She struggled free as Lord Braunschweig concentrated on sucking her neck. “Help! Help!”
He pulled her back toward him, and turned her face down against the dirt and gravel. “Be quiet, woman.”
Chapter Twenty
Where on earth was Veronique?
Some people stepped outside, and he peered at the bored expressions of the ton, any joy from the party evaporating as they waited for their coaches in the cool night breeze.
A woman shrieked, and Miles shivered.
The voice came from the maze.
It was unlikely the woman had stumbled against a bear, and Miles’s fists curled in anger against the men of his class.
He sprinted toward the maze, calling Veronique’s name as he strode over the lawn. People stared at him as he trampled over flowers and grass blades with ever firmer strides.
“Veronique!” he shouted again.
She must be inside the maze.
These mazes seemed to have been built purely on the whim of medieval men with the same cunning and contempt for others which had led them to boil their subjects alive who had dared to follow a slightly different theological adherence.
He hadn’t done a single thing. He’d given her tepid warnings, stated his concerns politely, but when she’d needed him the most, he’d left her to choose on her own.
He hadn’t even given her the option of choosing him.
It didn’t matter that Lord Braunschweig belonged to the gentry or that he owned vast amounts of land. Perhaps the man had suffered as had so many in 1816, the year without a summer. Had that made him inspired to seek alternative sources of coin to keep up his despicable lifestyle?
Lord Worthing rushed through the maze. In the past he’d found the smell of the yew trees pleasant. He’d once felt a source of pride at his English heritage. He’d always liked the use of geometry for leisure purposes.
He found nothing less amusing now.
He padded through the maze, conscious of all the intricate paths that led only to dead ends. The dark light did not help him as he sought to remember his way. He took silent notes to himself. Five paces to the right, and then when stopped by the thick wall of greenery, no less harmful despite its pristine, exquisite appearance, he turned.
“Veronique,” he called out. “Where are you?”
“Miles?” Her voice came softly, and he yearned to clamber over the thick yew bushes.
He climbed on top of the maze, pulling himself up over the prickly bushes and crawled over them. His knees sank into the thorny undergrowth, but he kept on crawling, thanking the centuries and the gardeners for allowing the bushes to grow so thickly.
The bushes tore the palms of his hands, but he was evading the dead ends he’d so frequently found when proceeding on foot through the designated paths designed precisely to get people lost in its mile long paths.
Finally he saw them.
“Halt!” he shouted.
Lord Braunschweig didn’t pause. His hands pulled up Veronique’s dress. Any moment now—
Miles jumped.
As far as jumps went, this was inelegant.
He didn’t land on Lord Braunschweig, even though the man deserved to be crushed to the ground. He stumbled up and glared at the baron.
“What is going on?” he shouted, though he didn’t need to ask. It was obvious what Lord Braunschweig was doing. He was about to violate the dearest woman in the world, judging from the lady’s torn attire.
“Go away, Lord Worthing,” Lord Braunschweig muttered. “This woman is mine.”
“She’s not,” Miles said, conscious that his voice was icy cold.
“She’s a whore.”
Miles stiffened at the words and then yanked Lord Braunschweig up. “You apologize.”
“I can’t,” Lord Braunschweig said. “Not when I’m right. She’s a little colored girl. And you know the filth she writes?”
Lord Worthing blinked, and Lord Braunschweig smiled.
“I suppose she hasn’t even told you. I suppose—”
Whack.
Miles struck Lord Braunschweig in the face. He toppled over, and Miles rushed to help Veronique up.
*
She blinked up at the figure, but she knew it was Miles. It could only be him. Relief eased through her.
She heard Lord Braunschweig’s footsteps, suitably loud for his stocky frame, thud away down the path.
Miles glanced behind him. “I will deal with him later.”
“That would be wonderful,” she said.
A cool breeze still brushed through the air, and floral scent still filled her nostrils. The sound of the music still infused the air.
She should be fine, but her body shivered.
“You poor thing,” Miles said. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said. “I should have listened to you. I should never have come here.”
She looked down at the ground. She didn’t want to see Miles’s disappointment. He’d seen how Lord Braunschweig had touched her. He’d seen his stubby hands over her. He’d… She pulled up her bodice, unsure exactly what he’d seen.
Shame warmed her face. “I didn’t mean—”
“I suppose he couldn’t wait until the wedding night.” The man looked down at the ground. It was more a question than a statement.
She closed her eyes tightly. “We’re not getting married.”
She pulled her arms together.
She’d almost whispered the statement, but the words seemed to roar in the still night. She closed her eyes, unwilling to see Lord Worthing’s expression changed.
He’d done so much to get her here. Maybe he’d been unwilling at first, but he’d defended her, protected her.
They’d determined that the only way to avoid getting married was for her to wed Lord Braunschweig. If she refused to marry him, after they’d spent even more time together, after they’d spent nights sleeping in the same room, same barn, conscious the other person was close by…
She didn’t want to look at Lord Worthing. The man might think—
“I should rise,” she said. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want anyone to see her. She smoothed the lovely dress Lord Worthing had gotten her, conscious that leaves and pressed flowers were still stuck against it.
She thought of the care she’d taken to dress for this evening, and shame filled her once again. If only she’d known. But she had, hadn’t she? She’d been warned. Lord Worthing had warned her.
“I didn’t listen to you,” she said.
Lord Worthing extended his hand. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
She shivered at his firm touch, so reassuring, contrasting so much to the clammy, stubby fingers of Lord Braunschweig. “I spent two years yearning to meet him, counting the days until I could.”
She shook her head and then realizing that more tendrils were falling from her coiffure than was appropriate, she pinned back her curls. She must look a state. “I suppose you’ll have to tell my family now. I suppose I should be locked up for the rest of my life.”
“I don’t think you would find being locked up favorable,” Lord Worthing said. “We wouldn’t want you to destroy any sheets again.”
She tried to laugh, but it was so difficult. Her heart still thumped, and if she closed her eyes, she could still imagine the feel of Lord Braunschweig on top of her. “I—”
“You don’t have to speak now,” Lord Worthing said calmly. “I’m here, and you’re safe.”
She rose and took his hand. They strode through the maze. He still grasped her fingers, and she had no desire to let go.
“I’m so sorry,” she said mournfully, her voice wobbling, distracted by the feel of his hand against hers. She stared straight ahead of her, and willed her heart to calm. “What was I thinking?”
She felt Lord Worthing fixing his gaze on her, and she shivered under his observation.
She stepped away, because the urge to step toward him, to feel his warm arms about he
r was too tempting.
She’d already changed his life too much, forcing him to accompany her.
Tears prickled against her eyes, and she gazed down at her dress.
This was supposed to be her perfect evening. The meeting with Lord Braunschweig should have been even nicer than the one she’d planned. After all, they hadn’t met in a drafty chapel constructed several centuries ago.
The music still trickled down from the windows of the manor house, merging with laughter and chatter.
She should be just as happy.
After two years of longing to meet Lord Braunschweig, she finally had. This should have been the happiest day of her life.
She shivered and wrapped her shawl more tightly around her. The ornate lace, so pretty in its case, dug into her skin.
When they’d first met, Lord Worthing had asked if he might kiss her. He hadn’t insisted. He in no way deserved the horrible reputation she was certain her stepmother would be all too happy to give him were he to refuse.
And yet because of an action which she’d taken part in, his life, everything he cared about would be destroyed.
“I’m glad you won’t marry him.”
“Oh.”
“I can’t be standing about him to tackle him whenever he decides to approach you all my life.”
She almost laughed. “I thought this whole time, for so many years—I thought he cared about me. his is all my fault, and now you’ll feel pressured by my parents to marry me. I won’t let that happen, please don’t worry. I have the funds, you don’t need to be beholden to me.”
“You should have told me who you were,” Lord Worthing said.
“I know. Forgive me.”
“I feel foolish.”
She shook her head. “You were doing your job. And I—I wanted to keep mine.”
“Would that go away if people knew who you are?”
She nodded, and her stomach hurt at the thought that so despicable man as Lord Braunschweig knew her deepest secret.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Lord Worthing said.
“Thank you. I was overly romantic,” she said. “Just like you said.
“I wouldn’t want you to change.”
“Even though I was so romantic? You told me romance was a foolish concept, one that you couldn’t believe in.”
“I believe in it now.” he said, his voice warm and soothing.
Lord Worthing stepped nearer her, and his voice sounded warm and soothing.
“Oh,” she repeated, cognizant that her response was nonsensical.
In the next moment strong arms were wrapped about her, and her heart beat rapidly against a foreign chest. A masculine scent of pine needles and cotton, brandy and cedar, wrapped about her.
Her knees wobbled, as if urging her to succumb to the blissful sensation of being in Lord Worthing’s arms. It would be so easy to go along with him, to agree with him that Lord Braunschweig was less than ideal, and to pretend ignorance of the pressure he would come under to marry her himself.
She stiffened. Was this what he intended? Perhaps he might even feign happiness on the matter to best assure her that this was the correct thing to do. Men could have an overly developed sense of honor here; eventually reading heroic tales might have a too dramatic impact on them.
She pushed away from him, refusing to ponder the blissful sensation of pressing her fingers against his sturdy chest.
“I might buy a cottage on the coast somewhere.”
“Is that what you desire?” He asked carefully.
“Yes. With a nice large garden. I’ve—I’ve always wanted it.” This wasn’t a lie. She’d just always imagined it would be with somebody she cared about. She’d imagined that somebody might not mind who her grandmother was.
Somehow she’d found that. Lord Braunschweig had agreed to marry her. But it was simply for her money. It was in spite of her background. And she couldn’t—she refused to—allow him to speak of her family in such a condescending manner. They were the only ones who’d ever been there for her.
“It will be splendid,” she chirped, moving away from Lord Worthing. She stepped into the garden and looked at the flowers. She stroked a petal impulsively. “Th-this is pretty. I’ll have to have these.”
“I see.”
She turned around. “In my garden. At my house. Where I’ll be very h—”
Arms pulled her toward him, and in the next moment Lord Worthing’s lips were on hers. Heaven could not be as blissful as this.
“But—”
“I don’t want you to speak of any garden,” Lord Worthing whispered. “Unless it’s the one where we’re living together.”
Her eyes widened.
“But—”
“You’re marrying me.”
“But you needn’t. I can take care of—”
“Yourself,” Lord Worthing finished. “So you’ve told me before.”
“I rescued you,” Veronique reminded him.
“And you’ll just have to keep on doing that,” Lord Worthing said, before taking her into his arms once again.
She wanted to tell him to stop. But he feathered kisses on her face, tracing the line from her cheek to her neck. His kisses grew warmer, wetter, and when he sucked on her thin flesh, she was certain nothing in the world was more ridiculous than the prospect of pushing him away from her.
He was everything in the world to her. And as long as he wanted to be near her, she would let him.
It wasn’t the first time he’d kissed her, and her lips sought his again eagerly. Reason was something for her mind, she decided.
The world swayed, but then he withdrew from her arms. His gaze was more solemn.
Oh.
He’d seen reason.
She tried to smile. She wouldn’t let him think her unhappy for even a second. He deserved to be happy. He didn’t need to worry about her feelings.
“My dear Veronique.” His voice, normally so strong, wobbled.
Her heart tumbled down forward
And then she blinked, because Miles lowered.
He was—kneeling before her.
“Veronique Daventry,” he said. “Will you do me the tremendous honor of becoming my wife?”
Her heart stopped. Joy surged through her.
“Veronique?” he said, more uncertainly.
“Yes,” she said, pulling him up from the ground and wrapping her arms about him.
He drew his hand through her hair, seeming to find joy in twirling his fingers through her now loose curls.
The stars sparkled above, clear in the countryside, and Veronique allowed Miles’s words to sweep over her.
The manor house seemed to glow behind them, flickering torches illuminating the white stone with its facades of Greek and Roman mythology.
It was so different from Barbados.
No palm trees loomed above her, and the scent of the ocean was replaced with that of dozens of flowers.
She blinked, half-expecting to wake up and find she was back in Massachusetts, scribbling her novels while her stepsisters attended the balls she longed to join.
The other half of her expected to wake in Barbados, defending herself from the words of sailors and fortune makers, alternatively demeaning her and intent on conquering her oriental charm. As if Barbados, in the Caribbean, had anything to do with the orient.
But she was still here, in this magnificent maze, with Miles.
The kisses grew stronger, deeper, until she pulsated with a desire. How could something she’d never felt before, except with him, feel like the strongest force in the world?
“You drive me wild,” Miles said, between long, desperate kisses. “When I thought you might marry Lord Braunschweig…”
“You always thought that,” Veronique reminded him.
He stroked her hair. “I’d started to hope you wouldn’t.”
“Even though you adore your freedom?”
He gave a short laugh. “Just a nicer word for boredom.”
&n
bsp; He’d caused her heart to hammer when she’d first met him, had caused her to lose all sense of propriety from the very beginning. She knew she should be telling him to wait. That was the proper thing to do. But instead she succumbed to the sensation of his soothing strokes over her skin.
Chapter Twenty-one
It had been dashed improper to bring her here. He abhorred Lord Braunschweig.
Veronique wasn’t an opera singer, wasn’t an actress, wasn’t a woman tired of her husband and eager for adventure—Veronique was the most wonderful woman in the world.
Standing beside her waiting for the coach to queue in any sort of appropriate manner would be agony.
He’d experienced enough distress at the ball. Bringing her here, so she could meet someone else.
He shook his head.
No. She was his, and he was going to claim her.
They strolled the yew maze. Likely it had been here for centuries, older than the current, modern additions of the manor house. The hedges were thick and stretched eight feet from the ground, hiding the manor house.
The stars still peaked over them, and moonlight highlighted Veronique’s lovely figure.
His heartbeat quickened, and he clasped her fingers in his. Her vanilla scent mingled with that of the yew trees, and his head swirled. Longing rushed through him, and he pulled her toward him, as if to assure him of her presence.
Their feet crunched over the gravel, and the music grew increasingly faint.
“My darling.” His voice thickened.
He’d been so worried all evening that she might marry Lord Braunschweig. He should have been relieved that he could resume his carefree life, but all he’d felt was worry that he’d never see her again.
She knew him better than anyone else did.
And though once that fact might have worried him, instead he felt only relief.
His lips hovered inches from hers, and he rested his hands on her hips. Gaps between them were best narrowed. Her body seemed to melt against his, and he was conscious of all manner of slender curves and soft skin.
Kissing was a skill he prided himself in. But somehow his kisses had never felt so all-consuming before. Desire pulsated through him, and he crushed her against him, pressing her bodice to his chest.
Mad About The Baron (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 4) Page 15
