Page 6 of The Mad Baron's Bride
His lordship stared at his plate, his brows pulling together. “If only that were true.”
The brooding aspect suited him exceedingly well. Leda groped for her wits. “The Mad Baron? The Earl of Howth called you that at the ball last night.”
“So my fame has spread all the way to Ireland,” Brancaster growled.
“His eldest daughter, Lady Sydney, is widowed,” Leda said. Lady Sydney was also older than his lordship by at least a score of years. “And his youngest daughter, Lady Frances, is I hear in search of a husband. She is likely past child-bearing age, if that is a concern, but unlikely to listen to gossip.”
“Leda,” Lady Plume said reproachfully.
“I am endeavoring to be helpful,” Leda said. “To that end, perhaps I ought to know why they call you the Mad Baron, milord.”
“It is not Jack,” Lady Plume said softly. “He had a mad wife.”
“Independence in women is often mistaken for madness,” Leda said, speaking from her own experience.
“Leda!”
“That is your name?” Brancaster forked up a slice of smoked salmon. “The queen seduced by a swan.”
“My given name is Caledonia,” she said, throwing him an arch look. “No reference to despoiled women.”
“It gives me a fanciful impression of Mr. Wroth.” Brancaster chewed. “The much lamented, dearly departed Mr. Wroth, buried in?—”
Leda set her jaw at a mulish angle.
“Cheltenham,” Lady Plume supplied, repeating Leda’s lie.
“The seat of your marital bliss as well?”
“I have never detected,” Lady Plume said, “that Leda was acquainted with marital bliss.”
“That would make a pair of us.” Brancaster regarded Leda. That level gaze of his was so very unnerving, and the gray bars in his iris seemed to shift, light to dark, depending on his mood. “You have no wish to repeat the experiment?”
“None.”
“I feel the same.” He looked to his aunt. “If my reputation has tagged me here like a hound at my heels, Aunt Plume, I hardly think it will speed my suit among the Bath beauties. Better to confine myself to seeking a governess.”
“So long as you do not drive her mad also,” Leda said.
That was a blow below the belt, as it were, and she knew it before the words left her mouth. Yet her jaw locked on the thought of apology. He’d dismissed his wife as mad. She knew how that felt.
She knew what that meant, to a woman.
But Lady Plume’s astonished stare shamed her into a retraction. “That is unfair of me to presume,” Leda admitted, “since I am unaware of what caused Lady Brancaster’s demise.” She waited.
Brancaster scooped into his dish of coddled egg. “A topic I’ve no wish to discuss, as it would turn me off my breakfast. Aunt Plume, you have a splendid chef.”
“Only a plain cook from Dorset,” his aunt returned, “but I am very happy with her. Gibbs, please tell Mrs. Skim that Brancaster enjoyed her cookery.”
Gibbs gave his assent, and Leda refrained from shouting and hurling her china cup across the table. The unfeeling cad. Thebrute. He showed no more concern for his wife’s troubled state than Leda’s flint-hearted nephew had shown when damning her to the asylum.
Men drove women to madness, then punished them for it.
Best to remember that, and steel herself to the strange melting feeling that contemplating Lord Brancaster was wont to induce.
“To the question of a governess.” Lady Plume offered her cup to Gibbs, who hastened to add more chocolate. “I intended for you to ask Leda.”
“To recommend candidates, you mean? He may as well inquire directly at Miss Gregoire’s, though I could introduce him, I suppose.”
