How to Wed a Baron

Justin was only half teasing, and both men knew it. Not that Justin needed his valet to survive. Not literally, and not since Bonaparte had been caged a second time and the world was again free to muck itself up without him. But it was Wigglesworth who still kept the facade of Lord Justin Wilde intact, and for a man like Justin, who’d felt himself in need of concealment and for so many years and so many reasons, the foppish, overdressed, fussy little fellow remained the perfect foil.

Plus, Wigglesworth understood the complete necessity of never overstarching one’s shirts. One should never undervalue such talent.

“Still no sign of an Austrian or Czech flag in the harbor, Wigglesworth. I shudder to think we might be forced to endure another day in this dreary hovel before the lady arrives. The prince’s man assured me he’d had word her journey was proceeding according to plan as of two days ago.”

“A man of your sensibilities, my lord, could not but be rendered maudlin by such a thought. If the lady’s ship does not appear by three, I shall make it a point to prepare your supper myself. You must not be made to endure both this inadequate chamber and a less than excellent repast.”

“Be sure to take our good friend and personal protector Brutus with you again if that unhappy event should become mandatory,” Justin warned, as Wigglesworth remained the only man in all of Creation to believe it was his consequence, and not the hulking Brutus’s mountainous physique (and fearsome expression) that opened the doors to sanctuaries like inn kitchens. Bless Brutus, he was an army unto himself, and invaluable to Justin.

“Yes, my lord.” Wigglesworth brushed some imaginary lint from the foaming lace jabot at his throat. He was a man who believed in his heart of hearts that Mr. Brummell should have been horse-whipped for convincing the gentlemen to give up their silks and satins and laces in favor of looking as if they were all a flock of penguins heading off to some perpetual funeral.

He fluttered about the inn bedchamber now like a small exotic bird himself, uncertain where to land.

Poor Wigglesworth. The man had a mind alive with bees….

Wringing his delicate hands, the valet finally flitted to the dressing table, counting for only the fourth time the number of brushes, combs and other silver-backed necessities of the well-groomed English gentleman to be sure none had slipped into the swift and crafty hands of the inn servants who had visited the chamber to light the fire or deliver his lordship’s breakfast, the fine repast Wigglesworth himself had overseen being created in the kitchens.

“Will you be climbing down from your usual worrywart alts anytime soon, Wigglesworth?” Justin at last inquired lazily from the chair beside the window before the man could suffer some injury to himself for lack of anything to do. “Or will I be forced to find a bootjack in this decrepit establishment in order to remove my boots? You did notice this spot on the left toe, did you not?”

Wigglesworth threw up his hands in horror and joy at the same time. How he needed to be needed. “Merde! A spot? A smudge? Say it is not so!”

Justin rubbed lightly beneath his nose, as it wouldn’t do to allow his valet to see him so amused at his expense. “Wigglesworth? Do you have any idea what you’re saying, have been saying ever since you broke bread in the common room last night with the chevalier’s valet?”

“Your pardon, my lord?” Wigglesworth asked as he ripped through the contents of one of the many pieces of luggage the baron required for an overnight stay on the road, at last coming out with a fresh white cloth and a tin of boot black. “And what is it I would have been saying?”

“Merde, Wigglesworth. You have been almost constantly parroting the word merde all the morning long.”

Wigglesworth dropped a small rug fashioned just for the purpose in front of his lordship’s chair before carefully placing his mauve satin-clad knee to it and motioning for his lordship to, if he pleased, lift the leg currently bearing the offending footwear.

“Yes, I have, haven’t I? Frenchmen are by nature a filthy people, but their language is quite melodious, don’t you think? So much better to say merde than mercy, which sounds so…plebian.”

Justin allowed his good angel and his naughty angel a few moments of debate before deciding he should be a better man. “Merde is not French for mercy, Wigglesworth. It is, in point of fact—and forgive my blushes—the word employed most often by the French in referring to…excrement.”

Wigglesworth, who prided himself on having risen from the depths of being put out as a chimney sweep in Piccadilly forty years previously to the heights of caring for arguably the most exquisite gentleman in this or any realm, looked up at the baron with tears in his eyes. “I am devastated, my lord. Ashamed. Aghast. Humiliated.”

“Yes, I should think you would be. Shall I give you the sack?” Justin asked him as Wigglesworth applied boot black and began rubbing an invisible mar with everything that was in his pitifully thin body.

“If it would be your wish, my lord.”

Damn. It was difficult to joke with Wigglesworth. The man was much too committed, too serious. “No, I shan’t dismiss you. After all, if you left you’d probably take Brutus with you. I would miss his conversation.”

“Brutus doesn’t speak, my lord,” the literal-minded Wigglesworth pointed out as he gave one last swipe at the boot and stood up once more.

“Precisely. Which puts him head and shoulders above most people. He can be counted on to never say anything boring. Ah, much better, thank you. I shall now not be ashamed to show myself in public.” He looked toward the window once more, and frowned to see a new flag blowing in the breeze. “Wigglesworth, it would seem the lady’s ship has just dropped anchor. Promise me you will not flee screaming from the docks if she should not be all you believe necessary in my wife.”

“I will do my utmost to contain myself,” the valet promised. “It remains to be known what you will do, my lord.”

Justin accepted his hat from the valet and headed for the door. “Prinny took refuge in cherry brandy, as I’ve heard it told, when he first espied his affianced bride. I think I’d rather face my potential demon fully sober. Although, if our worst fears are confirmed, I suppose a blindfold as I enter the bedchamber for the first time wouldn’t come amiss.”

“We shall hope for the best, then, my lord. It’s important that she’s presentable, if she is to bear our name, if you are to have her hand on your arm as you go about Society. Pleasing to the eye.”

Justin hesitated at the door, and Wigglesworth ran forward to throw it open. “Physical beauty is over-rated, you know. As long as she is passably intelligent and well-spoken, and does not eat little children or frighten the horses, I believe we’ll term the thing a success. Not that we have a choice. We must also remember that this marriage is not the lady’s fault. Why, she may take me in complete dislike.”

“Never, my lord,” Wigglesworth said, bristling. “She is the most fortunate of women.”

“Oh, hardly that. I fear I am not an easy man.”

“You are a very good man, my lord,” the valet said, following the baron into the hallway.

“Why, Wigglesworth, I don’t believe, in our nearly half-dozen years of acquaintance, you have ever before so insulted me.”

Brutus, stepping out from the shadows to make one of his own with his considerable height and breadth, made that snuffling noise that passed for laughter, anger, bemusement and most any other emotion, and fell into step behind them before taking the lead once they were on the street in front of the inn.

Brutus never touched another human as they made their way to the docks. There was nary a shove, a push. But, as was always the case, the bustling tradesmen and loitering sailors and importuning streetwalkers all melted away in front of him, clearing a wide path for his employer and his employer’s valet to follow. Brutus, Justin often thought, was more effective in parting the crowds than a fanfare of trumpets.

The whispers followed, too: Who is that fine set-up Lunnon gentleman? He must be very important. Did you see the cut of his jacket? Coo, ain’t he grand? I’d let him tup me for free, no lie! And look at the little fellow, all dressed up like a Christmas pudding. Let’s follow, see what he’s up to….

Justin liked to think of this recurring phenomenon as hiding in plain sight, a ploy that had worked well in his years of service to the Crown. Or, as someone once said (on quite a different subject, but no matter), there are none so blind as those who will not see. Why sneak in and out of cities under the cover of darkness? Why skulk about in alleyways if there are well-lighted streets to be had? And who suspects someone so determinedly visible of any skullduggery, when it is so much easier to write him off as a fool, a fop, a man concerned only with his own consequence and the tailoring of his waistcoat?

Who? Not the trail of dead men he had left behind him over the course of those years and in a half-dozen countries, that much was certain.

Justin had wearied of the game long before the war, and the necessity for it, was over. But he had held on to the facade, one he felt he needed now more than ever. If people, and most especially his few real friends, could be allowed to see past the silliness, the banter, the supposed fascination for show and fashion, they might be able to glimpse the darkness inside of him, the assassin he had been, the deeds he had done…the mistakes he had made. The one most terrible, unforgivable mistake he had made.

He was alone now, for the most part. Letting anyone in, truly in, was no longer in the realm of his possibilities. That’s probably why he had so easily brought himself around to the idea of marrying at the Prince Regent’s request. Better a stranger than someone he might care for. Better someone who had no interest in really knowing him, someone he had no interest in cultivating. An ancient title, a fine estate, a generous allowance, a blind eye turned to any discreet romantic peccadilloes once the heir was assured and an entrée into Society at the highest level. These were more than sufficient for any wife.

Bringing his mind back to attention, he realized that Brutus had halted at last, halfway along the dock, and stepped aside to give a clear view of the ship and those now in the process of disembarking down a— Was that a red carpet rolled out over the gangplank and onto the dock? By God, it was. And there were ribbons tied to the rope railings. With streamers.

Justin, Wigglesworth, Brutus and the crowd that had followed after them all watched as a full squad of hulking guardsmen in dress uniforms, peaked metal helmets and carrying long, lethal-looking halberds made their way down the gangplank to stand at attention on either side of it for the length of the crimson carpet.

The crowd craned its collective neck when the parade of soldiers came to an end, waiting to see who next might descend.

First came two no-longer-young women, similarly dressed in not quite the first stare, but more in the sedate look of paid companions. They took their place at either side of the carpet directly in front of the gangplank.

Next to disembark was a tall man, probably halfway into his thirties, although with those huge mustachios and sideburns favored in Francis’s court it was difficult to know for certain. The man was also in uniform, the amount of braid and the size of his helmet denoting his elevated rank. His alert blue eyes seemed to be everywhere at once as he surveyed the crowd, before his intense gaze met, and held, Justin’s.

“My, my, my, Wigglesworth, there’s a specimen for you. Should I be cowering, do you think?”

Deftly flipping one side of his short, gold-braid-befrogged cape over his shoulder, and with a hand holding the sword hilt steady at his waist, the man headed sure-footedly toward Justin, removing the ceremonial helmet as he did. “Baron Wilde?”

Justin acknowledged the correctness of the question with a very slight inclination of his head.

“Very good, my lord. We were told you had been warned to be prompt. I am Major Luka Prochazka, emissary of His Highness Francis of Austria, I. Fernec, Apostolic King of Hungary, Franjo the Second, King of—”

“Yes, thank you, Major Prochazka, I am aware of the titles and their implications, as well as my geography.” Stifling a yawn, covering his mouth with a lace-edged silken square he extracted from his sleeve cuff, Justin allowed his heavily lidded eyes to glide along the view of armed soldiers. “Tell me, and I make this inquiry only out of idle curiosity, Major, are you by any chance expecting an imminent assault? Should I be sending Wigglesworth here hot-footing back to my coach to procure my sword?”

The major’s neatly manicured yet hairy face reassembled itself into a bit of a scowl. He stepped closer, speaking softly yet forcefully. “You were not informed? I was told you would be informed, and respond accordingly. Her ladyship is in some danger. Where is your contingent of guards?”

Lord save him from serious men. Justin indicated Brutus with a languid wave of his handkerchief. “Behold. My army.” He turned his head to reassure Wigglesworth. “No offense, my friend. You possess your own unique talents.”

The major clearly was not pleased. “One man? You bring one man to protect your betrothed?”

“One very large man, you’ll agree,” Justin drawled. “There is also myself.”

Luka Prochazka’s lip curled as he ran his gaze up and down Justin’s fashionably dressed form. Or at least the baron thought the man’s lip curled; again, with those elaborate mustachios, it was impossible to say for certain. “You leave me no choice but to ignore my orders to dismiss the guard once her ladyship has been passed into your protection. They will accompany us to London.”

“Oh, hardly, sir. A contingent of foreign soldiers, armed and appearing quite lethal, parading about the English countryside? Many would consider such a thing an act of war. That cannot possibly have been your king’s intent.”

“I will have her safe.”

“I will have her to wife,” Justin countered, a hint of steel creeping into his lowered voice, although the smile never left his face. “What is mine, I protect. Better that we were friends, Major. A fool judges by appearances only. You would not like me as your enemy.”

The major didn’t even blink. “I have heard stories…”

“No, Major. You haven’t. When it comes to Baron Wilde, should anyone dare to inquire, your knowledge of him resembles nothing more than it would a blank slate. Now, if this no-longer-amusing pissing contest has reached its limits, shall we see the lady we have surely kept waiting long enough?”

At last, Luka smiled. “On the contrary, my lord. It is the lady who keeps us waiting.”

“Cowering in her cabin, is she?”

“Hardly, my lord.”

“Justin. As I was informed you are to remain in England for the foreseeable future, we either become informal, Luka, or we kill one another.”

“Justin it is, then. I’ve killed enough men.”

They set off down the length of the dock, their heights similar, their long strides matching perfectly, yet looking as outwardly dissimilar as any two men could be. “That’s the spirit. Always believe you’ll be the winner, even when it is painfully obvious that the outcome will not be in your favor.”

“Oh? We’d duel with handkerchiefs?”

“Only if you fancy mine stuffed halfway down your gullet,” Justin quipped with a smile as he gave the handkerchief one last flourish before it disappeared up his sleeve.

As they approached the ridiculous red carpet, one of the two females turned toward the gangplank, hiked up her skirts and returned to the ship, only to reappear moments later, her eyes downcast as she once more took her place.

Justin halted at the edge of the carpet and removed his hat, his dark hair immediately being blown about in a rather stiff breeze coming off the Channel. Behind him, Wigglesworth sighed.

“I sense her ladyship enjoys making an entrance?”

“Lady Alina is her own person,” Luka said, and this time Justin knew the man was smiling beneath that great mass of mustache.

“Does it itch?” he asked impulsively.

Luka turned to look at him, a question in his eyes for a moment, before he nodded. “And acts as a poor strainer for my food, yes. But all officers are required to be so adorned. When this commission is successfully completed, I plan to resign from the army. Just so that I might shave the damn thing off.”

Justin threw back his head, laughing, feeling that he and this fierce-looking soldier would have no problems now that they had survived their initial introduction. But the smile faded abruptly as a small figure appeared at the head of the gangplank.

She was cloaked in emerald velvet from head to foot, the hood edged with ermine, ermine tails scattered here and there as decorative tassels. Interesting. Queen Elizabeth had favored ermine at her coronation, to symbolize her virginity.

Her ladyship was more than a smidge of a thing, but much less than a tall, stately figure. The hand that reached for the rope railing was ungloved, the fingers long and slender. The face, however, remained in shadow. Teasingly, tantalizingly.

Justin’s thoughts about his prospective wife, and they had been few and far between, if truth be told, had conjured up a meek and obedient woman who could give him an heir and then retire to her knitting while he went about his own pursuits. Now he felt his first stirrings of concern.

Her left hand lifted to the hood and drew it back, slowly at first, and then with a flourish, revealing a mass of shining black curls and a face that drew astonished and admiring gasps from the multitude of interested observers.

Every notion of feminine beauty Justin had ever considered paled into nothingness as Lady Magdaléna Evinka Nadeja Valentin raised her perfect, softly rounded chin and surveyed all the conquered who stood below her on the wooden dock.

Her skin was the finest cream, her brows like delicate ravens’ wings above enormous, tip-tilted eyes the color of old gold coins. The nose, regal, the mouth, wide and softly curving, the cheekbones, high, turning all of her beauty slightly yet wonderfully exotic.

In the suddenly quiet crowd, and without the slightest idea who this creature could be, several of the women curtsied, many men bowed or touched their forelocks. The lady acknowledged this homage with an infinitesimal nod of her head, accepting the gestures as her due.

“Merde,” Wigglesworth breathed, staggering where he stood, his eyes filling with tears of thanks and delight.

Luka’s voice seemed to come to Justin from a distance. “Lady Alina, my lord. Your affianced bride.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Justin murmured under his breath, “the impertinent chit has upstaged me.”

Worse, and for the first time in his memory, Baron Wilde realized that he might actually be experiencing some uneasiness—and a small modicum of anxiety for his own well-being.

CHAPTER TWO

HER HEART RACED SO RAPIDLY Alina feared it might stumble over itself and stop.

Tatiana moments earlier had whispered into her ear that the Baron Wilde was not an ancient ogre, but young, and a near-god, and that her ladyship had once more stuck her thumb into the pie only to emerge with a most glorious plum.

But that was the problem. Alina had not stuck her thumb into a pie. None of what had already happened had been at her desire or volition. His Majesty had stuck all of her into the pie, and she would have to find her own way out.

Except there was no way out. Luka had convinced her of that. Her mother dead these past three years, her father perishing at Waterloo, she’d had no one but her aunt Mimi to represent her wishes at court. Which was the same as to say she had no one to protect her, to fight for her, to convince His Majesty that his sometimes troublesome ward should not be sacrificed in some ridiculous gesture to help cement relations between her country and that of the greedy English.

Aunt Mimi had called the betrothal an honor, even as she could not hide her triumphant smile at the prospect of being rid of the now grown-up niece whose beauty was on the rise just as her own was teetering toward a slippery slide into middle age.

Once Alina had resigned herself to her fate, she had demanded only two things, one of which she received.

Her insistence on knowing everything there was to know about this Baron Wilde fell on deaf ears. She knew no more about the man today than she had two months previously, except for Tatiana’s silliness just now.

Her second demand had been not only met, but exceeded, as the ermine-adorned cloak well demonstrated. If she was to represent the court, the king, then she must be of the first stare, her wardrobe and retinue worthy of the emissary of His Majesty.

Gone were the childlike gowns her aunt had insisted she be limited to, replaced by only the finest silks, the most elegant designs, the most fashionable of accessories—including the full jewelry boxes that had once belonged to her mother but for the past years had somehow become the possessions of her aunt.

Alina had gifted the woman with the set of garnets and a pretty speech filled with gratitude for her loving care of her, and done so in the presence of the king, so that Mimi could not throw the nearly worthless stones back in her face.

Small victories, few and far between, but Alina took pleasure in them just the same.

She had been delighted to learn that Luka would accompany her, remain with her as long as deemed necessary, and that Tatiana had declared she would rather die than be left behind.

She had been flattered when Danica had been added to her retinue, as she had never before had her own dresser, but only shared her aunt’s. It was only proper that those closest to her be people with whom she could be comfortable, and not cold English strangers.

But the guardsmen? They had been a surprise to her.

Those guardsmen now stood at attention, clearly awaiting Alina’s descent to the dock. Very well, she had done as she’d planned; her first steps on the island of her mother’s birth would be taken with all the accompanying pomp and ceremony she could have wanted.

All she had to do now was face her betrothed, look into his eyes, allow him to take her offered hand, perform her necessary curtsy that indicated her subservience and willingness to obey.

And pray she did not throw up on his feet.

For the space of a full minute (she knew, because she had counted out the seconds in her head), Alina had cast her gaze about the dock without really seeing anything or anyone. But now she had no choice but to look to the bottom of the gangplank, where Luka and the “near-god” waited.

She drew in a quick, silent breath. This was her affianced husband? This tall, disturbingly beautiful man whose heavy-lidded green eyes smiled at her and mocked her all at the same time? She’d expected older, jaded, even a paunch and a cane. She’d prayed for amenable, stupid, easily led.

What in the name of the Virgin was she supposed to do with this?

The self-assured creature approached the gangplank, planting one gleaming black Hessian boot on it as if this somehow claimed not only her as his own, but this ship as well, and held out his hand to her, openly daring her to take it.

“Your servant, my lady,” he said, his eyes still mocking her. “On behalf of His Royal Highness, the Prince Regent, I, Baron Justin Wilde, your delighted betrothed, welcome you to the homeland of your mother. Her passing was England’s loss, yet her daughter is clearly England’s gain.”

Very prettily said, she supposed. It was only as she opened her mouth to parrot the words she had learned by rote that must be spoken on this occasion, that she realized the baron had addressed her in flawless German, now the official language of Austria.

Alina supposed he’d wish to be complimented on his expertise.