by Jane Ashford
“What?” he said again. That clap of thunder was louder. They needed to get moving.
“You said you agreed on every important point. I’m interested in one of Rosalie’s points.”
Randolph tried to remember an occasion when Rosalie had expressed a strong opinion. Such as the determination of his current companion on their first meeting—never to marry a country clergyman. He couldn’t come up with one. “She was very young,” he said. “Her mind would have developed over time.”
“I’m sure it would have,” answered Verity. “And such development would have promoted idyllic happiness.”
She sounded very much like Randolph’s dry inner voice, which so often spoke wisdom, however sharp or unwelcome. Perhaps he had set Rosalie up on a pedestal, Randolph thought. Or rather, he’d idealized their story. The truth was, he hadn’t really known her. There’d been no time.
Verity was perfectly right, he acknowledged. Rosalie hadn’t expressed opinions or done anything in particular. She’d admired him, and that had been enough for his younger self. He’d been a little smug, cocky, stuffed full of fresh learning and great plans. A pretty girl who was eager to praise them was the summit of his desire. There was no telling where their lives would have gone. Very likely Rosalie would have tired of listening, at some point, if her death hadn’t destroyed all their possibilities. She’d been a human girl, not a paragon. He would always remember her affectionately, but…
He didn’t want a wife who simply listened and agreed, Randolph realized. Not any more—if he ever really had. He wanted a partner full of ideas and passions, who occasionally interrupted him and quite often made him think. Even when he didn’t really want to. He wanted someone who contributed to plans for their future, rather than accepting whatever he suggested. He wanted a woman who set him afire with longing. In short, he wanted Verity Sinclair. He loved her as he’d never loved Rosalie, with a man’s clear-eyed understanding and wholehearted intensity.
He hadn’t said so when he offered. He hadn’t understood the depth of his feelings then. He needed to tell her. It was becoming a familiar impulse, the need to tell Verity, to hear what she thought.
“I’ve made you sad,” she said, sounding rather melancholy herself. “I beg your pardon. Of course I know nothing about it.” She looked at the ground.
He’d barely even kissed Rosalie, Randolph thought. There’d been a few stolen embraces after their engagement was settled, but those had been nothing like the flash of passion with Verity by the pianoforte, or the ecstasy at Quinn’s cottage. And to compare such things was caddish, and he wouldn’t do it. He didn’t have to. He knew where his priorities lay.
“I’m not usually waspish,” said Verity. “I suppose I was…am jealous.” She sighed. “How dispiriting.”
“I don’t think of Rosalie,” Randolph repeated. “She’s gone. My mind is full of—”
“And yet, what does Shakespeare say? Her ‘eternal summer shall not fade.’”
She touched some truth in that—a wispy, nostalgic principle. “For the callow youth I was, perhaps. But as you guessed, that boy thought more of himself than any other. What he called love…” Randolph shrugged. “I don’t quite recognize it now. Not since I’ve become acquainted with you. It’s much more…expansive, isn’t it? Fiery and challenging and informative and rather all-encompassing, really.”
“Love?” murmured Verity.
“I’m not sure why it took me so long to see that I love you with all my heart.”
She stared at him. She blinked and swallowed. “I was thinking exactly the same thing,” she said, wonderment in her voice.
He smiled down at her, joy unfolding many layered inside him. “Well. That’s good then.”
“Oh, Randolph.” She threw herself into his arms.
Jubilantly, he caught her. And here was yet another sort of kiss—this one free and exulting, a promise sealed. How many more were waiting to be discovered? He couldn’t wait to find out.
The crack of thunder over their heads seemed a proper punctuation—and much too close. He had to step back. “We need to go. The storm is nearly upon us.”
Verity nodded. Hand in hand, they hurried back toward the gate. They were barely halfway there when, with a blinding flash and a splintering crack, lightning struck a tree not twenty feet away. Randolph moved quicker than thought, an arm around Verity’s waist, pulling her tight against him. He took a long step and then another. Even as the thunder assaulted them, shaking the very air, he got them behind a stone plinth.
A heavy section of the tree, split off by the lightning, thudded to the ground near where they’d been standing. Branches speared through on either side of the statue above their heads. He held her. She was trembling. He expected he was, too. It was difficult to tell over the beating of his heart.
The skies let loose then, a deluge, pounding on their hats and shoulders, soaking them instantly. Randolph bent his head and held on. Verity clung to him. The fallen half-tree hissed and sputtered.
“I’ve n-never been so close to a lightning strike,” Verity said, her lips inches from his ear.
“Nor I.” Water streamed down his coat, her cloak. It dripped off his hat brim onto her neck. “What a fool I was. I knew it was going to rain.”
Verity laughed.
When he peered down at her, she laughed harder. He could feel her body shaking with mirth now.
“A nervous reaction,” she gasped. “An excess of—” She dissolved in laughter.
Randolph couldn’t help smiling. And then laughing as well. Rain was a massive understatement. This was a fluid barrage. A pummeling to follow the volley by tree. It was like standing under a waterfall. His hat was slowly drooping down over his skull. Her bonnet was disintegrating over her bright hair. But they were all right—pressed deliciously together, laughing like lunatics.
Then Verity said, “I suppose we should go on before we catch a chill.”
The phrase froze Randolph’s blood. The laugher died in his throat. “Come. I must get you home.” He guided her back to the path. “I’ll find a cab.”
Verity picked up her sodden skirts. He kept his arm around her. They rushed together through the rain to the park gate.
Randolph had to step into the street to stop a hansom cab. “Ye’ll soak the seats,” the driver objected, hunched under a hooded cloak. “No one else’ll want to ride.”
“You have a blanket,” Randolph said. He could see it from where he stood. “We’ll spread it out and sit on it.” He’d rather have put it over Verity, but getting the ride was more important.
“Well—”
“And I’ll give you a guinea extra.”
This won the driver over. Randolph hastily unfolded the blanket and helped Verity into the vehicle. He gave the man the address and joined her. She nestled against him. “You’re cold,” he said.
“So are you.” She slipped her arms around him and rested her head on his chest.
Randolph forgot the chill. Indeed, he was much warmer. He had a sudden flash of the two of them, in this cozy position, over and over down the years to come, right into old age. The idea touched him to the heart.
In a few minutes, the cab pulled up before the door of Verity’s lodgings, and Randolph handed her down. “You must go home,” she said when the maid opened the door and began exclaiming over their bedraggled state. “And get out of those clothes.”
If only they could do so together, Randolph thought. He’d be more than happy to help her out of that wet gown and set of stays, and untie her laces as he had at Quinn’s cottage. He could almost feel the cloth under his fingers. But that was impossible. For now. Soon, soon. He bowed and climbed back into the cab.
Twenty
At Langford House, Randolph squelched up to his bedchamber and changed into dry clothes. He went out again immediately, into the abating rain, and paid a vis
it to Angelo’s. Wrentham wasn’t at the fencing academy. Randolph hadn’t really expected him to be. But there were rumors of a duel floating about the place, as Randolph had anticipated. Here and at the clubs, that sort of gossip would be rife. No one seemed to have specifics, at least. Not yet. He was able to procure Charles Wrentham’s London address, but no word of Carrick. Going on to White’s, he discovered that the latter had lodgings in Duke Street.
Randolph went directly there, impatient with the obstacles being thrown up before him. He wanted to marry; Verity wanted the same. Why must things be so complicated?
Lord Carrick was not at home. Nor was Mr. Wrentham when Randolph tried at his rooms a little later. It was vastly frustrating. Fierce in his desire to have Verity, Randolph wanted to shake sense into both of them until this idiotic idea of a duel rattled out their ears. And then do the same to the ram-obsessed Archbishop of Canterbury.
Which would be conduct unbecoming to his profession, Randolph thought as he turned for home. Of course he’d never do it. But he could imagine how satisfying it might feel.
Back at home, he found that his mother had heard about the sodden pile of clothing he’d left on his bedroom hearth. She made an unusual fuss about his soaking and insisted he wrap up in a blanket and drink hot tea at her side before an early bedtime. The entire household had developed a sensitivity about chills. Randolph would have objected, if he hadn’t already sent a note to Verity to make certain she was unaffected by their drenching.
The next morning, Randolph was up betimes and in Duke Street right after breakfast. He sent up his card at Lord Carrick’s lodgings and was asked upstairs. Fortunately, as a churchman, he was used to calling on near strangers, not that a parson was wanted in this case.
Carrick was as Randolph remembered him, a handsome young man—not tall but well-set-up, with regular features and reddish hair nearly the color of Robert’s. His ivy-green eyes looked mystified just now. “We met at Salbridge last autumn,” Randolph reminded him. “When I came over to see my brother Robert.”
“Oh yes.” It wasn’t clear that Carrick remembered Randolph.
“And your play.”
Carrick stiffened. His eyebrows drew together.
Shouldn’t have mentioned the play, Randolph acknowledged silently. Not the way it had turned out. Chatting was no good—too many potential pitfalls. “There’s no sense beating about the bush,” he said. “I came to talk to you about the duel.”
“Ah.” Carrick’s expression cleared. “You want to attend? I’m afraid I can’t accommodate you. It’s becoming rather a crowd. Which won’t do at such an occasion, you know.” He smiled.
Randolph’s spirits sank. Carrick’s excitement and enthusiasm and heedlessness were all in that smile. He wasn’t going to be helpful. “It is being talked about. No one’s sharing the cause, I hope.”
Carrick looked haughty. “The honor of a young lady is involved. Of course the reason will not be divulged.”
Which pretty much guaranteed it would be, Randolph thought. And who used a word like divulged in normal conversation?
“There’s a good deal of speculation of course,” Carrick added. “But naturally my lips are sealed.” He was the picture of smug satisfaction.
Rochford trailed a string of dalliances, Randolph thought. There was no reason for anyone to think of Verity, or associate her with any of the parties to the duel. But people would be chattering and trying to dig up dirt. Randolph didn’t trust Rochford’s valet to resist bribery. And there was Miss Reynolds to think of, too. No one seemed to be considering her. Who else knew the details of this ridiculous dispute? “How did the challenge go down?” he asked, pretending to be the sort of fellow who relished such details.
“It was at Easton’s,” replied Carrick, naming one of London’s gaming hells. “Rochford was playing vingt-et-un. Devilish high stakes, too. Charles found him there and issued his challenge, complete with a glove. He said Rochford looked dumbfounded to be brought to book. I must say, I never would have thought it of Miss… But no more on that score.” He put his finger to his lips, his eyes dancing.
Yes, the whole rigmarole would be out before long, Randolph thought. Carrick put a good story above all else; he wouldn’t be able to resist. They scarcely knew each other, and he’d nearly let Miss Reynolds’s name slip. How must he speak to his cronies? Randolph felt a flash of irritation—at Carrick and his smirks, at Miss Olivia Townsend. Sneaking mischief and malice could do more damage than outright attack. He’d seen it before. But it did no good to get angry. “I called to ask you to quash the meeting,” he said without much hope. “Won’t you urge Wrentham to call it off?”
“Why would I do that?” Carrick seemed genuinely perplexed.
“Dueling is never wise,” Randolph tried. “Beyond the danger, it simply draws more attention to the…cause. People who knew nothing about it start trying to guess.”
Carrick shrugged. Clearly Miss Reynolds’s reputation was of little interest to him. “You’re a clergyman, aren’t you? I forgot. I suppose you have to be a wet blanket.”
Rather than a childish care-for-nobody, Randolph thought, fuming. “Dueling is illegal,” he pointed out.
“You wouldn’t lay information?” Carrick glared at him. “You may be a parson, but you’re also the son of a duke. You wouldn’t peach on us.”
Were they schoolboys talking of stolen cakes? But Randolph didn’t want to involve the magistrates. That would spread the story even further.
He gave up on Carrick. He would try Wrentham himself next, though after their encounter at Angelo’s, Randolph had little hope that hotheaded young man would listen. Perhaps Rochford? It was more difficult for the challenged man to draw back, especially with two idiots like Carrick and Wrentham likely to crow and call him a coward. Still, he would try. He looked for a hack.
* * *
At that same moment, Verity was being admitted to Langford House to inquire about the duchess’s progress. She’d chosen a time when her parents were out and told the servants only that she had an errand to do. The landlady’s footman who accompanied her through the streets wasn’t privy to her father’s objections. And if she should encounter Randolph and spend some time alone with him, who would know? Verity hugged their last conversation to her chest, where it hummed like a favorite love song. It was a moment that would always be the most cherished of her collection.
There was no sign of her betrothed when she arrived, however, and for now, she was the only visitor. The duchess was propped up on a stack of pillows eating a nourishing egg custard. “You look better,” said Verity as she sat down beside the bed.
“I must have looked positively ghastly before then,” the older woman replied with a smile.
Verity remembered the duchess’s terrible delirium. She thrust the picture away.
“I’m very happy to be better,” the duchess continued. “And grateful. But I’ve discovered the unique frustration of being more than ready to get up while unable to do so.” She examined Verity. “And how are you?”
Verity felt her smile broaden until it was more like a grin. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to shout her happiness from the rooftops. “I’m quite well.”
“You look it.” The duchess put her empty dish aside. “Brighter than I’ve ever seen you. Did you and Randolph have a good talk?”
“You know about that?” Verity was surprised. And then she wasn’t. Randolph’s parents seemed to specialize in omniscience.
“His father thought it was in the wind.”
“Well, we did.” The phrase love you with all my heart echoed in Verity’s brain. She was still grinning, she realized.
The older woman examined her face. Verity felt she was being weighed by a compassionate but demanding intellect. What was the duchess looking for? “So you know about—”
“The archbishop and the ram,” Verity answered.
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“Heavens, it sounds like an Aesop’s fable.” The duchess waited.
“And Rosalie. Why was she such a secret?” Verity’s curiosity stirred. “Sebastian doesn’t know about her. Nor Robert. I asked them.”
“Did you?” The older woman shrugged. “Not a secret really. Randolph simply enjoyed keeping the matter private.”
“You knew the whole time though.”
“I did.”
“Randolph thinks you know everything.”
“It’s a useful illusion for a mother of six boys.” The duchess paused, then said, “You don’t care that Randolph was engaged before?”
“Of course. Who wouldn’t?”
“A young lady marrying for position or convenience or convention.”
Verity flushed. Fleetingly, she feared that Randolph had told the duchess about their indiscretion at Quinn’s cottage. But in the next instant she was certain he hadn’t. “I’m not doing that.” The duchess was watching her. It felt like a test, and an opportunity. Verity spoke in a rush. “I love him so much!”
The reaction was gratifying. The older woman slowly smiled at Verity, a warm, delighted smile. “That makes all easier, and occasionally harder.”
“All?”
“You haven’t asked for my advice,” the duchess said slowly.
“Yes, I have. Now.”
She laughed. “Well, I will tell you this: not talking openly can ruin a marriage. Or a family. I’ve seen numerous examples during my life.”
“What if the other person won’t talk?” Verity asked, interested.
“That is…unfortunate. But as we’re speaking of Randolph, I don’t think you need to worry. He’s the most introspective and…sensitive of my sons.”
Tears suddenly burned in Verity’s eyes.
“The two of you haven’t had much time for confidences, have you? I’m afraid my illness got in the way. But the unspoken isn’t unheard.”
“I can see where Randolph gets his oracular tendency.”