Miss Pymbroke's Rules

by Rosemary Stevens

  Instead, passing him the cup with every evidence of martyred civility, it was she who almost received a drenching when Carrisworth sat forward abruptly and clasped her hand.

  Startled, Verity’s gaze flew to his face. The marquess adroitly removed the cup from her nerveless fingers, placing it aside and holding her hand firmly. He spared but a glance at the two older ladies, assuring himself they were busy examining Miss Woolcott’s knitting, before raising a handkerchief to one of Verity’s fingers.

  “You must have pricked yourself on a thorn, Miss Pymbroke,” he whispered.

  Struck speechless, Verity watched in fascination as he wiped at a smear of blood on her index finger. Appalled at the intimacy of his action, she tried to tug her hand away, but he held fast. “Let go of me at once, sir,” she commanded, keeping her voice low.

  His lordship did not oblige her. Instead, before she knew what he was about, he lowered his dark head to mere inches above her hand. She could feel a whisper of warm breath against her wounded finger. A tingling sensation ran through her while at the same time her stunned brain cried out in protest of his disgraceful behavior. He would not dare kiss her ungloved hand as he had Woolsey’s!

  As if reading her thoughts, the marquess met her gaze, and again Verity saw the teasing twinkle in his green eyes before his lordship slowly, reluctantly released her hand.

  Lady Iris loudly cleared her throat.

  In the wink of an eye, the Marquess of Carrisworth was sitting at his leisure, drinking his tea, as if he had not just made advances to a young lady of virtue in her own home.

  “Have you explained to Verity why we have come this morning, Carrisworth?” Lady Iris asked.

  The marquess placed his empty teacup on the table. “Yes, and I’m happy to report Miss Pymbroke has been all that is kind. She took pity on me when I told her my townhouse burned down last night.”

  Struggling to retain her equanimity, Verity listened to him with increasing disbelief.

  Leaning back in his seat, the marquess smiled on the company and continued, “Being able to lease a suitable house from a gracious lady has made me feel the luckiest of gentlemen. All that we have left to decide is when I may move in.” He turned to her, a look of unholy glee on his handsome face.

  Still feeling the heat in her cheeks from the marquess’s bold conduct with her hand, Verity felt a fresh rush of indignation at his latest piece of impudence. Lease him her house? She might as well rent the premises out to a group of Cyprians! Insufferable man, how dare he say she had agreed to such a scheme?

  She opened her mouth to protest, but Miss Woolcott asked bemusedly, “What can this mean?”

  Lady Iris hastily explained the plan to lease Verity’s townhouse for the Season while Verity lived next door, ending with, “And, Miss Woolcott, you may at long last return to the country.”

  Miss Woolcott’s knitting fell to the floor when she lurched from her chair to embrace Verity. “Oh, my girl, thank you! I know you will be as happy with the Ladies Iris and Hyacinth as I shall be with my widowed brother back in my dear village with its marvelous sheep and cows.”

  Verity returned the woman’s hug while the marquess politely gathered the fallen knitting. Miss Woolcott thanked him and flew from the room declaring she must begin packing.

  “How neatly this has fallen into place,” Lady Iris said and beamed at the young people.

  “Indeed,” Verity responded crossly, feeling as if she had been manipulated and was now trapped in an odious coil. Her conscience would not allow her to disappoint Woolsey. And, because rudeness was foreign to her nature, she shrank from insulting Lady Iris, who had been so kind since Mama’s passing last year, by denying the lady’s relation occupancy of a house she had previously agreed to lease.

  It was entirely his fault, Verity decided, glaring at the marquess. He must know she would not want to lease the house to a rackety sort such as him. But, then, he would hardly spare a thought for her feelings, she reflected. Rakes never concerned themselves with the sensibilities of others. Her father certainly had not cared for his wife’s or either of his daughters’ feelings when he had run off with an actress.

  The butler entered. “Mr. Cecil Sedgewick has called, miss. Shall I show him in here?”

  Lady Iris moaned. “Must we?”

  “Of course,” Verity replied, frowning at Lady Iris. Turning to the waiting servant, she said, “Yes, Digby, and please bring fresh tea.”

  The butler bowed and left the room.

  The marquess rose to his feet, a glint of humor in his eyes. “I shan’t keep you from your guest, Miss Pymbroke. Would three days be sufficient time for your removal next door? I would like to occupy the house by the end of the week.”

  Verity wished she might turn up her nose and send him away with a flea in his ear. However, since her finances were past praying for, such emotions would have to be kept in check. She must make it clear, though, that he follow certain rules if he were to live in her home.

  Rising to her feet, she threw back her head in a martyred way and said, “Yes, three days will do, my lord, but we have the rules of your tenancy to discuss.”

  He waved a careless hand at her. “Rules? Miss Pymbroke, I rarely concern myself with such trivialities. My man of business will call upon you tomorrow and settle whatever sum you require for the arrangement.”

  Verity stood aghast at these proclamations.

  Lady Iris struggled to her feet with the aid of her cane. Adjusting her high white wig she declared, “Good. Everything is decided.”

  In an aside Verity missed, Lady Iris added to the marquess, “Let us lake our leave before I am forced into the company of that moralizing prig, Sedgewick.”

  Verity faced her soon-to-be tenant. “I was not speaking of money, Lord Carrisworth. What of the servants? Will you be bringing your own and thus turning mine out into the streets? If so, I take leave to remind you how difficult it is for servants to find a place.”

  The marquess raised a brow and gazed at her speculatively. “How unusual you are, in that you should consider the fate of mere servants. But, you need not bristle up that way. I have sent my servants to the country and have no intention of displacing yours.”

  Verity breathed a sigh of relief. “Very well. Now, the other matters to consider—”

  At that moment, Digby opened the door to reveal a slight, thin man in his middle twenties dressed in black. His sandy-colored hair was noticeably thin on top, and he peered out at the world from behind a pair of spectacles that magnified his pale blue eyes. In his hands, he carried a sheaf of pamphlets.

  He looked at the gathering with an air of perplexity. “Good day to you, Lady Iris. Miss Pymbroke, I hope I have not called at an inopportune time?”

  Smiling sweetly at him, Verity hastily introduced Mr. Sedgewick to his lordship, noting with indignation how the marquess merely gave a fleeting nod at the aspiring cleric.

  For his part, Mr. Sedgewick bowed and turned beet red upon hearing the marquess’s name.

  Lady Iris begged leave to be excused, but Carrisworth lingered. He gazed down at Verity as his hand reached for hers. In a voice full of meaning, he murmured, “I shall be next door should you require assistance of any kind.”

  Verity’s large brown eyes sparkled with anger.

  Mr. Sedgewick coughed and turned away.

  Carrisworth’s thumb gently moved in circles across the back of Verity’s hand, sending a rush of warmth up her arm. She pretended not to feel anything, positive this was another of his rakish accomplishments, and with what she thought was a brilliant air of unconcern, removed her hand from his and dropped him the briefest of curtsies.

  He chuckled, startling her. “You know, Miss Pymbroke, when you purse your delectable lips that way, I find myself hard pressed to refrain from kissing them.”

  Wisely, he strolled from the room before Verity could form a response. She found she had been holding her breath and now released it in a long sigh. She stood for a moment, hold
ing her hands to her warm cheeks. To one used to being in total command of her emotions at every moment, it was disturbing to find her feelings swung back and forth like a pendulum by none other than a careless pleasure-seeker. She resolved not to let him affect her so in the future. After all, toying with her feelings was but the merest game to him.

  Mr. Sedgewick moved toward her from where he had retreated by the window and eyed her sternly. “Miss Pymbroke, I cannot imagine why a lady of your good sense would allow London’s premier rake to cross her doorstep.”

  “London’s premier rake? As bad as that?” Verity asked faintly, motioning the gentleman to a chair near the tea table. When they were seated and Mr. Sedgewick, was fortified with a cup of tea, she continued. “I judged his character at once, of course. But, he is a relation of Lady Iris, and as such I could not but treat him courteously.”

  “I daresay many noble families have a black sheep,” Mr. Sedgewick ventured. “It is most unlike Lady Iris, though, to foist unwanted company on you.” His pale, magnified eyes peered curiously over his teacup at Verity. “You appear agitated, Miss Pymbroke. Was there a purpose to his lordship’s unpleasant visit?”

  Verity quelled the notion that Cecil Sedgewick was like a ferret when it came to gossip. It was simply, she told herself, because of his desire to serve people that he concerned himself with their troubles. And she had landed herself in a muddle, agreeing to let her house to Lord Carrisworth. Not that she had precisely agreed. The sneaksby had tricked her into capitulating.

  Placing her teacup carefully on the table, Verity folded her hands in her lap. She spoke with a quiet dignity that belied the emotional turmoil inside her that the marquess had caused. “I find myself in circumstances that require me to practice economy. The Ladies Iris and Hyacinth have opened their home to me, and I shall be renting out my house for the Season. Lady Iris brought his lordship here as he requires temporary lodging, and we reached an agreement. I shall remove next door presently.”

  Verity watched the growing astonishment on Mr. Sedgewick’s face as she imparted this news. She wondered briefly if he would be brought up to scratch by the knowledge that she had been reduced to leaving her home to gain an income, but this hope of a matrimonial proposal was quickly dashed.

  “By all that is holy, Miss Pymbroke, could you not have dissuaded him? Why, every feeling must be offended by a man of Carrisworth’s reputation calling on you, no less to move in bag and baggage. Surely a respectable family would be more desirable tenants.” Mr. Sedgewick’s complexion had taken on a purplish hue, and he produced a handkerchief with which to mop his damp brow.

  Though Verity’s feelings on the matter ran in perfect harmony with Mr. Sedgewick’s, she felt her temper rise. If he was so appalled by the plan, why not suggest an alternative? Why not offer her marriage?

  None of these ruminations showed on her ivory countenance. Patiently, she explained, “As I have told you, his lordship is related to Lady Iris. It was my duty to aid him. He is the victim of a fire, after all, and one must be charitable.”

  “A ... a victim?” Mr. Sedgewick blustered. Then, his tone changed to one suitable for addressing a small child. “Miss Pymbroke, you are too good, too virtuous to realize that Lord Carrisworth’s misfortune is the result of his own folly. The fire occurred during one of his parties, one of his sinful parties. It was in the Times this morning,” he concluded with relish.

  Verity’s mind reeled from this latest proof of his lordship’s rakish ways. “Oh! How very like one such as he, I imagine. But I fear there is naught I can do at this point save keep my distance from the marquess as much as possible. And that you may be sure I shall do, Mr. Sedgewick.”

  Though he tsk-tsked loud and long, Mr. Sedgewick seemed appeased by this statement. The remainder of their time together was spent going over the pamphlets he’d had printed for her special cause, and the two parted much in charity with each other.

  After the distressing events of the morning, Verity perceived she would have to lie down upon her bed for an hour, so she might revive her spirits enough to undertake the task she had set for herself later that afternoon in Drury Lane. But after some fifteen frustrating minutes had passed, spent tossing and turning while the Marquess of Carrisworth’s handsome features remained imprinted behind her closed eyes, Verity rang for a cold luncheon and prepared for her outing.

  * * * *

  Lounging at his ease backstage at Drury Lane’s Theatre Royal, Lord Carrisworth, restored to his usual elegance in Weston’s finest blue superfine, allowed his former mistress, Roxanna Hollings, to massage his temples.

  He had come to the theater to visit Monique and Dominique and interrupted a rehearsal. The stage manager had grudgingly allowed the company a respite, especially as it wouldn’t do for him to antagonize a member of the nobility when he was trying to establish his newly rebuilt theater against the heavy competition of Covent Garden.

  The twins had chattered away at Carrisworth until called by their dresser. As if on cue, Roxanna had swept to his side, her raven hair hanging loose to her waist.

  The marquess was not suffering from the headache. But Roxanna, after hearing of the fire, had exclaimed he must be and offered one of her massages. As he was never one to turn away pleasure, Carrisworth let her perform her ministrations.

  Rather than standing behind his chair for this benevolent service, Roxanna leaned forward in front of the marquess so he might enjoy a perfect view of her luscious breasts, which rose tantalizingly from the bodice of a revealing crimson-colored gown.

  “How does this feel, my darling Perry?” Roxanna cooed.

  “Mmm ... wonderful. You always have been artful with your hands,” he replied with a grin.

  Roxanna lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “Perhaps you are chastising yourself for casting me aside in favor of those two French trollops. I shall not hold it against you, my love. It was a mere whim on your part to shock and scandalize Society. Now that those print shop caricatures are all over Town, your purpose is served, and we may be comfortable again. Why not come to my

  house tonight after the performance? I have obtained some new scented oils....”

  The marquess fixed his gaze on her sapphire blue eyes. Roxanna Hollings was one of those females who always managed to project an air about her that bespoke a woman who favored a state of undress. Indeed, he’d spent many pleasant evenings with her that bore testimony to his theory.

  When he’d first decided to rescue Monique and Dominique from Lord Armstrong and Lord Davenport, he’d sent a magnificent diamond necklace to Roxanna to signal the end of their three-month relationship. Since then, he had frequented a certain house whose madam, a Mrs. Dantry, could always be counted on to provide him with a beauty that would eagerly satisfy his physical needs.

  He raised a dark eyebrow at Roxanna. “My dear, what would Rupert say of such behavior?”

  Her pink lips formed a pout at the mention of her new protector. She dropped her hands to her sides and straightened. “I don’t care two straws for Rupert’s opinion. You know that. In fact, you and I know each other very well, do we not, Perry?” She ran her hand down his lordship’s muscular thigh.

  The fact that she did know him so well was the problem, in the marquess’s estimation. However tempted he might have been by her offer, he drew back at her astute judgment of at least part of his motivation when it came to the twins. He reveled in his reputation as a dissolute rake. It kept people at a comfortable distance.

  And Roxanna had seen the truth.

  He rose to his feet and, regretfully, ran a finger across the top of her white breasts. “As much as it pains me to refuse you, I have no wish to meet Rupert across a set of dueling pistols.”

  Dropping his hand, he turned toward the doorway, missing the look of cold fury that passed over his former mistress’s face.

  Across the hallway in the Green Room an altercation seemed to be in progress. The marquess strolled to the entrance of the room and stopped short
at the sight that met his eyes.

  Clad in a Quakerish black wool gown, Miss Verity Pymbroke spoke earnestly to a small group of young actresses who were vehemently disagreeing with her. Each held a pamphlet in her hand like the one his soon-to-be landlady was reading from. By squinting his eyes the marquess could make out the title. Evils of the Stage.

  His lips twisted in amusement.

  “Not again!” Roxanna snapped, appearing at his elbow. “How monstrously boring. The girls and I have taken to calling that moralizing Methodist, Miss Primbroke.”

  The marquess made no comment to this witticism. Focusing his attention on Verity’s huge pansy-brown eyes, her sweet countenance, and the lovely glint of gold in her brown hair, he decided she possessed an innocent appeal refreshing to his jaded gaze. As to the lady’s personality, Carrisworth believed his initial vision of her as angelic had proven prophetic.

  Studying her sincere expression, he realized Miss Pymbroke cared deeply about the subject she was expounding on. He wondered what could have caused her to feel it was her mission to try to reform actresses. Experience told him most of the women on the stage loved the life and basked in the attention given them. True, after a certain age many could no longer find protectors, but the wiser ones planned for this eventuality.

  Miss Pymbroke lectured on, oblivious to his presence. “Young women are lured from their homes by the promise of fame and money, when the reality is that vulgar gentlemen use them for their own immoral pleasures—” She broke off here, her face flushed with embarrassment at the delicate nature of her words.

  “Tell us about those pleasures, fair lady,” a masculine voice taunted.

  Carrisworth swung his gaze to the gentleman who was slowly making his way toward Miss Pymbroke. The man’s red hair was cut in a fashionable Brutus crop, but because of its wiry nature, it looked more like a red squirrel’s fur. That hair made him easily recognizable as James, Lord Davies. He emulated the Dandy set. His shirt points were ridiculously high, and the bright salmon color of his coat clashed violently with his hair.