Page 2 of The Mad Baron's Bride
Of course, Jack’s hand held a paltry offering. A crumbling manor set on crumbling cliffs, howling with wind and clouds. A tiny title and properties whittled down almost to nothing by the previous owner of the estate. A motherless child who feared the world, and—ghosts.
So many ghosts.
“I can think of loftier titles,” she said when the pattern brought her back under his nose. So many colors shimmeredfrom her hair, highlights of gold and undertones of red among the tresses of dark brown. They gleamed like silk.
“Queen,” she said. “Empress. Ruler of realms.”
He was ready to kneel before her, like a knight of old seeking favor from his lady. He was ready to stretch out his neck for the sword.
He was clearly addled. He hadn’t been in company like this for too long, genteel, elegant, witty. He was acting an uncouth buffoon.
“I could make you a baroness,” he said, because it was the only real item of value he had. But what would that mean to a woman with ambitions of rule?
“That is, my wife. Would be a baron’s wife. Not a baroness proper, with a title of her own, but a lady nonetheless. Mine.”
“How lovely for her,” Mrs. Wroth said.
They froze, gazes locked, her nose at the level of his neck. Then she swept into a careful curtsy, ending the dance.
“Will you help me find someone?” He’d come to Bath with one hope and been given one name: hers. He had nothing else.
“No.” She turned away.
He did it then, lost himself—again—and caught her hand. That warm, firm hand in its elegant glove. He could not let her walk away.
Desire punched him in the gut, hard. “Please.”
She threw a look over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. Her eyes were violet.Violet. Jack reeled.
“I can think of no acquaintance that would suit your needs, sir,” she said. “I wish you luck in your search.”
And she stepped away, head high, her red-rimmed gown rustling in her wake.
A gentleman intercepted her on her way, making no attempt to modulate his voice. “Mrs. Wroth! A vision tonight. Met the mad baron, did you?”
Jack’s entire chest clenched. So it had followed him here, the whispers, the mockery. That sobriquet he could travel the country and not escape. His feet rooted to the floor as if trapped in damp clay.
“Mad indeed,” Mrs. Wroth murmured.
And that was that.
Mad.
What Anne-Marie had reduced him to, and all he would ever be.
CHAPTER THREE
Lady Plume rustled into the dining room wearing her favorite morning dress, a loose muslin gown draped with lace and pink ribbons, with a lace chemisette swathing her bosom and a delicate lace cap pinned to her silver curls. She draped herself in a chair across the polished wooden table from Leda and gave a small yawn.
“Anything interesting?”
“In theChroniclethis morning?” Leda sipped her coffee and flipped a page. “An armistice has been proposed with France. There’s a new treaty of alliance with the Emperor of Russia. The royal family is returning to Windsor and Lord Nelson is at his estate near Ipswich. And word has it that the property the new Chinese emperor confiscated from his father’s minister, Ho-Ching, is worth 300 million pounds sterling.”
“Imagine. Thank you, Gibbs.” Lady Plume accepted her hot chocolate from the butler, who tenderly tucked in her chair, then went to the sideboard to assemble his lady’s breakfast.
“Such a fortune would not go as far here as it once did, I’m afraid,” her ladyship remarked.
“The mayor has been asked to organize a meeting of Bath citizens to petition the king to convene Parliament and addressthe high price of provisions.” Leda scanned the page. “Mrs. Smith has returned from London with an assortment of new furs and laces.”
