Chapter One

Grooms were not supposed to abandon their brides at altars, and nobody seemed less inclined to act ungallantly than the wondrous, utterly splendid, Lord Bertrand Braunschweig, Baron of Wolbert.

Veronique Daventry, stepsister to the Duke of Alfriston, checked again that her train fanned dramatically behind her. The silk thread embroidered on the dress sparkled under the candlelight.

Perfect.

The vicar cleared his throat in a somber manner. “Are you certain the groom is arriving, lassie?”

“He’ll be here,” Veronique said.

One didn’t write a woman that one intended to marry her and then not bother to make an appearance at the chapel.

The vicar did not display the appropriate degree of confidence at the words, despite the frequency of Veronique’s assertions.

Never mind. 

A lack of timeliness was not the worst quality in a man. What were mere minutes compared to an eternity of love? Her momentary discomfit at the vicar’s scrutiny would be more than worth it for the lifelong delight the baron would experience at glimpsing her for the first time.

Veronique had corresponded with Lord Braunschweig for two years, ever since he’d asked Mr. Simons for an introduction. No pleasure exceeded that of receiving a letter from him. She’d long memorized the exact sweep of his quill, the calligraphy often imperfect, as if he’d not been able to control his eagerness as he wrote her.

The wind swept through the cracked stained-glass windows, and the vicar placed a blanket over his legs.

Veronique’s neck was cold. As were her arms. The problem with sheer, shimmering gowns that clung to one’s body in an alluring fashion were that they were in no way designed for the frigid Scottish temperature.

Catholics had been correct to insist on high collars and strategically placed vestments. Perhaps Veronique should have researched the elopement policies in France or Italy rather than Scotland.

No matter. 

Maybe the man was lost. He was Austrian. He could be forgiven for being befuddled by the novel landscape of the Highlands. The poor baron must be beside himself with agony.

The vicar coughed, the noise amplified by the chapel’s acoustics. “When you wrote me to say you desired a wedding, I imagined you’d be bringing more people to witness the event than your maid.”

“She is a good maid.”

“Most women bring their family to such occasions, lassie. Surely you must be in possession of a single acquaintance?”

She thought of her family, settled in Lord Rockport’s parlor, blissfully unaware she was marrying a few yards away. Likely they were sipping tea and debating the merits of haggis.

She wanted her first meeting with her future husband to be alone, and not in the presence of her loud-mouthed relations. “Their company is not required.”

The vicar scrutinized her. “Your accent is foreign.”

She shivered, but steeled her features. She refused to succumb to the faint doubt that threatened to appear whenever people examined her skin tone too closely, no matter how smugly their lips turned up when they decided they had an advantage over her.

She would not allow this man, charged with ministering a small population in a remote mountainous village, to think himself superior to her. Tens of thousands of women adored her work.

“Your letters arrived from the former colonies,” the vicar continued, but it was more of a question than a statement, and she turned away.

The outline of Diomhair Caisteal, a grandiose compilation of steep walls and narrow turrets, loomed through the few window panes not graced with stained glass. Her stepsister, Louisa, had recently wed Lady Rockport’s brother, and her stepmother had become so overcome with emotion, that she’d succumbed to Veronique’s pleas to accompany her family to the British Isles.

She smiled. They’d be so delighted when she presented her new husband to them.

Her stepmother frequently lamented the challenge of finding Veronique a fiancé, and she’d long dreamed of surprising them with a husband. Her skin tone might be unconventional, but that wouldn’t stop her from romance.

The vicar continued to direct a disapproving look in her direction, but she refused to yield to any unfounded misgivings he might have.

Veronique addressed her maid. “Please search for the baron in the village.”

“Very well, miss.” The girl dipped into a curtsy.

“Tell him to hurry.” Veronique glanced again at the vicar who stood near the candelabras, as if hopeful for warmth.

“The chapel is on a hill,” the vicar said sternly. “It would be highly unlikely for the man to miss it. If he were to overlook so commanding and elegant a structure as this chapel, it might signify greater troubles in your marriage.”

Veronique frowned. Her stepbrother was a duke, she was engaged to a baron, but more than that, she was wealthy and esteemed. Most people had heard of her, even if they were unfamiliar with her Christian name, and she summoned her most regal mannerism. “Is patience no longer a virtue to be lauded?”

“Well—” The man’s face reddened, perhaps aided by a habit of sipping whisky and wine.

She shrugged.

The baron would arrive.

He needs to.

A hopeless romantic...
Veronique Daventry absolutely believes in true love. When the baron she's corresponded with for years over long distance suggests they elope in Scotland, she eagerly assents. Perhaps she's never met him, but she's certain their souls are meant to be joined for eternity.

A notorious rogue...
Lord Miles Worthing is surprised when he is ushered to a chapel on a visit to Scotland and finds a beautiful woman. His happiness halts when her family discovers them in a compromising position.

A mistaken identity...
Veronique is devastated to have mistaken this stranger for her fiancé. She needs to find the correct baron at once, but the only person who can help her is Lord Worthing.

USA TODAY Bestselling Author Bianca Blythe has written over twenty fun and frothy Regency-set historical romances, filled with wallflowers, spinsters, dukes, and rogues. On occasion, she also writes historical mysteries under the name Camilla Blythe.

Born in Texas, Bianca earned her bachelor's degree from Wellesley College and completed a graduate degree in her beloved Boston. She spent four years in England, working in a fifteenth-century castle. Sadly she never spotted dukes and earls strutting about in Hessians.

Bianca credits British weather for forcing her into a library, where she discovered her first Julia Quinn novel. She remains deeply grateful for blustery downpours. 

After meeting her husband in another library, she moved with him to sunny California. On occasion she still dreams of the English seaside, scones with clotted cream, and sheep-filled pastures. For now, she visits them in her books.