by Reid, Stacy
Perhaps. “Yes.” A blush warmed her skin at her naivety.
“As like most young ladies of the ton, I gather you have been cossetted most of your life. Have you ever seen someone fight?”
“No, of course not,” she said in a horrified tone.
“Tonight I am taking you to a club.”
“A gentlemen’s club!” she gasped. “My lord…that…that is simply too—” she objected, considerably surprised.
“Improper, outrageous?” he demanded with a mocking smile. “I assure you I am still a bit perturbed by our arrangement.”
Casting him a glance of acute suspicion, Verity asked, “What is at this club?”
“Fighting. Many gentlemen have never been in a fight. They may have learned fencing, and perhaps even boxing. But never real fisticuffs—the kind that draws blood, and hurt, the kind that is necessary to protect dignity and life. When footpads accost them, or anyone else they freeze, and they are taken advantage of badly. You, my lady, are even more ignorant and naive when it comes to what is expected when accosted.”
The truth of his words hammered at her, and memories of how helpless she had been as the marquess pinned her to the earth with his large frame and ripped at her dress made her tremble.
“I take you to the club tonight simply to open your eyes and prepare your mind. If after tonight you wish to continue…then we will.”
Verity stared at the earl, equally shocked and enthralled. Learning to fight had been an idea borne of desperation, which had sounded powerfully freeing. A fighter seemed like one who was courageous and would not fear a simple outing or being in the same room with an odious bully. She had not truly thought of the rudiments or truly even fighting herself. Somehow learning had become a symbol: to show she was once again courageous, and the witty, freedom-loving girl she had once been. But what if she were truly called upon to use her skills. The very idea made Verity feel faint and desperately afraid. And that made her angry for she was tired of feeling fear. “Take me,” she murmured, lifting her eyes to meet his.
His gaze glittered with admiration and it made her feel warm inside. The earl said nothing more but led the way outside to a waiting carriage. They entered, and she sat opposite him and folded her hands in her laps. She closed her eyes briefly, an awareness of her life altering persistently buffeting her senses. Then she smiled. Only forward, Verity…and with courage.
Words her father had said many times to her over the years, especially as she had learned to ride horses, for she had been afraid of the animals. Words her nightmares had obscured for too long. How patient and loving her papa had been. How encouraging. She took his words, wrapped them in her heart and whispered, “And with courage, papa, I promise it.”
* * *
Lady Verity smoothed her palms over her thighs once more, a nervous gesture she had repeated at least five times. James had no words of comfort to offer, and he leaned back against the squabs as the carriage rumbled over the cobbled streets of London to their destination. He hadn’t believed she would dare show up for their lessons. That was why he had deliberately informed her of their first meeting a week in advance, enough time for her nerves to desert her, and for the lady to rethink her decision.
Most, if not all, young ladies were ruthlessly groomed to believe in adhering to the strict and proper rules governing polite society. For an unmarried society girl, any suggestions of unique individuality were frowned upon. Yet this lady had the audacity to do so…and he admired her for it. Ardently. The awareness pulled a smile to his lips and an odd lightness lifted his heart.
Not for the first time, James wondered if he was doing the smart thing in taking her to the club. While she was not the typical, wilting, hysterical miss, she was a lady of quality. Tonight would distress her sensibilities. Yet he wanted her to understand the stark reality of what she sought. Understand the risks, the consequences, the violence, and the raw emotions of guilt and acceptance that came with lifting a fist to someone else. Whether in attack or defense, it took a different kind of strength to follow through.
“There is a rumor that you made your fortune in the fighting pits,” she said unexpectedly.
James observed the fright in her eyes, and realized she wanted conversation of some sort to calm her nerves. For a moment he felt flummoxed. Most of the discourse he had with ladies of society were quite bland, uninspired, and was scripted by etiquette and an elevated sense of what was proper and just. This was not such a question. He found her forwardness refreshing, though, given their circumstance he couldn’t expect differently. Even if she only sought to ease her nerves. He wanted to relieve her anxiety. It made him feel contemplative. Tenderness, that most alien and disconcerting of emotions, swelled and roiled through James. “I did make some of my wealth in that manner. The gambling tables and a few investments also helped.”
“You are an earl,” she said with a soft sideways glance.
“That I am, Lady Verity.”
“How did an earl end up with a reputation as one of London’s fiercest fighters? It is most unusual.” At his silence she continued, “If you do not mind my curiosity?”
He’d done what he had to do to save his family: the tenant workers of his land whom he had grown up with, the servants of the house who had pooled their monies together to buy him books, boots in winter, because his father had not given a damn. When he’d inherited the lands and four estates, there hadn’t been money to invest in the latest farming techniques and equipment. Many had stood to lose their livelihood and homes they had lived in for years.
“It had been necessary.”
“Your earldom was impoverished?”
“My father died seven years ago when I was one and twenty. Upon claiming my inheritance, the lawyers informed me my coffers were empty, and a few of the estates heavily burdened by debts and mortgages.”
“That must have been terrible,” she murmured sympathetically. “Were you abroad?”
“No. I was living in the village, working the fields along with the tenant farmers.”
Her lips parted in shock. “I beg your pardon?”
James felt a similar sense of disbelief. He did not share his past with anyone, knowing the ton’s propensity for gossip and cruel speculations into one’s life. He cleared his throat. “You have shared a part of yourself with me, Lady Verity. You are trusting me with your secrets now, and for that reason…for that reason I too will share some of my past. Since I’ve never shared my history with anyone else, I will lay blame at your door if I hear this circulating among the masses.”
Her eyes widened, and her fingers dug into the edges of the padded seat. “I do not gossip, my lord,” she said softly. “I daresay you are not obliged to share.”
James arched a brow and remained quiet.
She tapped her left foot several times, and shifted as if the seats were uncomfortable, then folded her arms across her middle. With a harrumph she said, “Oh, do continue!”
He laughed, impressed that her curiosity had held itself back for at least ten seconds. She glared at him with a perturbed furrow between her brows.
“My father neglected his duty, unable to rise to the occasion because he had been so lost in his grief,” he said gruffly. “He loved my mother more than life itself, and I killed her.”
Lady Verity stiffened but did not interrupt.
“I was a big, ugly brute who took her life during childbirth. My father never forgave me for that, so not only were the estates neglected, but so was I.” James’s earliest memories were of his father screaming to his nurse to take James from his sight. He’d been born too big. And as a brute he should work the fields. It had been unorthodox, shameful, but the old earl had forced his son to work the land alongside his tenant farmers. He’d denied him tutors, and the fine education the men of his line should have been given. He’d hidden him in the country along with his pain and his son’s existence. Society knew there had been an heir, but they’d never met him. “I had no tutors or governe
sses. I was not sent to Eton or Oxford. I spent most of my life in the village of Cressingham. I was the ugly brute who took everything my father cherished, and he treated me like one.”
Her eyes were red and it was evident to him she struggled with tears. James frowned, for he had not told her of any of the sufferings he had waded through—the vicious fights with the older boys, the pain of never knowing his mother, even how she looked, the hunger to hear a comforting word from his father always denied. “You are far too softhearted,” he muttered.
She scowled at him. “I do not believe in speaking ill of the dead, but your father was an ass. My Aunt Jacintha died in childbirth several years ago, and her babe was very small. I believe it happens and it was terrible of him to blame you when he should have loved you endlessly because you were a part of her.”
James smiled. “Thank you.”
They stared at each other for several moments before she glanced away. He was curious about the blush reddening her cheeks and wondered what lingered within that mind of hers.
“You speak quite well for a man who grew up without formal education.”
“My solace was found in books and from their pages my mind was edified. The village raised me. The servants raised me. I learned French from the village’s dressmaker. They took their wages, pooled them together and bought me books and sweet treats. It was at their tables I enjoyed dinners and Christmas. It was at their homes I learned about family and love. So when they needed me, I fought for them.” And now his village and earldom were one of the most prosperous. Society would not bring him to shame for how he had attained his wealth.
A soft smile lit her face. “You are incredible, my lord. It must have been scary to be presented at court.”
“I shook in my boots and bumbled in my speech,” he said with a rueful smile. “But at the end, all was well.”
The carriage slowed, and she shifted the small curtain by the windows. “We are in St. James,” she said with a curious look his way.
“Yes.”
“And we are slowing for the queue.”
“Yes.”
“Should we—”
“No.”
An amused smile curved her generous lips. “You had no notion of my question.”
“You wanted to know if we should descend and walk.”
“Impressive,” she said teasingly, before sobering.
“I want you to understand my rules before we enter. You are a lady, disguised as a young gent. Keep your head down. Do not speak unless absolutely necessary. And stay by my side at all times. If you must talk, deepen your voice, and speak low. To play the part you will also be required to nurse a drink. Whisky. Do not drink it. Simply…hold it, and sip occasionally. Is that understood Lady Verity.”
She nodded and he almost smiled at the shimmer of excitement in her golden eyes.
“Now take the time to compose yourself.”
She tested that the short dark wig was firmly in place, tugged at her cravat, and even fiddled with her hat.
The carriage lurched ahead slowly and he relaxed against the squabs. She licked her lips, and he wished by all that was holy he could disguise those too. They were so lush, carnal, and kissable. Only a damn fool would think that wicked mouth belonged to a young man.
“I believe our first lesson should be on dancing,” she said unexpectedly.
“If you think that is best.”
A winsome smile curved her lips and drove the air from his lungs. “For God’s sakes,” he muttered, tugging at his cravat. “Under no circumstances must you smile tonight. None.”
She made no reply to his request, but said, “Dancing is the first step in courtship. I believe it was understandable that Lady Susanna felt…slighted that you have never asked her to dance or observed any of the proper courtship rituals. Your proposal felt like a business transaction. So yes, we shall start with the elegant and beautiful art of dancing.”
He nodded his agreement, thinking that maybe he had really approached courting of the lady in the wrong manner. Dancing, poetry, and flowers. Simple but clearly very important. And he thought about what they communicated and drew a blank. If every suitor asked for dances, recited poetry, and delivered flowers, how in God’s name was any of it special?
Lady Verity cleared her throat. “Is Lady Susanna the only lady you saw who you believed would make you a fine countess.”
“She was the first lady to look at me,” he said gruffly. The lady had flirted shamelessly with him at one of her father’s political dinners. It had been an encouragement of sorts, except he had clearly ignored all the rules of courtship and had made an offer after a few more stilted meetings.
“What do you mean?”
“Most ladies of society look at me and see an animal.”
Her golden eyes flashed with anger and he was entranced. “How absurd! I cannot credit you would believe such an odious notion.”
“I’ve had married women, widows, reckless debutantes shamelessly make offers of the scandalous variety, yet at the balls pretend they do not know me. I’ve always been curious about the duality of their nature.”
A hand fluttered to rest above her heart. “You’ve been with married women?”
How odd the disappointment in her voice stung and how damn glad he was that he’d lived by a code. “I normally booted those out.”
She glanced away, but he saw the tiny smile at her lips before she suppressed it.
“It is time for us to enter. Let’s go, Vincent.”
She laughed. “Vincent. I like it.”
Then they descended the carriage and made their way to the large bricked building, while James hoped he wasn’t making a mistake taking such a fine lady into this den of sin and debauchery.
Chapter 6
Inside the Club was decadent. Verity skittered alarmingly and she hovered at the entrance almost scared to step into a place of sin and depravity. Fear and a dash of excitement coursed through her veins. Her breath trembled on her lips. The decor was one of luxury, red and green carpets covered the floor, and swaths of red and golden drapes twined themselves around massive white Corinthian columns. Dozens of tables were scattered in an organized sprawl on this lower floor, and many lords she recognized sat at tables playing faro, Macao, whist, and vingt-et-un.
Smoke wafted through the air from the many lit cigars, glasses clinked loudly as it appeared every gentleman had a drink in hand, and the clattering of dice echoed as they rolled on the tables. Verity swore she could hear the fine shuffling of the cards as they were flicked, cut, and shuffled with artistic expertise. Elegantly clad women with filigree masks on their faces, and a fortune in jewelry at their throats and ears reposed on chaises longues chatting and drinking champagne. This could have been a masquerade party held by a lady of the ton, or even one of the risqué parties the king was rumored to host, a nod to his wild and wicked days when he had been the Prince Regent. Yet, there was such an air of wickedness and conquest at this club that she doubted would ever exist at a society ball.
Atop the second-floor railing, stood a man she recognized. Viscount Worsely, a man rumored to be dangerous and unpredictable. The man had a distinctively captivating presence, impeccably dressed in the first stare of fashion, and his dark blond hair shone like burnished gold under the thousands of candles hung suspended from magnificent chandeliers. He surveyed the crowd as if he were king, and the gambling lords and ladies his subjects. There was a rumor in the ton the viscount was part owner of a notorious club, but Verity hadn’t paid any attention to it, for it did not concern her.
She glanced at James who seemed to be assessing her reception to his den of sin. It was as if he expected her to act missish and wail to be returned to her sanctuary. Somehow his air of expectancy inspired her to be spontaneous, naughty…scandalous. She sucked in a harsh breath and pushed away the ridiculous feelings. “So, this is how the sinful half live?” she asked archly.
The air crackled with the intensity of his stare, and she fe
lt the ridiculous urge to remind him she was disguised as a lad. Another surely would not stare at a gentleman in such a disturbingly wicked manner. She glanced away briefly, and upon meeting his gaze, once again his expression was neutral. Had she imagined desire?
Or was it her unpardonable awareness she was foisting on the earl? He was truly irresistible, with those burning dark eyes and endearing smile, and a somewhat crooked nose.
“Follow me and keep close,” he murmured.
They made their way through the tables toward the winding staircase. A few men stopped him, shook his hands, and even discussed James’s support of a motion the Whig party wanted to argue in Parliament at its next session. Those who glanced at her overly long, received an introduction. James’s cousin from the country, in town for a spot of gambling. She kept her head suitably low, her voice deep, and she was deemed as unimportant. They continued up the stairs where they passed Lord Worsely. Looking up as she approached, he quite openly studied her.
A smile curved his lips, and an arched brow was directed at James. Verity’s heart tripped into an alarming beat.
“Worsely,” James greeted coolly. “Has the match started?”
The viscount wrested his curious gaze from her. “About now. You made it in time. Will you challenge the winner? The purse is ten thousand pounds.”
Verity almost expired from shock at the fortune named.
“Excellent. My cousin here, Vincent, is quite eager to witness one of your notorious prizefighting matches.”
“Ah, Vincent is it?”
“Yes,” James returned, and there was a throb of warning in his tone.
The viscount nodded, James continued on, and Verity followed, aware of the Viscount’s stare on her back. “He recognized me,” she said.
“No,” James returned. “Not your identity. Simply that you are a lady.”
“And is that cause for worry?”