An Unwilling Baroness

By Harris Channing

Copyright 2011 Harris Channing

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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.