A Baron in Her Bed by Maggi Andersen

minutes ago. As you see, we have a visitor.”
    “I was out in the garden, Father, and had to tidy myself. “
    “I see you’ve changed your gown,” her father said with a nod of approval.
    Heat flooded her cheeks as Henrietta curtseyed. “So nice to see you again, Lord Fortescue.” Unable to risk meeting his eyes, she stared at his left ear. “I expect you find the English weather deplorable.”
    He angled his head so that his gaze met hers. What she found there surprised her. Sympathy and compassion. Or was it pity? Her throat closed in horror. “Nothing about England is deplorable, Miss Cavendish,” he said. “The beauty one finds in the countryside fair takes one’s breath away.”
    “Well expressed, Lord Fortescue,” her father said. “Horatia, that’s more persuasive than that poet Lord Byron you’re always quoting.”
    “Oh, not so very often, surely, Father.”
    “Lord Byron is a favourite, Miss Cavendish?” Guy seized on the information, and a delighted gleam entered his eyes. He was not about to let such a moment pass. “Surprising that a roué and a rake can produce such finely penned and passionate verse, don’t you agree?”
    Horatia scowled. “I agree that his poetry is very fine.”
    Knife poised, her father raised his head before buttering another slice of cake. “ Roué ? Rake? These are not words often bandied about in English drawing rooms, my lord.” He looked at her with a worried frown. “But if Byron is one of those, I forbid you to read any more of his work.”
    Guy’s eyes twinkled.
    She glowered back at him. “I wonder that his poetry is popular in France, my lord.”
    His eyebrows shot up. “Do you mean that French poets are so sublime we tend not to read beyond our shores? We are a nation of romantics.” He put down his cup. “I recently discovered a new poem of Byron’s. Written this year, I believe.” He began to recite it, his voice lending it just the right tone of regret.
    “Fare thee well!   and if for ever,
    Still for ever, fare thee well:
    Even though unforgiving, never
    ‘Gains thee shall my heart rebel.”
    Horatia released the breath she’d held. She had hung on every word. She wasn’t sure what she thought about him quoting Lord Byron as if he understood the meaning of every word. Coupled with the memory of his kiss, it almost made her swoon, and she desperately tried to distance herself from the emotion it stirred in her.
    “Written to his wife, when his marriage ended after one year, I believe,” Guy added, helpfully bringing her back to earth.
    Her father replaced his cup in its saucer with a rattle. “Modern verse!” He shook his head and climbed to his feet. “I declare, I can’t follow what you young people talk about nowadays.” He bowed. “I’ll just pop across to the library. But please finish your tea, Lord Fortescue. It was a pleasure to see you. Call on us again.”
    Guy rose and bowed. “ Merci, Colonel Cavendish. I should be delighted.”
    With both doors left ajar for propriety’s sake, her father settled by the library fireside.
    With a glance at her father rustling his newspaper, Guy turned to her. “Horatia,” he said in a quiet voice, edging closer to her on the sofa. “Might we be friends?”
    She needed time to build some sort of resistance to his charm. “Friends don’t treat each other the way you have me,” she said in a small voice.
    “I know. I am sorry.” He gave a Gallic shrug and grinned. “I could not resist.”
    “You don’t look sorry.”
    “You did trick me, Horatia.”
    “I had no choice,” she said, watching her father intent on lighting his pipe. “I didn’t know if I could trust you.”
    “But you can, don’t you see?” He gazed into her face with a gentle smile on his lips. “No one has been badly wounded by this escapade, have they?”
    His words sounded so convincing, and she had to admit that the last few days had been quite extraordinary. She would allow friendship; it put the