“I am not certain Rufus likes me,” he said with a charming curve of his mouth.
“He tends to be wary of those who take liberties,” she said with a challenging lift of her brow.
“Ah…the kiss.”
A flush ran along her cheeks, but she lifted her chin. “Yes, your inappropriate introduction.” And the one she had slapped him so soundly for.
“Should I apologize for it then?”
“Would you be sincere, my lord?” And that very much mattered to her, sincerity in a gentleman.
His lovely eyes danced with humour and an unknown emotion she could not identify. “No,” he murmured, his eyes scanning her face.
“As expected of a rogue,” she said with a sniff.
“I am ever honest, my lady.”
“Are you?”
“Hmm, and something tells me you would value truthfulness. The tilt of your chin, perhaps? It has a very decided and piquant shape.”
Verity refused to smile at his attempts at charm. “I do value honesty, not that it should excuse your wicked behaviour.”
He placed a hand over his heart. “Then I can confess I’ve never gotten such pleasure and delight from a kiss before.”
She audibly gasped. The shameless scoundrel!
“I’ve never tasted lips so soft and sweet, so—”
“My lord! Say no more!” Her entire body felt alive with feelings she never previously felt. Verity was not sure if she should be appalled by this scoundrel’s behaviour or be thrilled. Her heart stuttered and with a sense of stunned alarm she acknowledged that she was terribly attracted to him. Since the death of her fiancé four years ago, Verity hadn’t indulged in any sort of flirtation.
“Should I really not talk about how delightfully plump your lips oomph!”
He choked as she grabbed a fistful of leaves from the shrubbery and stuffed them into his mouth.
He spat it out and glared at her. “I prefer my vegetables cooked, my lady!”
Laughter lurked in his tone, and he stared at her as if uncertain what to think of the lady. Verity did not know what to make of herself either at this moment! She felt as if she wanted to cross wits with him, a singularly foolish desire for a man like him truly did not desire simple ladies like her in possession of a secret no one could ever know.
Even this morning her mamma had remarked that she was a spinster at four and twenty, and Verity should accept the proposal of Reverend Ambridge, who had offered his hand to her in marriage for the second time this year. Her mother had dismissed her protests that her heart had been broken with Richard’s death, and it was far too soon to consider accepting another man as a prospective husband.
And Verity had refused for her honour would not allow her to enter a union when she knew she had been irrevocably compromised. When she had politely been trying to make her refusal sting less, the young man had taken her pause as an invitation and tried to kiss her. That memory had her closing her eyes and puffing out a small breath of annoyance. She had been saved from his embrace by Rufus trying to nip the vicar’s derriere, which had dampened his ardour.
“You do not like my teasing,” Lord Rupert gently said, pressing a hand over his chest as if he were contrite.
His penetrating gaze searched her face. “You seem decidedly out of sorts. If I have ruined your peace, I must, of course, most sincerely apologize.”
“I…” Unequivocally flustered, she faltered, her thoughts searching for words and found nothing. “I must return home; my mother is visiting me for luncheon, and I am already late.”
“Is that an invitation?” he asked with such a hopeful expression she lightly laughed.
“It was not.”
“Ah, such a pity. That is another thing I would have delighted in. Then we could converse and get to know each other.”
Verity loathed to admit it, but he was charming her. “I bid you a good day, my lord.” She lifted the basket and dipped into a small curtsy before walking away, her faithful companion trotting by her heel. Verity could feel his stare lingering on her back as she slipped through the small gates and hurried along the lane leading to the modest cottage her brother had leased to her.
“What did you think of the new baron, Rufus?”
Her dog barked quite enthusiastically, pulling a laugh from her. “I agree with you! Very bold and improper but dashingly handsome and charming.”
Another yip from her dog and Rufus continued wagging his tail.
They trotted together through the picturesque countryside until a moderately-sized house loomed ahead of them. A sense of peace filled her at seeing her home and thinking of the inviting fire awaiting her in the drawing room. After Richard’s death, she had been very ill, crying herself to sleep. Her mother had pushed for her to re-enter society and find a new prospective husband, but Verity had refused. Then, following her father’s death three years ago, she had begged her brother, the new earl, to be allowed to live alone as she was now of age.
There had been months of heated exchanges between herself, her weeping mother, and her brother, but Verity had held firm. She had a small inheritance from her maternal grandfather, which allowed her some independence. Verity had suggested moving to Bath or Brighton, but they had compromised on her renting this small house on one of her family’s estates. It was a neat property and not as luxurious as her previous homes as she was only able to keep a few servants to run her home, but it suited her.
Verity had moved in straight away with her former governess, Mary Herriot. They were mostly happy except from when her mother descended on her to try and drag her back to town with husband-hunting in mind. Her mother was convinced that her beauty alone would find her a suitable husband despite her small dowry and mature years.
But she didn’t require a husband. The man she had loved and gifted her heart and body to, had died. He hadn’t needed to fight in the war, but Richard had been determined to prove that he was more than a second son waiting to come into his inheritance. The memory of how passionate he had been about heading to war brought a lump to her throat. He hadn’t returned with glory and accolades as he’d hoped.
You died, Richard. And since then, she had become so incredibly determined in protecting her heart and her independence.
Entering the yard, she spied her friend, Mary, in the gardens on her knees, uncaring that she dirtied her gown.
“Mary,” Verity said, hurrying over to her. “I got several springs of mistletoe.”
Her former governess was still such a beautiful woman at three and forty. Her dark blue eyes glowed their welcome, and her dark hair without any gray was caught in a loose chignon. Without a hat covering her from the rays of the winter sun, a shine of sweat glistened on her rosy cheeks.
“From Ellesmere Manor?”
Verity nodded with a pleased smile.
“I thought the gate was locked,” Mary said with some exasperation. “Do not tell me you followed through with your plan and climbed it!”
Verity chuckled. “That I did, and I was caught.”
There must have been something in her tone for Mary arched a brow and asked, “Did you meet the new lord of the manor?”
Verity’s silly heart skipped. “I did.”
Mary paused in the act of lowering the small shovel.
“My dear Verity, you are blushing, was he that handsome? His Uncle Frederick was also a fine specimen.”
“Oh, Mary,” she said, lowering the basket to the verdant grass and untying the strings of her bonnet. “It is the sun.”
Mary’s eyes squinted thoughtfully, but she made no reply but resumed her digging underneath some holly bush. “The Vicar came by again earlier,” she said. “You cannot live with me forever, Verity. He is most devoted to you and I believe his sentiments are sincere.”
Verity looked away as a young maid ran on the small lawn with Rufus, tossing him twigs he brought back to her.
“Sometimes I do wish for marriage and children, but the Vicar…I do not think I coul
d accept him; he is so humourless and puritanical. I just do not think we would be a good match.”
Verity had mourned after Richard’s death, knowing she and Richard had come together because of love the night before he had been called away. She was not ashamed of giving herself to her affianced husband, her parents had not known but might have guessed. When she had learned of his death, she had been four months with child, but she had lost the baby as a result of her distress. Her mother and brother had been in London as Verity had insisted on remaining home. Mary had realised what was happening and had sworn the local midwife to secrecy. Verity had recovered but her heart had been shattered with knowing she had lost her little baby girl as well as her much loved Richard, and their plans for a future together.
Enduring such pain had taken months to recover.
Her parents had not mentioned her illness, nor had Richard’s parents.
“And what did you tell the vicar?”
“After he lectured me on the unsuitability of my living alone with only you and servants. I said that it was not his concern since I have not consented to marry him,” she said softly.
Her friend sighed, dropped the trowel, and tugged off her garden gloves to reveal elegantly manicured fingers. “And the Vicar is the kind of man who would expect you to be untouched and assure himself of your grace.”
Verity had been privy to many of the youthful Vicar’s sermons on the dreadful woes of fornicating before marriage. She had listened to with amusement because of their ridiculous prudishness.
Since Richard’s death, she had avoided most social events, even those more modest country ones. However, it was expected that she would attend church, and even there, she had attracted male attention. She had received three proposals while she had been in full mourning for her fiancé. She had given up counting how many there had been since.
None of her suitors had been fully up to her mother’s expectations nor had she been interested in marrying any of them. Verity doubted any of them would have been prepared to accept ‘a soiled dove,’ which meant a wedding night with any man was not to be anticipated. It would only bring sorrow and discord, which was no way to start a marriage.
Verity did not believe it was possible to marry without love, and she did not think she would ever possess the courage to risk her heart again. Loving another was a wonderful experience but suffering the loss of that love was unbearable.
Chapter 3
Rupert had thought of only two things since watching Verity strolled along the lane from his home. Her elegant form stepping along with the exuberant, playful Rufus. He had hoped she would look back, but she had not, and he feared that she was dismissing him as an ill-mannered oaf. He acknowledged that he had been too familiar and presumptuous. Rupert refused to regret kissing her since he wanted to kiss her again and do a lot more. He was convinced underneath her respectable exquisite exterior, she would be a sensual, voluptuous delight. There was fire beneath her loveliness, and he dwelt on imagining some very indecent scenes with her spread for his delectation on his bed.
His thoughts had been carnal and delicious, but they had meant that he had slept poorly as every time he fell briefly asleep, he was discovering her charms in a most improper manner. His wayward dreams of her seduction had not concentrated only on her charms but had moved onto more domestic tableaux with her at his side, surrounded by their children, Rufus, more dogs and even a couple of cats.
Rupert had laughed himself awake at that fancy, only to realise that he never had seriously considered marriage and children as something to be desired in the next few years. He’d always thought at least ten more years as a bachelor, unless he met someone he had to marry. Even giving himself a sharp talking to had failed to destroy the warmth he felt in the concept of besotted marital bliss with Verity at his side and especially in his bed.
The other thought that had obsessed his mind was the meaning of the riddle sonnet. He had cursed his late great-uncle Frederick and his enigma.
“I think I could accept there was so little money and just knuckle down to try and make the estate come around, with so little income if my great-uncle had not hinted so often that there was a treasure. This poem just feels like he is teasing me with something out of my reach…” He had told Farrant after insisting he joined him in a glass of brandy as if they were co-conspirators of a similar rank.
The old man had protested that it was not fitting, but finally consented and had sat perched on the edge of a chair, sipping a glass of the former baron’s best brandy with his new master.
Farrant shuffled and coughed as the fiery liquid reached his throat; he was not used to drinking spirits, like the nobility. “I understand, my lord.”
“Found a folio of his poetry though. Poetry is not my taste, but I think some of it was rather good. I read through every line, but none of it relates to the treasure, and from the fading of the ink, I think they were all written when he was a young man. If we ever find the treasure, I should publish a discreet edition of his verse. Perhaps leaving out some of the er, love poetry.” Rupert stood and refilled his glass, topping up Farrant’s, who protested once more.
“I’m not used to strong spirits, my lord. The late baron would have been most displeased if I had been stealing his brandy.”
“I doubt it, he was a fairly lax employer and would have probably appreciated your companionship as much as I do.”
“The late baron would not have thought so. He always kept the proper distance between master and servant, and we thought that was right. However, I think he would be proud if you published his poetry, sir. If I may say so, sir, that is not getting us any further to finding the treasure, and from what you were saying about the estate’s finances you will need it, especially if your thoughts are leaning towards young Lady Verity.”
Rupert stood surprised at his underling’s perspicacity. He laughed because he should have expected it. The servants always knew their masters’ business before society caught up.
“I have only just met Lady Verity, and I do not think she was that impressed with my address, Farrant. However, she is a lady, so I would have to offer marriage, but you are right, Lady Verity might make marriage worth considering. Tomorrow is another day and perhaps we might come up with some idea as to where the treasure is. Why could he not have just left me a map? No, you do not need to answer that, finish your brandy, I’m for bed. Let’s hope we come up with something soon.”
He had headed for his bed, but had found it hard to settle, his thoughts of Lady Verity and their kiss, tangled up with his bewilderment with the riddle his great-uncle had left him. His lascivious dreams of Verity had inflamed what he considered an unnatural celibacy while he cleared up Frederick’s affairs. His body definitely thought he had been without a woman too long, and the woman he wanted was Lady Verity. So when he left his bed, feeling both unrested and frustrated, Lady Verity was the first thought on his mind.
Perhaps this was what his Uncle Frederick meant when he had told Rupert that when he met the lady his heart would eventually yearn for; the knowledge would be immediate. While he believed in love and the sweetest of sentiments, it was impossible to know with only one meeting if a lady was destined to be his as Uncle Frederick maintained. Rupert had always thought it romantic claptrap, but now he was not so certain.
The riddle and treasure hunt would have to wait; he would call upon her at the first respectable opportunity.
The following day bloomed fair and Verity rose early and headed out to their small garden to pick holly, ivy, and some evergreen branches to decorate the house. It was early to be placing festive decorations but it was a piece of rebellion on her part in defying tradition in her own home. Her brother referred to it as a cottage, but it had formerly been the smaller estate's dower house. Her mother preferred to remain in the townhouse or in the stately home within their main estate but her brother, Simon, had been trying to persuade her to remove to the dower house when he married his fiancée in June of the foll
owing year. Her mother was reluctant and was herself considering relocating to Bath and had invited Verity to join her. Verity had declined the invitation knowing that her mother would continue her attempts to find her a husband.
The family were not extremely wealthy; her father’s dabbling in change, gambling, and his lavish lifestyle had left her brother some serious debts. However, he was a practical and intelligent young man and had dealt sternly with their mother’s more major extravagancies. His careful husbandry and diligent study of the family’s accounts were now bringing the estates back into profit. With continued careful investment, he would produce a comfortable income for himself and any future offspring.
Verity herself had a dowry of five thousand pounds if she should choose to marry and an income of eight hundred pounds a year from her maternal grandfather’s bequest. It was enough to live a quiet life in independent retirement but would not fund a life of any kind in London society or any travels. She did not miss town life but would have liked a little extra to buy a few new gowns and a more fashionable bonnet.
Verity also wanted to provide her servants with a much-needed raise and to set aside an allowance for Mary. Her former governess insisted it was enough that she lived under Verity’s largesse, and she did not need an allowance, but Verity disagreed. Mary should have some measure of independence in her spending and receive some money to save for any future endeavours. Perhaps she might even consider marriage herself; she was still a very good-looking woman. She could not expect children of her own, but perhaps a widower with children would think her suitable.
Verity sighed; she had cut enough greenery to decorate the house for Christmas. There was no point in dreaming of pretty gowns. No more point than dreaming of a handsome young baron with a twinkle in his merry eyes.
Verity headed back into the house and started arranging the greenery, tying them up with some pretty ribbons she had discovered. It took some hours, and finally, she took a step back to admire her handiwork. She was not really satisfied, but it was the best she could do without buying new ribbons.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 108