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  An Unwilling Baroness

  By Harris Channing

  Copyright 2011 Harris Channing

  Smashwords Edition

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  An Unwilling Baroness

  A Novella By

  Harris Channing

  PROLOGUE

  March 1816

  Jude looked over the top of his spectacles, his dark eyes flashing with mischief. Mischief that had her wondering what he was up to and if it would get her into trouble. Since the union of his mother and her father less than two years prior, she'd seen more delightful tribulations then her entire seventeen previous years combine.

  "Chloe, do you suppose your father would allow you to accompany me to London to visit Mother?"

  It was an awful idea. Jude wasn't so much older than she was and tongues would continue to wag if she were to travel into town, unchaperoned with her stepbrother. There was already gossip of a romance between them because of how much time they spent together. It wasn’t natural, she’d heard more than once.

  "I don't know," she replied smoothing the silk of her turquoise skirt. "Do you suppose your mother would allow me to accompany you? She detests my sense of humor and abhors my country mannerisms." Of course, it didn't matter to Chloe what the old bat thought. She wasn't her true mother. In fact, she was nothing like the sweet angel that had given her life. Dorothea was an unfortunate addition to her family. She looked at Jude and smiled. He was truly the only benefit from her father’s latest union. "Would I not embarrass her showing up on the arm of her beloved son? My antics at the last ball were truly scandalous." She rose from her perch on the edge of the crimson settee and stared down at him. He shook his head, his chestnut curls glowing gold in the lamplight. Dear Lord but he was handsome.

  "You mistakenly spilled lemonade on the hostess, you hardly did anything wrong. My mother is the one the one who married your father for his money," he replied bitterly. Removing his glasses, he rubbed the bridge of his aristocratic nose. "Everyone knows that. Surely, she can't think a brother and sister coming to visit would be all that scandalous."

  "I'm not your sister," she reminded gently. "Our parent's are nearly newly weds and you and I are both fully grown."

  "That you are, dear Chloe and you're lovely." She fidgeted under his direct, amber eyed-gaze that oft times left her unnerved. He knew how to play with a woman’s emotions and she refused to allow him the chance to nestle next to her heart for fear he would toy with it as he had so many others.

  She looked away. He would wink, touch her arm, or whisper something into her ear and her mind would drift toward places she dare not venture. He was a rapscallion, to be sure, but not a rake that she truly feared. Generally, she didn't gush and simper over him as many of her daft friends had. Chloe was happy and content in his company.

  Of course, she shielded her heart from his flattery. It was a must, for despite her protests, she did find herself curious about his kisses. Wondered what it was that made the women give themselves to him so freely and without expectation. She knew a good part was simply the glorious god-like beauty of the man. But there was more then just his physical attributes, there was a spark about him. His charm drew the fairer sex to him like moths to flame. And despite her attraction, she refused to allow him to singe her wings.

  Uncomfortable heat inched up into her cheeks. How she loathed her propensity to reveal her emotions by her blushes. "I do appreciate the compliment," she replied.

  "Yes, I see that by your adorable flush."

  She lifted her hands to her face, her palms cool against her flesh. "Stop it," she ordered. "You do that on purpose and I don't appreciate your teasing at all."

  He shot her a dazzling smile and Chloe had to admit that grin was one of the reasons woman swooned and chased after him in the hopes of attention. Thank God, his magnetism didn't have the full effect on her, well hardly ever. He had, however, found the chink in her armor. She was chronically unable to take a compliment. If the devil himself admired her shoes, she'd blush. That was a reaction from years of neglect at her father's hands. When Father did say something nice it was usually followed by a humiliating criticism. Damn the man. Compliments were never compliments. They were just unborn insults.

  She moved across the Persian carpet toward the fireplace. The dying embers popped in want of fresh kindling. The chill in the room a reminder that summer was over and autumn had arrived. "I'll stop."

  His abrupt tone had her turning to face him. He lowered his gaze, his fierce frown, indicating sudden displeasure. "But I do wish you would consider the trip. I could use your alliance." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a missive, and held it up for her to see. "I received this today."

  "What is it, Jude?" she asked, not liking his somber expression or the way the air in the parlor seemed suddenly heavy with dread.

  "It's from Mother. Apparently, my wedding day is but a month away."

  Chloe grabbed the letter, unfolded it, and read its contents. The controlled flow of the ink revealed Lady Dorothea’s devastating intention to have her son married off to the Dowager Duchess of Milton in thirty-four days time. Her stomach roiled with bitter bile and rage bubbled through her with such ferocity her hands quaked.

  "Jude, no! She can't possibly mean to marry you off to that corpulent old woman!" She squeezed the paper in an angry fist. "She's nearly sixty! What is your mother thinking?" She paced before him. "And the Dowager…"

  "She's a nice enough woman," he acquiesced, his mood lightening as quickly as it had darkened. "The dear gave me all the sweets I wanted when I was but a lad of ten."

  Chloe's mouth dropped open. How could Jude make such horrible fun? "This is not a joking matter," she nearly shouted.

  He raked his hands through his hair and surged to his feet. "I know, but if I don't laugh at it, I'll scream. Mother is trying to secure her future and mine…or so she says. If I don't marry the old girl, I’m cut off."

  Chloe met his gaze and recognized in his eyes, his resignation.

  "You can't mean to marry her."

  He paced toward the window, his broad shoulders nearly filling the narrow window frame. "I don't," he whispered. "I’m taking what money is mine, which as you know, isn’t a lot and buying a commission. Will you still like me if I'm a soldier?"

  Chloe flopped back down on the settee and fought her irritation. "Is that what you want Jude? To be an officer?"

  He faced her, his expression one of despair. "I haven't exactly met my full potential as a gentleman."

  She couldn't disagree with that, for Jude had much potential but seemed completely content to live a life of indolent ease. There was no desire to better himself, to forge ahead and make his own way. Since meeting him, he had done little to divert from the well-worn path of his ancestors. That particular path was littered with debauchery and womanizing.

  "Perhaps you could change that?"

  "How?" he asked, raising a dark brow. "I have been groomed for uselessness."

  "I don't know, Jude." She felt like throwing her hands up in hopelessness. "What are your aspirations? What is something you'd like to do? If you truly want to be a soldier, then I support that decision."

  His features visibly slumped. "I don't want to be a
soldier. I want to continue doing what I'm doing. I like my life. I like to hunt, to fish, to laugh and spend time with you."

  She shook her head. "You're content then to do nothing."

  "I hardly call bedding Lady Archmont nothing. It was hard work. The game took me all of last summer and much of the fall to win."

  His flippant reminder had her stomach aching. "All you did was chase after a notorious harlot. That in itself could not have taken much effort. Is that what you want to be remembered for?" Another reason she'd hardly ever consider giving her heart to him. He wasn't trustworthy, that was a certainty.

  "And what's wrong with that? Most men in my position do exactly what I'm doing. And if they're not, they wish they were."

  "Oh Jude." She shook her head disapprovingly. "I think the world of you, you know that. But if you plan on doing nothing of substance, then you may as well marry the dowager. She will bankroll your lifestyle and have as little expectation of you as you do for yourself."

  She stood and pressed her hand to her stomach, hoping to quell the upset. "I'm going to retire. I'm tired and full of despair for you. Do whatever you must, but know I wish more for you and from you."

  Jude's jaw tightened, the tension in his face turned his usually light and pleasant demeanor dark. "Are you turning against me, too?" he asked. "I never thought I'd see the day you and Mother agreed upon anything."

  She met his gaze. "No, I want what's best for you, but I can't make you into the man I know you can be. That's a decision you have to make on your own."

  "Are you saying I'm not a man?" He came closer to her, so close she could feel the anger emanating from his core. His stare pierced her heart, for mixed with his rage was anguish and hurt. His gaze so pained that she ached for him. Had she done that to him? Had she hurt him without meaning to?

  A guilty lump filled her throat. "I-I don't know what I'm saying."

  He leaned in close, the whisper of his breath enticing against her cheek. "It doesn't matter what Mother thinks. It doesn't matter what society thinks, but Chloe, it does matter what you think."

  "Why's that?" she asked, taking in a deep breath, alarmed by his seriousness.

  "Because I'm in love with you."

  CHAPTER ONE

  1819

  Chloe's head hurt. It wasn't a regular headache, but one that left her dizzy and unable to bear Lady Dorothea's condescending harangue or the light that cascaded in from the parlor window. Yet, despite her agony, duty kept her pinned to the wingback chair, and wishing for escape or death.

  "You're nearly one and twenty years old. It's time you married. You've had several suitable callers, two who wished to discuss terms with your father and one who boldly asked you to be his wife."

  Dorothea sailed impatiently across the Persian carpet, her hands placed imperiously on her narrow waist, her perfectly plump lips turned down causing a gentle ripple to form across her alabaster cheeks. Nothing on the woman's face showed her age with the exception of a few fine lines around her eyes and the wrinkles around her mouth from the constant pursing of her lips. Still in all, she would've been beautiful to Chloe if she held her true nature secreted away. But how could one hold back something so putrescent and disgusting? The ugliness from the inside of the bitter old crow bubbled through the woman's pores like lava from a volcano.

  "I didn't love them," Chloe responded, rubbing her temples and willing the ogress back to London. How could she? They had all been odious and the fellow who asked her to marry him and been drunk at the time. It was hardly a proper proposal. Nonetheless, her refusals had been the talk of the ton. Damn the ton. Damn the drunken sod and damn her stepmother.

  "Love has little to do with a good match."

  How many times had they had this loathsome conversation? And why was it her father never intervened. Of course, if he did, he'd side with Dorothea, so perhaps it was best that he locked himself in his study. He never had been of much help and now, with the silver haired hag in charge of his life, he had more reason to hide.

  "I didn't even like them. Surely, you have to at least like someone to marry them." Chloe tilted her head and attempted to look innocent. "Tell me, dear Mother, you do like my father, don't you?"

  At the slight darkening of Dorothea’s complexion, Chloe fought back a victorious smile. She knew the answer was no. Had known the truth upon their first meeting. Still, having the witch roasting on the spit for a change felt more than good.

  Dorothea dropped her hands to her sides and leaned forward, her gaze piercing deep into Chloe's psyche. Dear God what was the woman up to? But with the lurching of her stomach, Chloe knew. Her Father's funds were getting lower. She had heard him shouting at the housekeeper, his barrister, his steward. That meant it was time for new blood to enter the family and being that Jude had left the night he had received his orders to marry, she was the only one left to auction off. Which hideous old man would she be guilted into wedding?

  The mere thought of lying in a stranger’s bed tightened the invisible vice around her head. She rubbed her temples in a vigorous, yet vain attempt to chase away the horrible pain.

  "Lady Dorothea, I'm terribly ill. If you don't mind, this discussion is going to have to wait."

  She opened her eyes, but only wide enough to see the woman straighten and step back. "It won't wait long, Chloe. Tomorrow your first suitor arrives. He's a fine nobleman from Germany. How would you like to be a baroness?"

  Chloe ignored the question and pushed herself to standing. On weak knees, she struggled toward her bedchamber. For there was no way she was going to ask Dorothea for help. She would fall crashing to the floor before she asked or accepted anything from the bane of her existence. The woman was little more than a headache dressed in satin.

  "I'll have that girl come to your room bright and early. Do wear one of your newer gowns. You look fetching in the silver silk with the lace collar."

  "Dear Lord," Chloe murmured. Would the woman never shut up?

  "And be sure she styles your hair. Of late, you've done little but tie those glorious auburn curls into a rather messy knot."

  Chloe stumbled up the stairs, the graying harridan close on her heels. "I'm going to lie down," she said, without looking back. "Please, can we not discuss this later?"

  She could hear the thud of her stepmother’s feet as she raced after her and at the sharp intake of Dorothea's breath, Chloe inwardly shuddered. At the sharp poke on her shoulder, she outwardly cringed. "Are you dismissing me?"

  Still she kept her attention focused on her door. Two steps, she was but two steps away from sanctuary. What Dorothea induced calamity would befall her next?

  "I demand an answer, Chloe."

  Finally reaching her destination, she glanced back at her stepmother, the woman's cheeks red, and her eyes alive with anger. "Of course, I’m not dismissing you. But please, show some consideration, I feel faint."

  "I should take a horse whip to you," Dorothea retorted. "And don't think your father won't hear of this. He will and you'll be sorry." With her venom duly dispersed, the woman spun around and in a flash of dark blue silk, disappeared down the long, narrow hallway.

  "I'm already sorry," Chloe whispered and entered her room, glad to be in the cool comfort of the pale green chamber. Her own little piece of heaven spread out before weary eyes. This was one of the few places where she could find some measure of peace and quiet. Well, most of the time.

  Loosening her hair from its tight knot, she allowed the curls to flow unhindered down her back. The pain eased a little as she lowered herself atop the bed, the pillow cool against her cheek. Still, in spite of the pain, anger coursed through her. Not anger at Dorothea. No, the woman was a predictable sort. What she wanted from life was money, and a place amongst the ton. It didn't matter how she got it. Chloe laid the responsibility of her predicament on her father's shoulders. How could he have remarried so quickly after losing her mother, allowed Dorothea to flutter in and lay claim to all that belonged to his dead wife and the
n turn a blind eye when the woman mistreated his daughter?

  She rolled over, and shoved the down-filled pillow beneath her neck, praying it would ease the throbbing in her forehead. With her eyes closed, she tried to free her mind of her worries, but to no avail. Lady Dorothea had her title but without the money there would be no privilege and she couldn't be expected to wear last season’s gowns during the new season, could she?

  "Ugh," Chloe grumbled. "Gowns, coiffures, jewelry and quadrille." She loathed the silliness of the ton. How she longed for the days when she and Jude would stroll the grounds around the estate. She missed sharing the butterflies, wildflowers, and red deer with him. Horseback riding, dipping her toes in the creek beyond the stables, that was her joy. Not the constant round of entertainments, balls, teas, and picnics. The fakery of it all sickened her.

  Still she lay there waiting for the pain to ease, longing for word from Jude. Wishing her friend hadn't left her alone to deal with Lady Dorothea's idea of marriage.

  Of course, had he stayed, he'd have been married off. He wouldn’t be seeing the world and making his own fortune. Sometimes she longed to be a man, for they knew a freedom she only dreamt of.

  Hearing a soft tap on her door, she groaned. It was Lady Dorothea, no doubt come to discuss what slippers to wear when she met the baron, or what comb to put in her hair.

  "Lady Chloe?"

  Relief sped through her at the sweet sound of Maggie's voice. "Come in."

  Maggie walked in, her round face aglow, her blue eyes as warm as any sisters. "I'm sorry you're feeling so poorly," she said, gently closing the door behind her and securing it with the lock.

  "Just a headache," Chloe said, sitting up and pulling a pillow across her lap. Small sparks of hope shot through her. Maggie hardly ever closed the door and when she did it usually meant she'd heard gossip or overheard an argument, or had news of Jude. "Is everything all right?" she asked, excitement tingeing her words.

  Maggie dipped her knee. "Yes, Miss, everything's fine. But this just arrived in the morning post and I thought it might make ya feel better."