Table of Contents
For the Love of the Baron
About the Book
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
About the Author
For the Love of the Baron
The Noble Hearts, Book 3
Callie Hutton
About the Book
Lady Marigold Smith, daughter of the Earl of Pomeroy and his last daughter to be married off, cannot find a man as intelligent as she is or who treats her like more than a featherheaded piece of fluff. So the spinster state is fine with her.
Jonathan, Lord Stanley, belongs to the same elite book club as Lady Marigold, who annoys him to no end. In his esteemed opinion, she is nothing more than a nonsensical chit who doesn't deserve membership in their exclusive club.
When they both attempt to buy the same journal of a deceased member, a man well-respected in the science community, a tug of war begins. The battle for the book throws them into danger—and passion. Something neither of them expected.
Thank you for choosing to read For the Love of the Baron.
I love my fans, and as a special treat,
I have something extra for you at the end of the story.
Enjoy!
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Author.
Author’s website: http://calliehutton.com/
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition July 2018
Dedication
To Doug, husband, beta reader, and brainstorming partner.
Chapter One
April, 1822
London, England
Jonathan, The Right Honorable Lord Stanley, entered the bi-weekly meeting of the Gentlemen and Ladies Literary Society of London, handed his hat, cane and great coat to the man at the door, took two steps and cringed at the sound of Lady Marigold’s laughter. Not that his fellow member laughed like a horse, or any other grating-on-the-nerves sound, but she was always laughing. Certainly, her life wasn’t that funny. The chit didn’t seem to take anything seriously.
‘Twas probably why after more than a few Seasons, she remained a spinster. Truth be known, the girl didn’t resemble any spinster he’d ever seen. Her curly dark blonde hair was always in disarray, but unlike other decorous maidens, that failing didn’t appear to trouble her at all. Her hazel eyes, which he’d seen up close only one time when he’d danced with her at Everson’s ball, had a sparkle to them that always put him on edge. As if she was planning something she knew he would disapprove of.
Yes, there were many things about Lady Marigold that set his teeth to grinding, and his skin to itching. As usual, she was surrounded by a bevy of men, a handful young, a few old, and several in between. She held them captive with some sort of story that he was sure was not anything worth listening to. Despite himself, he picked up a glass of warm lemonade and made his way to the group. Even if she was spouting a bit of nonsense, it might be a way to pass the time before the meeting began.
Why someone as flighty and silly as Lady Marigold belonged to this very proper book club baffled him every time he attended. Surely, she had better things to do with her time, like looking over fashion plates, selecting ribbons, and discussing the next ball with equally silly ladies.
He sipped slowly, not hearing anything coming from those plump lips, but watched the animation on her face as she spoke. Her generous breasts rose and fell as she took deep breaths and related her tale. She waved her hands in a most unladylike fashion as she spoke. Had the girl no training in proper decorum? Of course her mother had died when the chit was young, but someone should have taken her in hand by now.
“Don’t you agree, Lord Stanley?” He started at her question when he hadn’t been listening to anything but the grousing voice in his head. As if she suspected as much, she grinned at him with that smile that always annoyed him as well. Since most times it was directed at him in a way that made him feel like he’d just missed something important and was a dunce to have not noticed it. Blast the girl.
“I am sorry, my lady, but I am afraid I was woolgathering. Excuse me for being so impolite.”
Lady Marigold opened her mouth to respond when Lord Dunkirk, president of the club, announced it was time for the meeting to begin. She flashed Jonathan a look that told him she knew he was happy to discontinue the banter she was surely prepared to engage in. And he would never come out the winner.
Once they all took their seats, Lord Dunkirk cleared his throat and addressed the audience. The speaker, who’d been the president for more than two years, sported a full beard and mustache, which Jonathan had long guessed hid scars from Dunkirk’s time in His Majesty’s service. From what Jonathan had heard, Dunkirk had served well, and bore the physical memory of his time there. He also used a sturdy cane to walk, again most likely from a war injury.
“Before we begin the discussion on our selected book of the week, Lord Byron’s The Vision of Judgment, I would like to make an announcement.”
He waved a cluster of papers fisted in his hand. “Our former member, Lord St. Clair, as you all know, passed several months ago. We are all sorry for the loss of his insight into the literary works we have discussed over the years. However, his nephew and heir, the new Lord St. Clair, is selling quite a bit of the former viscount’s personal belongings.”
Once again, he raised the papers. “In my hands, I have a list of what is to be offered at the estate sale on Saturday, next. I shall pass it around to the membership so each of you might examine the list. There are numerous household items, but I am sure most of you will want to take special note of the books that are being offered for sale. St. Clair had quite a collection in his library.”
He handed the notes to Lady Banburry, seated in the front row. Without even glancing at the documents, she passed them to Mr. Fiddle, sitting next to her.
Jonathan soon became engrossed in the discussion of The Vision of Judgment, and forgot about the papers until they arrived in his hands. Keeping one ear attuned to the discussion, he perused the list, flipping the pages as he went. On the fourth page, he stopped halfway down, his heart hammering in his chest.
Journal of Dr. Vincenzio Paglia (1800-1821).
Grasping the papers tightly in his hands, Jonathan blew out a breath and sat back in his chair. How the devil had St. Clair gotten ahold of the personal journal of the most famous man in Anatomy? His work and writings were renowned—at least in the circles Jonathan favored—and having the man’s private journal, reading his thoughts and ideas, would be an absolute treasure to own. And one he had no intention of passing up.
With a smile on his face, he skimmed the rest of the sheets, nothing of major interest, but possibly a few tomes he might be inclined to purchase. However, no other item
was near the consequence of the journal. He passed the papers along, and settled back to resume listening to the lecture, excited for the following Saturday to arrive.
***
Lady Marigold Smith, third and the last unmarried daughter of the Earl of Pomeroy, at the ancient age of two and twenty years, shifted in her seat as Mr. Boswick droned on and on about his understanding of the poem they were discussing.
Goodness, she hated when their assigned reading for the week was poetry. She loathed it and wanted to read more fiction. But since several members—especially that stiff-necked Lord Stanley—thought she wasn’t serious enough to belong to the esteemed group, she would not give them the satisfaction of nodding their heads and looking at each other when she asked for the latest Anna Marie Porter or Jane Harvey book.
Oftentimes she questioned why she continued with the group. The answer was always the same. She did not like spending all her time on balls, routs, afternoon calls, and shopping. Or talking to the young ladies who enjoy that to the exclusion of everything else. Her secret love of Anatomy and Mathematics kept her distant from the other young ladies of the ton.
Yet, her vivacious and outgoing personality could not be hidden, and consequently, every time she attempted to be serious about something she was met with smiles, condescending looks, and complete dismissal of what she said. Too many times she felt like a small child being patted on the head because she had gotten her letters right.
And no one was as annoying as Lord Stanley. She had to admit the man was easy on the eyes. Tall, broad shouldered, deep chocolate brown eyes and wavy hair that continued to fall on his forehead. She couldn’t imagine any part of him not obeying his command, so how his hair got away with it she didn’t know.
But his comely face was held up by such a stiff neck it was a wonder the man could move his head from side to side. He always looked at her as if she had something nasty on her face. Of course, that only made her want to annoy him more. The one time he’d asked for a dance at Everson’s ball, she tried her best to be pleasant to him, but he scowled at her the entire time. Why did he even ask for a dance if he disliked her so?
She shrugged her dismissal of the baron just as she was handed the papers on the estate sale being passed around for the members to view. She withdrew her spectacles from her reticule and slipped them on her face. Her vision had been poor since she’d been a child. It had never bothered her to wear them since her sisters and father saw nothing wrong.
However, once her finishing governess had arrived to train her sisters, Elise and Juliette, as well as Marigold, in the ways of the ton, and how to behave to catch a husband, the woman had told her in no uncertain terms that gentlemen do not approve of women who wore spectacles. That statement had thrown a young Marigold into a panic. She could not see very well without them, and here she was supposed to make her debut in a few years and stumble around the ballroom!
Her current chaperone and companion, Lady Crampton had dismissed the training governess’s ideas and told Marigold she would be much more attractive to a gentleman if she wasn’t walking into walls and plowing over potted plants.
She loved Lady Crampton.
Marigold ran her gloved finger down the list of the first couple pages. Nothing appealed to her, since Lord St. Clair had apparently been quite fond of hunting and husbandry as many of the books for sale were of that ilk.
She flipped to the fourth page and her finger stopped at a listing.
Journal of Dr. Vincenzio Paglia (1800-1821)
Dr. Paglia? The most notable figure in Anatomy? His discoveries of how the body functioned and was framed were held in a great deal of esteem by his colleagues. To think the daily recording of his days, activities, thoughts, and ideas, in his own handwriting, could be in her possession!
Two gentlemen sitting in front of her both turned and glared, making her realize she’d been talking out loud. Another trait of hers that annoyed those staid and pompous members of the club.
Too excited by far at the thought of obtaining the journal, she didn’t allow their scowls to bother her. Smiling brightly, she turned the papers over to Miss Granger and tried once more to focus on Mr. Boswick’s treatise which seemed to have no end.
Bright the following Saturday morning, Marigold pulled on her gloves and tapped her foot impatiently in the Pomeroy townhouse entrance hall as she waited for her father’s carriage to be brought around.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you, Marigold?” Lady Crampton walked down the stairs, a shaft of papers in her hand. Most likely the following week’s menu that she generally went over with Cook on Saturday afternoons.
“No, thank you for offering, but I will be fine by myself. Now that I am labeled as ‘on the shelf’ I can enjoy the freedom I could not just a couple of years ago.”
Lady Crampton stopped in front of Marigold and rested her palm on Marigold’s cheek. “You are not ‘on the shelf’ my dear. You are a lovely young woman of only two and twenty years. Far from a spinster.”
Marigold smiled back at the woman she’d known for only a few years but had grown as close to as a mother. “Perhaps not in your eyes, but certainly in the eyes of the ton.”
Her chaperone smoothed back the hair that was forever falling out of Marigold’s hairdo. “When the right gentleman comes along, he will no doubt sweep you off your feet and it will not matter how others view you.”
Marigold reached in and kissed her on the cheek. “You have been reading too many fairy tales to your daughters.”
The butler, Macon, opened the door and bowed. “Your carriage has arrived, my lady.”
With excitement at her upcoming purchase, she hurried down the stairs and into the carriage.
Chapter Two
Jonathan entered Lord St. Clair’s small estate outside of London. He had arrived right on the dot of ten o’clock, the time stated in the paperwork as when the sale would begin.
He’d never met the nephew who was offering the items since St. Clair had been living on the continent and only returned once the former lord had passed. St. Clair had been forced to accept the title that gossips held was unwanted by the new viscount.
St. Clair stood apart from the would-be purchasers who browsed the room, picking up various items, and then putting them down again. The man was short of stature and on the plump side. If he was unhappy with the new title, it showed in his face. However, he had hired a man to handle the sale, who was quite busy dealing with the strollers, leaving St. Clair leaning against one wall, watching his man’s every move. Perhaps he was afraid he would be cheated.
Jonathan wanted to ignore most of the items laid out for sale, and go straight for the journal, but he would most likely pay a steep price for it if it was known how much he wanted it. Better to find it, keep an eye on it, and then make his move after several minutes.
His eyes moved rapidly as he glanced from item to item until he gave out a deep breath and viewed the most coveted item he would ever own.
The Journal of Dr. Vincenzio Paglia (1800-1821)
There it was, right in front of him, in the renowned scientist and doctor’s handwriting. It covered the last twenty-one years of the man’s life. The time when he was working on a number of projects, some of which had been written up and hailed as genius, and some—Jonathan was sure—thoughts and ideas that had never come to fruition.
His hand trembled as he reached for the book then quickly snatched it back. Calm. He must be calm. Taking up a position not far from the journal, he pretended interest in other things to give himself a bit of time before claiming the tome.
“What a lovely home you have here, Lord St. Clair.” Bloody hell. That voice. She was here. What the devil did Lady Marigold want with dusty old possessions of the dead Lord St. Clair?
He followed her movements from the corner of his eye. She chatted with other shoppers, laughed a great deal—of course—and picked up various things, then placed them back again.
His heart nearly came t
o an abrupt halt when she stopped in front of the journal and reached her hand out. Without even thinking, he dove in her direction and planted his hand on the journal just as she reached it, his hand holding the bottom of the book, her hand holding the top.
He tugged.
She tugged.
They both tugged.
Neither one released the book.
They glared at each other and tugged again.
Both held on tight.
“My dear Lady Marigold, I am afraid I was about to purchase this item.”
Her raised eyebrows and the cool dismissive look on her face didn’t affect him at all. He would not lose this book to this flighty, featherbrained woman. “Indeed? Then why was it laying on the table?”
He stiffened, not happy to justify himself to her. “I was about to pick it up.”
They both tugged.
Neither one released the book.
“I believe as a lady, I hold precedence.” Her lips moved into a smile that he’d seen over a card table right before he lost fifty pounds.
“No, my lady. I believe since I am a man, I hold precedence.”
“You overestimate your consequence, my lord.”
They both tugged.
Neither one released the book.
“Here, here. What is going on?” The man supervising the sale hurried over to them.
“Nothing at all is going on, my good man. I was about to purchase this item when this lady—he emphasized the word—took it out of my hand.” Jonathan grinned, which he was afraid came out more like a grimace.
Lady Marigold gasped. “That is not true. I had it in my possession and he pulled it out of my very hand!”
They both tugged.
Neither one released the book.
The man plucked the journal out of both of their hands. “Good morning, my lady, my lord. I am Mr. Sedgewick, Lord St. Clair’s man of business. May we please retire to the drawing room where we can discuss this out of the hearing of his lordship, who is having a bad day as it is?” He waved them forward. “It is difficult to sell off a love one’s possessions.”
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