by Sophia Nash
“Yes,” she replied, not lifting her head. All he could see was the brim of her atrocious bonnet.
“I was sad to learn from my steward that the signs we discussed are still not in evidence. Why, another collision with a ewe was very narrowly avoided just today.”
She raised her brows. “I am to produce a sign that both people and sheep can read? How singular.”
He winked at her. “I’m certain that superior Fitzroy brain of yours will figure it out. I do, however, pray you are the sort of person whose word once given is their bond.”
She pursed her lips in annoyance. “My word, Your Grace? I rather think you would not care to hear what sort of vow I am making right now in the privacy of my mind.” She turned on her heel and Lady Mary Haverty rushed after her, the dark green silk of her skirting trailed behind.
“I’m so sorry, Verity,” Mary began, her long strides soon catching up to hers. “Norwich and Esme would not allow me to go to you. They said it would only draw further attention, which was not true.”
“How ridiculous, Mary. No one in Derbyshire cares two sticks about a couple milling about a lake in plain view.”
“Perhaps, but you were not in plain view. The only thing in partial view was Abshire’s back, and his head was quite obviously tilted down to meet your own.”
“What on earth are you suggesting?”
“Exactly what you are picturing in your mind this minute. If all those on the hill above us”—Mary gave a twirl to her pretty parasol and kept a wide smile planted on her face, to have all the world believe they were speaking of nothing more important than the beauty of the day—“had the same view I had, it appeared the duke was taking grave liberties with your person.”
“Stop.” Verity rolled her eyes. “Nothing of the sort took place. Indeed, I do believe I’ve successfully staved him off once again.”
“How did you accomplish that?”
“It was quite simple.” Verity tweaked her favorite new bonnet. “I spoke of the one thing sure to scare the scales off the most hardened bachelor—love.”
“Really?” Mary smiled and tapped the side of her temple conspiratorially. “I do believe I’ve underestimated your knowledge of the beastlier sex.”
“Did you not see how fast he sped away to take Phoebe Talmadge to the boat? Not an obvious gesture for a man in pursuit of marriage. Unless he is pursuing two targets with opposing designs.” She had stopped and was now staring in the distance. Rory had pulled the small boat from the shoreline and had adeptly managed to enter it and escort Phoebe into the hull without so much as a drop of water ruining his immaculate appearance.
Phoebe and Rory looked so very handsome as a couple. A wave of déjà vu engulfed Verity and formed a hard ball in the pit of her stomach.
Life had a way of repeating itself.
Phoebe had the same even, beautiful profile as Catharine, and her gleaming main of thick blond hair was coiled in a vastly feminine sort of fashion. Rory could not take his eyes off her. Clearly, he was a man who appreciated and revered beauty—just like all others. A marriage with him, and a future filled with myriad similar moments, was one of the minor reasons she would never agree to this proposed match made in a spinsterish ape leader’s hell.
“They shall do very well together, no?” Verity whispered, while keeping a smile plastered to her lips. She could do this even if it killed her.
“Oh, Verity,” Mary murmured. “My dear, dear Verity . . .”
She forced her gaze away from the beautiful couple and trained it on the sweep of lawn on the hill where her more fashion-conscious neighbors went about the business of being entertained.
“Would you like to return to Boxwood?” Mary’s eyes were filled with concern.
She wanted it more than she could express. “No.”
Above them, Esme was walking toward the pea gravel path that led to the rose garden. Verity hesitated.
“Go to her,” Mary urged. “I know you miss her friendship. She is your best friend.”
This was why Verity adored Mary. She only wished she had seen beyond her beauty years ago. “Thank you, Mary.”
As Verity negotiated her way toward Esme, under the combined secret glances of everyone on the hill, she pondered once again why Esme was evading her.
Twice Verity had ridden to her cousin’s residence to try and pierce Esme’s uncharacteristic veil of secrets, and twice she had failed.
It saddened her no end.
Her cousin was her best friend and she desperately needed her. And she very much feared Esme needed to confide in her, too, but was overwhelmed by the tumultuous events that had surrounded her hushed-up marriage to Norwich.
When Verity finally reached the rose garden, Esme was nowhere to be found.
Chapter 7
Verity trotted her mare toward the stile separating two pastures on Rory’s estate. At the last moment the animal broke into a canter and flew over the obstacle with her front hooves well tucked into position. Verity leaned forward, her face in the wind, and patted Captio on her sleek shoulder before urging her toward the base of the ridge ahead.
She had rarely been so annoyed in her life. Why was she doing something that was such a monumental waste of time and would never serve a purpose? Oh, she knew why all right. She had never gone back on a single promise she had ever made. The same could not be said of other people who had trod the corridors of her life.
Furthermore, Rory’s transgressions were far graver than hers to him. Botheration. She had merely galloped up a hill without taking proper care.
She was exhausted, truth be known. Oh, her work as mistress of Boxwood was not time-consuming, but it had never been combined with teaching children at every level of learning most days of the week. A small smile unconsciously crept onto her face. Little Tommy Redmund had finally read his first words today from the Gentleman’s Sporting Guide she had borrowed from her brother’s study. It had captured his interest greatly compared to the immensely boring primer. She had rewarded his efforts in a manner befitting her unusual teaching style. Tommy had regarded her with reverence the rest of the morning.
There. She would place the first sign on a tree at the base of the steep incline. She gently eased back on the reins and jumped off of the saddle with the same girlish movements she had employed her entire life.
Verity unlashed the bulky pieces of wood attached to her braided leather saddlebags. The handcrafted signs were not exactly as he had specified. The corners of her mouth curved slightly as she examined the words. Tommy Redmund’s writing was not as advanced as his reading, she feared.
Withdrawing a hammer and nails, she affixed one large wooden plaque to the trunk. A quarter hour later found her in a similar pursuit beneath another tree on the other side of the ridge.
Her timing was well calculated. It was the hour Rory was known to return from the village. As if on cue, he appeared on the stony ridge—galloping as if he had no reason to follow any rule he set. Which of course was his prerogative, being the current owner of every square mile of the land and all.
He came to an abrupt halt near her but did not dismount. His horse mouthed the bit and then snorted. Loudly.
“My feelings precisely,” Rory muttered, eyeing the sign.
~No Galloping~
Yield to sheep
(and His Graceless, the Duke of Abshire)
or pay paint the penalty
Methodically, Rory dismounted, but kept his distance. He glanced again between Verity and the sign.
She suddenly felt uncomfortable in her own skin. Oh, she didn’t regret her actions, but perhaps she had taken things a bit too far. He was a duke, after all. Dukes considered themselves demigods. She should know.
Verity lifted her chin and crossed her arms. “As you requested.”
He nodded. “Are you always like this?”
“I’m sorry?”
“So . . . reserved. Demure.”
She had always appreciated his sense of humor. “Of cou
rse. According to my brother, our father used to blame our intractability on my mother.” She paused. “Then again, according to my mother, it was all our father’s fault, and his father before him.”
He smiled. “How is your mother? I always considered her the grandest lady in all of Derbyshire.”
A stab of pain lanced through her chest. She inhaled with difficulty. “She’s dead.”
Rory instantly sobered. “I had not heard.” He’d rarely had access to newspapers during his war years.
She couldn’t seem to open her mouth to reply. He immediately filled the awkward silence.
“I remember her well,” he murmured. “I’ve never known another like her. As a boy, she enlisted me, your brother, and Sussex each fall to go into the wood to add to her astonishing collection of nests. And in spring, we were ordered to follow an elusive bird and steal one of its eggs, but only if there were more than three.”
Verity nodded, her well of easy wit suddenly quite dry.
“And the hours she spent studying specimens, and sketching animals and plants of all sorts.” Rory closed the distance between them.
His green, green eyes studied her, and she felt as if he could see the very edges of her soul the way he looked at her.
“I always considered her to be the greatest naturalist of the region, if not all of England, Verity. How long ago was she lost to you?”
Verity clenched her skirt with jerky fingers. “Ten years ago.” When he did not respond, she knew he would not ask what he wanted to know. “Quite suddenly. She might have had an exuberant temperament, but her heart, it turned out, was not up to the demands of her disposition.”
“I’m sorry, V,” he said, simply.
She hated to think about her mother. She had loved her beyond measure and the pain of her premature death would never leave. It was always lurking whenever Verity was outside in nature. Just the trill of a songbird or the murmur of tree branches and leaves rustling with the breeze could trigger memories of her mother standing in the middle of her favored woods, breathing in its rich goodness.
Oh God. The back of her throat burned with emotion and she willed her eyes not to fill with tears. It was so maddening to not be in control of one’s sensibilities. Especially in front of this particular male creature. Her head was spinning.
He grasped her shoulders and pulled her to his broad chest, which was as solid as an oak. That familiar scent of his clogged her senses and made her dizzy. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from falling to pieces in the comfort of his arms. She had dreamt of this moment for a few brief years of her adolescence before she had grown up and learned the futility of a girl’s dreams and altered her course. But she had never imagined his embrace could be like this . . . It was as if she could finally exhale and all her worries and fears would dissipate into the wild air of the peaks. She tried to pull slightly away. It was far too dangerous to let her emotions rule her head.
He ignored her feeble attempt to put distance between them. Instead he gently urged her deeper into his arms, and then he stroked her head. It was his touch that broke her and she wept silently for a few long moments before she regained control.
She released his shoulders when she became conscious of the fact that she was clenching them. Lord, where was her handkerchief when she needed it?
And then as if by magic a snowy white square was pressed into her palm and she ducked her face to quickly dry her eyes. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m so sorry,” she murmured. It was the first time she had cried again since that awful day her mother had died. Inexplicably, Verity felt her lip tremble, and despite the mountain of effort she exerted, she truly crumbled.
And just like that he grasped her and pulled her back into his arms. “Go on, then, V.”
His words unleashed the torrent of tears that had refused to come for so long. A series of wretched sobs tore from her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut as his hands stroked her back over and over again. The storm lasted less than a minute but felt like a thousand years when she drew back to again press the wet handkerchief to her face, which would certainly be blotchy and as unattractive as it could be.
She shuddered as she regained control and attempted to speak. “I’m so sorry, Rory. How stupidly I’m behaving. And here I had little Tommy Redmund do these wretched signs. I shall remove them immediately and—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort. I like them,” he said slowly, and then chuckled.
“Rory, really, I’m so very—”
“If you say you’re sorry one more time,” he murmured, taking the handkerchief from her fingers and dabbing her nose, “I will be forced to kiss you.” He gazed at her, and suddenly the veneer of cool amusement and hauteur he usually sported dropped from his impossibly handsome face.
Then all at once she could not hold back her ancient desire. She had successfully held him at bay with wit and determination, but the fight was all gone out of her.
She wanted his kiss.
She wanted to feel again. And even more, she wanted to be desired. If she could not have love, she could at least have this, if only for a few precious moments. Even if it was this one and only one time.
She would never be certain whose head moved forward first, but in the blink of an eye his lips covered hers and again she was breathless. Her hands were so cold until they found their way up around his warm neck. She ran her fingers through his dark hair, which was shockingly soft.
He made a sound deep in his throat, which hummed with something very like pleasure, and she arched into him. Vaguely, as she was lost in the maelstrom of his kiss, she felt the heat of his powerful hands gripping her hips and shockingly pressing her form against his. She could not breathe.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips and she immediately opened her mouth to his demand. A rush of heat filled her as he toyed with her tongue with his own. A blaze of pure pleasure ricocheted through her and she held onto him for dear life.
Never had she experienced anything remotely like this. Oh, she had been kissed a long time ago, to be sure, but nothing so raw, so primal, so terrifyingly intimate.
He broke away from her lips to trail an uneven path to her temple. “My God,” he whispered, and then dipped to lightly bite the delicate edge of her ear, which caused a shudder to race through her.
She didn’t want it to end. She wanted, no, she desperately needed more.
He gripped her to him more tightly than she could have ever imagined and recommenced the exquisite torture. His classically sculpted nose rested against the hollow of her cheek and she could feel the heat of his breath cascading off her skin. He was all warm male, burning the frost off of her heart.
Verity knew it would end. Nothing so exquisite could last forever, as much as she craved. Reluctantly, they drew apart and stared into each other’s eyes—green to brown, burning with intensity. Her breasts were still pressed against his hard chest as she tried to regain control of her racing thoughts and heart.
He stroked the side of her sensitive neck where a lock of her hair, which perpetually escaped the confines of her simple chignon, fluttered in the breeze.
“Verity?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“There is something of vital importance that I have forgotten to do since that fateful morning in Carleton House.”
She averted her eyes from the intensity of his gaze. She studied a clump of wild gorse, not really seeing it.
“Can you not look at me? Are you now shy?”
Her eyes flew to his.
“I humbly ask your pardon for the horrid mistake I made that awful night—for entering your chambers and causing you to shoulder the burden of my outrageous actions. I did not then and I have not since behaved as a gentleman aught. Will you forgive me, Verity—even though I do not deserve it?”
She rushed to respond. “I forgave you that morning. There’s no reason for you to have such a crisis of conscience now.”
“You are very wrong, Verity. I’
m guiltier than you know and it’s important to say it. But now I am going to have to beg for you to reconsider a far grander request. One that will right my wrong, and unfortunately for you, it will involve doing something I know you are loath to do, even if I feel just the opposite.”
Her heart fell. “Rory, no,” she pleaded softly. “Please.”
“Shhhh,” he hushed gently. “I know I do not have the right to ask. It is, what? The eighth or the ninth time?”
“Fourth,” she said quietly.
“I can only promise I will not sink to yet another low tactic as I had planned.”
“There is no need. I already told you I foresaw it.”
“Foresaw what precisely?”
“Your efforts to have every last person in the Peak District presume our future nuptials. No less than five people winked and boldly asked me today when the ‘lucky day’ was to be.”
He regarded her with care. “Verity . . . God, words fail me.” He groaned and closed his eyes for a moment before continuing far more passionately. “I am begging you. I know I do not have the right. But, please, Verity, allow me the honor of your hand.”
“I . . .” she began, but halted.
“Yes?” He encouraged her with his eyes.
“Rory,” she began slowly, and then paused before rushing on, “I give up. You win.”
He drew back and regarded her carefully. “Dare I hope? Or is this just a ploy to cruelly lead me astray—something I well deserve?”
“Stop, Rory. There will be no more charade between us. You owe me that much. But you have not heard the terms of my capitulation. And fear not, no matter how much you appear the reverse, I know deep in your heart you want this less than I.”
“Verity—”
She held up one hand. “You have given me no choice. So yes, I shall live the lie of an engagement for the summer, but then it shall not come to the point. I shall end it—of that there is no question.”
“I beg your pardon. But this would only cause an immense scandal and leave you even further ostracized from all of society and—”
She interrupted. “That is the point. A very long time ago I decided I would not marry. My brother knows this and even gave me his assent. I had intended to eventually retire to one of James’s estates and live my own life.”