“You’re right,” some people said.
“Where’s Lady Mulborne?” another woman asked. “How did she get entry?”
“Likely from the conniving ways of her kind,” Miss Haskett said.
“You shouldn’t say that,” one woman said. “What if she cries?”
Veronique supposed she should be grateful that someone had recognize that Miss Haskett’s behavior was less than honorable, but the words only seemed to draw attention to the fact that she did very much want to cry.
Her eyes stung, as if the salty tears were already making their way down her cheeks. She blinked, and her nostrils flared in an unladylike manner as she tried to calm herself. Her throat was dry, which was just as well, because she couldn’t think of anything to say.
She glanced around her. Some people had stricken looks on their faces, and others whispered, likely to repeat Miss Haskett’s comments to the crowd.
“The exit is that way,” Miss Haskett smirked. “Perhaps you can ask one of the footmen to introduce you to one of your countrymen.”
“I—”
“Though likely a footman is too important a servant to speak to a negro.”
Veronique knew she was supposed to do nothing. She was supposed to feel shame. She was supposed to—at the very most rush to the balcony, and more likely just collapse claiming heat stress. But she wasn’t going to start being a proper woman of the ton now. That had stopped when she’d climbed out of the castle window.
She wasn’t going to wait for Miles to return and defend her honor.
She tightened her fists and strolled toward Miss Haskett, conscious of the rapidity with which Miss Haskett’s eyebrows flew up.
“I’m not afraid of you,” Veronique spoke slowly, just in case Miss Haskett had difficulty grasping her words. Intelligence did not seem to be one of the governess’s few favorable traits.
“I doubt that.”
“You are a governess, and I am a sister of a duke.”
“Stepsister,” Miss Haskett said, but her voice faltered somewhat.
Veronique smiled. “Do you really think that makes such a difference? It’s the first time you’ve been allowed at such an occasion, isn’t it?” She strode closer to her. “And you’re not making a favorable impression. Clearly it was a mistake to invite you in. You’re causing a spectacle.”
“That’s nonsense,” Miss Haskett said. “You are—”
But the titters had begun again, and Veronique had the curious sensation that the women were laughing at Miss Haskett, not her.
It brought her meager satisfaction, and she gritted her teeth.
“But your relatives were slaves.”
“Only because the pale people first brought to do the work were so incapable of doing anything well.” Veronique tossed her hair. “I want the baron, and I’m sure he wants me.”
“That’s true.” A deep voice she recognized sounded behind her, and she swung around. Her heartbeat thumped madly.
He held something between his fingers. Something that seemed to…sparkle, and Veronique’s heart tightened as he strode nearer her.
“Sweetheart.” Miles held up a sapphire and diamond ring, and a murmur undulated through the throng of people. “I’ve already asked you to marry me, but I want everyone to know that you’re mine, forever and ever and ever.”
He took her hand in his and slid the ring over her finger. “I love you.”
“Oh, darling, I love you too,” Veronique exclaimed.
She was vaguely aware of some furious coughing and throat clearing from some onlookers, the sound lessened by the applause and shouting of felicitations by others, but mostly she was aware of the sensation of his lips pressing against hers.
There would be other balls, and other coarse comments. Of that Veronique was certain.
She didn’t mind. Not too much at least. She’d gotten to spend her childhood in the Caribbean. She had a greater grasp of life than any of these women did, who were as cloistered as nuns, and whose various etiquette guides could not teach them right from wrong.
*
Happiness was a brilliant state.
Miles was married. The memory still caused him to beam.
Lady Mulborne had insisted Veronique and he stay at her manor house, some space being available after both Lord Braunschweig and the Fitzroys and their charges vacated quickly to an inn in Harrogate.
He’d been able to send a new letter to Diomhair Caisteal announcing Veronique’s and his marriage.
Their relatives had written back with their congratulations, stating for some reason that they’d expected it all along and that the connection between Veronique and him had been palpable and their union utterly predictable.
“My publisher told me my services would no longer be needed,” Veronique said. “He read the article in Matchmaking for Wallflowers about me. Men were complaining that their servant girls were reading a book written by a woman of ill-repute.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
She sighed. “They had warned me.”
“Likely those same people would be delighted to meet you in person.”
“Because of my stepbrothers’ titles?”
“And because you are the cleverest, most enchanting woman in the world.”
Veronique smiled.
His editor had sent him a similar edict for managing to have the story about Loretta Van Lochen be broken by a women’s magazine. His editor had thought Miles could not claim ignorance of Loretta Van Lochen’s identity, since he’d been married to the authoress.
“I wonder how Matchmaking for Wallflowers found out so quickly.”
“Miss Haskett must have asked for the reward,” Veronique said.
A thought occurred to him.
He shook his head. It was too unlikely.
He thought of everything he knew about Matchmaking for Wallflowers. He’d been proud to be highly regarded by them. He should have despised more how the magazine had hurt his family, had hurt so many members of the ton.
“I know who the editor is,” he said.
“You do?”
Miles leaped from his seat. “I’m going to Harrogate. I believe the Fitzroys are still staying there.”
He took his horse and hastened to the castle. The butler was surprised when he demanded to see Miss Haskett, but she was soon ushered to him.
“You’re the editor of Matchmaking for Wallflowers,” he said.
Miss Haskett tilted her head. “I don’t know what you’re speaking about.”
Miles neared her. “You know precisely what I’m speaking about. It’s a very successful pamphlet.”
Miss Haskett smiled. “It is, isn’t it?”
“I always imagined it was run by a member of the ton.”
Miss Haskett stiffened.
“But I suppose it makes more sense that it was run by someone like you.”
“Like me?” Indignation flashed in her eyes.
The thought couldn’t ease his outrage at her—she’d hurt too many people over the years, but he possessed a modicum of pleasure that he was rattling her.
“You’re a governess. Somebody close enough to high society that you would know just what happens at every ball.”
She shrugged.
“Your charges likely share the gossip with you.”
“Conversation. Not gossip.”
She raised her chin. “Matchmaking for Wallflowers provides a useful service to society. I’m sure there’s no higher compliment than to be affiliated with it.”
“I very much doubt that. And I know most people feel the same as I do.” Miles scrutinized her.
She was so different from what he’d imagined the editor would be like. Her hair was not perfectly coiffed, and the color of her afternoon dress clashed with her hat. Even the ribbons she’d purchased from the haberdasher seemed chosen for their garishness.
“Why did you take on the role of arbitrator-in-chief of others?” Miles asked.
“They have s
o many advantages,” Miss Haskett said. “Unlimited funds. They could do so well. If they’d only listen.”
“Mm-hmm. It must be difficult to be a governess. So near the higher ranks in the home. Spending so much time with them, but never really belonging.”
Miss Haskett averted her gaze. Her already pale face had whitened further, and her freckles seemed to be intensified.
“I—I belong,” she said, but her voice wobbled.
“We both know that’s not true.” Miles was never one for putting servants in their place, but Miss Haskett’s utter cruelty to so many of his acquaintances and friends riled him.
“You laughed at the Duke of Alfriston after his war injury.”
Miss Haskett shrugged. “I only reported what people were saying. Amaryllis and Theodosia both thought he would be easy prey after.”
“You humiliated him.”
“No more than others humiliated me.” She tossed her hair. “Besides, I didn’t write anything. I hired people to write for me.”
“Like Lady Rockport.”
“Precisely. You wouldn’t believe how many bored members of the ton there are. Even some men contributed.”
“I see.”
“I gave many people a purpose.”
“By demeaning others,” he said, conscious that his tone was still outraged, but seeing no point in masking it. “Why do you do it? For the coin?”
She gave a bitter laugh. “I’m not the only editor. I do what I can to survive. The Fitzroys think I should be honored simply to be able to spend time with their daughters. I saw my parents die penniless. I know the importance of money.”
Miles sighed. “I wish you had shown some compassion.”
She shrugged. “Does it really matter what you think?”
“Well—”
“Because I’m not sure it does,” she continued, and her eyes flashed, reminding him of the biting words she’d written. “Haven’t you both been thrown from your positions?”
Miles stiffened. “I wish you good day, ma’am.”
“No one wants to publish books by a woman with such a colorful past,” Miss Haskett called after him.
Miles cringed at the manner in which she said “colorful,” but it didn’t matter. He’d seen the letters Veronique received from her readers, confused to learn she would no longer be published.
Miles would ensure she would keep on doing what she loved.
Chapter Twenty-three
The road dipped, and Miles guided the curricle into a small valley as Veronique leaned against him. The large wheels of the carriage stretched to Veronique’s elbows and carried them swiftly over the dry road, sweeping up the occasional wildflower in their path. Jays and chaffinches chirped soliloquies, the sound replaced by new birds.
White towers poked over thick leafy trees, and Veronique leaned forward, as if the action might make them arrive sooner.
“This is your home,” Veronique breathed.
Miles turned his head, and she was once again struck by the man’s handsomeness. There was a reason his face had graced the covers of so many magazines when he was a foreign correspondent. No wonder artists did not tire at depicting his chiseled features, experimenting only with the angle of his face and the choice between evening and day attire.
He placed his hand over hers, and warmth cascaded through her at his firm touch. He turned to her, and his eyes gleamed. “Our home, my darling.”
She nodded. Words had never been things she’d needed to strive for. Everything except them had been a struggle. But now she was only conscious of the pitter-patter of her heart, which seemed intent on rivaling the sound of the horses’ hooves stomping over the dirt lane.
They rode past apple and cherry orchards, and the glimpse of the white towers disappeared behind the new cascade of trees. Pink and white blossoms adorned ancient dark branches that stretched toward the heavens, and crimson roses curved from hedges.
“The garden is behind the estate,” Miles said. “You’ll love it.”
Veronique nodded.
“The stables are in that direction.” Miles waved authoritatively to their side. “And that—that is the house.”
She turned to follow his hand, trying not to be distracted by the light that danced over the golden hair on his wrists.
The manor house was before her.
“Oh,” she murmured.
It was not the first manor house she’d seen. She’d seen plenty of staid homes on their journey from Scotland, their gray and brick facades stained from the incessant rain. It was though the most beautiful.
“I would hope,” he said, leaning toward her, “that you’ll refrain from clambering from our bedroom window. The maids might worry if they see the bed stripped bare.
“Are they the only ones who would worry?”
He took her hand in his larger one. “I have learned that there is no woman I would worry about less.”
She blinked.
“But.” His expression grew more serious, and for an instant she could imagine him older. The thought did not displease her. “I assure you I would miss you most dreadfully.”
“Oh,” she murmured.
She was conscious there were definitely more words in her vocabulary than that. She hadn’t filled her books with one-syllable murmurings.
“I love you, Veronique,” he said. “With all my heart and all my soul.”
She allowed the words to wash over her. He’d whispered them to her before, but now before their future home, she allowed herself to envision a family.
“I would miss you if you ever left,” he said solemnly.
She glanced down at her hands, noting the manner in which her ring sparkled and gleamed from her finger. “I won’t.”
It seemed so unlikely that she’d ever met him. If it hadn’t been for Lord Braunschweig, would she have begged her father to visit Britain? How close she had come to not meeting Miles at all, and when she had, she’d crept away from him, preferring clambering down a white sheet fluttering in the harsh wind than to the prospect of conversation over scones and chocolate with him.
The horses stopped, and servants rushed from the door and scurried into a long row.
“Come,” Miles said, taking her hand again. “Let me introduce you to the people in your new home.”
Home.
All those years in Barbados and Massachusetts, aware of people’s whispers, she’d never dared to dream of happiness for herself. Happiness had seemed a concept best relegated for the heroes and heroines she’d written about. But she was a heroine too: she’d been one all along.
She followed her husband onto the carefully raked gravel. Her feet crunched against the stones, and the sound echoed underneath the tall manor home. For a moment she hesitated, unsure what the servants might think when gossip reached them of her heritage, unsure how Miles might feel if the neighbors in similarly majestic homes hesitated to visit them.
“I love you,” he repeated, his breath warm on her neck.
That was all that mattered, and she waved her head, feeling her dark curls cascade down her back. Some of the servants widened their eyes, perhaps unused to seeing women attired in anything except tightly drawn coiffures.
They would just have to get used to her, and she beamed as she felt the warm sun rays against her skin.
“I want to show you something,” Miles said.
“I think you’ve already been successful at that.”
He grinned. “Let’s enter.”
She stepped underneath the portico, staring at the perfectly carved stone.
“Allow me.” Miles swept her into her arms and marched her into the manor house. Behind them the servants clapped, breaking their formality.
“Medieval custom,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.
She tightened her hold against him, conscious of the firmness of his torso.
Goodness. He was her husband. He’d sleep beside her every night.
“Perhaps I should just show you
to the bedroom,” Miles murmured, still carrying her in his arms.
“I wouldn’t complain.”
He grinned. “First things first.” He marched her through the corridor, sweeping her past oriental vases and gilded frame paintings of idyllic scenes.
He came to another door, and grasped hold of the ornate knob, and pushed it open.
There were books.
Many, many books.
Leather tomes with gilded lettering sparkled before her, and he swung her around so quickly she squealed in delight.
“Welcome to your new home.”
“It’s amazing,” she murmured.
Two large mahogany desks sat next to each other.
“We can work here,” Miles said.
Veronique smiled. She might not be Loretta Van Lochen anymore, her books might not be published, but she had Miles, and that was the important thing. She would never stop writing, even if no one read the stories except herself.
Some packets were already on the desk, and Miles opened one up. “Good. The butler must have brought this in.”
“Something important?”
“It’s for you,” he said.
She blinked. “I just arrived here.”
He handed her the packet. “Read the first page.”
“A novel by Mary Bolton.” She gazed up at him. The man’s beam was pleasant to see, but in this case, she couldn’t understand the reason for his joy. “What does this have to do with me?”
“I hope you won’t mind, sweetheart,” Miles said, “but I know how important publishing your stories was to you.”
“I can give that up,” she said hastily. She didn’t want the man to think her sad with her chosen life.
“I understand,” Miles said, “because I also liked writing. I don’t want to have an editor or publisher force me to write stories which hold no interest to me.”
“Such as stories about penny dreadful novelists?” Veronique raised an eyebrow, and Miles flushed.
“I’m so sorry sweetheart for what I said.” He clasped hold of her hands. “I was wrong to speak dismissively of them. Writing about women, showing them to expect the best in themselves and others—it is admirable.”
Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4) Page 17