Page 11 of The Mad Baron's Bride
She tugged him into a promenade with her so he did not stand there like one of the Corinthian pillars of the colonnade, sturdy, strong, imposing. She brushed aside the observation that he was the ideal height for her to twine her arm in his and walk comfortably.
She could make no sense of him. The men used his sobriquet to poke fun. They didn’t fear Brancaster’s madness, whatever strain it was presumed to be.
But they wouldn’t marry their daughters to him, either.
“Will you make me resort to consulting Lady Plume? I have yet to sort out that line of relationship. Never say you inherited a family strain of madness from her, for I have seen no sign of disordered wits. She never even has the vapors.”
“She is a great-aunt, and my grandfather was her youngest brother. I do not think they were close, but Lady Plume has kindly taken an interest in my branch of the family, which none of my other relations, aside from Aunt Dinah, have proven eager to do.”
“Because of your reputation, or because of something else?”
He looked at her bleakly. “Can a man ever be separated from his reputation?”
“Yes, if the grounds of accusation are false.”
She waited for explanation, which was not forthcoming. There was some basis to the claims of madness, then. But what?
False shadows and old scores, as had been the case with her?
Not that she was about to tell him they shared that taint.
She turned to survey the room of its female population, identifiable by the many varied ornaments in their hair. A young maid would not do for Brancaster, so it would appear. He required a woman of experience, of developed character and steady mind, one inured to gossip and bandied words. A comely widow, or a maid of advancing years, someone who would not be shocked by a man’s occasional eccentricities. A sensible sort who would provide a gentle guiding hand for his daughter, a thrifty eye on the running of his house, and companionship for himself on gloomy afternoons when the cliffsides were no good for walking.
Such women existed all over, in droves. She could present a handful of them to Brancaster before the morning was out. She tugged his arm to draw his attention to the first one, and whenhe turned to her a sudden vision soared into her mind, driving out thought and sense.
Brancaster, across the breakfast table, sliding her the morning paper with that look of warm attention, that small smile upon his well-defined lips as she handed him his toast, buttered just as she knew he liked it.
She felt off balance, like she’d stepped into a punt on the river. She’d never known domestic tranquility for herself, not until she found Miss Gregoire’s here in Bath, and she’d certainly never imagined male companionship for her future. Not of the sort that shared breakfast after sharing a bed.
The mineral scents of the waters must be addling her brain. Sharing beds, indeed. She received her fair share of subtle hints and invitations, as a widow still in possession of her looks, but nothing yet to tempt her.
Not until Brancaster, with that look in his fog-gray eyes, that lock of caramel hair curling over a jutting brow, that precise slope to his jaw and his scent of citrus and the way his gloved hand left a brand on her back as he steered her in a circle in the minuet, causing all her breath to fight its way up her chest.
Good heavens, it was time to bring her thoughts in order. She’d been off her stride since the White Hart, and no surprise. “I believe it is time to introduce?—”
“Mrs. Wroth. Infernal gossip and peddler of lies.”
A man bore down on her, a tower of indignation. Every part of him trembled, from the tight curls sprouting about his red face to the ribbons dangling from the knees of his breeches. A double row of buttons studded a tight coat with a high stand-fall collar and tails cutaway over a crimson waistcoat lined with smaller buttons, all of them quivering with the force of his indignation. He loomed before Leda, looking down at her beneath the brim of a tall, conical black hat.
“You—youharpy.”
“Here now,” Brancaster said sharply. “I’m sure that’s uncalled for.”
“You turned her off me. Told I was insolvent. Told herlies.”
“I never lie,” Leda lied. “Brancaster, this is Mr. Crutch, lately of Warminster. Mr. Crutch, Baron Brancaster of Holme Hall.”
“She was sweet on me.” Crutch ignored his lordship to glare at Leda. Beneath her fingers, Brancaster’s arm tensed, drawing her closer to him. The action seemed instinctive. “Sweet, and you turned her sour.”
“Mr. Crutch, I am sure any suit you press will rise or fall on the merits of your own self,” Leda replied. “If Mrs. Limpet has changed in her preferences or inclinations, that is within a woman’s prerogative to do.”
“You’re a wrecker.” Crutch gripped his walking stick and continued glaring. “You find perfectly happy people, with happy hopes and prospects, and you—youdestroythem.”
“I do no such thing,” Leda snapped. She had made her mission in life—her new, reclaimed life, at least—to help women find freedom and purpose, relief from persecution, encouragement to follow the paths that would best funnel them to their dreams.
She did not destroy. And she paid penance every day for the destruction she had done.
“I have not yet had my cup,” Brancaster announced, “and neither have you, Mrs. Wroth. Crutch, is it? Good day.” He steered around the irate bachelor as if he were a goat in a farm lane.
