by Louise Allen
As she came out of the scrub on to the bare rock of the low headland a snort of amusement escaped her at the thought of loading a piano on to a small boat and then sailing it across the lake.
‘Something amuses you?’ Will arrived at her side.
Verity shot him a rapid sideways glance. His hair was dishevelled, the immaculate fine cloth of his shirt had several small rips and even more green stains and there was a scratch on one cheekbone.
Your Grace is beginning to look like a human being. It suits you.
‘I was thinking about the difficulty of transporting a pianoforte here.’
‘A string quartet would be simpler and would not require a tuner to ready the instrument once it was installed,’ he said, so seriously that for a moment she stared at him until she saw the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, the slight lift of his lips.
Goodness, there is that sense of humour again, ready to ambush me when I most dislike him.
At least he appeared to have accepted the change of subject, which was a relief, because if he apologised for kissing her one more time she was going to push him into the lake.
‘Shall we sit and review our options?’ He gestured to a smooth rock and Verity perched on the end. Will sat beside her, a good two feet away. ‘There are no sheets, no tablecloth, the mattress tick is grey and the blankets are brown—none of them will make a visible signal. I suggest that you stay in the hut where at least you are sheltered and there is food and I will build a fire here on the headland. If I keep it burning, someone will see the smoke eventually. When we are returned to land we can at least assure everyone that we were not together.’
‘Except up to this point, that is. Oh, and the slight matter of the fact that we kissed,’ Verity pointed out. ‘But if you can ignore that, I most certainly can.’ Liar.
‘I am concerned for your reputation,’ Will pointed out in tones that suggested a strong desire to snap.
‘Or yours?’ Verity enquired sweetly. ‘They used to call you Lord Appropriate, did they not? The pedestal on which you perch must be so lofty that there are probably small clouds around it. My reputation is merely a matter of the opinion of local society, where everyone knows me well. If I take a tumble off my own plinth it is a matter of hopping back on again once another local scandal distracts everyone—the quarrel between the Rector’s wife and Lady Foskett over the breeding of pugs, or Miss Hutchinson cheating at the Horticultural Society’s annual show, for example. Not that anyone need find out about this.
‘You, however, have the aura of your title to keep untarnished. Even if no one but your staff, your family and Papa and Mr Hoskins know, your self-esteem must be severely bruised.’
Silence. Verity hummed nonchalantly under her breath and waited for the explosion.
‘Earlier I was repressing an entirely improper desire to shake you until your teeth rattled,’ Will said. He sounded as though his teeth were clamped together. ‘For some demented reason I kissed you instead. At the moment I have no trouble at all deciding which impulse I wish to follow.’
‘Excellent.’ Verity turned her most charming smile on him.
‘You are doing it on purpose, aren’t you? Trying to anger me.’
‘That seems to puzzle you.’ Verity made herself more comfortable on the rock and tried not to worry that Papa was becoming agitated as the shadows lengthened. ‘I do not care if I am compromised and I do not want to marry you.’
‘In the absence of an available Prince of the Blood, single ladies appear to find the thought of marrying a duke irresistible.’
‘You flatter yourself.’
‘No, not at all,’ Will said, quite calmly. ‘I have no illusions that I am considered highly eligible for anything except my title. It would make no difference if I was one hundred years old, wildly eccentric, had two dozen irregular offspring and assorted unpleasant diseases. You saw them at church on Sunday. London would be a thousand times worse.’
‘I doubt we would be in this position if you were a centenarian, let alone one weakened by unspecified diseases and a career of debauchery,’ Verity pointed out. ‘The rowing would have defeated you.’
There was silence from beside her.
I have pushed him too far, she thought.
Chapter Nine
Then Will laughed. He doubled up on the rock and laughed while tears streamed down his face. When he finally straightened up he swiped one hand across his eyes and demanded, ‘Does nothing shock you, Verity?’
‘Of course. Cruelty and ignorance and bigotry. Oh, and the current fashion for mustard yellow. And the inability of men to grasp that females have brains of equal capacity to their own.’
He gave a final gasp of amusement, produced a large handkerchief and mopped his face. ‘I cannot recall when I last laughed like that.’
‘I am sorry.’ Verity moved a little closer, wanting to touch him and sensing he might find that an unfamiliar gesture. ‘Of course you have not wanted to laugh. You lost your father and your grandfather not long ago and you have all this dreadful responsibility and the children to bring up.’
‘No, I mean I cannot recall when it last seemed fitting to laugh.’ The amusement had gone and his profile seemed suddenly harsh. ‘Did they really call me Lord Appropriate?’
‘You never heard it said? No, I suppose you would not. Who would dare risk insulting you? My cousin told me some time ago. He described you in a letter and that was why I guessed who you were so quickly when you fell into my excavation.’
‘You think that a desire to be appropriate is something that is to be ashamed of? I have been the heir to the dukedom my entire life. I have been raised to fill that position since my grandfather removed me from my father.’ There was pride in Will’s voice and a complete absence of understanding of the point she had intended to make.
His title is not a burden to him, she realised. It is what he is. Has anyone ever valued him for the human being inside or only because he was the heir to a great title? How...sad.
‘Are you cold? You shivered.’ Beside her Will moved as though to take off his coat. ‘Confound it. My coat is in the rowing boat.’
‘No, I am not cold, thank you. It was just a goose walking over my grave.’ Or the realisation that he was as trapped by being a duke as she was by being female. If Will wanted to be an artist or an explorer, if he desired nothing more than to shut himself away in a library and live the life of a scholar or to join the literary salons of London as a poet, he could not. Not without neglecting the duties he had been raised to take on.
No one could actually stop him rebelling, of course. The worst he would suffer was silent condemnation and the attentions of the satirical cartoonists. His staff would keep their mouths shut and carry on managing the land, controlling the finances, wrestling with the legal issues, even though it would be like a great ship without its captain at the helm. But if a female without substantial funds of her own took her own path through life the result would be vocal criticism, the closing of doors and a life of social isolation and genteel poverty. Even Will had been shaken out of his rigid good manners to condemn her intellectual interests and where they led her.
‘We were speaking of your reputation,’ Will reminded her after the silence had stretched on for several minutes, interrupted only by the strange peeping call of a pair of moorhens, the rustle of the wind in the trees, the slap of wavelets on the shore.
‘I thought we had exhausted that discussion. When we eventually reach shore again it will all seem like a storm in a teacup. Papa will take my word for it that I am not compromised, Mr Hoskins will follow whatever direction Papa takes, your loyal staff will remain silent.’
And the only sound will be the rattling of the shackles you have grown up with, chaining you to proper behaviour.
‘We will talk further when we are rescued,’ Will said. He sounded as though he had unclenche
d his jaw, the better to grind his teeth. ‘Now I will collect wood for a fire.’
‘Very well,’ Verity said, with as much meekness as she could muster. She had probably pushed him to the end of his tether. ‘I will go back to the hut.’
She walked off before she could see his reaction to this act of obedience because she would probably want to push him in the lake again if he looked smug about it. Besides, she wanted a cup of tea. Needed one. If those provoking children had left any with the supplies...
There was not only tea and a pot, but a flint and steel striker for lighting a fire. Verity picked up her hat, hitched up her skirts above her ankles and went to collect kindling and small sticks. It took her fifteen minutes, but she had a fire going, the kettle filled with water and hung over the fire on the primitive hook and chain that were fixed in the chimney, and was returning with an armful of larger pieces of wood when Will appeared.
‘You have a fire.’ He gestured to the trickle of smoke emerging from the chimney.
‘And you have not.’ Verity looked past him in the direction of the headland. No smoke. ‘The striker is on the hearth.’
‘You lit it?’
‘Yes, all by myself. Remarkable, isn’t it?’ Sarcasm was unworthy, but, really, what was she supposed to do? Sit thirstily and wait on his convenience, presumably. ‘Tea will be ready by the time you return.’
‘Thank you.’ Will strode into the hut, remembered to duck under the lintel just in time and emerged, striker in hand.
Verity indulged herself by admiring the sight of him bending to pick up a few branches she had abandoned as too heavy. Without his coat, the flex of his back muscles, the pull of his breeches over his thighs and his admirably taut buttocks, made a sight that any well-bred lady should have averted her eyes from and any female with a pulse could not help but admire.
A cat might look at a king, even if courtiers must bow so low they never see him, she thought with a smile. And a plain miss might admire a duke, even if the wretched man has had an iron rod inserted in his spine and his brain pickled in the vinegar of duty.
And someone had to make the tea while others stomped about being manly, she supposed, building up the fire, then peering into the basket of supplies. It was an impressive collection. Either the children had an ally in the cook or had bribed a footman or had undertaken barefaced theft, because there was certainly enough food to keep two adults well fed for at least twenty-four hours.
‘What is amusing?’ Will enquired from the doorway.
‘Was I smiling? I was just reflecting that the world had better be braced for a shock when Araminta, Althea and Basil are let loose in it. Perhaps you should simply transfer them to the Home Office immediately and let them add the three to their roster of intelligence agents. They seem capable of cunning undercover scheming, well-executed manoeuvres and thoughtful provisioning. Look.’ She gestured to the supplies set out on the table.
From the set of Will’s jaw the immediate future of his brothers and sisters did not look promising. House arrest for all and a tanned backside for Basil seemed the most likely outcome.
‘They are intelligent,’ she ventured. ‘And their unconventional upbringing seems to have made them very creative.’
‘You are too tolerant. If they were cast adrift on a desert island they would be perfectly suited for the life,’ Will snapped. ‘As it is, somehow, I have to make them fit for society, not encourage them to behave like a pirate crew. At the moment they have no concept of common decency and they are completely self-centred and unscrupulous.’
‘Shall we drink tea outside?’ Verity poured it into the two serviceable pottery mugs that stood beside the two plates and two sets of cutlery on the table. Possibly the combined effect of tea and her best attempt at conventional ladylike behaviour might improve Will’s mood.
Not that she was averse to the effect it had on him—that jaw, when clenched, was certainly a fine feature and temper made the blue of his eyes deeper—but if he was in a better frame of mind when they were eventually rescued, then it might mitigate the results for the children. She was angry about what they had done, but they were not to blame for their upbringing.
‘Thank you. I will take it back to the fire.’ He shook his head when she offered sugar. ‘I need to keep that burning until it is hot enough to add damp vegetation.’
‘To produce more smoke? What a good idea.’
* * *
Will took the mug and made his way back to the fire. The faint pathway was now well trodden and he could make his way without concentrating on where he was putting his feet. As that gave him more opportunity to think about Verity Wingate and the predicament they found themselves in, it could hardly be said to be an improvement.
He took an incautious gulp of hot tea and sat down on the rock beside the fire. It was burning well and slowly with a hot, dense, interior and he added some more of the thicker branches, building it up ready to begin covering it in a mantle of green foliage to make smoke.
Building a fire was calming, almost meditative, but it could do nothing to solve the dilemma he found himself in. He was trapped in a highly compromising situation with a woman he found physically attractive, however maddening her character was.
There was clearly no path open to him other than marriage. He had compromised Verity through no fault of her own and there was only one outcome to that. Of course, she was temperamentally unsuited to be a duchess, but she was an intelligent woman who would soon come to terms with the situation if he was firm enough in his directions. And, given her breeding and upbringing, she would adapt and shed those bluestocking theories about independence. A lady obeyed her husband in all things and she knew that. There was only one problem—she did not appear to want to marry him, which was baffling.
Will nudged some more dry wood into the base of the fire and tried to read some answers in the flames. Verity did not find him repellent physically, not judging by the evidence of two kisses. She did not appear to have an attachment to any other man, she liked his brothers and sisters and there could not possibly be anyone of higher rank she could aspire to marry. So, what was there to object to in him? He examined the man inside the Duke, attempting complete honesty and objectivity. His reputation was spotless, his appearance was passable, his health was good. He had no eccentric habits and his wealth was considerable.
Was she simply being coy? But that seemed unlike anything he had observed in her behaviour. Or perhaps—
Will reached for the mug and looked up as he drained it. From the beech woods on the slopes down to the lake on the far side from the house there were smudges of smoke rising in the still air. For a second his brain could make no sense of it, then he recalled his Steward saying that the charcoal burners were due to start a new cycle of coppicing and burning that week. He counted—two, no, three columns of smoke now—and calculated the angle they would be seen from the house and gardens. His own fire would be in a direct line.
‘Hell and damnation.’
‘What is wrong?’ Verity emerged from the scrub behind him. ‘Oh. The charcoal burners? Oh, no.’ She sat down abruptly on the rock beside him as the realisation of what it meant hit her. ‘Now what are we going to do?’
‘Wait,’ Will said grimly. ‘Wait and hope my repellent siblings come to their senses and confess what they have done before nightfall.’
Nightfall and that tiny cottage with its one, narrow bed. Verity would be inside and he would be outside, of course. Not that that would make any difference to the situation they found themselves in, but things were bad enough without his willpower being put to the test by the proximity of a bed and an attractive young woman in it. It would stand the test, obviously—he was a gentleman—but he could do without the physical effects of ignoring the messages his body was sending him.
It was bad enough with her so close now, warm and relaxed, leaning on her hands braced behind her
and with her head thrown back. Will risked a sideways glance and turned back to stare at the fire. The column of her throat, exposed, white, taut as though inviting a kiss, a gentle bite, a lick. What would her skin taste like?
‘It is going to rain.’
The words were so at odds with his erotic musings that it took Will a second to take them in. He looked up at the sky, saw the heavy thunderheads building to the south, registered the way the air had become hotter, breathless with a quivering intensity. The birds had stopped singing and it felt as though the world was poised, waiting for the first clap of thunder.
‘In fact,’ Verity said prosaically, ‘I do believe we are going to have a storm.’
Will stood up. The day was getting better by the minute. Now he had a wet night to look forward to. ‘There is no point in persisting with this fire. I had better spend my time building a shelter for the night.’
‘We have a cottage.’ She stared at him as though he had said something incredibly foolish. ‘Not much of one, to be sure, but there is no sign that it has let in water in the past.’
‘Which means that you will be dry and warm. But, clearly, I cannot share it with you overnight.’
‘Why not?’
Has the woman no modesty?
‘It would be most improper.’ Will knew he sounded like his grandfather, but that was what he intended.
‘Could you please explain what we might do during the hours of darkness that would be more improper than what we might be doing now?’ Verity enquired.
Immodest and sarcastic.
And, unless a miracle occurred, he was going to have to marry this stubborn woman. ‘That is not the point. If we were rescued now there is some hope that the scandal might be contained and your father might accept that your reputation is untarnished. But even the most neglectful of fathers—and I refuse to believe a bishop could be such a man—would draw the line at a night spent together.’