To Love the Brooding Baron

TWELVE

TWELVE

When Henry’s aunt informed him that morning that they would be having a small dinner party, he didn’t think anything of it. Dinner with Mr. Collingsworth, a thousand-year-old clergyman who’d been a close acquaintance of the family for many years, was a weekly occurrence. So long had the clergyman been with Henry’s family, he often boasted that there weren’t many Northcotts in history that he hadn’t either buried or blessed.

Staring at the old man from Henry’s position across the sitting room, no one would ever mistake the clergyman for having found the fountain of youth. He sat in his usual spot upon the sofa, closest to the fire, a blanket spread across his lap. His celestial-white hair had thinned in many places, while the wrinkles across his forehead sagged, one on top of the other, until they rested heavily atop his scraggly, white brow.

Henry’s aunt sat next to the clergyman, their heads tipped together in conversation. She seemed ... lighter than she had in the last four days. There was no smile upon her lips, but there was an ease about her. Whether it was because of the familiar comfort of visiting with a family friend or that his aunt had finally decided to move on from the incident with the pamphlet, Henry didn’t know. But he was relieved to see things returning to normal.

Samson entered the room, and Henry moved to rise, though it was early to be going into dinner.

“Mr. Bradbury, my lady,” their butler announced, halting Henry’s movements.

Bradbury sauntered into the room with a swagger that came as natural to him as breathing. He shot Henry the largest, smuggest grin before greeting his aunt. “Dowager Baroness Northcott, I cannot thank you enough for this much anticipated invitation,” he said with a flourishing bow.

Henry stared, completely dumbfounded. His aunt never invited his friends to dinner. Any invitation was always for political gain.

Henry’s aunt rose, and Henry collected himself enough to do the same. What the devil was happening?

“We are glad you could accept,” his aunt replied.

Henry watched her, trying to understand the situation, but she portrayed nothing beyond being a proper host welcoming their guest.

Samson entered the room again. “Lady Bixbee, my lady.”

Henry’s head whipped toward the door.

The formidable matron marched into the room with a bigger grin than Bradbury’s, who, at the moment, was making his way toward Henry.

“You never said my aunt invited you to dinner,” Henry said the moment Bradbury reached him. They had seen one another at their club for the past two days, and he never said a word.

“And what would you have said if I had?” Bradbury asked with a smirk and a raised brow.

“I would have uninvited you,” Henry said in a flat tone, because that was what Bradbury expected from him.

“Exactly.” Bradbury chuckled.

The truth of it was, Henry would’ve liked inviting his friends, but the planning of dinner parties had always belonged to his aunt, and knowing what his parents had taken from her, Henry never had the heart to challenge it.

“Come on, Beasty,” Bradbury said, playfully nudging Henry with his shoulder. “A man’s got to eat. And with Emerson gone, I’ve had to eat too many meals at the club. It’s getting awful expensive.”

Henry scoffed. It was so like Bradbury to never pass on an opportunity for a free meal. But why would Lady Bixbee accept an invitation? And perhaps more importantly, why would his aunt extend her one? What was to be gained from this evening?

Samson entered the room, and Henry felt ill at ease.

“Mrs. Latham and Miss Latham, my lady,” their butler announced.

Mrs. Latham wore her usual mourning gray while Arabella was devastatingly beautiful in a gown of the softest yellow.

Henry’s heart stopped, and he stood there, gaping like a fool as pinpricks of heat scattered across his skin. He needed to stop staring at her.

“I take it you were not expecting them either?” Bradbury spoke, the teasing in his tone gone.

“No. I was not,” Henry said, watching as his aunt politely greeted the ladies.

He noted the primroses in Arabella’s dark brown tresses, and his chest naturally expanded, anticipating the floral scent he had grown to associate with her.

As Lady Bixbee monopolized the conversation among the ladies, Arabella glanced in his direction and whispered a greeting to him.

His heart rate quickened, and his palms began to sweat. There was nothing flirtatious about her, but her natural beauty and spirit would enchant even a saint.

Or a sinner, in your case, the voice inside his head taunted.

“I wonder whom else we should expect?” Bradbury asked, snapping Henry’s attention away from Arabella.

“What are you talking about?”

Bradbury stared at him with confusion. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Would you just answer my question?” Henry snapped, his temper growing short. With all that was happening, he had no patience for Bradbury’s games on top of his aunt’s unexpected invitations and Arabella’s frustratingly bewitching glances.

Bradbury narrowed his eyes. “Growl at me all you like, Beasty. But if I am the one pointing out an observation to you, something is most assuredly amiss.”

Henry glared at his friend.

“Fine,” he said, pointing a finger at Henry. “But something is not right.” He dropped his finger. “Look around us. There are four ladies, but only three gentlemen. We need one more to even out our numbers.”

Henry inwardly cursed. That was more than obvious, but he was so thrown off, he’d not noticed. Who else could his aunt have invited? And why had she kept all of this from him?

Samson came into the room. “Dr. Stafford, my lady,” he announced, and Henry’s blood ran cold.

Dr. Stafford entered the room, his steps faltering the moment he noticed his grandmother. “My—my apologies for my late arrival, Dowager Baroness Northcott.”

Henry’s aunt greeted the doctor as if his connection to the issue of lunacy meant nothing to her, while a cold sweat broke out across the back of Henry’s neck.

“Grandmother,” Dr. Stafford said to Lady Bixbee, struggling to contain the shock upon his face. “I did not know you would be in attendance.” He turned to Arabella and her mother. “Nor you, Miss Latham.”

“It’s a surprise to me as well,” Arabella replied.

A nagging suspicion instantly formed in the back of Henry’s mind. Was his aunt aiding Lady Bixbee in her machinations?

Lady Bixbee mockingly laughed. “And miss all your shocked faces? I think not.”

Henry looked to his aunt, wanting to see her response. He found her watching him, and then she turned back toward the others. Was she hoping to see a certain reaction from him?

Samson entered the room, and Henry held back a groan. He couldn’t take any more surprises.

“Dinner is served, my lady,” the butler announced.

Mr. Collingsworth startled from his nap, confusion on his face as he took in the new arrivals. “What—what?”

“Dinner!”Bradbury yelled for the benefit of Mr. Collingsworth.

A smile spread across the old clergyman’s lips as he attempted and failed to scoot his way off the sofa.

“Thank you, Mr. Bradbury,” Henry’s aunt said after an awkward silence fell over the room, the only sound coming from Mr. Collingsworth’s struggles. “Henry?” his aunt said, signaling with her eyes for him to help the clergyman.

Henry nodded and moved to assist, but Dr. Stafford proved to be a few steps ahead of him.

“Allow me,” the doctor said, offering his hands to the clergyman.

“And who might you be?” Mr. Collingsworth asked, squinting up at the gentleman.

“Dr. Brandon Stafford. Your servant, sir.”

“A doctor?” Mr. Collingsworth looked to Henry’s aunt. “You invited a doctor?”

“And others,” his aunt said with a strained smile as she waved her hand about the room. “We shall make for a lively party this evening.”

Mr. Collingsworth took Dr. Stafford’s hands and finally made it to his feet. “Oh good. Good. I enjoy lively conversation. Heaven knows that boy”—he pointed a crooked finger at Henry—“has not spoken more than a few words at a time since his father’s death.”

Henry stiffened, not daring to look at his aunt, whose dislike for his father ran almost as deeply as her hatred for his mother. His eyes caught on Dr. Stafford, who studied him with a puzzling look.

“Shall we, Mr. Collingsworth?” Henry’s aunt said, rushing over to the clergyman and slipping her arm through his, leading the way into dinner.

Lady Bixbee approached Henry and offered him her hand. “Come along, Lord Northcott. Let us leave the younger set to their coquetry.” She shot Dr. Stafford a glance over her shoulder and then bobbed her brow in the direction of Arabella.

Henry clenched his fists before offering his arm to Lady Bixbee. He was getting tired of being referred to as old. He was just as youthful as the other men in the room—Mr. Collingsworth excepted.

“Well, I certainly do not fit in with that grouping,” Mrs. Latham said with a soft laugh.

“And I certainly have no want for coquetry,” Mr. Bradbury said, offering Mrs. Latham his arm.

Which left Dr. Stafford to escort Arabella.

Henry suppressed a sigh. It was going to be a long evening.