She blinked, and Lord Braunschweig shrugged and continued to the punch table. Vibrant drinks sparkled in crystal jugs and guests dipped silver ladles through the spice-scented liquid.
The other guests seemed to turn away from Lord Braunschweig when he approached, and Veronique’s heart slid further downward, tangling with her stomach, and filling her with an uneasy dread.
She’d spoken with Lord Braunschweig. It wasn’t unfathomable that others of the ton might feel reluctant to converse with him. Perhaps that was the reason he’d been so willing to send her all those letters. The fact he had not married for two years might not be necessarily attributed to a deep, romantic faithfulness after all. The process of finding a wife must be a greater challenge to those who struggled to find a conversation partner.
She frowned. Where was Lord Worthing?
The other men lounged comfortably against the punch table, secured perhaps by both alcohol and the frequency with which they’d danced in this ballroom on past occasions. Some women, perhaps their wives, perhaps simply aggressive debutantes emboldened by their lady’s maids and doting mamas’ effusive compliments on their appearances, stood nearby.
Veronique tossed her head, conscious that her hair would fall in a pleasing manner. Unlike her stepsisters, she’d never lacked confidence in her appearance. Though she could not remember her mother, she’d seen a painting of her. There was a reason her father had fallen for her mother, despite her unconventional background, and she had little doubt that reason lay in symmetrical features and a slender figure.
They don’t know, she reminded herself.
Gossip in Massachusetts would not be familiar to these women. They likely didn’t even know her name, and though some people suspected that her complexion might be somewhat too dark, it never occurred to most people that anyone attired in a dress such as hers could have a risqué background.
She held her head high and grabbed a glass of punch that some helpful footman had already poured. Tiny fruits floated in the rum filled liquid, and for a blissful moment she imagined she were once again on the beach of Barbados, feeling the shifting sand beneath her slippers.
Perhaps she’d spent too long imagining a better life, waiting first for her father to rescue her from the fate of ending up a mistress of one of the surly sugar barons who journeyed to the West Indies in search of riches, and then for Lord Braunschweig to sweep her away into one of the fairytale stories she savored.
Somehow she’d forgotten that fairytales were not real.
Chapter Nineteen
She was Loretta Van Lochen.
She’d never mentioned it to Miles.
Why wouldn’t she be her? She was so smart, so clever, so amusing.
No wonder she hadn’t wanted money.
He strode quickly, trying to get as far away from them as possible.
She hadn’t confided in him. The thought wounded him, more than he would have thought possible.
They were strangers still. She’d told Lord Braunschweig, yet she hadn’t told him.
He shook his head. If only he hadn’t been so emphatic in his criticisms of the other man.
Music sounded. A woman was singing. He glanced over. He knew that voice. He knew that woman.
Miles cursed himself for slandering the baron. The man was clearly nothing what he’d pictured him to be. He was perhaps a few years older than Miles, not the tottering old man he’d feared. He was even, Miles was forced to admit, attractive in his own way. Nothing about him was off-putting. He hadn’t even needed to be forced to acknowledge Veronique. Likely some reasonable excuse, the type Veronique had insisted on, had hindered him.
She would be fine.
Why on earth had he warned her so forcefully? All he’d managed to do was to show Veronique that he did not believe in romance.
He wandered to the punch section. He recognized various female acquaintances. He tried to concentrate on the conversation.
He didn’t want her to be with Lord Braunschweig, not out of complete regard for her. He wanted her for himself. The thought was unbidden, but it was true. He wished it were yesterday. He wished they were still traveling together. Even when they’d been in a crowded carriage, even when they hadn’t actually been speaking, he realized he’d still hoped that once she met Lord Braunschweig, she might choose him instead.
The thought was balderdash.
“My dear Lord Worthing,” a woman in an alto voice said. “What brings you to Yorkshire? I wasn’t aware this county sufficed in excitement for you.”
“Mrs. Parker.” He gave her a light bow, and she dipped into an elegant curtsy.
This was not the first time they’d met.
Her eyes sparkled. “You’ve made this ball much more interesting by your presence.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” He glanced again in Veronique’s direction, but she was obscured by a group of young debutantes who bounced about the ballroom with up tempo music.
“You must regale me with your stories.” She leaned toward him. “You can start by getting me some punch.”
“Naturally.” He moved to the punch table and expertly got two glasses of negus. He handed her a glass and sipped his own. The colors were pleasing to look at, but it lacked the sharp alcohol taste he found he craved.
She gave him another smiled, but he struggled to think of anything to say to her.
“You haven’t complimented me on my dress yet,” she said. “Or perhaps you require me to twirl before you?”
“Oh, it’s very nice,” he said.
And it was. It was white, so it almost looked like she could be a Greek Goddess from the new British Museum. Well, if Greek Goddesses had blonde hair and wore diamond necklaces.
Her eyes sparkled again. “You do seem distracted.”
“Forgive me. My—er—ankle hurts.” It wasn’t his ankle. It was more in the chest direction, more in the heart area. “Do you by any chance know Lord Braunschweig?”
So many people had arrived from the continent after the war, and Miles had not kept track of all of them.
“I hope you’re not trying to thrust me on him. He’s far too dull. Even if he is very good looking. I suppose the man is allowed to have some advantage to comfort him with the fact that he’s German.”
“Austrian, I believe.”
“Then the man has no excuses,” Mrs. Parker said.
“Why isn’t he married yet?”
She laughed. “I would think you of all men would understand why men choose not to marry.”
“He is with many women?”
“Have you seen him? Those features are so elegantly placed.” She sighed. “It’s a pity the man’s so poor.”
“Is he?”
“He’s from the continent, my dear. When are they are not? Place destroyed by Bonaparte I believe. Some such tragic story.” She leaned closer. “Though between you and me, who is to say he’s an actual baron? I never heard of him before the war. He certainly wasn’t educated in England. There must be a reason no fathers have permitted their daughters to marry him.”
Lord Worthing tried to concentrate on the widow’s conversation, but he soon made his excuses and went outside. He thought he saw the Fitzroys inside, hanging near their mama, given the older woman’s remarkable likeness to them. Perhaps their parents deemed Yorkshire sufficiently tame for them, even though they’d not yet been presented.
The night was still, devoid now of the rumble of carriage wheels. The guests had halted their exploration of the garden in favor of Lady Mulborne’s ample supply of alcohol and her good taste in music. Her husband may have passed on, but Lady Mulborne remained an excellent hostess and showed no desire of isolating herself.
He sat down on the steps and gazed into the night, his heart far too heavy for someone who’d safely delivered a woman to her fiancé and assured himself more years of rakish bachelorhood.
A figure strode nearer him.
Miss Haskett.
“I hope you do not intend to c
ompromise me again,” he said.
She shook her head. “I apologize for that. I did not realize you were otherwise engaged.”
“Saw me as an opportunity?”
“Would you blame me? I was tired of being forced to take long cross country trips.”
He frowned. “I’m no good.”
She laughed. “I know that—now.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, one doesn’t need to be too clever to know you’re in love with that woman you were traveling with.”
I love Veronique.
The thought soared through his mind.
Miss Haskett was correct.
He shook his head. It couldn’t be true. He wasn’t the type to fall in love. He was in control of his emotions. He wasn’t the type to be impulsive. But he loved her all the same.
“I love her,” he said, his voice rough.
Miss Haskett eyed him strangely.
“Forgive me.” He despised that he was telling this woman that. He should be telling Veronique. He should be clasping her in his arms and declaring his passion to her—forever and ever and ever.
He ascended the steps. He needed to find her.
*
Lord Braunschweig smiled at Veronique. “Dancing was a mistake. The process can be difficult.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks warmed.
“And it wouldn’t do for people to pay too much attention to you,” he said.
Veronique frowned. “Why not?”
She despised that her voice faltered.
He lifted her arm. “That skin is not as white as the other women. They’ll be curious soon.”
“Some people asked me if I had Spanish blood,” she said.
“I hope you told them yes.”
Veronique blinked.
“Even being a bloody Spaniard is better than what you are.”
She gave him her loftiest frown, trying to avoid dwelling on the fact that she’d just met the man whom she’d spent the past two years dreaming of marrying and she should not be occupying her first ten minutes of conversation with him with showcasing her surliest scowls.
She swallowed hard.
This had all been a mistake.
She didn’t know Lord Braunschweig any better than she knew the elegantly dressed ton members who cast curious looks at her.
Lord Worthing had been completely, utterly, correct.
She never should have insisted on marrying a man she’d never met.
She’d been foolish to insist he elope with her in Scotland, and she should have been thankful that Lord Braunschweig had shown too much sense to make an appearance.
She certainly should never have left the castle to make her own way to Yorkshire.
Lord. She’d always assumed herself to be intelligent.
One didn’t become widely read as a woman without some belief in one’s own abilities.
She turned, trying to seek out Lord Worthing.
She needed to speak with him.
She glanced toward Lord Worthing. The last time she’d seen him he’d been surrounded by finely attired women. Likely they spoke with the same rounded vowels he used, and their skin was of the peaches-and-cream complexion that every English poet rapturized on.
They were sweet girls in white muslin dresses. They didn’t spend their time writing risqué romances. Their attention was occupied in painting water colors of their parents’ exquisite gardens and in practicing the pianoforte. The largest conundrum they’d likely faced today was selecting the appropriate ribbon at the haberdasher.
Lord Worthing should be with someone like that. Someone appropriate who would never cause a scandal that might hamper his career, and who would ever give journalists cause to wonder on anything except their consistently exquisite taste.
And perhaps Lord Braunschweig also should marry someone similar.
What was she thinking, rushing after a man? He hadn’t shown up. If he’d cared for her, even a portion of how she’d cared for him, he would have shown up. He wouldn’t have stopped at a house party, flummoxed for a reason to travel farther north.
He wouldn’t have allowed her to stand shivering in a cold chapel with a disapproving vicar in a wedding dress. He hadn’t even apologized to her.
He was no longer a fantasy, his name no longer a beacon of hope. He was real—blissfully real, she reminded herself.
He was handsome and intelligent, but he wasn’t Lord Worthing.
And that fact mattered more than she’d ever thought.
“Let’s go outside,” he said quickly.
Veronique hesitated, but she would need to discuss this matter with Lord Braunschweig. She didn’t want anyone to hear this conversation.
They strode from the ballroom, following a crowd of people outside and he led her quickly around the corner of the manor house.
It was now dark, but stars sparkled above. Torches flickered light over the facade of the home.
“It’s quite nice here,” she said. She didn’t want to speak about her skin color to him anymore.
“Yes,” Lord Braunschweig said. “It’s an old house. You wouldn’t know about them. It even has a medieval maze.”
“How interesting,” Veronique said.
“Not really.” Lord Braunschweig strode toward it, and Veronique followed him. “Other mazes are even grander. More complex. You’ll see it soon.”
She blinked. For a moment she’d forgotten that they’d planned to marry. The thought brought her no joy.
“We can marry soon,” Lord Braunschweig said. “Then fewer people will be upset not to receive invitations.”
“And why could we not have more people attend?” Her voice wobbled. She’d been happy to plan with him to marry in the chapel. The privacy had seemed romantic to her. But perhaps the man had another reason for a small ceremony, one that did not involve love and intimacy.
“My dear,” Lord Braunschweig said. “I wouldn’t vant you to have to deal with people’s questions about your heritage.”
She drew her eyebrows together.
“Ach, you ver very brave coming here tonight, just to see me,” Lord Braunschweig said, stepping close to her. “But I wouldn’t vant people to have the chance to scrutinize you too closely.”
Her spine seemed to coil, and tension shot through her body, as if he’d turned her limbs to wood.
He stepped nearer her, and his eyes seemed to soften. Perhaps he was fond of her in his way. He had written her many letters…
“I’ll take you to my home. You’ll be safe there.” He rubbed a thick finger over her cheek. “You can continue writing your books.”
It was what she’d always wanted.
Lord Braunschweig still desired to marry her.
But instead of leaping into his arms, uncertainty rushed through her. She tried to envision herself on his estate. She was used to being alone, accustomed even to not attending balls, but she didn’t want that for herself anymore.
She thought again of her family. She didn’t want to show up in Scotland without a husband on her arm. She didn’t want her father and stepmother to give her smug glances and give predictable laments.
She didn’t need to experience that. She had Lord Braunschweig.
“Come here.” He reached his hand toward her, and she hesitated, gazing at the short, stubby fingers. “I didn’t get a ring, but I’m sure vee are beyond such trivialities.”
Who needs a ring when you have access to my income?
The thought came unbidden into her mind. It couldn’t be true—could it?
She needed her brother to open a bank account for her now. She could only imagine it would be transferred to her husband after her marriage. Even if she was seen as capable of producing the income, she was not seen as capable of controlling it.
Hadn’t Lord Braunschweig mentioned in his letters his exasperation with the poor agriculture that had harmed his properties in Austria and Britain?
She stepped back. For the first time she was acutely aware that
they were far from the others. It had seemed like a good idea to have their conversation in private, away from the titters and stares of the society women who swished about in their empire cut gowns and turbans.
She wrapped her arms about her. “I don’t want to marry you.”
Her heartbeat quickened, as if aware of the enormity of what she’d just said.
Lord Braunschweig paused. “I must have misheard.”
“You didn’t.” She swallowed hard, as if the action might soothe her speeding heart. “I should leave.”
“You’re too late.”
“The ball is still going on.”
His clasped about her wrist. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Veronique froze. She gave a desperate sort of laugh, and the man’s other hand clapped around her mouth. “You don’t tell me no.”
“I—” The sound came out muffled, and he shuffled her over the neatly trimmed grass. She stumbled over flowers, and her nostrils flared.
“You should have been beside yourself with joy that I condescended to marry you.” Lord Braunschweig’s voice was firm, and he pushed her inside the maze. “You’re so lowly born. You think that because your stepbrother is a duke, no one can tell you’re colored?”
He pushed her forward, and her hands fell into thick bushes.
Lord Braunschweig laughed. “This vay, idiot.”
Her throat dried. She tried to call out, but he kept his hand over her mouth, and she felt only his gloved hands.
The man had appeared so proper. Even dull.
“We’re going to be protected here.” He yanked her forward, and tears prickled her eyes. They wound through the maze, and Veronique tried to remember the direction they’d taken in case she might run away.
She couldn’t run away.
He pushed her to the ground, and then he lay on top of her, his hands moving roughly over her dress, which must be now stained by the grass and dirt.
I was a fool.
She’d allowed herself to believe in romance, in hope, in love.
But she’d only forced Lord Worthing to accompany her to find a man wholly undeserving of her praise. Tears prickled her eyes, and in the next moment she felt rough lips against hers and stubby hands grasping at her bosom.
Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4) Page 14