Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4) Page 4

  The vicar’s face whitened. “I wouldn’t use that particular word…”

  “Just saying it like it is,” Papa said. “No one becomes rich by wasting time. And I am, very, rich.” He winked. “We’ll doll this chapel up so it can take on the finest cathedral. Reckon the French would be willing to sell some of their takings from Italy and Spain to us, now that they’re no longer an empire.”

  “We will not be taking anything from Catholics.” The minister lowered his voice, as if a bishop might pop up to berate him.

  Veronique blinked hard. This was supposed to be her moment of triumph. Not a time for her father to brandish about his purse with the vigor of a medieval knight wielding a sword.

  “See what you’re making your poor, dear, lovely father do?” Her stepmother glowered. “What kind of trousseau do you expect to have if your father gives out all the money allotted to you before you even meet any real suitors?”

  Veronique’s throat dried. She glanced again at the baron. The man should have the decency to look ashamed.

  “You kissed me!” she exclaimed. “You came here!”

  “I’m ever so sorry.” The maid flushed. “He told me he was the baron, miss.”

  Veronique hardened her gaze. “Are you telling me that you are not Lord Bertrand Braunschweig, Baron of Wolbert?”

  “I am a baron,” he said finally. “Though not Lord Braunschweig. This must be some sort of confusion. I am Lord Worthing.”

  Lord Worthing?

  The name was familiar.

  And then she blinked and dread rushed through her. “You’re Lord Rockport’s and Lord Somerville’s younger brother.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I came to visit. I’d just arrived when your maid found me and hauled me up here. That’s why I asked if you’d seen my family.”

  Goodness.

  She’d thought he was her fiancé. She’d—gracious, she’d kissed him. On the lips! What must he think of her? What must Lord Braunschweig—her real fiancé—think if he knew?

  “But you kissed me,” she stammered.

  He gave her a roguish grin. “So I did.”

  She’d been about to vow love and fidelity to one man, and had instead become intimate with another.

  Heat surged through her, as if someone had set her aflame. Her limbs seemed to crumple, and she sank back onto the pew.

  She glanced toward the door, as if Lord Braunschweig might be entering, but no one appeared.

  “Hmph,” Papa said. “Seems you made a mistake, Veronique, honey.”

  “But you’re still a baron,” her stepmother said thoughtfully, addressing Lord Worthing.

  “I am,” he said.

  Veronique despised that the sound of his voice caused her heart to flutter. She’d been so certain everything would be perfect. She abhorred that the person who’d held her in his arms with such confidence, who’d made her heart soar and her lips swerve upward, was not actually Lord Braunschweig.

  She shouldn’t feel disappointed. Lord Braunschweig was better, and whatever kept him from being here must be worthwhile indeed.

  “I haven’t seen that dress before.” Her stepmother frowned.

  Drat.

  “I commissioned it.” She raised her chin, though she did shift her feet to hide her jeweled slippers.

  Her stepsisters, Louisa and Irene, knew about her career, knew about the steady stream of income, but she’d kept the fact hidden from her father and stepmother.

  The subject she wrote about was…sensitive.

  “It’s a beautiful dress, honey,” Papa said. “Girl’s got good taste.”

  Her stepmother strode toward her. “Is that silver thread?”

  Veronique leaped up. “Why don’t we go back to the castle?”

  “You should probably give the man his coat,” Papa said. “Doesn’t look decent, finding you like this.”

  “With your tongues in each other’s mouths,” her stepmother added. “Most horrendous, Veronique. You’ve wounded us. Irreparably.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, darling.” Papa strode over the old cobble stone tiles, worn from centuries of people padding to the altar to pray.

  “Hmm…” A strange look crossed over her stepmother’s face, and for the faintest second, so short she couldn’t be certain she’d witnessed it, her stepmother smiled.

  What on earth was she thinking?

  Her stepmother moved toward the baron in quick determined paces. “You compromised our daughter.”

  The baron’s face paled, and he glanced at his brothers. “I—er—wouldn’t say that. It was a kiss.”

  “A long, deep kiss,” her stepmother said. “And your coat was off.”

  “Veronique was cold,” the baron—the wrong baron—said.

  “Miss Daventry, you mean,” her mother declared, almost triumphantly.

  Veronique knew her stepmother couldn’t actually be triumphant, because what was there for her to be happy about?

  Unless… Veronique shivered, and something in her stomach hardened.

  She was so close to her dream.

  Lord Braunschweig would arrive. She was certain. What in heavens was her stepmother doing?

  But she knew.

  “I think it’s significant that you referred to her by her Christian name,” her stepmother said.

  “That was the only name I knew—”

  Her stepmother raised a hand in the air. “You were compromising her.”

  The baron’s face paled further. Not that the fact made him appear any less handsome.

  “We found you in this building—this sacred space—alone.” Her stepmother’s eyes definitely gleamed now, and she placed her hand over her heart. “We were shocked and appalled to find my husband’s only child, his sweet, innocent daughter in the throngs of an embrace with a person lacking basic clothes.”

  “Just my coat was off,” the baron said quickly.

  “Who knows what you had gotten up to before then?” Her stepmother glanced toward the altar. “We demand you wed her. She—she may be with child.”

  “That would be impossible,” the baron said.

  Her stepmother frowned. “You would say that. But how is she supposed to find a husband when we can no longer vouch for her purity?”

  The baron had a stricken expression on his face. He turned to his brothers. “Marcus, Gerard—tell her this is nonsense.”

  Lord Somerville and Lord Rockport retained thoughtful expressions on their faces.

  “Forgive me, Miles,” Lord Somerville said finally. “But you were alone with her. Anything could have happened.”

  “But you saw everything that did,” Miles stammered.

  Veronique froze. This was supposed to be her wedding day. But not to this stranger.

  The man was squirming at the thought of being forced to marry her. But she had no intention of allowing that to happen.

  “I love another,” she cried out. “Lord Braunschweig. I love Lord Braunschweig. W-we were going to wed today. That’s why I had the maid fetch you.”

  Papa frowned. “I don’t know that man. How did you meet him, honey?”

  Veronique firmed her jaw. “We haven’t met yet. But we’ve corresponded for the past two years.”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, remembering how he had written a letter to Mr. Simmons to ask to be put in touch with her. He had sought her out. It wasn’t the first time an admirer had.

  She closed her eyes. All those beautiful long letters.

  He loved her. She was certain. “He’ll be here.”

  *

  The only thing worse than being compromised, was to hear the chit in question begging her parents not to force her to marry him. It was damned embarrassing. Damned good of her, but embarrassing all the same.

  He glanced at his brothers. Marcus and Gerard both had somber, shocked faces.

  Miles closed his eyes.

  She’d been so pretty and charming. How was he to know she’d thought him someone else? Women were suppose
d to know what their own fiancés looked like.

  But he understood. An entire ocean separated Britain and America. Only kings commissioned paintings of their foreign brides before agreeing to marry them, and even they couldn’t depend on an honest portrayal.

  Gerard and Marcus whispered together, and then Gerard strode to him.

  “Hullo,” Miles said.

  “I see you arrived.” Gerard didn’t deign to give him a proper greeting.

  “Er—rather.” He raked a hand through his hair, conscious of his still missing tailcoat. He smoothed his sleeves, wrinkled from when he’d embraced Veronique, but Gerard’s face darkened.

  Miles scowled. Gerard shouldn’t be giving him a hard time. His brother had gotten himself into scrapes before.

  Except—was this really just a scrape? Even if Veronique—Miss Daventry—persuaded her parents not to marry him, hadn’t he damaged her? A girl couldn’t go on as normal if her parents found her in the arms of a strange man. The event must be dashed inconvenient for her.

  He’d—he’d fancied her. More than he’d ever fancied anyone else. Ten minutes ago, their encounter had seemed magical.

  This though could not be more miserable.

  “Forgive me,” he told his brother.

  He hated the meekness in his tone. He was never meek.

  Gerard didn’t deign to give him a proper greeting. “You should marry her.”

  Horror swept through him. “You know how it is, Gerard. We were caught in the moment.”

  “This is a chapel,” Gerard said sternly. “You can’t go around kissing strange women in chapels.”

  “I—” Miles sighed. “You’re right. I promise not to do it again.”

  “It didn’t occur to ask her why she was eager to kiss you?”

  Miles gave him a smug look. “Frankly, the only question I would have is why she wouldn’t want to. My renown with women is considerable. They know about the prowess of…all my muscles.”

  “Miss Daventry is new to this country. Fresh from Massachusetts. How is she supposed to find a husband if there are rumors about her?”

  “Then don’t make rumors,” Miles said.

  “There were many witnesses.” Gerard shook his head. “You should know better.”

  “You were a rogue once,” Miles muttered. “One doesn’t accidentally become Matchmaking for Wallflowers’ Rogue to Avoid.”

  “Nor does one find oneself kissing a strange chit accidentally. I can’t help you get out of this.”

  “You know I don’t believe in marriage.”

  Gerard smiled. “Cordelia and I despised each other when we eloped.”

  Miles blinked.

  “Miss Daventry is a pleasant girl. She seems intelligent. And you obviously find her pretty. Her father is wealthy. You could do worse.”

  “Out of the question,” Miles said.

  Marriage was something other men discussed, after an overindulgence in brandy, when they permitted themselves to ponder their favorite dance partner with ridiculous sentimentality. Marriage was something some men mulled over after seeing nephews or nieces of the particularly adorable variety.

  Marriage was something Miles knew better than to contemplate.

  He knew his parents. He knew how his mother had married the wrong person, causing havoc when she’d cavorted with Miles’s father. He knew Gerard’s father had died brokenhearted, and servants still spoke of the scandal of his mother’s marriage to the man with whom she’d had an affair.

  Miles was not going to make his mother’s mistake. He refused to marry anyone. If he made no commitments, no one would get hurt. Simple.

  He wasn’t the oldest son. He had an estate, but it was small, and if Gerard’s or Marcus’s heirs inherited it after he died, so be it. His parents were dead, and he had no matchmaking mama to contend with.

  “I see that you already found Scotland enticing,” Gerard said.

  The statement should have been innocuous.

  Normally Miles would take it as a chance to mull over the less than ideal climate and encourage his brother to spend increased time in England.

  He might even muse over the general unpleasantness of mail coaches with him. Gerard, he had thought, would sympathize with his experience with Miss Haskett.

  The only emotion Gerard seemed to be conveying now was disapproval.

  “I’m sorry,” Miles said again.

  “She is a guest of mine,” Gerard said. “An innocent. This is her first time in the country. I would have thought I could have protected her in a hamlet from my own brother.”

  “Clearly I’m too much of a rake,” Miles said.

  “That is not a good thing,” Gerard said.

  “I seem to remember you being very proud of your roguish status.”

  “I was a fool,” Gerard said. “And you are too.”

  “I’m going to tell you a secret,” Gerard said. “Marriage is the best bloody thing in this world.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Most certainly,” Gerard said.

  Miles frowned. He wondered where his brother was. The one who’d joined him at gaming halls and White’s.

  He wrapped his arms together.

  He wasn’t sure why he’d bothered to drive up this distance to see him. He should have devoted his time solely on finding Loretta Van Lochen. He sighed. “Perhaps you arranged for Miss Daventry to compromise me.”

  “Naturally not,” Gerard said, his voice outraged.

  More people turned to look at them.

  He shook his head firmly. “I won’t marry.” He glanced at Veronique. “And I’m certain she has no desire to marry me either.”

  The vicar cleared his throat. “If there is to be no marriage, I suggest you take your arguing elsewhere. Some people in this hamlet still consider a chapel to be a place for prayer. I imagine that Lord Rockport’s castle is sufficiently large for all of you to debate Miss Daventry’s future further.”

  The other faces reddened, and they left the chapel.

  Miles fetched his horse and led it toward the castle stables. The others made their way toward the castle, treading over the narrow path. Icy wind swept over Miles, as if reminding him he did not belong here.

  He frowned as he stepped over the increasingly muddy trail.

  The worst of it was, when he closed his eyes, he still remembered the brush of Veronique’s lips against his own and the happy beat of his heart.

  He tried to meet Veronique’s gaze, but her stricken face hardly comforted him.

  Perhaps, despite both their protestations, she would become his wife. Miles shuddered. He may not have been speaking, may not have formed the four-letter word on his tongue, but his face still contorted.

  Miles wasn’t supposed to be wed. He knew better than to succumb to morals touted by Bible toting clerics. Marriage was for other people, from more conventional families.

  He’d been born of passion.

  Wild, notorious passion.

  Columnists had written about it, turning it into legend with an enthusiasm that only paralleled the real Guinevere.

  Miles knew. He knew every time he introduced himself, and every time the person in question’s eyebrows raised, head tilted, and lips drew into a smirk. He was the son who should have been a bastard, should have been a lovechild, somebody who should have been sent quietly to the front to protect the more important dukes and earls who were not born of scandal.

  Everyone knew his mother, the incomparably beautiful Guinevere, had married the very mediocre appearing, yet wealthy Marquess of Highgate for his money. And everyone also knew she’d promptly asked him to build her a manor house in Kent and fallen for one of the local gentry there. Everyone knew she’d broken her husband’s heart, and though not everybody was certain his fatal bout with bronchitis should be blamed on her, they all chided her careless disregard for her late husband.

  His parents had bequeathed him with a clear complexion, chiseled features, and a propensity toward well-proportioned muscles
that he readily put to good use. Women found his figure appealing, and Miles found women appealing.

  Marriage was something that could be postponed, ideally forever. Marrying was decidedly off-limits. There had to be some advantages to being a younger son.

  Miles had a reputation to maintain, even if both his brothers had inexplicably decided to settle into matrimony, abandoning their access to an incessant stream of sumptuous women. He rather thought his brothers’ intelligence was vastly overrated.

  He glanced at her.

  And blinked.

  They were outside, and somehow, under the stronger light, her features seemed even more…foreign.

  Debutantes were not supposed to appear foreign. They were supposed to possess peaches-and-cream complexions. Some more unfortunate ones might have alabaster complexions, or if they were very unlucky, and possessed an aptitude for barging from their manor homes to wander in their gardens, freckles might be scattered over their faces.

  But they were certainly not supposed to possess foreign features.

  And Veronique most certainly seemed in possession of those characteristics.

  Her nose was wider and flatter than that of the young ladies he knew. Her hair was curly, but it was her skin that he devoted the most attention to.

  It was dark.

  Not very dark. But darker than any ladies of the ton he’d met before. He tilted his head. Her father certainly did not seem to have the same skin tendency.

  Did that mean her mother was more dark?

  He frowned.

  Perhaps Massachusetts simply had lots of sun.

  Or perhaps… Perhaps her mother was of Spanish heritage? Italian?

  He frowned.

  She almost appeared… He shook his head.

  He was being too fascinated by her, seeing things that didn’t make sense.

  She was a foreigner, and it made sense that she might appear somewhat different from the English chits he knew, with their carefully maintained complexions through a well-practiced rejection of going outside without a deep brimmed bonnet and parasol.

  And yet it must be true.

  She was half African.

  He looked at Miss Daventry again, but then glanced away quickly. If he looked at her, it was too easy to dwell on her features, and the soft curve of her waist. That would do no good. She was betrothed and not interested in him.