A few men nodded to him and the rise of the women’s smiles were visible even underneath their bonnets’ generous brims.
Miles didn’t linger.
Chit-chat could be confined to the past. Now he needed to get a ballgown. He marched up the steps and pounded on the door. The butler open promptly, evidently accustomed to the incessant entrance of guests.
“Lord Worthing.” The butler tilted his torso in a dignified bow. “I was not aware you would grace us with your presence.”
“I need to see Lady Mulborne.”
“Ah.”
“At once.”
The butler’s composed countenance didn’t wobble. “Let me show you to the parlor.”
“I know the way,” Miles said. “You can get her.”
“Of course,” the butler murmured, and Miles didn’t move his head to see if the man still managed to retain his serenity.
This was an emergency.
He stormed into the parlor, startling an overly amorous couple and the woman’s sleeping aunt. He paced the room as the pink-faced couple declared their immediate intention to amble the garden.
Finally the door creaked open.
“Lady Mulborne,” the butler announced loftily, and Miles swung around.
“How pleasant that you should be here,” Lady Mulborne said smoothly, but Miles flickered an impatient hand.
“Yes, yes. I hope I can go to your ball tonight. And—er—bring someone.”
Lady Mulborne arched a delicate brow. “I am honored that you are so eager to attend.”
“And I need a dress,” Miles continued. “The prettiest you can find.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s my—er—companion. She didn’t bring one. And I told her I could get one.”
“Well. That is an unusual request.”
“And an urgent one,” Miles said.
Lady Mulborne hesitated. “Very well. What does she look like?”
“Oh.” Miles sighed, and a wave of emotion that he couldn’t immediately place swept through him. “Like an angel.”
Lady Mulborne’s eyes sparkled. “You must give me more information than that. Is she my size? Will she fit in my dresses?”
“She’s slender,” Miles mused, “though not without curves.”
He demonstrated the alluring sweep of her form, but for some reason the action only seemed to cause the woman’s smile to widen and he dropped his hand down. “Her skin is a tawny beige but in the right light it glistens with jewel undertones. And her hair—Lord, her hair is so curly.”
“How wonderful.”
“It’s important that the gown is beautiful. She deserves to have a beautiful gown.”
For some reason Lady Mulborne covered her lips with her palm. “I take it she is most important.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll find something suitable for her,” Lady Mulborne said. “Heaven knows I have plenty of gowns.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you announce a betrothal by any chance?” Amusement seemed to ripple through her voice. “I have rings too if you need one. I found the most delightful sapphire and diamond ring on my last visit to Venice.”
“Well.” Miles’s shoulders sank somewhat. “She is betrothed.”
“To you?”
He shook his head.
“Not yet?” Lady Mulborne’s eyes definitely seemed to be sparkling more than normal. Perhaps it was the light.
“To…another man.”
Lady Mulborne blinked. “I’m so sorry.” She frowned. “In my experience it is worthwhile to fight for happiness.”
Miles forced away a sudden jolt of pain and laughed. “Why? She’s already happy.”
And tonight she’ll meet her fiancé.
Chapter Eighteen
A majestic minuet sounded from an open window as Veronique took Lord Worthing’s hand and exited the carriage.
Tall hedges, exquisitely shaped in perfectly straight lines, towered on either side of them, but it was the stately home before her that grasped her attention.
Stone gods and goddesses were carved into the facade, and others perched over the water, shooting rivulets into the marble pools.
“It’s like a fairytale,” Veronique breathed.
Lord Worthing shrugged. “Rather too English for that. Perhaps like one of those places depicted in Miss Van Lochen’s books.”
She blinked, but when she turned to him, he smiled.
He’d seemed quieter ever since he’d fetched the dress. Perhaps he worried she might fail to fit in.
Veronique strode in the gown Lord Worthing had procured for her. The gems sparkled under the moonlight as if she’d been confused with a princess. She looked to see if a window was open, but perhaps the musicians were playing with such force that the quartets spilled easily into the garden.
There was no sign of any snow here. The flowers might not be blooming, but smaller buds dotted the bushes and manicured lawn.
The sky was an endless gray, but the steel color seemed to only highlight the garden further. Gravel glistened under the light, leading to statues swathed in exquisite gowns for eternity. The statues stood before a tall hedge, joined by a wrought iron gate.
“Is that a maze?” Veronique inhaled the floral scent.
“It is,” Lord Worthing said.
She’d dreamed about an event like this. She’d written about it often. Many of her heroines were frequent participants in balls, but she had never attended one herself.
“I’m not ready for this,” she said, and her heartbeat pattered an anxious melody.
“You’re beautiful,” Lord Worthing said. “Lord Braunschweig is a fortunate man.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, but it came out more like a croak.
For a moment she’d almost imagined she were merely attending the ball with Miles, as if that were simply something they did on nights when the moon was full and hostesses scheduled events, confident their guests could find them.
A groomsman appeared for their carriage. Veronique tried to look authoritative, as if it were a common occurrence for her to be standing outside a manor house like this.
She’d never been in one of Barbados’s few stately homes, constructed with tiny windows so the occupants might still imagine they were in Britain. There were some pleasant homes in Massachusetts, though they tended to be constructed with wood, as if the occupants did not care if the next hurricane hauled the planks and planted them in the sea.
This home looked like it would be here for all eternity.
Her feet crunched over the gravel, and she squeezed the silk bag Lord Worthing had given her that contained satin slippers.
“Take my arm,” Lord Worthing said. “You’ll be fine.”
He led her inside, and women’s faces seemed to brighten when they saw him. Several people greeted him, slapping his back and murmuring names of people she’d never heard of.
She looked around, wondering which person was Lord Braunschweig.
Her heart tightened. She should be feeling joy, but instead she simply felt uneasy.
“I’ll find him for you,” Lord Worthing said, and she nodded.
She grasped her fan with fuller force than the delicate handle required and shifted her feet over the gleaming floor. Footmen in ivory wigs marched authoritatively through the room, and men and women stood in clusters, their laughter echoing easily through the ballroom.
Soon Lord Worthing arrived with another man. “May I introduce Lord Braunschweig, Baron of Wolbert.
It was strange that despite how often Lord Worthing had misspoke the baron’s name, he uttered it correctly this time, as if he’d listened to her all along.
“Ah, Miss Daventry.” She was vaguely aware of golden hair and a tall figure. “Or should I say, Miss Van Lochen?”
She tensed, and her gaze flicked to Lord Worthing. The man had acted more stiffly ever since entering the ball, but now his eyebrows soared upward and his eyes widened. He seemed to steady
himself, but his confusion seemed to have been replaced by anger.
He’d heard Lord Braunschweig’s appellation.
Her heart tumbled downward. She wished she’d told Lord Worthing of her secret identity. He shouldn’t have to learn from a stranger. Not when…
She hesitated. After this ball, she wouldn’t need to travel with Lord Worthing anymore. Lord Worthing and Lord Braunschweig were not friends. When would she ever see him again?
“You’re the authoress,” Lord Worthing said.
“Zis is a clever woman,” Lord Braunschweig said gaily.
“That is a secret,” she said sternly, and she tried to give an apologetic look to Lord Worthing.
She should have told him. She really should have.
“Ach, of course. I thought zis man knew. Is he your brother?”
She frowned. Her stepsister Louisa was married to the man’s half-brother’s sister. “A relative.”
Lord Worthing inhaled sharply. His face seemed to have turned to stone. His chiseled features were unmoving, as effective as any mask. “I should go.”
The man disappeared swiftly into the crowd.
She told herself it didn’t matter and directed her attention to Lord Braunschweig. She’d been so concerned with Lord Worthing that she’d barely noticed him at all.
“You’re truly Lord Braunschweig?” Veronique didn’t want her voice to wobble. This was the happiest moment of her life.
But somehow, her voice still wobbled, and she found herself glancing at Lord Worthing, even though all her energy should be focused on Lord Braunschweig, her actual fiancé, and not just some man who’d kissed her in some rakish throes of passion.
She peered at her husband-to-be. His profile was exquisite. His features were perfectly symmetrical. His hair was blond and tousled, as if he’d just ventured from a wind-swept manor home, though since the night was not windy, and he’d unlikely taken to rambling the countryside on the way to the ball, it was likely the result of an expert valet.
“It is a pleasure to finally meet my fiancée,” Lord Braunschweig said before dipping into a lengthy bow.
Veronique’s heart fluttered. If there had been any doubt that Lord Braunschweig wanted to marry her, it had disappeared now. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too.”
“Mm-hmm…” He murmured something and then grasped her hand and kissed it.
His lips were cold, but likely that just contrasted with the warmth soaring through her heart—the warmth she would be feeling soon.
“You are prettier than I expected,” Lord Braunschweig said, clipping each syllable and speaking with the concentration of a man still not fluent in a language.
“Why, thank you.”
His comment made her uneasy, but she smiled. Not everyone was skilled with words.
She’d met him. She’d finally met him. This was her husband-to-be. This was her true love. They would soon be spending the rest of their lives together in blissful, utter happiness.
“Er—” Lord Braunschweig shifted his legs and raked a hand through his glorious hair. “The vezar is nice.”
She blinked, but then supposed he meant “weather” and nodded. “Yes. I’m glad it stopped raining.”
“Was it raining?” Lord Braunschweig looked crestfallen. “I—er—must have forgotten.”
“Oh.”
“But they do tell me that rain is good for zee farmers.” He pushed out his chest and beamed, as if he’d valiantly defended his country. “So you see, my statement was correct.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. The vezar was fine.” He paused, as if flummoxed how to proceed now they’d tackled the weather.
She braced herself for a discussion on the quality of the drapes or the sturdiness of the marble floor.
“Shall we dance?” he asked.
“Very well.”
He offered her his arm, and they strolled through the room. She had questions. She had so much she wanted to ask him.
“Why weren’t you in Scotland? I-I was waiting for you.” Her cheeks pinkened at the memory.
He flickered his hand in the air. “Too far. I imagined you weren’t serious.”
“Well—”
“The dance is starting,” he said. “Vee can’t be late.”
Clearly Lord Braunschweig was aware that they would have the rest of their lives to learn everything about each other, and there was no reason to hurry the process.
They were soon involved in gliding about the dance floor. Veronique bit her lips together. She did like dancing. She had enjoyed the dance lessons with her stepsisters more than Louisa and Irene had. But that said, she did not have a lot of experience dancing outside the confines of her father’s and stepmother’s ballroom.
In fact she’d had no practice at all. Other dancers had always been more of a theoretical concept for her.
Her stepmother had always been wary of allowing her on the dance floor, worried that the color of her complexion might negatively impact her father’s and stepsisters’ reputation. Veronique had a lot of experience writing about dancing, but she had rather less experience actually dancing. She concentrated on the moves, glancing frequently at the other dancers to mimic what they were doing, and tried to keep count during this English song, one she’d never heard before.
Her heart hammered, probably because she’d just met the love of her life. Not because he’d put her in an uncomfortable situation.
This was the start of the rest of her life. This was romance, dancing in a beautiful dress with all these people. They probably were not thinking about her imperfect dance skills.
She glanced around the ballroom. The crystal sconces sparkled under the candlelight. Gold-framed paintings gleamed under the light, the jeweled attire of the figures still striking, despite the vast competition within the ballroom.
Perhaps London gatherings were crowded, but this was Yorkshire, and there was ample room to observe.
Some wallflowers sat near the fireplace in one corner, flickering longing looks in the directions of a group of men jesting over brandy. The hostess, attired in a striking aubergine gown, perhaps to denote some semblance of half-mourning, fluttered between the guests and the white wig and glossy uniform adorned servants.
Veronique had the vague sense that the moment had been carefully orchestrated. The choice of fast-tempoed music, the hours of practice by the bow wielding musicians, the selection of food and drink to best imbue the guests with a happy mood, the careful training of footmen to remain invisible even as they helped the other guests, the gathering of flowers and greeneries to further brighten the already vibrant space: everything had conspired to make the evening perfect.
Had any of her heroines been gifted with as pleasant an occasion for their first dances with their heroes?
“Zis way,” Lord Braunschweig said in an almost exasperated tone, and Veronique shook her head, as if the action might usher her from her reverie. She shouldn’t be contemplating her fiction now. She should be rejoicing that she was finally in the man’s company.
She’d battled such odds, crossing foamy oceans, clattering down castle walls, riding a new horse over a new terrain, to experience this moment now.
Other people lined up for a new dance, and Veronique took her position beside the other women. A few shot her disapproving glances, and she stiffened. Could they tell her heritage? Might they find her unworthy of standing beside them?
Perhaps they merely recognized her as a stranger.
She forced her gaze to contemplate Lord Braunschweig’s features, fighting an absurd, unwanted desire to seek out Lord Worthing for assurance. They were mere acquaintances, and soon, when she was married to Lord Braunschweig, ensconced in some Yorkshire home, they would no longer be even that.
She still swung her gaze about the ballroom, past the towering men in their silken cravats and jeweled waistcoats, and past the less looming, but equally imposing women, arrayed in shimmering jewels, to seek him out. Lord Worthing’s face was mor
e restrained, and he lingered by the appetizer table, even though there were all manner of sweetly attired women with whom he might dance. Where was the man’s easy smile now?
The music sounded and too late she noticed that the dancers were already moving. She hastened to join them as they leaped to the joyful tune of a flute, resisting the urge to return to Lord Worthing’s side.
“Not used to dancing?” Lord Braunschweig asked.
“I—”
She firmed her jaw. She was a good dancer. She just needed to…concentrate on the music.
The man grinned. “Do as I do.”
Her legs felt unsteady, and her heart seemed to be more preoccupied in palpitating against her ribs than in issuing steady breaths.
Still, she followed the women as they formed new patterns. This was what she’d dreamed of, but she felt fraudulent on the dance floor. Her gloved hands might touch theirs at the requisite moments, but she wasn’t one of them.
None of them had grown up under the hot tropical sun that beat down relentlessly over Barbados. None of them had played with dark-skinned children and gone home to a grandmother who would never be accepted into even the lowest rungs of white society. Likely they’d all attended the same dance lessons, played in the same impeccable gardens, and gotten lost in the same immaculately trimmed labyrinths in the safety of their father’s massive and well-guarded estates.
The music halted, and she cast a wobbly smile at Lord Braunschweig. The man’s face had grown still rosier, and he wiped a hand over his now greasy coiffure.
“Time for some punch!” he exclaimed.
“Splendid,” she said weakly.
He frowned. “Lemonade for you, my dear. I am not a proponent of alcohol for women. Some things should be left to men. Our bodies are naturally equipped to imbibe brandy and wine.”
“Oh.” She felt as if she were being scolded by a schoolmaster. The drink was never anything she’d given any particular thought to, but now that it was forbidden, she missed it. “I think women are equally capable of drinking.”
“Even though good brandy might burn their delicate throats?” He uttered a short laugh.
Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4) Page 13
