Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4)

by Bianca Blythe

  But it was Lord Braunschweig. The man who’d contacted her after reading her books, enthralled by every aspect of her life, patiently responding to each letter.

  How could she ever have doubted his arrival?

  She knew his thoughts, and the sound of his footsteps comforted her.

  The man was so knowledgeable, writing on different types of grains and farming seasons. A man filled with fervor on issues of cultivation practices must possess extraordinary zeal for more conventionally passionate subjects. He’d sought her out and then answered her every letter, writing pages back with regularity. He was the only person in the world, besides her stepsisters, aware of her secret.

  It didn’t matter what he looked like.

  I love him.

  She smiled at the familiar thought.

  She craned her neck in the direction of his footsteps, and only the vicar’s stern gaze prevented her from leaping into the newcomer’s arms.

  “I hope you are not the baron,” the vicar boomed, his voice clearly accustomed to barreling through the room. His glower likely mimicked his expression when occupied with admonishing his flock for not donating sufficiently to the church.

  “I am.” Veronique’s fiancé coughed. “Sorry about the—er—curse. It’s dashed dark in that room. You should keep the door open.”

  His accent was impeccable. The man was so intelligent.

  “And increase my susceptibility to catching a cold?” The vicar roared.

  Footsteps sounded, and her heart halted.

  This was it.

  He stepped toward her, and her eyes rose from the man’s Hessians, somewhat roughened from the harsh outside weather to tight buckskin breeches that hardly hid elegantly shaped thighs. The buttons on his high-collared tailcoat gleamed, but they could not succeed at distracting her from his perfect features, chiseled and masculine and utterly exquisite.

  “My sweet darling,” she said.

  She’d never used this particular endearment before, and the baron blinked. He even looked behind him, as if she might be addressing another man.

  She smiled.

  He needn’t worry.

  There’d only ever been him, and now she would ensure that there would only be him for all eternity.

  She stepped toward him, and she smiled as his green eyes widened.

  “Do you like my dress?” She spun so the silver threads sparkled in the flickering candlelight.

  “It’s rather nice,” he said. “Stunning in fact.”

  She beamed.

  “And—er—rather fancy.”

  “This is a fancy occasion,” she reminded him.

  The most special occasion in our entire lives.

  He looked around. “I expected to see my brother here. And his wife.”

  “You invited them?” She clapped her hands. Any last doubt he might be wary of her mother’s background vanished. “They haven’t arrived yet.”

  He nodded.

  “We’ll wait for them,” she said.

  “Good.” His eyes flickered over her again.

  Men’s gazes had a tendency to dwell over her form. Something about the curves, which she’d heard described as luscious.

  Until they realized…

  She shook her head. The baron was made of sterner stuff. Though she’d worried—slightly, when he’d failed to appear, concerned he might have second doubts, given her…background, it was obvious worrying had been foolish.

  He was her fiancé, her mate for eternity. Of course he would show up.

  And soon he’ll be my husband.

  The vicar cleared his throat, the gesture made noisier by the absolute absence of any guests. “Shall we proceed?”

  She glanced at her husband-to-be. He’d looked so adorably bewildered when he’d entered and had murmured about his family. If they were coming, Veronique would wait longer for the sacred sacraments, no matter how much the vicar frowned.

  She shook her head. “We will wait for this man’s family members. I’m sure they’ll be here soon.”

  Her fiancé looked relieved.

  “In that case I will get my greatcoat,” the vicar said. “I have no confidence in this man’s family’s ability to be on time.”

  The baron’s expression clouded. “I hope you are not insulting my relatives. Their importance cannot be overstated. Insulting a marquess and marchioness is inadvisable.”

  The vicar’s stern face wobbled. “Forgive me, my lord. I was unaware your family was so important.”

  “I find that impossible to believe,” the baron said firmly.

  The vicar seemed prepared to argue, but he shook his head. “Forgive me. I am merely fetching my greatcoat.”

  Pride soared through Veronique at the sound of the vicar’s newly meek voice. Her fiancé might not be battling an actual dragon, as in Prince Delightful and the Dragon, but he rivaled that hero in valiance. The baron’s muscles curved under his coat, and Veronique supposed if he were confronted with an actual dragon, he would be equally successful at battling it.

  “I am so happy you are here,” she murmured, as the vicar tromped away. “You are even more marvelous than I imagined.”

  The baron’s lips curled into a seductive smile. “Have you been thinking much of me?”

  “You know I have.”

  He smirked.

  The door slammed, and doubt ushered through Veronique. Perhaps she should have told her family about the wedding. Most of Veronique’s favorite books ended in elopements, and it had only seemed appropriate for Veronique to emulate some of the romance bestowed on those heroines.

  Still, her family would be so pleasantly surprised when they realized Veronique had alleviated all their worries for her on her own.

  “My family is staying at the castle,” she told him.

  “Mine are too!” He beamed at her.

  This was going far better than she’d hoped. He’d not only arrived, but he’d arranged accommodation for his family.

  She wasn’t surprised they were staying at Diomhair Caisteal. There were no other places in this hamlet, and didn’t all aristocrats know one another? Something about attending one of the same three boarding schools.

  “Perhaps I should ask my maid to bring them?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  The man’s tone was restrained. Perhaps he was embarrassed he’d dragged his whole family all the way from London, and she hadn’t even bothered to invite hers from a few yards away.

  “Miss Smith?” she called.

  Her maid came to her.

  “Please be sure to invite my family now.”

  The maid dipped into a curtsy. “I’m happy for you.”

  Veronique smiled back, and the maid’s cheeks pinkened before she scurried away.

  Veronique’s mother’s background might be unconventional, and in the full light, Veronique’s appearance was viewed with similar hesitation, but it didn’t matter. The baron loved her.

  She glanced at him again. The man was truly handsome. In her moments of doubt, Veronique had wondered whether he would be as appealing in person as in his letters.

  “Perhaps we should sit?” She hated the uncertainty in her voice.

  “Very well.” He guided her into a pew and slid beside her. His eyes sparkled with humor.

  It was one thing to write about handsome men, but it was another thing when faced with a paragon of masculinity in the flesh. He seemed comprised solely of broad shoulders and chiseled features and swooping, perfectly tousled black hair. It was good he hadn’t had time to attire himself in full dress for their wedding: she likely would have swooned on the spot if he were peering at her with those smoldering eyes underneath the glossy brim of a round hat.

  “I did not expect such good company in Scotland.” His voice was warm and velvety sounding.

  She’d been correct to commission this expensive wedding dress. Seeing the pleasure in his gaze made it all worthwhile.

  “You’ve managed to exceed my expect
ations as well,” she admitted, and her heart warmed at the wonder that seemed to grow in the man’s gaze.

  Chapter Four

  The chit was magnificent.

  He could almost forgive his brother for having the audacity to reside in Scotland if he managed to bring guests like this to his estate.

  She spoke in a faint accent he couldn’t place, and even in the flickering candlelight of the chapel, her features seemed more exotic than the peaches-and-cream complexions the female members of the ton sported, when they were not dabbing themselves in French-imported rouge.

  It was odd no chaperone was present, but then again, Scotland must not seem as perilous as London’s ballrooms. Manor house parties tended to have relaxed rules, something Miles on multiple occasions had cherished.

  Foreign chits were splendid, much less stuffy than their English equivalents. Clearly the urge that had compelled them to cast off the yokes of British regulations in taxpaying denoted a looser adherence to etiquette and propriety.

  He cursed himself for ever thinking uncharitable thoughts about his brothers’ vast array of in-laws.

  He glanced around, but the minister had not returned.

  Miles was no fool. This was his chance.

  He grinned and put his hand over hers. This was an occasion for carpe diem. He expected her to tense, but she only smiled.

  That beam. Painters would give their purses for an opportunity to portray such beauty. He longed to trace the curve of her sultry, full lips with his own.

  “I am perhaps being forward,” he murmured, “but you are utterly delightful.”

  He brushed his fingers over hers, luxuriating in the touch of her skin.

  Normally high society women swathed their hands in gloves, unconcerned by the rough texture of the lace fabric.

  Her embroidered gown shimmered. Perhaps Lady Rockport had arranged a ball for tonight. He wouldn’t put it past his brother’s wife.

  “Your dress is beautiful.” He noted the adorable manner in which her cheeks darkened. Had few men given her compliments before? Outrageous. He steadied his tone. “You are beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” Her voice was soft and sultry and all parts of Miles soared to life.

  “May I kiss you?” His heart caught, as if bracing himself for her rebuke. Even though they’d never met before, even though this was a chapel, it seemed vital she say yes.

  She gave him a coy glance. “I thought you would never ask.”

  Heavens. She was remarkable.

  He ran his hand against her hair, the locks curlier than that of most women he knew. The brown of her eyes seemed the loveliest color in the world, and for a moment he simply gazed at her.

  His heartbeat galloped, as if he were still racing through the Highlands, though this time he was not evading storm clouds, but hastening toward the most exquisite sight.

  He brushed his lips against hers. They were soft and succulent and just cold enough to jolt him further awake.

  He pulled her toward him, conscious of her faint scent of vanilla, and they melted together.

  She moaned, and he smiled, wrapping her in his arms.

  She shivered against him. He wouldn’t let her be cold, not when he was here, and he halted their kiss. His heartbeat thumped blissfully in his chest, and he removed his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

  “Here you go,” he said.

  She looked surprised. “You don’t want to admire my dress more? My seamstress would be disappointed.”

  “Your seamstress is not here, and I do not desire you to catch cold.” He pulled her hands in his. “Now where were we?”

  “Before you displayed such gallantry?” Her eyes were lively and intelligent. There was nothing rigid or repressed about her.

  She hadn’t remarked on his fame yet, and he trusted her to not have some impoverished, titled father hiding in the corner, eager to witness him compromising his daughter and display feigned anger, to ensure Miles would take her off his hands.

  He kissed her again, this time more slowly, more deeply, more…thoroughly.

  “Just like in my dreams,” she murmured in that same throaty tone that caused havoc over his heart.

  He was good at kissing.

  Kissing was one of his favorite things to do.

  Still, he’d never taken such pleasure in it before. Her lips moved somewhat awkwardly to begin with, despite the fact she’d hardly seemed to be taken aback by his suggestion.

  But any hesitation soon vanished, and she followed him quickly and assuredly.

  He kept his eyes closed, but only she consumed his thoughts.

  The day might have started poorly, but it couldn’t have ended any better. He leaned closer to her, clasping her within his arms.

  A door creaked, and heavy footsteps thudded down the nave.

  “What is this?” A male voice with a distinct American accent boomed behind him. “Veronique, honey. Are you fine?”

  A female voice wailed. “Scandal! Scandal! She’s been taken by a Highlander!”

  “Not a Highlander,” another voice said more coolly.

  Gerard?

  Miles stiffened, conscious his brother was here. Disapproval seemed to emanate through the man’s voice, and Miles had never been more conscious of their age difference.

  He glanced at the maid. Of course.

  The woman—Veronique—pulled away from him.

  He expected horror to be on her face at being so blatantly discovered. Instead she only smiled. “They’re here. I’ll introduce you.”

  Even women who attempted to compromise men feigned sorrow at being discovered.

  She rose. “Hello, Papa.” She smiled down at Miles. “Please let me introduce my family to you.”

  Family?

  He jumped to his feet.

  Family was not an exaggeration. Astounded faces, some whom he recognized, stared at them. Both his brothers, Marcus and Gerard, stood before him. Their wide-eyed faces were mirrored by their wives’.

  The chapel was anything but empty now.

  “Papa,” Veronique said, her voice strong. “May I please introduce my fiancé to you?”

  Fiancé?

  “You’re engaged, honey?” Her father frowned. “To some coatless scoundrel?”

  “We should never have taken her to Scotland,” the woman beside him mourned. “Disaster has struck!”

  “Just my brother.” Gerard directed a stern expression at Miles. “Please accept my utmost apologies.”

  “Apologies?” The woman wailed. “My stepdaughter has been compromised!”

  Miles stiffened at the word. His brothers’ faces paled. They knew what such an accusation meant—marriage, with a stranger.

  “We shouldn’t be overhasty,” Marcus said finally. “I doubt she’s with child.”

  “His coat was off,” the older woman mourned, her voice louder and more strident than even the most passionate minister could be.

  Any moment villagers might storm the chapel to discover the cause of the commotion.

  He glanced uneasily at Veronique, but she seemed thoroughly unconcerned.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “They’ll calm down soon.”

  He gazed warily at her parents. Calming down did not seem a possibility in the next five decades.

  “You mustn’t worry,” Veronique said. “I know him.”

  Miles blinked.

  “I assure you that he’s quite suitable,” Veronique continued.

  Miles glanced at his family members, wondering if he might have misheard her. They looked similarly startled, and he despised the suspicion they directed at him.

  Veronique’s father’s shoulders relaxed, even as Miles’s shoulders rose.

  Had this all been some horrible plan to seduce him after all?

  Veronique stood. “Rise, dearest.”

  He stumbled upward, still taken aback.

  “We are betrothed. He’s a baron.”

  Betrothed?

  “A baron?” H
er parents looked somewhat less horrified.

  “We were just about to wed,” Veronique said.

  “No,” Miles croaked, his voice hoarse.

  Chapter Five

  “No?” Veronique stared at the man whom she’d just been embracing.

  What on earth did he mean?

  She’d corresponded with him for two years.

  Nothing brought her more joy than another letter from him.

  They’d planned to wed for months.

  The baron had exuded confidence, but his face seemed paler, and his eyes seemed to have enlarged.

  He gaped at her and then pulled his chiseled features into an expression that verged toward the accusatory. “Of course I’m not your bloody fiancé.”

  She stiffened at the curse.

  This is not good.

  Her heartbeat quickened, and the room swirled about her.

  “But—” She stammered. “We exchanged so many letters! Y-you told me you loved me. You agreed to meet me here. You even brought your family!”

  “My family is here.” The man gestured to Lord and Lady Rockport. “They live here.”

  Heat invaded her face.

  She’d been so happy. Joy had skipped through her veins, pulsating through her.

  And this was…some stranger?

  “I suppose he’s not really a baron,” Papa huffed. “Damned English bastards. Saying anything to seduce pretty girls. Don’t worry, we’ll hush this up.” He glanced around the chapel and strode toward the vicar. “I can see you need some repairs to this church. This whole place could use a fresh coat of paint.”

  “Fresh paint!” the vicar stammered. “This is a medieval church. The oldest of its kind in the Highlands. I assure you no one will be going anywhere near this building with paint.”

  “Ah. Reckon you’re wanting a more expensive bribe.” Papa removed his purse. “What sort of things do you like? Statues? Paintings? Relics?”

  The vicar raked a hand through thinning hair. “I suppose there might be something you could do.”

  “There always is,” Papa said gaily. “Haven’t met a man I couldn’t bribe yet.”