by Gayle Buck
Sir Charles credited Mrs. Arnold with the good sense to have revealed all that she was privy to, but perhaps that lady had feared that she had not been wholly in Verity’s confidence.
The military life had taught him many lessons, not the least of which was to be prepared for any eventuality. For Verity’s sake, he could not let the question of her honor to be concluded with a duel.
“I should like very much to kill you, Rathbone,” he said softly. As a result of his thoughts, his eyes were very cold, very hard. “But I don’t mean to. At least, I will not before you have been wed to my sister. Then we shall see how matters fall out.”
Lord Rathbone stood quite still. His stone-carved face did not betray his feelings, except for the white line about his mouth. “I understand you perfectly. I have said that it was for you to choose how justice was to be executed. Now I give you my word. Miss Worth shall not take any harm through her marriage to me.”
Sir Charles stood up. “I think we understand one another tolerably well, my lord. I will take my leave of you now. There are matters that I must attend to in the morning. By the by, my sister has posted up to London with Mrs. Arnold and shall be staying with the Arnolds until I can bring my mother to town. You will wish to convey your respects to your intended as soon as possible, I imagine.”
“I feel quite certain that you are right, Sir Charles,” said Lord Rathbone ironically. “Forgive me for my lapse in good manners, but I will not show you out. You know the way.”
Sir Charles nodded. He could well appreciate his lordship’s feelings at that moment and could almost sympathize. If it had been anyone else but his sister, he sensed that he could have liked the viscount very well. They were much alike, he and Lord Rathbone.
A grim expression suddenly shadowed his eyes. There was one vast difference between them, however. He would not have offered a lady of quality a slip on the shoulder.
Sir Charles had opened the door when the viscount called out sharply to him. Sir Charles turned. Lord Rathbone was standing at the mantel. The firelight cast flickering shadows over his lordship’s countenance, and for a moment, Sir Charles had a clear window to the depths of the viscount’s torment.
Lord Rathbone’s smile was twisted. “I am not quite the blackguard you think me, Sir Charles. I did offer to marry your sister.”
Seeing the swift change in his visitor’s expression, Lord Rathbone shrugged. “She did not tell you, then. I did not think so. She spurned me. I wonder, if she refuses again, will you try to spit me on a sword?”
“She will not refuse you again, my lord. I will see to that,” said Sir Charles quietly.
His antagonism toward the viscount had lessened to a degree with the gentleman’s admission. Lord Rathbone had at least attempted to make reparation. It was yet to be discovered what maggot had taken possession of Verity’s brain to have induced her refusal. Sir Charles could have sworn that she cared for the viscount. However, when all was told, it scarcely mattered. The viscount had agreed to marriage. Wed him she would.
Sir Charles stepped through the door and closed it firmly behind him.
Lord Rathbone laughed to himself. It was a harsh, derisive sound in the empty room. “A reluctant bride who finds me repugnant! Lord, I have made a rare mull of it.” He stirred the fire with the toe of his boot.
Brooding, it occurred suddenly to Lord Rathbone to wonder why he had thrown the decision of how justice was to be meted out to Sir Charles. It had not been through fear of facing the gentleman. He had lived recklessly too long to quake now at the mortal danger posed by a duel. It would not have been his first such meeting, after all.
Lord Rathbone frowned abstractedly, then straightened abruptly. He had had enough of introspection for the night. Striding across the sitting room, he yanked open the door. He set up a call for his valet. “I’m to bed, Barrow!”
* * *
Chapter 23
Lord Rathbone made a formal visit to the Arnold residence that same week. Having sent up his card, he restlessly paced in the sitting room for word that he was to be received by the lady of the house and her guest. Eventually the butler returned and escorted his lordship into the drawing room where Mrs. Arnold and Verity awaited him.
Mrs. Arnold rose to meet his lordship’s bow. “My lord, this is a pleasant surprise. I am positive that Miss Worth must share my feelings.”
Lord Rathbone glanced at the lady in question, and thought grimly that it did not appear from her expression that she entered completely into Mrs. Arnold’s assurances. After one fleeting glance at him when he had stepped into the room, she had not looked directly at him. “I hope that I am not regarded wholly as an enemy, Miss Worth,” he said quietly.
She did meet his eyes then, her own gray gaze steady and considering. “No, my lord. You are not.”
Quickly glancing from one to the other, Mrs. Arnold interposed, “It is early yet, my lord, but I trust that you will not object to taking tea with us.”
Lord Rathbone indicated his willingness. The social nicety would guarantee that his visit would be an extended one. Above all else, he desired the chance to speak with Miss Worth, and the odds of doing so lengthened the longer his stay.
He knew that because of what had happened between them, it would be difficult to articulate what he needed to say to her. Lord Rathbone discovered that his courage was not so deep as he would have liked. He could not contemplate the necessity of referring to what he only wished to forget without inwardly flinching. In that short period of time, he had been stripped of everything that mattered to him.
Nevertheless, there were things that had to be aired. So he bowed to the maudling of his insides with tea and biscuits and hoped that his courage would not desert him before the end of his visit.
Tea was duly partaken and all of the civilities observed in commonplace conversation. The part that Miss Worth took was scarcely encouraging to a gentleman already apprehensive.
At last, Lord Rathbone seized upon his destiny and said, “Mrs. Arnold, if it is at all possible, I beg of you the favor of a few private words with Miss Worth.”
Mrs. Arnold turned her head, her expression inquiring. “Well, Verity?”
Verity felt an instant of panic. Mastering her reluctance, she nodded. “Of course. I am at his lordship’s disposal.”
She felt that she had been given no choice in allowing Lord Rathbone to have his say. Her brother had informed her briefly of his interview with the viscount. He had made it perfectly clear how matters stood: either she entertained Lord Rathbone’s suit or he would be obliged to call out the viscount. It had been no less than blackmail on his part, as he had willingly acknowledged.
“However, I am not an ogre, Verity,” he had said. “I want only what is in your best interests.”
“And a marriage of convenience is what you consider to be best for me? Charles, I beg you! Do not force me to do this,” she had said.
Sir Charles’s blue eyes had been quite hard. “I leave it to you, Verity. It is your choice. I will naturally abide by your decision.”
“You know very well that I do not wish you to meet him,” said Verity in a low voice. “Not when you are determined to destroy him.”
Sir Charles had been unmoved. “Your decision, Verity.”
And so she had acquiesced.
Mrs. Arnold rose with a swish of her skirts. “Very well, then. I shall leave you now, my lord. I shall grant you a quarter hour.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I am grateful to you,” said Lord Rathbone. He had also risen and now accompanied the lady to the drawing room door. He opened it for her and Mrs. Arnold, with a last backward glance in Verity’s direction, exited.
Lord Rathbone closed the door. He did not immediately leave it, but stood quite still as he gravely considered his intended bride from across the expanse of the room. She met his regard with calm, her head held high, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
Lord Rathbone abandoned his position and moved acros
s the room. He sat down in a wing chair opposite that of his companion. He wanted to give her no reason to feel intimidated, either by standing over her or by coming too near her. Nevertheless, the tension that shot between them was palpable.
For a long moment Lord Rathbone cast about in his mind for the best way to disclose what was uppermost in his thoughts. He realized that there was no phrasing that could possibly answer the purpose. He would simply have to plunge in and hope for the best.
Lord Rathbone cleared his throat. “Miss Worth, I wish first to apologize to you once again. Pray accept my humblest assurances that I am genuinely repentant for the pain that my words and actions brought you.”
“There is no need to say more on that score, my lord. I am fully aware that you are here under what you feel to be an obligation to me. I do not think it, nor have I desired it of you,” said Verity quietly.
Lord Rathbone inclined his head in polite acknowledgment of her rebuff. It did not surprise him that she held him in aversion. Grimly, he pressed onward. “Nevertheless, I do have an obligation toward you, ma’am. I felt it at the time, as you will recall. Sir Charles’s visit only led me to feel it more strongly. I shall be perfectly plain, Miss Worth. To do less than to offer you once more the protection of my name would be permanent dishonor, both to you and to myself.”
Upon his words, Verity had risen from her chair. She walked to an occasional table and aimlessly picked up a figurine. She turned it this way and that, watching the sunlight strike off its smooth patina. “I, too, have heard my brother’s view of the matter. I do not altogether share it. However, his argument was vastly convincing.”
“Then what is your answer?” he asked tautly.
Verity carefully set down the figurine. She turned. Placing her hands on either side of her on the edges of the table, she looked directly into Lord Rathbone’s eyes. “Very well, my lord. I accept your offer for my hand.”
Lord Rathbone rose from his chair. He stepped toward her, holding out his hand. She laid hers in his palm. His fingers closed over hers. He felt the tremor that ran through her and his own tension increased. His thoughts were shaded equally by despair and resignation. Dear God, she could scarcely bear his touch.
Without expression, he raised her hand to his lips. The salute was brief, without passion. Releasing her hand, he said, “You have made me the happiest of men, Miss Worth.”
Verity raised her eyes to his unfathomable gaze. She felt stifled suddenly. He despised her. He had been forced into declaring for her. It was all a travesty. She could not go through with it, whatever the consequences to him. She wanted to tell him so, but the words stuck in her throat.
Instead, her glance dropped away before his. She said, colorlessly, “You do me great honor, my lord.”
The door to the drawing room opened. Mrs. Arnold sailed in, her eyes going from Lord Rathbone’s grave expression to Verity’s pale face. “It has been a quarter hour, my lord. I trust that was sufficient time?”
Verity spoke up. There was no smile in her eyes or on her face. In a cool, remote voice, she said, “You may congratulate me, Betsy. I have accepted Lord Rathbone’s very obliging offer.”
“My dear!” Mrs. Arnold advanced to embrace Verity and whispered, “I know that Sir Charles will be awfully pleased.” She kissed Verity on the cheek.
Turning then to Lord Rathbone, Mrs. Arnold extended her hand to him. With a smile, she said, “I am glad of this news, my lord. Allow me to be the first to extend my heartfelt felicitations to you. I know that you will give Verity all that she could possibly wish or desire.”
Lord Rathbone responded with a twist of his lips. He sensed the questioning note in the lady’s voice and knew that Mrs. Arnold had unspoken reservations. He glanced at his intended bride, who averted her face from his scrutiny. He wished with all of his being that he could reassure her. “Indeed, ma’am, it is my hope that I am able to do so.”
“I am so glad. Herbert is not at home or I would instantly call him in to share with us this momentous occasion,” said Mrs. Arnold.
“There will be another time,” said Lord Rathbone. “I shall take my leave of you, ma’am. There are naturally matters that I must now attend. Miss Worth, if you have no objection, I shall take it upon myself to insert an immediate notice into the Gazette.”
Verity shook her head, tracing with her finger a pattern on the top of a chair. “No, I have no objection, my lord.”
Lord Rathbone bowed. “I will leave you now, then. Pray convey my respects to Sir Charles and inform him that I shall call upon him at his earliest convenience to discuss the settlements.”
“Of course, my lord,” said Verity, quite coolly. She lifted her eyes briefly to his as she gave her hand to him. The merest brush of his lordship’s lips across her knuckles was all the salute he vouchsafed her before he turned and exited the drawing room.
The door closed behind the viscount. Mrs. Arnold turned to Verity. “Well, it is done, my dear. I know it has not chanced as you would have liked. I hope that you are not too disappointed.”
“Disappointed, Betsy?” Verity gave an angry little laugh. It ended on what sounded suspiciously like a sob. She blazed up. “How should I be disappointed when I have managed to snare one of the most eligible partis in England? I shall be envied by every other unattached female. Oh, no, I am in fine feather. Can you not tell?” She dashed her hand across her tearing eyes and flew out of the room.
“Oh, my poor dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnold. She started to hurry after Verity, but then she paused as the thought struck her. It would no doubt do Verity good to indulge in a good cry.
Verity’s emotions had been perilously strained. Mrs. Arnold had even expressed private concern to Sir Charles. But that gentleman had been remarkably unmoved. “Yes, no doubt. However, Verity is pluck to the backbone. She’ll come around once she has squalled a bit.”
Mrs. Arnold had thought Sir Charles to be singularly unfeeling, but now she wondered whether there had not been a good deal of wisdom in his assessment. And so she did not go after Verity after all. Instead, she hoped that with the passing of the storm, her friend would be better able to support her fate.
The quiet announcement of the betrothal of Miss Verity Worth, daughter of a mere baronet, to Lord Henry Alan George Sandidge, Viscount Rathbone, one of the most eligible bachelors in England, went out in due course. The intelligence was felt in some corners with far-reaching and electrifying force.
Various friends and acquaintances of Miss Worth’s felt that she had done very well by herself, and either sent to her or called upon her with their sincere compliments. Lord Rathbone was variously roasted and congratulated by his friends upon his commitment to the marriage altar.
Mr. Pettiforth and Miss Tibbs were as one in their quiet satisfaction. They were happily unaware that somewhere in the wilds of Yorkshire, a spoiled young beauty was laid by the heels with hysterics when she heard of Miss Worth’s good fortune.
As for Mrs. Pettiforth, she read the news item with appalled fury. She laid the blame squarely at Miss Worth’s door that her darling daughter had not only lost a wealthy peerage, but also had been banished to a select and very strict seminary. She instantly dashed off a bitter and abusive denunciation of Miss Worth to her sister, Lady Rathbone.
Lady Rathbone read Mrs. Pettiforth’s communication with great interest and discernment. Upon her son’s visit to her to report the result of his stay at the Pettiforths, she had been struck by his lack of objectivity. His usual indifferent cynicism had been conspicuously absent in his curt account. She had known then that there was more to the tale and that was why the viscount had found her to be so frustratingly unruffled.
She had bided her time, waiting upon her sister Pettiforth’s account. Now that Lady Rathbone had it in her hands, a smile started to play about her thin mouth. Very deliberately, she refolded her sister’s missive. Lady Rathbone had an almost overwhelming desire to meet her son’s betrothed.
> That desire was swiftly satisfied. Lord Rathbone took it upon himself to call upon his mother and engaged to escort her to the Arnolds’ residence for an interview.
The butler revealed that Miss Worth was in to visitors. When the callers were shown up to the drawing room, Verity set aside her embroidery and rose from the settee to make Lady Rathbone’s acquaintance. Her manner did not hint at the ill-ease that she felt. Instead, her smile and her gracious words of welcome showed all the proper respect that must be shown to one’s prospective mother-in-law. “Pray will you not be seated, my lady? I have already rung for refreshments.”
Lady Rathbone sat down. Her eyes swept over the younger lady’s face and form. She was pleased with what she saw. Miss Worth was not in the first bloom of youth, nor was she a great beauty. But she possessed a natural air of poise and in her dress displayed excellent taste.
Lady Rathbone began to loosen her gloves. “Thank you, my dear Verity. I hope that I may call you that?”
“Of course, ma’am. My lord, will you not also be seated?” said Verity quietly as she resumed her seat.
Lord Rathbone took a chair opposite her. As Verity turned to address Lady Rathbone, she was acutely aware of his gaze on her face.
The refreshments were brought in then and a few minutes passed in determining her lady’s preferences. Lord Rathbone refused all of the tempting offerings. Verity herself chose a single biscuit, and that only out of deference to Lady Rathbone’s own expression of acceptance.
Lady Rathbone declined a second slice of the excellent plum cake. After conveying her compliments to be passed on to the cook, Lady Rathbone touched her lips with her napkin and laid it aside. She said abruptly, “My son has perhaps told you that I am a formidable dame. I can be, indeed, especially with those whom I consider to be fools. Nevertheless, Verity, my hope is that we shall come to know one another to a degree that will allow us to rub along tolerably well.”