Kasey Michaels - How to Wed a Baron

Justin was beginning to see more of the spider-web. He kept his tone conversational, even as he felt the slumbering beast inside him straining at its leash. “A king with many problems, your Francis. If Lady Alina is murdered, he must make a show of investigating her death, because she is his ward and because otherwise the Romany will make things difficult for him. To arrest or kill Novak would bring him trouble from factions loyal to the Inhaber. How much more convenient to have it all play out far away in England. Francis didn’t apply to his ally the Prince Regent for a bridegroom. He applied to him for an assassin, and dear Prinny knew just the man to approach, a man who couldn’t refuse. The moment I wed the fair lady what was hers is mine, and there will be a target painted on my back, so that it will be kill or be killed.”

Luka had the good grace to blush, which probably served to save him, or at least preserve his teeth and jaw so that he could chew his bread and cheese.

Justin pressed him further. “And Lady Alina, she of the ermine-tipped cloak and plans to take London by storm? Does it matter to any of them what happens to her?”

“But you’ll keep her safe.”

“That is not your concern, Major. You concern, and that of our two plotting sovereigns, is better directed at what I will do to you all if Lady Alina so much as stubs her toe before I can find some way out of this damned farce. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I will pay my betrothed a small visit before she turns in for the night.”

Luka leapt to his feet. “You’re not going to tell her anything, are you?”

Justin looked at the major without saying a word until the man had the good sense to subside back into his chair. “Don’t do that again, Major. Question me. And never stand against me unless you’re willing to suffer the consequences. Are we clear?”

The major nodded.

“Oh, how wonderful,” Justin drawled affably, smiling as if nothing had happened, as if there had been no threat of violence. “Now we can cry friends again, understanding each other so much better. Why, I might even be persuaded to convince Wigglesworth to give you a few pointers on how to tie your cravat so it less resembles a noose. Good night, Major.”

Justin walked out of the room in his usual, unhurried stroll, softly closing the door behind him. It was only when he got as far as the narrow hallway leading to the stairs that he pressed his palms against the sides of his neck and pushed hard, forcing his breathing and his heartbeat back into their usual rhythms.

He was angry that he had allowed any of this to happen to him. Unworried that he would not succeed in ridding Alina of any threat from the Inhaber Novak.

But damned if he could understand how he, a man who prided himself on his lack of emotional involvement with the rest of the world, could have suddenly become so intensely concerned for the welfare of one small female.

I don’t recall granting it permission to sit down.

At last he smiled with real amusement…and not a little bemusement. Yes, that was it. From the moment she’d uttered those words, he had become as wax in her hands.

God help him….

ALINA SAT CROSS-LEGGED in the middle of the hard tester bed, her sketchbook across her knees. She’d been so certain the baron would come knocking on her door to inquire as to why she had refused to join him downstairs for dinner. But when the clock had struck the hour of nine, she had at last given up on her fetching outfit of palest lilac silk in favor of a comfortable night rail she’d worn to the brink of shabbiness.

She only wished she hadn’t used the excuse that she wasn’t hungry in order to avoid him, for now her stomach had begun grumbling at her, pointing out that, if she was going to lie, she should first consider the consequences. Citing a headache from the excitement of seeing England for the first time? That would have been much better.

Except that the baron might have interpreted that as excitement upon seeing him for the first time.

That eventuality was not to be contemplated. The man was already entirely too pleased with himself just on general principles—that was obvious.

“And much too intelligent for my own good,” she muttered, her charcoal stick moving rapidly as she colored in the man’s hair, which was nearly as dark as her own. His skin was darker than hers; he was clearly a man who spent considerable time in the sun—she’d noticed as much when he’d taken her hand in his and bowed over her fingertips. He had hard hands, strong and even slightly callused, which had surprised her, for he certainly dressed (and behaved!) as a man who never so much as brushed his own hair without assistance.

She could still close her eyes and see her pale skin against his darker tones, her fragile bones no match for his strength if he were to squeeze her fingers between his. And she most certainly could still see those laughing, mocking green eyes.

He really did upset her sense of being up to any challenges her new circumstances could toss at her. She’d been so sure of her plans, back in the safety of her own bedchamber. And all it had taken was one look, one too-intimate touch of this man’s flesh against hers, to knock all of her confident pins out from beneath her. Oh, yes, he was going to be trouble….

Just to think—if she had worn gloves, as Danica had told her was proper, she would still not know that her betrothed had such an unsettling effect on her. Why, she might have gone down to dinner, prattled on in some inane way, all unaware that Baron Justin Wilde was anything more than a pretty fellow with an impertinent mouth.

Now what was she supposed to do? If there existed a way to control him, she had to find it. Quickly.

Strange how she had not thought about the marriage itself as anything more than a minor inconvenience, a necessary detail. At first, she’d been too angry to do more than think about being bartered away by the king, being forced to leave her home. But once her aunt had explained that a marriage of mutual convenience was all she could look forward to in any event, thanks to her birth and station—and had pointed across the king’s drawing room to where Count Josef Eberharter stood picking at his yellowed teeth with a penknife and declared the man to be Alina’s only alternative—the idea of traveling to England, to the birthplace of her mother, had begun to seem a reasonable alternative.

Her mother had told so many stories about her homeland, and always with such a wistful look in her eyes. Now she, her mother’s daughter, would see all the glorious sights herself. First London, of course, as everyone with any sense wished to visit this great metropolis. But then she would travel to Kent, and to her mother’s childhood home. Wouldn’t they all be surprised and delighted to welcome the daughter of their beloved and lost Anne Louise?

She cocked her head to one side and contemplated the now-completed sketch. Had she captured the correct degree of astonishment in his lordship’s entirely too-wise eyes as he looked cross-eyed at the fat fish tail sticking out of his wide-open mouth?

“Oh, my lady,” Tatiana said, leaning across the mattress to goggle at the sketch. “That’s even better than the last one. Danica, come see.”

“Humph,” the older woman snorted, staying where she was, busying herself with laying out Alina’s freshly pressed traveling outfit for the morning, a lovely thing of midnight-blue and military gold frogging, and a shako hat that was made to tilt forward above the lady’s right eye just so. “Horns and a tail? I see nothing so amusing in poking fun at one’s betrothed. You should only be thanking the Virgin for his handsome face and body. He could have been sixty, and fat and filthy into the bargain.”