The Baron Regrets
by D.S. Dehel
Genre: Contemporary Romance, Cozy Mystery
Regret nothing.
Tessa Winthrop, an art restoration specialist, is hoping for the job of a lifetime—one which would cement her reputation in a field dominated by her male colleagues.
Working for Baron Lucien Stanhope—or Leo as he prefers—challenges Tess’s talent, intellect, and emotions. Leo is charming, handsome, and way out of her league. It doesn’t matter, though, because she only is there for her art and the mystery surrounding master painter Giovanni Remini.
When a night of passion leads to consequences that could mean the end of her career, Tess fears that the baron regrets having ever met her.
But fate has more in store for them, and sometimes regrets are the beginning of better things.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, sir?”
He laughed as he refilled first hers then his own flute. “No, that wasn’t my thought. It just seems wrong to waste this lovely champagne, but now that you mention it…”
He is actually flirting with me. With a boldness Tess hadn’t felt in a long time, she smiled over the top of her glass and took a drink.
He stretched out again, putting his arm along the back of the bench, not quite touching her. Classic, yet smooth.
Neither one said anything. They simply sat drinking their champagne and listening to the sound of laughter drift up from the kitchens. Everything was hanging in the balance. A word or gesture would take them both in new directions. Delightfully awkward. Wonderfully tense.
Leo broke the silence. “Tess, I’ve been thinking.”
Her heart pounded, but she somehow managed, “Oh?”
“Perhaps we…”
She barely heard over the rushing in her ears.
“Well, you actually,” he qualified, “may want to consider working on the small dining room next.”
She blinked several times, trying to comprehend the turn in conversation. The house? He wants to talk about Aescton Court?
“Do you mean the one where the buffet was tonight?” She couldn’t have said how she managed to fake the interest in her voice.
“Yes. The one with the abundance of hideous wallpaper.” His gaze met hers directly for the first time in a while. “I have long wondered if there is—or was—something under that paper on the long wall. It does seem the perfect place for a mural of some sort.” As he spoke, he gently stroked her shoulder and studied her face.
Tess wondered if he was trying to convey how much he wanted her—or some equally passionate thing. It dawned on her that for Leo, sharing his beloved Aescton Court was an act of trust equal to a breathless confession of desire. He was putting the only family jewels he cared about in her hands. For herself, she wanted the chance to make this place even more beautiful, just as much as she wanted him. She hoped he knew that.
Excerpt #2:
“Robert, I would like you to meet Ms. Tessa Winthrop. She is the art historian and conservator I have hired to work on Willows.” Leo had not moved from just inside the door. “Tessa, I would like you to meet my brother, Robert.”
Robert did a double-take and dropped the remote before hopping up and heading towards them.
Tess’s first thought was that while Leo was like a model in a magazine, she would look at him, think, He’s handsome, but then turn the page and forget about him. However, Robert was also like a model, but she would tear his picture out to be used as a reference. He was that striking.
The brothers were a study in contrasts. Although they were the same height, Leo appeared taller because of his thin, aristocratic build. Robert was more muscular and wore clothes that emphasized the fact. Leo’s hair was ash brown and wavy, possibly curly, but it was short and slicked back. Robert’s was straight and dark blond, worn fashionably long.
Up close, she noticed Robert’s eyes were the color of the sea on a sunny day, while Leo’s were a stormy gray.
“I’m the spare,” Robert said, shaking Tess’s hand and not letting go. He turned to Leo. “And here I thought you were hiring another dowdy artist. You didn’t tell me she was beautiful.”
“Robert is my younger brother and an incorrigible flirt. Don’t listen to a word he says.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say. Tess is beautiful. She reminds me of Botticelli’s Venus.” He tugged Tess closer to him with the hand he was still holding. “Don’t pay any attention to Leo. He’s just an old bore who has no taste in women.”
Leo rolled his eyes. “She looks nothing like Venus.”
“How insulting.” But Robert’s outrage was clearly feigned.
“Well, at least he didn’t say I look like Picasso’s Woman in a Green Hat,” she quipped.
Behind them, Leo snorted. Robert smiled, but Tess could see he did not know the Cubist painting. I bet Venus is the only painting you know.
“I hate to interrupt your vain attempt at wooing Tessa, but I would like to show her where she will be working.” Leo was now the formal, serious man of the interview.
It was Robert’s turn to roll his eyes at his brother.
“And it’s gauche to flirt with staff.” Though she may have been teasing, she had a rule to not get involved with her employers.
Finally, Robert dropped her hand. “But my dear, you are not staff. You are an expert restorer, and thus fair game.”
“You stay away from her.” Leo pointed a finger at his brother. “Let her work.” Then he walked out of the room.
If you’ve read Inferno, you know the idea of a pilgrimage is one that is near and dear to my heart. Ironically thus far, all of my literary pilgrimages have been accidental. I’ve simply been in an area and gone to see the author’s home/gravesite, and often, I’m not a huge fan of the author. This was the case for Balzac and Proust.
There are two, though, that are rather special, but like the others, these trips were serendipitous. In 2007, I chaperoned a student trip to Europe, and because I am conversant in French—and have spent some time in France—during our free afternoon, I was allowed to take a smaller group of students and chaperones across Paris to Père LaChaise cemetery, ostensibly to find Jim Morrison’s tomb, but also to see the renowned resting place of so many people. There, we sought out Oscar Wilde’s grave. The story behind his last words and gravestone itself are legendary, so we had to stop and leave our “mark” on the angel headstone.
[Here I went on a half hour trip down the rabbit hole to find the picture.]
I’ve always been a fan of Wilde’s sensibility, and this was not only good fun, but done with a sardonic respect that Wilde would appreciate.
My second literary pilgrimage came later that same week when I was in Florence. Ever since I had to take an art history class in college (long story), Italy had long been on my bucket list. For years I had been teaching the 13th Canto of The Inferno to my Honors 10 students, and this was a chance to take pictures of his house to show them. During our free time, my 17-year-old son and I ventured off to find Dante’s house.
We promptly got lost.
The entire sum of my Italian at that time was ordering gelato. (I have my prioraties.)
We found a cat, a bookstore, and had a blast exploring, then we finally found Dante and toured the museum.
Alright, one more. Last October I finally made it to Venice, and after quite the serpentine trek to find our boutique hotel, I discovered that we were staying in the same apartment block where Casanova was born. The museum was closed, but I snapped a picture anyway.
2020 being what it is, my trip to visit Yeats’s tomb was canceled, but I have been to Coole park. (There were no swans. I was annoyed.) Having said that, Coole park and its swans are a part of my upcoming Christmas Short, “The Seventh Swan.”
I suppose if there’s a point to all of this it’s get out there and explore (once we can). You never know what fun will find you.
D. S. Dehel is a lover of literature, good food, and the Oxford comma. When she is not immersed in a book, she is mom to her kids and spoiling her rather coddled feline, Mr. Darcy or her equally pampered puppy, Jameson. Having finally retired, she spends her days dreaming up new plotlines. She adores literary allusions, writing sex scenes, and British men. Actually, make that hot men in general. Her devoted husband is still convinced she writes children’s books. Please don’t enlighten him.
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