by Gayle Buck
A small group of ladies approached the refreshment table, chattering brightly among themselves. Upon their drawing near, Lord Rathbone had further withdrawn into the window embrasure. He paid not the slightest attention to the ladies’ conversation until he heard his own name.
His brows drew together in irritation, even as he shrugged in contempt. He should be inured to discovering himself to be a topic of gossip. He would have ignored the remainder of the conversation, but at the next statement he stiffened.
“I wonder that Lord Rathbone would keep her on the dance floor in such a blatant way,” said Mrs. Passenby, mild disapproval shading her voice.
“Oh, have you not heard?” There was a brittle laugh from one of her companions. “Our trusty Miss Worth is his lordship’s latest flirt!”
Mrs. Passenby gasped. “Well! I should never have expected it of Miss Worth. I have always considered her to be exceptionally pretty-behaved. And certainly what she has accomplished with Miss Pettiforth is close to prodigious. We have all remarked upon it.”
“Miss Worth is a sly one, indeed,” commented the other woman. “It has been obvious from the beginning of our house visit that there has been something odd taking place. There is Mrs. Pettiforth pinning her faith in the woman to make something of that spoiled child, Cecily. You speak of Miss Worth’s efforts with admiration, ma’am, but I assure you that her actions covered a dark motive of her own. I believe that she used her influence with Miss Pettiforth to draw herself to the viscount’s notice.”
“Surely you do not truly believe that. Why, even if it were true that was what Miss Worth intended, how could she dream of enticing a gentleman such as Lord Rathbone away from that beautiful child? I have two daughters of my own and I know how the gentlemen are. When Cecily Pettiforth is in the room, every one of them looks at her in the most besotted way imaginable,” said Mrs. Passenby, with pardonable bitterness.
“Nevertheless, dear ma’am, you must believe me when I tell you that I have observed any number of instances when his lordship expressed a clear preference for Miss Worth’s company. And he did not do so without active encouragement, for just as you say, every other woman pales in the light of Miss Pettiforth’s beauty.”
“It is preposterous! I do not mean to say that Miss Worth is ill-looking. On the contrary, I consider her to be a most handsome female with a great deal of countenance. But to say that she put herself up to compete against Miss Pettiforth is ridiculous,” said Mrs. Passenby forthrightly.
“Mrs. Passenby, this very afternoon I saw her practically encouraging Lord Rathbone’s advances!”
“Oh, dear!”
The first lady had listened in avid silence, but now she took a hand. ‘So encroaching of her, to be sure, when everyone knows she hasn’t a feather to fly with. Mrs. Pettiforth has confided it all to me. It was only the Pettiforths’ generosity that led them to make her a salary. She should know where her loyalties lie and be properly grateful.”
“How true! But that wasn’t enough for the woman. She must try to snatch one of the richest peers in the realm right from under all of our noses. The effrontery of it all is what is most particularly galling.”
“Poor Alice Pettiforth! One cannot but feel for her, and for Mr. Pettiforth, too, of course. There was his lordship primed to make an offer for Cecily and it is all vanished like smoke!”
Mrs. Passenby had listened with appalled disbelief to the poisonous exchange. “Are you certain? I had not heard it was at all a done thing. If Lord Rathbone was set to make an offer, he would surely have done so by now.”
“Oh, as to that!” One of the gossips lifted her shoulders in an expressive shrug. “What other explanation can there be for the viscount’s continued presence in the neighborhood? It is too well-known that Lord Rathbone positively detests the country. Why, he is in London for every Season. I have it as a fact from Mrs. Arnold, who is on intimate footing with his lordship, that he scarcely ever leaves town.”
“I feel for Alice Pettiforth, indeed. It would have been the coup of the year to bring Rathbone to heel. Then the Worth woman makes an object of herself and all is fair lost.”
The women moved away, still exclaiming with their heads together, never having noticed that they had been overheard.
Lord Rathbone had stood quite still, unable either to quietly retreat or to make his presence known. As the ladies at last withdrew, the wineglass he had been holding disintegrated. Glass splintered on the carpet at his feet. He glanced down at the sharp stinging in his hand. His fingers were bloody. Coolly, he noted that the stem of the wineglass had snapped in two.
He took out a handkerchief and wrapped the linen square around the bleeding digits. Then he thrust the injured hand into his coat pocket. It was his left hand, fortunately, so that he would not be required to bring it out when he was offered someone’s hand to shake.
It was time to make his adieus to his hostess, which he lost no time in doing. Mrs. Passenby expressed polite regret that he was retiring early, but he rather suspected that he read condemnation in her eyes.
Lord Rathbone started toward the exit of the ballroom. His progress was not as swift as he would have liked as he was hailed by various acquaintances and forced to respond.
At one point Mr. Arnold caught hold of his sleeve. “Here, Rathbone! I say, have you heard? The squire has promised to mount a few of us for a steeplechase. We are not even staying to put off ball-dress. You are joining us, are you not?”
“No, no, I think not, Arnold.” Lord Rathbone forced a stiff smile to his lips. “I’m afraid that I’ve rather lost interest in the notion.”
“Oh, very sorry to hear that. Your inspiration and all that,” said Mr. Arnold, disappointed.
“Pray do not let my doldrums keep you from your own enjoyment,” said Lord Rathbone.
“No, I should think not! Jolly good of you, Rathbone. Well, shan’t keep you any longer,” said Mr. Arnold, giving a good-natured wave.
Lord Rathbone saw that he was already forgotten as Mr. Arnold hurried over to join a small group of waiting gentlemen. A sardonic smile emphasizing his stern features, he turned once more toward the door of the ballroom. As he did so, he saw Miss Worth sitting by herself to one side of the dance floor.
There was a pocket of empty space around her, though people stood all about in witty conversation and laughter. Miss Worth was pale of face, but composed. Her upright posture spoke of pride.
Lord Rathbone understood in a flash. She knew or had already heard the talk, then. Something twisted inside of him.
Lord Rathbone started to cross over to her, but he stopped himself in midstride. It would only make matters worse for her if he were to approach her so publicly.
He turned on his heel and strode away, leaving the elegant ballroom behind.
Verity watched the viscount go. She felt wretched and angry all at one time. Though she did not acknowledge them, she could see the glances thrown in her direction and the whispered confidences behind lifted hands. It did not do a bit of good to tell herself that she had known what the outcome would be and that she had been wise to try to prepare herself for it. The reality was so much more hideous than she had anticipated.
There was no escape from the bright, cold stares. She could not leave the ballroom on any pretext without underscoring just the sort of ugly speculations that were running rife through the company.
She could only hope that the Pettiforth party would soon return home. Her only recourse of the moment was to bear herself with pride. It would never do to betray a quiver of weakness, or even to show awareness that she was the object of malicious gossip. How she was to endure it, she did not know, but endure it she must.
A whisper of fabric warned her of someone’s approach. Steeling herself, Verity turned her head. She met the sympathetic expression of her friend, Betsy Arnold. Tears stung her eyes. She could have met a malicious smile and a stinging reproach with fortitude, but she had no defe
nse against kindness.
Mrs. Arnold sat down in the chair beside Verity, her fingers giving Verity a warning nip. There were a score of interested gazes directed toward the two women. “Verity, I was just telling Mrs. Pettiforth that I have been struck with the most monstrous headache. As I had no wish to interrupt her pleasure, I begged that you might be allowed to bear me company back to the manor. Would you be so kind?”
“Of course, I shall do so,” said Verity, rising. Her eyes communicated her heartfelt gratitude, though there was nothing else in her expression or her demeanor to indicate her relief.
Mrs. Arnold put her arm through Verity’s in a companionable way and gave her a comforting squeeze. “Thank you, my dear. I know that I am a sad trial to take you away so early in the evening.”
Maintaining a light discourse, to which Verity had only to smile and to reply at appropriate intervals, Mrs. Arnold eased her past the cold stares and out of the house.
“The ladies stepped outside, their wraps about their shoulders. Verity put back her head, her eyes closed, to take a deep breath of the crisp cold air. On a note of relief, she said, “I was stifling in there.”
“I do not doubt it in the least. The heat was positively horrendous. I felt it most acutely myself.” The words were accompanied by a sharp pinch and a meaningful glance at the manservant holding a lantern for them as the carriage was brought round. “It is no wonder that I should have developed the headache. You are so kind to have come with me.”
The ladies stepped up into the carriage. The door was shut, the whip cracked. As the carriage bolted forward, Verity said in a low, trembling voice, “Thank you, Betsy. I do not know that I could have borne it much longer.”
“Nonsense. I know you too well,” said Mrs. Arnold bracingly, not at all as though she had a headache. She paused for a long moment, as though not quite certain how best to phrase what she wished to convey. Finally, and very quietly, she ventured, “Verity, I shall stand your friend whatever is said. You have but to tell me what I can do for you.”
Verity gave a shaking laugh. “I doubt that anything can be done at this juncture.”
There was enough truth in the flat words that Mrs. Arnold was left with nothing to say. She could only cover her friend’s cold hand with hers and press Verity’s fingers in mute sympathy. The remainder of the drive was completed in silence.
When the ladies disembarked from the carriage onto the gravel to go inside, Mrs. Arnold turned impulsively to Verity. She said urgently, “Come up to my room whenever you wish to unburden yourself, my dear. I shall be available to you whatever the hour.”
“Thank you, Betsy. I shall remember.” Verity managed a credible smile as they trod up the steps and entered the manor. The porter closed the front door and the ladies traversed the hall in silence.
At the bottom of the staircase, Mrs. Arnold paused. She spoke quietly so that the sleepy porter would not be alerted to their conversation. “Will you come sit with me now, Verity?”
Verity shook her head. “I-I would prefer to have time alone to reflect. My mind is in such a whirl.”
“I understand, of course. Then I must wish you goodnight, my dear.” Mrs. Arnold offered her a quick embrace. Verity clung to her friend for a moment, then laughed. “Don’t make me cry, Betsy.”
“Oh, bother! What a goose you are. Verity!” said Mrs. Arnold, also laughing with the glint of tears in her own eyes.
As they parted, they heard a quick, hard step. Both turned, and Mrs. Arnold gave a soft exclamation.
* * *
Chapter 15
Lord Rathbone had come out of the library and he stood in the doorway, regarding them. His hand was still on the knob. He swept a cursory bow of acknowledgment to Mrs. Arnold, but his eyes immediately returned to Miss Worth’s whitening face. “Mrs. Arnold, I would like a private word with Miss Worth.”
Mrs. Arnold gasped in sheer indignation. She forgot the presence of the porter or the possibility of any other servants being about. “My lord! After tonight I wonder how you can dare!”
Verity touched her friend’s arm. Her wide gray eyes were shadowed but calm. “Please, Betsy. I believe it is perhaps for the best that I grant his lordship’s request.”
Mrs. Arnold wavered, her expression one of doubt and misgiving. She faltered, “You must do as you think best, of course.” She rounded on Lord Rathbone, flaring up once more. With awful sarcasm, she said, “I trust that his lordship shall act the gentleman!”
A little white about the mouth, Lord Rathbone bowed.
Mrs. Arnold accepted this assurance with obvious reluctance. She turned to Verity and kissed her cheek. “I shall wait for you in my room,” she said meaningfully. With that, she turned and mounted the stairs.
“The sitting room, I think,” said Lord Rathbone shortly. “I had just snuffed the candles in the library when I heard your voices, but I believe that a branch is still burning in the sitting room.” He gestured politely and, without speaking or glancing up at his face as she passed, Verity preceded him into the room. Lord Rathbone entered and closed the door, shutting out the porter’s sleepy curiosity.
* * * *
A fire was still crackling lazily on the hearth in front of the heavy wooden settle. But neither Lord Rathbone nor Verity sought out the warmth. Instead they faced each other like enemies wary of one another’s motives.
Verity felt color rise in her face under his lordship’s intense scrutiny, but she did not drop her own gaze. It cost her a little to present a proud front, yet somehow she managed to still the shaking sensation she felt in all her limbs. She would not be the first to break silence, she thought rebelliously, for it was he who had requested this interview.
Finally, Lord Rathbone said, “I can do little more than apologize to you, Miss Worth. It was never my intention to make you the butt of ill-bred, malicious gossip.”
“Was it not?” Verity’s voice conveyed a sort of ironic curiosity that made him stiffen. “Then what was your intention, my lord? For your behavior these last weeks has certainly led me to that very conclusion.”
“Miss Worth—Verity!”
He had taken a hasty step forward, his hand lifting toward her.
But at her raised palm, he stopped. He held himself very stiffly, not trusting himself nor his rapidly slipping control. “Believe me, my dear lady, not once did I entertain any such motive. I cannot explain to you why I—no! I can be honest enough with myself, and with you, to voice the truth.”
He smiled then, but it was not the mocking, amused expression that was characteristic of him. His face was stern. “In all truth, my vanity was pricked, Miss Worth. I overheard a few scathing words uttered against my character that I could not let go nor forget. You brought yourself very firmly to my notice through your disapproval of my frippery person.”
“And so you thought to teach me a lesson,” said Verity calmly. Her hands were now clasped tightly in front of her as though she would fly apart without the contact.
Lord Rathbone winced. It was noticeable even in the uncertain firelight that he had gone pale beneath his tan. “Yes.”
“What was your object, my lord? That I should make a fool of myself over you, perhaps even to form a passion for you?” she asked. Her eyes were huge in her face, wide, fathomless gray pools that demanded the truth.
The admission was strangled in his throat. Nevertheless, he forced it out. “Yes.”
“How much you must have hated me,” she said, averting her head. She could no longer bear to look into his face. Her chest felt as though it would burst.
“No!”
The denial was explosive, immediate. She was so shocked by the violence inherent in his voice that her eyes snapped up to meet his. There was an intensity in his gaze that scorched her and she involuntarily took a backward step.
Recognizing the shadow of fear in her eyes, Lord Rathbone mastered his emotions. Very controlled, he said, “It was not hate. I have never felt that toward
you.”
Verity made a weary gesture. “Revenge, then. It is all one, is it not?” She started to turn away from him to the door.
He stepped swiftly forward and caught her arm before she could leave him. He spoke quickly, urgently. “It was I who has ended by making a fool of myself. Verity, I have used you abominably, I know. I swear to you that once I realized what I was doing to you in the eyes of the world, I never regretted anything more in my life.”
“Regret?” She laughed then, disbelievingly.
She shook off his fingers as she rounded on him. Despair and fury alike blazed in her expression. “I am my lord’s flirt. That is what they called me tonight. I could scarcely look anywhere for the shame that was thrust upon me.” She was visibly trembling. She passed a hand over her eyes as though dazed. “Dear God. You have ruined me as surely as though I had been your mistress.”
He rocked back as though he had suffered a body blow, as perhaps he had. “I... I infinitely regret—”
“Of what possible use is that to me, my lord?”
Verity shook her head violently, tears glittering in her eyes. “I have no patience for such selfish feeling. No, my lord! You would deny your self-centered motive in making your apologies to me tonight. But we both know better, do we not? I begged you to have a care toward me, for I knew what the outcome must be. You would not listen and now when it has all come to pass, you have finally come to your senses.”
A nerve jumped in Lord Rathbone’s tightly held jaw. “I know that I deserve your condemnation. Believe me, it could be not harsher than that which I hold for myself! I desire nothing more than to wipe the slate clean. You must believe that, Miss Worth.”
Verity stared at him. She shook her head. “Your apologies are completely meaningless, my lord, for they arise out of guilt, not fellow feeling. You care for nothing and for no one but yourself and your own self-consequence.”
He reached out for her hand, but at her gesture of revulsion, his own hand dropped. The hoarseness of his voice was strange to his own ears. “Verity, I care for you. I offer you my name. If you will accept me, you will do me greater honor than I deserve.”