“Most men of your class go there.”
“Some go to Rugby or Harrow, but you’re correct…Eton is the best. The uniforms are the most dashing.”
“Perhaps to make up for the fact that their graduates while about in muddied attire.”
“That was an accident,” Lord Worthing said sternly, and she giggled.
“Now,” Lord Worthing spoke between bites into his meat pie, “I am afraid you may have an overly optimistic impression of the size of Britain. Just because we are an island does not mean we are tiny.”
“Naturally.”
“It will take a while to get to London. A very long while. This horse will not be able to carry both of us there.”
“I’ve planned for everything,” Veronique said.
“What about accommodation?”
“There’s an inn in the next village.”
“Indeed?” Lord Worthing snapped a dry branch back to make room for her, and she resisted the urge to lean against his broad back.
“The mail coach stops there,” Veronique said. “We’ll be able to get a coach that goes in the direction of London.”
“Would that be at the Red Hart?”
“You know it?”
“I was there yesterday. Before we…met.”
“Oh.” Veronique’s heartbeat may have quickened. Their meeting had been rather memorable.
She slid back further, as if a mere centimeter might make her possibly forget the taste of his lips, and the feel of his strong arms.
“It would be quicker if we crossed through this farmer’s field,” Lord Worthing said authoritatively.
Veronique hesitated. Reaching the inn earlier held a definite temptation.
She shook her head. “I think we should abide to the path.”
Lord Worthing shrugged. “If you enjoy my company so much…”
She despised the smug smirk in his voice. She was betrothed.
She frowned. “Very well. If you’re absolutely certain.”
“Of course.” The horse plodded through the trees away from the main path and onto a field. A few cows scrutinized them with seeming skepticism, and the horse’s clomps quieted against the softer soil, freed from fallen twigs and branches.
“Your baron should have been here himself.”
“Perhaps he was facing a crisis.”
“Such as a personal crisis?”
Veronique despised the amusement in Lord Worthing’s tone. “You’re fortunate I’m behind you.”
“Oh?”
“Because I’m glaring very hard.”
He laughed. “Then that’s the first bit of fortune I’ve had today.”
Veronique refused to join his laughter, no matter how warm it sounded. She tossed her hair. “He’s likely facing a European crisis.”
“The war’s over, Miss Daventry.”
“He’s a diplomat. He’s likely preventing all sorts of wars from happening.”
“How heroic of him,” Lord Worthing said, and Veronique despised that the humor hadn’t left his voice.
“You wouldn’t understand the great work he does.”
“Please do tell why you believe that.”
“You’re just a rogue. You don’t do anything.”
“That’s not true,” Lord Worthing said.
“Well. I suppose you might count going to parties, to gentlemen’s clubs, or kissing women when you first meet them—”
Perhaps it had been wrong to bring up the kissing. Her blood seemed to rush through her body despite her best wishes.
“Is that all my brothers have told you?” The humor in his voice had vanished, but Veronique continued. Somehow arguing with him seemed less dangerous than laughing with him.
“Was there anything more?”
“Yes, there was.” He sighed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
“Well, do tell me,” she said finally. “It’s not like we’re exactly short on time.”
“It’s not important. At least…not anymore,” he said.
She was beginning to understand. The war had been massive. There had been so many people who’d joined the army and the navy. Guilt rippled through her. “Were you a soldier?”
Her sister’s husband, the Duke of Belmonte, had been a sailor in the navy for years. When the war had ended, he had not come back, unable to conceive of his life in England.
She’d never had that issue. The past had never been pleasant enough to stop hoping for the future. The future had always been her preferred place to be, if not her future, then the future of the people in stories.
“I wasn’t a soldier,” he said finally. “I could have been. I would have been wonderful at it.”
“I’m sure,” she said genuinely.
“I was a foreign correspondent.”
She blinked. “There weren’t many of those.”
“No,” he said, and his voice once again sounded warm. “There weren’t.”
“So what exactly does a foreign correspondent do?” she asked.
“Report on international news.” He shrugged. “Most newspapers belong to a single party. They’re either Whig or Tory. Obviously you can get very biased news that way. There’s little point buying a newspaper if you always know what it’s going to say. Some broadsheets always supported the government, others never did.”
“I see,” she said.
“My publisher sent me overseas so that I could get the real news, not obtained from government propaganda, or the often equally propaganda created by the other side. They sent me to Spain, Austria, Italy—everywhere Bonaparte went, I followed.”
Oh.
Perhaps he hadn’t been a diplomat, but he’d certainly helped his country.
“Wasn’t that dangerous?”
He shrugged. “War is dangerous.”
“But you weren’t even a soldier. You didn’t have even the advantage of ranks of people with guns fighting beside you. There weren’t cavalry backing you up.”
“I survived. Got some damn good articles out of it too.”
“How did you become a foreign correspondent?”
“I always liked writing.”
Veronique nodded. She understood that.
“And I was good at languages at school. I spoke French and German. Latin and Greek were rather less helpful, only allowing me to read the letters on the ancient buildings in Rome.”
“Rome! How wonderful.”
“It was rather.”
“I would love to visit one day,” Veronique mused.
“Perhaps Lord Braunschweig will take you,” he said. “It’s easy to go overseas now that the French aren’t firing at all the ships on the English Channel that haven’t donned the French flag. It’s still a bit unpleasant to travel, but I suspect you’re up for it.”
She grinned back, and for some reason warmth rushed through her. “I would love to convince Lord Braunschweig to do that.”
“You think that might be difficult?”
“I suppose not. He’s a diplomat. Traveling and moving is something to be expected. But he’s always made it quite clear that England is the best place in the world to be. I should be content just being here. It is nicer than the other countries. It is nice to be in a land where slavery is forbidden,” she added more softly.
“But surely England isn’t the absolute best,” he said. “France has excellent cheese, and Bonaparte gathered all the most impressive paintings together before he was deposed.”
“Oh, I heard about that.”
“You’re rather well read for an American.”
“I have the time. At least I’ve had access to reading material,” Veronique said, thinking of all the time she’d been confined to her room. No need to mull over that. “What brings you to Scotland? Fraternal affection? I’m sorry I dragged you away.”
“Don’t worry,” Lord Worthing said. “I’ll see Gerard again. Ever since he and his wife married, he’s been to London more and more often. I see enough of him at the big balls there.”<
br />
“I see. Good.”
“Actually I’m here on an assignment,” Lord Worthing said. “One I’m not doing. I’ll have a bloody angry publisher after me now. I was hoping to go back overseas, but it might be difficult when I don’t do this one investigative piece for him.”
“In Scotland? In the Highlands? What is there possibly for you to investigate here? Sheep and cow movement?”
“That’s quite an interesting thing,” he said. “More Scots are fleeing to Canada and America.”
“Indeed.”
“But I shouldn’t tell you about my assignment.”
“Oh, please,” Veronique said. “I would be so delighted.”
“I really shouldn’t. You can read about it later.”
“Maybe I can give you guidance. Since I’ve been here longer. Is it a jewel thief perhaps? Murderer?”
He laughed. “The scariest thing here are the farmers, and that’s only for the sheep to concern themselves with. Promise you won’t tell anyone.”
“Now who could I possibly tell? Besides, I’m good at keeping secrets.” She smirked.
“It’s Loretta Van Lochen.”
Fear surged through her.
What on earth was this about? Was this the reason he’d followed her outside? Did he know who she was? Was this all some fluff piece?
Her publisher had warned her to remain anonymous. One thing was to publish books from an author who was descended from slaves, but quite another was to attempt to sell it when all the readers knew about the person’s questionable heritage.
“L-Loretta Van Lochen. Who is that?” she asked carefully.
“I’m surprised you don’t know who she is, given her popularity.”
“I favor the anonymous author of Sense and Sensibility more myself.” She raked a hand through her hair and tried to appear innocent.
“Oh, you’re one of those women,” he said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind. I suppose you do show some taste.”
Veronique’s hands tightened about his waist.
“Loretta Van Lochen writes the most absurd books,” Lord Worthing continued. “Ridiculous storylines. All about princesses in towers and handsome heroes who rescue them. Utter nonsense.”
“I suppose you’ve tried reading her?”
“Oh, yes. Merely for research purposes. Quite nonsensical.”
“Indeed?” She strove to keep her voice calm. Outrage was perhaps not the emotion she wanted to convey. “Why would Loretta Van Lochen be here? Is she Scottish?” He shrugged. “Part of her mystery. She started writing a few years ago. All we know is that the name is a pen name. No, no one knows who she is.”
“And why would she be here?”
“She wrote three books in a row set in Scotland.”
“A coincidence,” Veronique said icily.
“That’s what I think,” Lord Worthing said.
“How curious.”
“Well not that curious,” Lord Worthing said. “Who cares about this woman? But now I’m forced to investigate such banality, using all the skills I honed in the war.”
Veronique tensed. “And now I’m not letting you do that.”
“How horrible,” she said, attempting to laugh, but conscious the sound seemed unconvincing. She was spending time with the one person she absolutely shouldn’t.
“Your safety is more important.” He nodded firmly. “I won’t leave your side.”
Chapter Eleven
The light shifted as the horse trudged through the fields. Dark shadows pervaded the ever-darkening lane. Miles’s ankle continued to throb, and he endeavored to ignore that he’d just traveled up all the way from the English Channel to turn around.
“Are you certain there is an inn here?” Veronique asked.
“Naturally.”
At least, he’d been certain.
He’d visited it yesterday, for goodness’ sake.
But perhaps he’d been mistaken after all.
Raindrops fell.
“Merely some Scottish sprinkles.” Miles forced his voice to sound light. “Good for the horse.”
“Hmph.”
At least the rain did not seem very hard.
Yet.
If this was what passed as good conversation in Massachusetts, he was dashed glad George III had not put up a better fight for the colonies.
Miles sighed.
Ever since he’d declared his assignment to discover the whereabouts of Loretta Van Lochen, she’d been quiet. It was all too clear that she’d been horrified by the banality of his task.
Clearly he contrasted poorly to the correct baron, and Miles scowled. There’d been a time when people had lauded him for his work.
He tried to discern the outline of an inn. He would gladly accept even an older inn. Even somebody’s house.
Everything was dark, and the few faint forms were those of trees.
The rain continued to dapple on them, growing in force.
And then he saw it.
Miles braced to discover some strange Gaelic rock grouping instead of an accommodation option, but as they neared, moonlight revealed the most delightful thing.
It was not, he was certain, an inn. At least it couldn’t be the same posting inn he’d stopped at on the way to his brother. This building lacked The Red Hart’s even mediocre dimensions, and the walls sloped inward in such a matter that The Red Hart seemed a paragon of construction prowess, one bright-eyed architecture students in Edinburgh could study when they tired of continental cathedrals.
He maneuvered the horse toward the building. “Splendid.”
Miles hobbled from the horse, cursing his still aching ankle.
“It’s a barn,” Veronique gasped.
“Yes,” he said happily, sliding open the door. “With a roof and everything.”
He led the horse into the barn. “No need for it to sleep outside. We can all be together.”
“I can’t spend the night alone with you,” Veronique said. “That would be improper.”
Miles yawned. “You left propriety at the castle.”
“If anyone learns of this—”
“They’ll want me to marry you.” He shrugged. “Follow me.”
Miles fumbled until he found a lantern. He lit a much-melted candle and illuminated the hay loft and exposed timber beams. “This is the accommodation to expect when one runs away.”
“And when one listens to barons who lack a proper directional sense,” Veronique murmured.
Miles cleared his throat. “My ankle might not be at the peak of its form, but I assure you that my ears are fully functioning.”
“I rather expected that,” Veronique said.
“Hmph.” Miles focused on exploring their new dwelling. Straw was scattered on the ground with such abundance, he wondered whether it was the result of carelessness or some replacement of an actual floor.
“The thing is—” Miles strode toward her and vowed not to be distracted by the gold flecks that danced in her eyes. This was important. “You mustn’t forget that I absolutely do not want to marry you.”
She flinched.
Pink stormed her cheeks, and she tilted her head toward the stalls. “I should feed Graeme.”
She moved briskly away, led the horse into an empty stall, and found food and water for it.
Her head might be inclined from him, but the tension in her shoulders and the way her fingers curled together could not be disguised.
The joy he thought he would receive from assuring her of his disinterest failed to arrive.
He’d gone too far.
Guilt surged through him.
Veronique had just had one man jilt her. She might be clinging to the hope that her fiancé had experienced a mishap, rather than a reassessment of his marital goals, but that didn’t mean Miles should insult her. Even the most stubborn woman might experience some insecurity at the sight of an empty altar.
He raked a hand through his hair
and settled on a wooden bench. It creaked underneath his weight, seeming to echo through the barn but she did not turn toward him.
At least he’d been honest. His childhood tutors had extolled the quality.
But a strange feeling prickled through him, a sense his statement hadn’t been entirely honest.
Because yesterday afternoon had been bloody brilliant. He’d never had a kiss so good.
He shook his head. It didn’t matter what he’d thought of her yesterday. She’d already made her disinterest toward him clear. “Let’s sleep.”
He pointed toward the hayloft. “This will be the warmest place.”
“Then you go there,” she said sternly.
“But—”
“I was born in Barbados. I spent enough of my life getting warm. I’m sure I’ll manage without an elevated temperature for a night.”
“It wouldn’t be gentlemanly of me to permit—”
She waved her hand at him in a dismissive manner. “You’ve insulted me enough. I’m certain you can be ungentlemanly when I request it.”
He inhaled.
Her expression was defiant. Fire seemed to gleam through her eyes, and she raised her chin.
The woman had a point.
“Very well,” he said finally and hauled himself up the ladder, using his arms more than the task normally required to best alleviate the pressure on his ankle.
*
Wind whistled through cracks in the wooden wall. Perhaps Veronique had been outside all day, but now she was no longer moving, no longer occupying her mind with avoiding bristly bushes and gnarly tree roots, and certainly no longer defending herself from the baron, tiredness swept over her.
She shivered.
“I have something for you.” Lord Worthing’s voice boomed from above, and she gazed up.
He smiled at her and raised a tartan blanket triumphantly. “We’re not the only ones who’ve slept here before. Catch!”
The woolen blanket floated down to her, and she grabbed the coarse fabric gladly. It seemed clean, at least in comparison to the rest of the barn, and she swept it around her shoulders.
Lord Worthing’s eyes seemed to soften, but he soon turned away.
She wrapped the blanket more tightly about her.
“Plenty of hay too,” he called out.
Something sounded from above, and then a stack of hay thudded onto the ground. Some of the horses gave startled neighs, but Veronique smiled. “Thank you.”
Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4) Page 8