She wasn’t the first person of African heritage he’d met. Not at all. Plenty of dark skinned people lived in London, their families residing here since the Romans arrived, but there were fewer in the depths of the Highlands.
Most of the ones he met were servants and dishwashers, happy to no longer be slaves, perhaps brought by their masters to England, and happy to reside in a land where the slave trade was illegal.
There were rather fewer people of African heritage in higher society. Dido Belle had been raised by her uncle, an earl, as one of his own, but she’d died a few years ago.
Still…Veronique—Miss Daventry—was the stepsister of a duke. It was impossible for her to have any African blood.
Chapter Six
He hadn’t appeared.
Veronique swallowed, conscious of the ridiculousness of her attire as they marched to the castle.
Today was supposed to be the most wonderful day of her life.
What had halted Lord Braunschweig’s arrival?
Perhaps she’d been foolish to suggest they wed here. Though the Highlands were alluring, the steep slopes were difficult to reach.
Perhaps highwaymen had captured him or wolves had besieged him. Perhaps he lay in some ditch somewhere, reciting her letters to himself as he bled. Or perhaps he’d been taken ill, and was lying in his sick bed, at his home in London, the guilt of not meeting her making it impossible for him to recover.
Or perhaps he doesn’t desire to marry me.
The thought tore at her heart.
Had her last letter scared him?
She wrapped her arms together. The gesture might not be ladylike, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was Lord Braunschweig.
I love him.
Perhaps it was foolish to love someone she’d never met, but they’d exchanged letters every week.
She knew what pudding he favored and his opinion on London. He was Austrian, new to the country just like she was, displaced during the war. He’d risen to the position of diplomat, working to make the world better. He was so wise, so intelligent. He’d even offered her advice on where she might invest some of her money.
No one knew her better than he did. The first time he’d written he’d loved her, she’d pressed the sheets of paper against her heart.
Her father and stepmother wouldn’t allow her to dance with Salem’s men, too worried they’d guess the truth about her heritage, but Lord Braunschweig cared for her. He hadn’t even needed to meet her to fall in love with her.
He’d been her rock, her beacon for so long.
She would wait for him. He might not have showed up now, but he would. She was certain.
Her stepmother’s anger had dissipated. Instead she was remarking on the husbanding skills of Lord Rockport and Lord Somerville, marveling at the baron’s features and accomplishments, despite the fact Veronique had told her she loved another.
Suddenly the castle’s proximity to a chapel did not seem like an advantage, nor did the fact that one didn’t have to wait for the banns to be published before marrying in Scotland.
If her stepmother insisted she wed Lord Worthing, Veronique might struggle to resist.
“Lord Worthing is accomplished at riding,” her stepmother said. “I mentioned your enjoyment of the pastime.”
“Everyone does.”
Why wouldn’t one want to sit upon a horse and allow it to take one all over the landscape?
They neared the castle. Perhaps Lord Braunschweig had gone straight there.
She beamed.
She’d told him the name of the castle, and many castles had chapels on site. It may not have occurred to him that the chapel could be located in the village.
Perhaps he was there now, pacing Diomhair Caisteal in distress, and casting melancholic glances at the horizon while quoting Byron.
She gazed at the castle, just in case she might see a person casting forlorn looks at the garden.
She smiled. The man would experience such joy when he saw her. Likely he would sweep her into his sturdy arms, thrust her on top of his white stallion and gallop with her to Norfolk and all things brilliant and romantic.
Veronique pushed away the memory of being in Lord Worthing’s arms and the blissful sensations she’d experienced there
Perhaps Lord Worthing was in possession of regular features and a roguish grin, perhaps her heart had inadvertently pounded more beats than necessary in his presence, but he wouldn’t compare to Lord Braunschweig, because it was Lord Braunschweig whom she loved.
They approached the castle doors, and Veronique’s heart rate quickened. The butler opened the door, and the others marched into the hallway, thrusting their great coats and pelisses at the servants.
She waited for the butler to mention a guest.
But the man didn’t.
She wrapped her coat more tightly around her. She didn’t want to look down and see her beautiful sparkling silk dress. She felt foolish in it. It was meant for Lord Braunschweig.
Her stepmother cleared her throat. “Veronique, you must marry Lord Worthing.”
The man’s shoulders slumped.
“It’s the correct thing to do,” her stepmother continued. “It’s the honorable thing. I’m certain that Lord Rockport wouldn’t have invited a dishonorable man into such close contact with our daughter.”
Anger shot through Veronique. She should stifle it, should perhaps excuse herself to go upstairs. She absolutely shouldn’t respond, not with everyone here.
But she had to say something.
“Lord Worthing and I do not love each other,” she said.
Her stepmother snorted. “You’ve only just met. You should see your lack of love for each other as a favorable sign that neither of you are mad.”
Veronique tensed.
She could walk out of here now. She had the funds to provide for herself, even if it might be too shocking to admit the fact to anyone.
There was a reason she had not confided her profession to her stepmother.
Her stepmother had a well-developed sense of propriety, strengthened ever since Percival unexpectedly became a duke.
Money making was an occupation best left to the very lowest classes of women who had no other recourse but to wash floors and beat rugs to avoid sending their sons up sooty chimneys.
“Perhaps Lord Worthing might be interested in learning about my life,” Veronique said sweetly.
Her stepmother cast a worried glance at Veronique’s father.
“Where were you born, Lord Worthing?” Veronique asked, addressing him for the first time since they’d left the chapel. “Shall I tell you where I was born?”
Looking at the baron was a mistake.
It was too easy to go from there to remembering the feel of his arms about her waist and his kisses on her lips.
She moved her gaze away, hoping her cheeks were not flushed.
Her stepmother laughed, though the sound was hollow. “Lord Worthing would not be interested in where you were born, my dear. He’s much more concerned about where you will live. Perhaps your father might be able to put some money toward a townhouse in London.” She addressed the baron. “Tell me, Lord Worthing, what is your favorite section of London. Grosvenor Square? St. James?”
Veronique raised her chin. “Both are quite different from where I was raised.”
“I’ve always been interested in visiting Boston,” Lord Worthing said, and then his face reddened. Perhaps he thought she might think him eager to marry her.
She smiled at him. He was the first person she’d met in England who’d expressed an interest in her home state, and then she remembered what she needed to tell him.
Her throat dried, her stepmother’s ever deepening frown not reassuring. Veronique told herself her past wasn’t important.
It shouldn’t be important.
What did her grandmother have to do with her now? Especially when her grandmother was the kindest person she’d ever known? But she’d never forget t
he comments of the servants when she’d first moved in with her father in Massachusetts. She’d never forget the whispers on the streets whenever she’d walked on her own. And she’d never forget how her stepmother had finally announced that she should not be brought with them to balls and events, lest she damage the marriage prospects of her two stepsisters.
Veronique sighed.
Maybe Lord Worthing would be horrified enough by her past that he would resolve not to be persuaded to marry her, no matter how much coin her father flung.
That would be good, then she could marry Lord Braunschweig. Bertrand.
She pushed away the ever-growing fear that the reason he hadn’t appeared was that he’d had doubts about being married to a mulatto.
She shook her head.
Bertrand loved her. He’d told her in his letters. She couldn’t allow herself to forget that.
“Lord Worthing should learn the truth.”
Her stepmother emitted an unsteady laugh. “Nonsense, dear.”
Her father sighed. “Your stepmother is correct. We agreed not to do so.”
“But he might marry me.” She glanced at Lord Worthing. The man’s face had blanched further.
She gave a wry smile. Likely the man’s surprise would only strengthen.
“There’s something you should know about me.” Veronique addressed him.
“Darling—” Her father attempted to protest, but she wouldn’t let him.
She raised her hand. “I owe him this knowledge.”
“I was born in the West Indies,” she continued. “On Barbados.”
Her parents glowered, but it didn’t matter. Lord Worthing deserved to know.
“My father hadn’t made his fortune yet—”
“Or his sense,” her stepmother muttered.
Veronique cleared her throat. “So when my father saw someone…unsuitable—”
“Whom I loved,” her father cut in, and she smiled.
“He had a child with her. Me.”
Lord Worthing nodded. He hadn’t drawn his brows together, and he hadn’t tilted his head, as if reflecting on the skin tones and nose shapes of other women.
She inhaled. “I’m mulatto.”
There was a stunned silence, and she felt everyone’s eyes on her. Even Lord Rockport and Lord Somerville, who’d both seemed the very definition of calm and imperturbable widened their eyes.
Her stepmother shifted her legs, obviously uncomfortable. “On her mother’s side. I’m really not certain that matters.”
The others nodded at the lie.
It did matter.
If it hadn’t mattered, then they never would have urged her to keep it secret. If it hadn’t mattered, they’d have permitted her to attend social gatherings and balls in Massachusetts, and not hidden her away, lest her heritage embarrass her father and his new wife.
“You don’t appear mulatto,” Lady Somerville said.
Her voice wasn’t skeptical, more puzzled.
Veronique sighed. “You don’t know what to look for. My skin isn’t that dark, but my nose is still too wide, and my hair is too curly.”
“I think you look beautiful,” Lady Somerville said, and the others quickly assented.
They were polite and kind, but the rest of society did not tend to replicate those emotions.
“I—er—trust you’ll all keep this secret,” her stepmother said.
The others nodded vigorously.
“I think you should retire,” her stepmother told her, and Veronique nodded.
She glanced at Lord Worthing, but he only gave her a bland smile, as if he’d somehow known already.
“I was born in Kent,” he said. “Fewer palm trees.”
She nodded. “Oh.”
What had she thought, confessing all that?
She’d loved her childhood on Barbados. If only the memories of her grandmother were not clouded with the knowledge that she would be seen as everything improper by everyone Veronique knew today.
If only Lord Braunschweig had shown up.
She quelled the thought that she had told Lord Braunschweig about her West Indian connection, and he’d abandoned her at the altar.
That couldn’t be the reason, could it?
He’d loved her. He’d told her.
He’d started writing her after reading her books. He’d showered compliments on her, begging her to marry him once he’d found out her age and unmarried status.
It had been a true meeting of the minds, of the spirits, unconcerned with anything else.
If he had wanted to marry her when he hadn’t even met her, surely that would be the case no matter what her skin color was. Love was the strongest thing in the world.
But if she didn’t find Lord Braunschweig, she might be compelled to marry Lord Worthing.
The thought was atrocious, and she hurried from the Great Hall to her bedroom upstairs. Tears prickled her eyes, and she gazed out her narrow window. The Highlands soared before her. Beyond the steep inclines was England, and then…London, the most magnificent city in the world, where slavery was illegal, and she would be content with her true love.
She stared outside, hoping to see a horse rider making his way toward the castle over the hills, underneath the setting sun.
Pink and orange danced over the horizon, but the only creatures they illuminated were some sheep and goats.
He’s not coming.
Veronique paced the room. Normally when upset she might throw herself into writing tales of wild adventures, of heroes clattering up castle walls or swinging from vines.
She paused and glanced outside.
An idea struck her, and for the first time that evening she smiled.
Chapter Seven
No thunderstorms hammered rain and lightning onto the Highlands, no thieves clambered over the castle walls, rousing the inhabitants, and no roosters, belonging to some farmer, crowed.
Miles should have slept well.
He should still be sleeping.
The brick in his bed had cooled, and he tossed underneath the plentiful covers laid over him.
Thoughts of the blissful sensation of Veronique’s lips against his, followed by the realization that she’d mistaken him for someone else and he might be forced to wed a stranger tore through his mind.
Sleep seemed frivolous.
Today might be his wedding day.
He smiled as he recalled Veronique’s spirited statement on her birth. He hadn’t known it was possible for so many people to be so quiet. He’d recognized her ethnicity, but he wasn’t surprised that the others, who’d traveled less, had only seen what they’d expected to see.
Veronique was more interesting than any woman he’d ever met.
Miss Daventry, he reminded himself.
A creaking noise interrupted his thoughts, and curiosity swept through him.
He stepped onto the cold floorboards. Anything to distract himself from musing over Veronique. It didn’t matter how good her lips had felt it against his own. She desired this Lord Braunschweig person, and Miles intended to never marry.
He remembered wandering Rockport Manor as a child, conscious of the strange portraits of his mother with another gentleman, and of a half-brother who’d lost his father.
Passion was pleasant, but it was best confined to short doses.
Another creak sounded.
Somebody was on the balcony.
Had Lord Braunschweig arrived after all? Perhaps he’d decided to surprise Veronique.
Miles crept to the balcony door, maneuvering past heavy Scottish furniture and medieval suits of armor. He pushed aside velvet curtains.
The castle sat on a steep cliff that towered over the ocean. A murky moat separated the castle from the surrounding land, and though Miles doubted actual alligators lurked in the moat, as depicted in the illustrations in his nephews’ children’s books, he had no desire to topple into the inky waters.
Gerard could extol the castle, but Miles remained unimpressed. He l
ived in Sussex, surrounded by modern manor homes with large windows and facades formed by something besides the indiscreet pummeling of harsh weather.
Only some birds seemed to be outside, resting on the stone ledge, and Miles almost reentered his room.
Then he saw a long white object hanging from another window. It was so thin, for a moment he thought it part of the architecture.
Even this castle shouldn’t have fabric billowing from the side. Even Scottish traditions couldn’t be so absurd.
He frowned. Perhaps a servant had draped a sheet from the window?
He didn’t think so. There would be other places to dry laundry besides flinging it alongside the rocky, dirty wall of a medieval castle.
A figure appeared at the window, and Miles’s chest constricted.
Surely the person couldn’t be attempting to climb down the castle wall?
But someone did appear to be clambering down the white fabric, which he realized were sheets tied together.
Bloody hell.
It was Veronique.
The chit was escaping.
She hadn’t wanted to marry him. He’d seen her face whiten when she realized he was a different baron.
And now she was venturing into the muddy, Scottish terrain to go to her fiancé.
Damnation.
Curses had never seemed so suitable to Miles. He couldn’t let her roam Britain alone. Who knew what harm might happen to her? She was a foreigner and a woman.
Most people of their class didn’t even like their women to travel without a servant. Definitely no servant was following her. No one in their right mind would.
He called from the window. “Halt! Halt!”
If she heard him, she didn’t stop. In fact she seemed to be doing the very opposite of stopping. She slid down the sheets easily, pulling the fabric between her hands as her feet touched the wall.
Good God. What was he supposed to do? Let her continue? And risk all manner of harm to her? Did she distrust him so much that risking her life was better than marrying him?
I have to stop her.
He was still in his nightshirt, and he hastily dressed, choosing the warmest items his valet had packed.
Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4) Page 5
