowager Baroness Northcott,” Mrs. Fowlhurst said with a simpering laugh that put Henry on edge. “I believe we both observed how his lordship was admiring ...” Her words drifted off while her eyes playfully bobbed in Arabella’s direction.

His aunt’s fingers tensed around his arm, drawing Henry’s attention. “I am certain my nephew is only curious about who the gentleman is across from Lady Bixbee. I, for one, have never seen him before,” his aunt said.

“That is Lady Bixbee’s grandson,” Mrs. Fowlhurst replied with a pretentious smile. “Apparently, he is making quite a name for himself after studying underneath Dr. Robert Darling Willis, one of the king’s personal physicians.” She whispered the last part as if the king’s relapse into madness was some greatly kept secret.

A prickling trepidation crept up Henry’s spine.

“His name is Dr. Brandon Stafford,” Mrs. Fowlhurst said, and Henry’s back went rigid. Hearing the name of the doctor who had been relentless in his desire for a meeting with him was like having a bucket of ice water poured over his head.

“He is the son of Lady Bixbee’s third son,” Mrs. Fowlhurst continued. “Certainly you have heard of him during one of your sessions at Parliament, Lord Northcott?”

“I have heard the name,” Henry said with the controlled, indifferent tone that had earned him the name of the Brooding Baron.

Mrs. Fowlhurst, visibly shaken by his demeanor, quickly looked away and engaged his aunt in conversation.

Out of the corner of his eye, Henry caught Arabella watching him. He looked to her, unable to resist. Despite the distance between them and the other people in the room, it suddenly felt as if he and Arabella were alone.

Something constantly pulled him to her, and his fingers twitched, wishing to reach out and touch her.

A hesitant smile tugged at her lips, as if she were unsure of its reception. It was so unlike her, and he hated it because he knew he was the reason.

He was not good for her.

Closing his eyes, he turned away.

“Henry?” his aunt spoke.

He opened his eyes to find his aunt and Mrs. Fowlhurst both watching him worriedly.

“Is it your head?” his aunt asked.

He had suffered from headaches shortly after his mother’s committal to Bedlam, but they had eventually gone away—and been replaced by the voice inside his head.

“It’s nothing, Aunt,” he replied, angry with himself for being so open with his emotions. “The color of the room is—overpowering.”

His aunt and Mrs. Fowlhurst shared a knowing look.

“Yes, according to Lady Bixbee, it’s supposed to reflect her favorite flower,” his aunt said, as if it weren’t a compliment.

“A rose,” Mrs. Fowlhurst added, which was news to Henry. He could have guessed at least a dozen flowers with similar coloring. “Ever since Sir Joseph Banks named that flower after Queen Charlotte—the Bird of Paradise”—she said the words with much exaggeration—“Lady Bixbee has been relentless in getting a flower named after her in the Royal Gardens.”

As if the matron had known they were whispering about her, she announced it was time for the musical portion of the evening.

Henry was relieved, ready for the evening to progress, but then suppressed a frown when he saw Dr. Stafford escort Arabella and her mother into the music room. Would he be forced to watch them together for the entire evening?

Escorting his aunt and Mrs. Fowlhurst, he followed the other guests into the music room, which, to his relief, was a much more soothing shade of green. Henry resisted the urge to groan at the sight of the rosewood chairs—all with pink rose-patterned cushions—that faced an ornately carved harp and an elegant pianoforte that supported a large bouquet of pink roses.

His aunt directed him past several preferable rows of chairs toward the back and settled on the third row from the front, which only left a single row of occupied chairs between himself and Arabella, who sat next to Dr. Stafford and Lady Bixbee on the front row.

The heavens were continuing to conspire against him.

Dr. Stafford leaned close to Arabella, her head dipping toward him, as the doctor whispered into her ear. A smile played about Arabella’s lips before she whispered something back to him.

Henry wanted to lunge over the rows of chairs and force them apart.

It was tantamount to torture. Was she playing her Shakespeare game with him?

Dr. Stafford let out a chuckle, and Henry’s jaw clenched.

The musical performances began, each one as painstakingly long as the next. Henry tugged at his cravat, the temperature rising with every passing minute. There were far too many bodies in the room, judging by how close Dr. Stafford sat next Arabella. Henry had half a mind to open a blasted window. For pity’s sake, it was nearing the end of July; open windows should be a common occurrence.

A crack of lightning flashed, and thunder crashed outside the window, cruelly reminding Henry why his wish couldn’t be granted. The sound momentarily obscured whatever song was being pounded out on the pianoforte. Did the lady have hams for fists? And why was it always raining!

His chest began to tighten, a familiar feeling, but not one he’d felt since his boyhood when his mother and father were having one of their many rows. He sat straighter in his seat, trying to focus on drawing individual breaths through his nose and exhaling subtly through his mouth.

His concentration lasted until ham-for-fists took her curtsy and Arabella stood.

A whiff of primroses reached his senses, launching his heart into a pounding rhythm.

Heaven—for once—help him, everything about her was bewitching.

Dr. Stafford stood, placing a hand at her back as he helped her onto the raised stage.

Henry should’ve known better than to pray.

Arabella sat at the harp, not the pianoforte, which had been the only instrument played so far that evening. He shouldn’t be surprised to see Arabella standing out from the rest. He’d heard her play the harp many times before, but that didn’t stop his nerves from humming in anticipation.

That was, until Dr. Stafford moved to the right of Arabella, helping lay out her music on the stand. Their hands accidentally brushed, and they shared a blushing smile.

Henry bit back a groan. He couldn’t take much more of this.

Tilting the harp back to rest in the delicate nook between her neck and shoulder, Arabella raised her hands and gently placed her fingers on the strings. What should’ve been a small, insignificant moment was the most graceful act Henry had ever beheld.

Her first gentle plucks echoed in the hushed room, and Henry could feel his lungs release a natural breath.

His enjoyment of the music, however, did not last long.

Dr. Stafford reached across Arabella and turned one of the pages. He hovered over her so closely, he was practically blocking all light from the tall, gold candelabra behind them. Arabella’s eyes had to be straining just to read the notes. Henry should say something. Did the man not know it was raining outside? There was practically no natural light filling the room. Henry was going to say someth—

“Henry?” His aunt’s concerned whisper penetrated his frayed senses. But it was her hand resting on his knee that brought him back to his surroundings.

He was halfway out of his seat and about to draw unwanted attention.

“What is the matter with you?” She looked up at him, her brow sharply raised.

His stomach clenched. If only she truly knew.

“Nothing, Aunt. I will return shortly.” Unable to stay a moment longer, Henry abandoned his seat and made his way out into the corridor. He needed a moment to clear his head and regain control of his senses.

Or as much control as you can, the voice whispered.

Closing the music room door behind him, he ignored the butler’s inquiry and turned left, knowing there was an alcove farther down the corridor.

Once assured of his privacy, he took a seat on the cushioned bench and dropped his head into his hands. What he wouldn’t give to see this evening come to an end.

His traitorous ears caught the faint strumming of the harp just as the song came to a flourishing conclusion. There was applause, and, after a moment, the pianoforte began to play once again.

It was safe to return; he would no longer have to watch Arabella and Dr. Stafford at center stage, and yet Henry didn’t move. He needed to move. His and his aunt’s performance would be coming up next.

“Lord Northcott?”

His head still in his hands, Henry slowly opened his eyes, spotting a pair of cream-colored slippers and the hem of a cerulean blue dress.

Unable to stop himself, he let out a groan before looking up to meet Arabella’s gaze.

She stood just inside the alcove, her eyes carefully watching him. “Are you all right?”

“No,” he replied.

Her eyes widened as if surprised by his honesty. Good. He was tired of being the only one thrown by something that evening.

“Is there anything I could do?” she asked after a moment.

“Unfortunately, no,” he replied, looking to the floor and dragging his fingers through his hair. He immediately regretted the motion. Using the palm of his hand, he attempted to smooth his tousled hair back down.

“It looks”—Arabella paused—“handsome.” She said the last word with such heart-pounding nervousness that his eyes shot to meet hers. Color tinged her cheeks as she stared down at him.

Henry swallowed. He was in a world of trouble. He needed to return to the music room before he did something foolish like ask her to hide away with him for the rest of the evening. He stood abruptly, gripping the lapels of his black evening jacket to keep his hands from reaching for her.

“Would you like me to escort you back to your mother, Miss Latham?”

The corners of her lips dipped downward. “No, thank you.” She hesitated, her eyes finally glancing away. “I—I shall return on my own.” One of her hands reached across her stomach and gripped her upper arm. She looked wounded, and again, he hated himself for any pain he caused her. But nothing could happen between them.

Needing to end this encounter, he offered her a brief bow and moved to step around her.

“Lord Northcott?” she spoke, the uncertainty in her tone halting his steps.

They stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the alcove. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye while she tipped her chin over her shoulder to look up at him. He breathed in the slightest hint of primroses, and he reprimanded himself for wanting to lean closer and press his nose to the delicate curve of her neck.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice rough.

She took a deep breath. “After what I did”—she swallowed—“that day at Brooks’s. Do you no longer want anything to do with me?”

He held back a mirthless laugh.

No longer want anything to do with her? If only she knew how badly he wanted her.

The right thing to do, for everyone’s sake, would be to end this now and say yes.

But you are going to be selfish, the voice whispered.

But he was going to be selfish.

“No,” he replied, his gut twisting as his pulse rampaged.

Slowly she turned to face him. “Thank you,” she said, her heart completely in her eyes. “When you did not come, I—I feared I had lost your good opinion of me.”

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” The Shakespeare line rolled off his tongue without thought, and the way her expression brightened nearly stopped his heart.

“Hamlet,” she replied, her eyes softening. “It was wrong of me to use the pamphlet against you like I did. I hope you will forgive me.”

Henry nodded, his shoulders growing tense. The pamphlet was the last thing he wanted to discuss, but he appreciated her humility in admitting she’d done wrong. Not many in this world would be willing to do that, which only proved her goodness.

“Why were you even at Brooks’s?” he asked, needing to know.

A corner of her lip ticked up. “Mr. Bradbury unwittingly challenged me to a wager when he said I would never get inside Brooks’s and discover his and my brother’s secrets.”

Henry shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck, bemused. Left to their own devices, Bradbury and Arabella made a dangerous pairing.

“Lord Northcott,” Arabella spoke, her tone earnest. She somehow seemed closer. “I know none of this is my business, and my mother would probably advise me to leave it alone, but I wanted to say that if you ever need to talk to someone about—” She hesitated as if choosing her words carefully. “About life or—or your family—you can always talk with me.” She gently reached out and placed a hand on his sleeve. “It must be hard to be so nearly alone.”

The feel of her slim fingers on his arm nearly brought him to his knees. Her genuine care washed over him like a dangerous siren’s call. He couldn’t pull away from her even if he had wanted to. She had obviously heard the many rumors about his family and somehow put those together with the pamphlet, but he couldn’t think poorly of her. He doubted he could ever think that way about her, no matter what outrageous thing she did. Her heart was good—unrestrained—but always good.

He only wished he could think the same way about himself.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice heavy, knowing she would always be the light and he would always be the shadow.

They fell into an awkward silence. He, unwilling to pull away; she, waiting for him to say more.

“I should go,” Arabella said after a time, slipping her hand from his arm. Immediately he felt the loss of her soothing touch. “My mother, no doubt, is starting to wonder what I am doing.” She smiled his favorite smile at him before curtsying and walking back toward the music room.