by Sophia Nash
The only problem was that like most other long-cherished wishes, once tasted (and she had tasted far too much quiet for five long days), the appeal flagged. About the only good thing to say about tranquility and privacy was that she could write to her heart’s content anywhere she pleased, unlike her prior crowded life.
But for the first time ever she had nothing to write.
Verity glanced down at her newest diary open on the garden table under the three-hundred-year-old oak tree, bordering the woods beyond the estate’s most distant lower gardens. She wondered how many scandals the tree had shaded with its massive branches. Certainly not as many as Boxwood’s infamous maze or the pine tree of so long ago.
The woods and surrounding moors beckoned with the fast tattoo of woodpeckers competing with the lovely song of the pied flycatchers and redstarts. The shadow of a sparrow hawk in flight, his cream-colored legs hidden in formal gray and white striped down tail feathers, preceded a crescendo of alarm calls from robins and thrushes hidden in the dense woodland.
Verity closed her eyes as silence descended, and a few long moments later the skittering of a bank mole or wood mouse intruded.
Lord, she was sure to go mad in the beauty of this solitary confinement.
Beneath her fingers, two dozen pages written through and through fluttered in the slight summer breeze. She had written them during the journey northward and had made a point to read them every day, as the scene in her guest bedchambers at the Prince Regent’s Carleton House the eve before her brother’s wedding still seemed surreal in her mind. Had she really spent hours in the same bed as Rory? Of course, only she would achieve what she had longed for in her youth and then sleep through the entire event.
Rory . . . Lord, he had been as magnificent as always that morning—undaunted by the cruel trick fate had played, willing to accept the consequences with a cool head and unflappable wit, and always magnetizing in a fashion that only increased her long-simmering yearning for the impossible with him.
Love . . .
Only once—during a hot summer long ago when she had been seventeen—had her sensibilities been displaced. She pushed the thought to the corner of her mind she rarely visited.
And now, Rory was even more exquisitely handsome than in her days of youth. It had been painfully difficult to meet his gaze and remain unflustered in that chamber. Only her unwavering certainty that she could never wed someone who would never love her as she did him sustained her.
Verity stared down at the ink-spattered pages in her lap. She wished for her other diaries, the ones she kept by her side always. But she had been rendered a complete nodcock in the aftermath of that morning from hell. And Amelia, for the first time in memory, had neglected to pack Verity’s most prized possessions in the hasty departure from London. Ill ease filled her as she continued staring at the words on the page. But Amelia was certain to carry them on her person when she traveled north in one of the Fitzroy barouches with the rest of their affairs shortly.
She was sure.
Then again, considering all that had happened that awful night, Amelia was very likely not her cool, calm, collected self at the moment. A frisson of dread snaked up her spine just thinking of Amelia. Verity had not one but two disasters in the making and yet was too far away from everyone involved to try and set things to rights.
Out of the corner of her eye she spied her horse’s head shoot up and swing about. She followed its gaze to find a rider in the distance—headed in their direction. Her heart leapt.
She knew it was he by the tilt of his head, glancing toward the wood.
She had prepared herself for the onslaught he might spew forth. He would act the role of his life to charm and pretend he truly wanted her for a wife. And if there was anyone who could play a role to perfection, it was Rory Lennox.
She should know. Had she not secretly witnessed or heard his rakehelly powers of persuasion toward the fairer and more easily duped sex? And they fell in hordes for him time and time again. Nine times out of ten, all it took was a mere handful of words toward a suitably jaded and very willing female, although never a lady who had anything to lose by a liaison. Rory had refined the technique to its purest, most captivating essence: “Darling, I’ve tried and tried to fight my desire—but I can no longer stay silent. For weeks I’ve dreamed of you. I’ve only dallied with the notion of love once in my life, but I fear . . . fear greatly for my soul . . . that that is about to change.”
Following a searing kiss, usually behind a tree during someone’s ball, his prey stood not a chance, given his outrageous pursuit coupled with his famously handsome face and unparalleled good fortune.
According to Verity’s last calculation, Rory Lennox, former Earl of Rutledge, and current Duke of Abshire, had fallen in lust twenty-six times the last three years since he returned from Wellington’s war machine, still churning ever onward without him.
In Verity’s well-worn dictionary there were six lines describing a rake, beginning with libertine and ending with seducer. She would have advised the editors to save space by offering up her own definition: Rake, noun. Rory Lennox.
Most dukes are born into the title. Few earn it. Rory Lennox was of the latter group. But he was not proud of it—for good reason. But after last week’s debacle at Carleton House, he was through with any further attempts at escaping the hell of his own mind. And since he was giving free rein to horror, facing the ghosts lurking in that crook of Derbyshire from whence he spent his boyhood seemed like the next step on his trail to purgatory.
Now he would be saddled with a wife, Lord help her—the one thing he’d sworn never to have—to whom he would have to feign concern for the rest of his life. He had no bloody use for a wife and absolutely no interest in overseeing her welfare until the end of his days and beyond.
And his sodding titles? The earldom would go to a fine third cousin with a preponderance of male progeny at last review. The duchy would die with him. One Abshire was enough.
Rory dismounted a considerable distance from the lady in question—a female he had occasionally seen at the numerous fashionable events in Town the last three seasons, but as he had steered clear of all Fitzroys, he had never spoken more than three sentences to Lady Verity Fitzroy since his return from war. He vaguely remembered he had nicknamed her Lady V during those days she followed without trepidation her brother, Sussex and him when she had been on the cusp of womanhood.
There were only two reasons he was here: he always corrected his mistakes, and she was an innocent and the sister of the man he had once betrayed. If there was one trait Rory had learned too late, it was loyalty. His years on the march with Wellington had drummed it into his once untrustworthy soul.
The mossy green carpet on the edge of the wood sank under his footsteps. The soft murmur of a stream nearby provided the backdrop for birdsong lilting from the dark canopy of trees as he approached. She was seated, and hastily closed a book in her lap.
“Lady Fitzroy.” He bowed perfunctorily. “Delighted to find you here.”
“Do be serious,” she replied, not meeting his eye.
“Lady V”—he pasted his most serene expression on his face—“how fare you?”
“The same as you, I presume, Your Grace. Mildly embarrassed, and wondering how long my brother will insist I endure my own company.” She indicated the wood-slatted bench in front of her and he seated himself.
He had to laugh. Thank God she had not forsaken her youthful tendencies to make free with her sentiments. Her chin rose a notch and she finally allowed her brown eyes to wander to his. He noticed that flecks of amber sparked from the centers. The hint of a blush crested her cheeks, as her dark eyes challenged him. The Fitzroy strong features were in full evidence.
“It won’t be for long,” he murmured. “Indeed, since I’m here, I’d say the incarceration is over. Look, I shall see to the vicar and—”
“No.”
“No?” He paused. “No to what?”
“I will n
ot give you the great honor of my hand. That is why you’re here, is it not?”
He examined his fingernails. “Look, we can do this the hard way—”
“Or the easy way?” she interrupted. “You could be a tad more original. Clichés disappoint me. And this is the very first time you’ve had to offer yourself on the altar of eternal wedded bliss, is it not? Not that it will be the last if you continue to be such a nodcock in your bumbling selection of sleeping quarters.”
Nodcock? Bumbling? He felt a rare smile tease the corners of his mouth. “Spare the niceties, Lady V. Do tell me what you really think.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Thank God she was no coward. But had she always been quite so outspoken? As far as he could remember, the last time they had exchanged more than five words strung together before finding himself in her bedchamber was when he had lived here fourteen years ago—before he had taken what he had thought would be permanent leave of this hellish corner.
She finally shook her head with a mock look of disappointment. “If you are going to offer, one could hope you would give it a bit more thought and effort. I am James’s favorite sister, after all.”
“I thought that was Patience or Perseverance.”
She tilted her sharp chin up. “There is no Patience or Perseverance in the Fitzroy family.”
“Don’t I know it,” he retorted with a grin.
“Hope used to be his favorite,” she said.
He gave her a questioning glance.
“Until she made the unpardonable mistake of making James’s fiancée look like a fool.”
“But she is a fool.”
“There, you see? Why is my brother the only one who could not glimpse beyond her infuriating beauty?”
“Because he’s a man,” Rory said with an owlish expression pasted onto his face.
“Exactly!”
He bit back a laugh. He liked her. She had a lovely, open countenance when she smiled.
She narrowed her eyes. “You do that very well.”
“Pardon me?” He made sure to keep a look of cool indifference on his face.
“That way of yours when you speak to ladies.”
He was taken aback. “What way?”
She paused to reflect, her eyes staring at the uppermost branches of the trees. “Of agreeing with us. Gentlemen are not expected to ever agree with us. Especially concerning your own sex. I probably shouldn’t have pointed any of this out for the sole reason that you will now employ it consciously to dupe a whole new legion of females.”
“You look lovely, by the by, Lady V,” he murmured. “What is that fetching thing on your head?”
“Oh, and your knack for changing the topic is top notch too. That ‘thing’ is a straw bonnet. Entirely uninteresting to you I am sure.”
“There you are wrong, my dear V. It’s simply fascinating. Is it from the Georgian or Pleistocene era?”
She refused to be swayed from the topic. “Shall we not have a go at the matter at hand? You know, the one where you are supposed to woo me and wed me in short order to save my soul or more importantly so I will not become the pariah of Derbyshire?”
“You said it, not I.”
“Well, you should know the only reason I’m willing to discuss this is to keep my dear brother out of the graveyard. Your war years are too much of an advantage and James would be the worse for the wear should he meet you.” She shook her head. “And I hate to arrange flowers. I would feel compelled to lay wilting bouquets on his headstone every week for the next seventy years, given the longevity of most Fitzroys.”
“But you just turned me down. So now I’m able to wash my hands of you.” He tilted his head ever so slightly and took a long look at her. He hadn’t ever heard so many words from a female Fitzroy. Then again, most of the five nearly identical sisters didn’t have very much to say unless it concerned mathematical concepts that put him to sleep.
She pursed her lips. “You could at least try a little harder to convince me,” she retorted. “This is your fault, after all.”
Women. Would he ever understand them? Then again, he feared he understood them all too well. And it appeared that a large brain box did not take up any of the space for all things contrary. “Look, V, I’ll not fawn over you. We’ve known each other’s families our entire lives, and even if ours hasn’t been a deep friendship—”
“And whose fault is that?” she muttered.
He stared at her clear brown eyes, which appeared sharp as a whip and yet just like liquid velvet. What in hell?
“Cat got your tongue?” She looked at him with a slyness he’d never seen in a Fitzroy female.
“Absolutely not,” he replied. “I see you only take offense at others’ use of clichés.”
“I always allow myself one each quarter. I take care that it is one of the more offensive.”
“You know, V, I’m not surprised you and your sisters are still unwed if this is how your brother taught you how to listen to a man’s offer.”
“Oh, I can do that. When it is politely given.”
“I beg your pardon. I meant no offense.” He stopped. “Verity, do be serious. Give me the chance to correct the great harm I’ve done you. We must marry. You know it.”
“I most certainly do not. It’s as I said in Town,” she continued after a beat, “there is absolutely no reason to marry. Nothing will ever come of your stupid mistake in Carleton House—especially since any gossip generated will be far overshadowed by the tales of the royal entourage’s night of debauchery. Your only duty to me is to figure out a way to avoid dueling with my brother. You owe me that much, I agree.”
This was not at all going the way he had planned. And he knew how to plan. Obviously, he had gotten it wrong. He had thought that almost a week’s worth of silent contemplation would convince her of the necessity of wedding him. He had been so certain he had not thought it through. But, of course, she would want to be wooed, even if the end result was not in question. All ladies liked nothing better than wooing.
Even when they knew it would lead to what all gentlemen wanted. And that wasn’t wooing.
She looked at him with the oddest expression. One he hadn’t ever noticed on a young lady before. Why could he not make it out? He cleared his throat.
“If you will not have me, Verity, the least you could do is allow me the pleasure of your company for a bit each day, since I’ve taken the trouble to return.”
She said not a word. Her eyes still searched his face.
“Your siblings are in London or on their way to Cornwall as we speak. The neighborhood is much changed since I was last here. And I am rattling around the Hall, all alone, while you’re becoming a tad starkers wearing one-hundred-and-five-year-old but nonetheless charming hats. Shall we not—”
“You’re going to attempt to woo me, aren’t you?”
He had to force his jaw to close. “You know, most ladies like me.”
“I know.” Her eyes had that damn innocent look back in them.
He ground his molars.
“Fear not,” she continued. “We understand each other perfectly. Of course I shall see you. We’re neighbors. And we must stay until James’s ire cools and everyone in Town has forgotten this stupid business.” A tendril of her dark brown hair fell to her shoulder from the confines of her hat, which looked rather like a neglected haystack. “You do realize that once the surrounding families know you’ve come, why, there will be an endless round of routs, dinners, country balls, and the like in your honor to contend with.” Her eyes danced merrily. “It will be delightful!”
Rory sighed deeply. Routs, dinners, country balls, church on Sunday, and gossip on Monday through Saturday. “Delightful, indeed,” he murmured. He had to retreat before he lost the inch he had gained. He opened his mouth, but she beat him to it.
“Must be off. Lovely to see you.” She rose from her chair with her book in hand, and not waiting for him, Verity Fitzroy headed toward her horse without the titte
ring, coy hesitation of most ladies he knew. With a quickness that surprised, she placed her book in the saddlebag and ascended into the saddle with agility and grace. At the last moment she turned her mount’s head about and glanced toward him. “I’m glad you’ve finally come home. You were missed, Rory.”
His hand clenched involuntarily at his side.
Chapter 3
Verity had always liked Robert Armitage, the very tall vicar of the parish. A mere five years her senior, she knew he had a certain admiration for her, even if it could never be expressed, given their respective stations. She respected him all the better for it, as it proved he esteemed her for herself and not her dowry. And while he was a bit shy when he was near her, from the pulpit he delivered his messages with vigor, passion, and sometimes even humor. Yes. She enjoyed spending time with him very well.
And she was sure Mr. Armitage’s sermon this morning had been inspiring. It was too bad she had not heard a word of it. Her mind was still whirling with thoughts of yesterday when Rory had appeared in full form. By the end of the service as she rose to leave, she had prayed that she would be able to hold firm to her convictions regarding matrimony. She had long ago accepted that she would probably never marry for many reasons.
1. Marriage without equal love on both sides would be hell on earth. And the chance of finding equal love was nearly nil.
2. Marriage with merely respect on both sides was perhaps tolerable but not worth it if it could be avoided. And she had tried very hard to avoid it.
And 3. Her one near-brush with matrimony had ended disastrously a decade ago. She was distinctly unmarriageable.
Verity came to a stop outside the stone church, which edged the picturesque green in this small village in Derbyshire she loved with all her heart. She watched the various villagers, tenants, and great families of the neighborhood pour through the yawn of the two open doors. Miss Woods, the schoolteacher, spied her and hurried forward.
“Miss Woods,” Verity said, smiling.
“Lady Fitzroy,” said the gray-haired schoolmistress whose stern manner masked a pudding heart. “Allow me to say how pleased I am to see you. Such a lovely surprise that you are returned from Town. Are your sisters returned as well?”