How to Wed a Baron by Kasey Michaels Page A

shouting were over—asked her ladyship to pleasespit on the corner of yet another linen square, so that the servant could wipe some of the dirt off her ladyship’s cheeks.
    But then I might allow him to kiss me again…

CHAPTER FIVE
    J USTIN W ILDE ARRIVED at Carleton House just after midnight, clad in his usual impeccable evening clothes and looking fresher—and smelling better—than most of the other guests of His Royal Majesty, the Prince Regent.
    His appearance in the midst of the haut ton was a surprise, and presented a dilemma to everyone else present. Did they pretend not to see him? Did they nod as he passed—after all, he would not have gained entry without an invitation from the Prince Regent. Did they dare to approach him, clap him on the back, behave as if they were delighted to see him again, after dealing him the cut direct only a few months earlier, when he’d first returned to London? So much of society was in knowing whom to speak to and whom to avoid.
    But he did look dashing, his well-remembered handsome, impeccable self. All that fashionably styled dark hair above those oddly unreadable green eyes. The way his black evening clothes fit his exemplary body. His snowy-white neckcloth alwaysabove reproach, tied in an intricate style of his own design, one that had never been successfully copied. That insouciant walk, as if he saw nothing in the world he feared. Pockets so deep his wealth seemed to have no measure at all. He was a true rara avis in all respects, the compleat, set-up gentleman. And hadn’t he always had a smile for everyone, a joke for the men, a compliment for the ladies?
    Yes, Baron Wilde was a bit of all right, really. Perfect in so many ways. Shame about him in that duel over his slut of a wife, firing early like that and shooting poor what-was-his-name in the back. Bloody coward…
    No one could possibly imagine that the subject of their mingled awe, envy and repulsion had just spent the better part of two days in the saddle, or that he was harboring thoughts of committing dire physical mayhem on the body attached to the pudgy, beringed fingers he was now bowing over with such grace.
    But, then, that had always been Justin’s way. His smile belonged to everyone; his thoughts were his own.
    During his first years in town, he had been sought after, admired, hugely popular with not only the ladies but their mamas, and welcomed by other gentlemen to be one of any party or sporting event. Because he was pretty and mannerly. Because he was entertaining. Because he genuinely enjoyed life.
    Before.
    Before, in his shallow and trivial youth, he’d married Sheila Broughton after being dazzled by her pretty face, and the way, frankly, they seemed to turn all heads whenever they entered a room together. She had fit him well, rather like his perfectly tailored waistcoats.
    Better he should have married his tailor….
    He’d never loved her. After the first few months of their marriage, he hadn’t liked her, either, any more than she had liked him. He’d married her fine good looks, and she’d pledged herself to his title and deep pockets.
    Still, they could have stumbled along, together yet not together, for several dozen years. Many did.
    It was Sheila’s lack of discretion that had brought both of them down, and taken Justin to that dew-covered lawn where his damned unerring aim had put a period to both Robbie Farber’s existence and his own frivolous life as he had known it.
    Eight years. Eight long years spent exiled from his country, his estates. Eight interminable years of doing whatever was asked of him, in the hope of gaining a pardon that would reunite him with his homeland and keep his neck out of a noose.
    He’d returned to Mayfair only a few months ago, to learn that memories in the ton were longer than hewould have imagined. There had been no welcome from anyone save Tanner Blake, Duke of Malvern, and Rafe Daughtry,