by Stacy Reid
“Your earl is quite dashing and very different tonight,” Caroline said, coming to stand beside her and looping their hands together. “He is normally often brusque to the point of incivility at these events! But now he is positively charming everyone! Even the Grande Dame has smiled at him. Can you imagine that querulous biddy smiling?”
Verity laughed at Caroline’s silliness.
“You are being excessively impertinent, Caroline,” Verity warned.
“They would not suit,” her friend whispered.
Verity glanced around. “Who?”
Caroline’s eyes lit with mischief and a good deal of speculation. “Lord Maschelly and Lady Anna. I am sure there isn’t anyone more amiable and obliging than Lady Anna. That man…is a lion. And he will need a fiery and feisty lady to walk by his side. Say, like one who has been spending an inordinate amount of time with him and who is not afraid to learn to fight.”
Verity flushed and ignored that pointed bid for more information. Feeling in need of a breath of fresh air, she promised Caro to see her before leaving. Verity then discreetly left the public rooms and made her way to the smaller drawing room which had not been opened specifically to the guests. She went over opening the tall French doors that led outside and toward the gardens at the back of the townhouse. The paths were well lit with lanterns, but empty of guests. There was a small alcove at the end, with a fountain, and a bench. Once there she breathed a soft sigh of relief to be away from the stifling heat and the surprising pain of seeing James touching and smiling down at another lady. In the privacy of the alcove, it was hard to stop the lone tear which slid down her cheek.
“Verity.”
She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest, and glanced up. “James! I hadn't thought anyone would notice I slipped away. The crush is so overwhelming, and everyone was so diverted by the entertainment.”
“You were discreet, I was simply aware of you,” he murmured, the gleam in his eyes hard to interpret. “I am sorry I frightened you.”
He sat beside her on the stone bench, staring into the surprisingly clear star-studded night.
Did he feel the same longing she endured? Or did James only see them as friends? These were questions she longed to ask but did not broach, for his answer had the power to wound her heart. Verity had tried to examine the feelings she owned for the man before her, but she had been unable to shape them into any semblance of clarity.
She placed her hand in the small space between them, and he covered it with his. Even through the gloves they wore, she could feel the warm vitality of James. She was very much aware of the strength and power of the shoulder that flexed each time he shifted, as if restless.
“May I kiss you, Verity?”
The earth shifted and took very precious moments to align. “And we return to friends in the morning?” she asked in a deliberately thoughtful tone.
Her pulse had quickened alarmingly, she felt achy, terrifyingly breathless and she struggled to retain her equanimity. She had always believed that once she met the man she would eventually marry, she would recognize him immediately. His affability, polished manners, humorous anecdotes would have instantly captured her attention and heart. It had been the reason she had not been overly interested in any of the four suitors her brother had lured her way since the start of the season. They had been handsome, wealthy, amiable, and they had lavished her with extravagant praise and flattery. But Verity had been unmoved and quite confident none of them would become her future husband.
And then James…
The rumble of his voice pierced the frantic whirl of her thoughts.
“Yes, we shall still be friends in the morning.”
She parted her lips to ask if he ever dreamt of more and was beset by such shyness and nerves she trembled. “Then it is perfectly permissible to kiss me,” she said huskily, even knowing his touch would evoke chaotic desires and wants she would not understand.
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her: Softly…hesitantly and then with domineering tenderness. He coaxed her lips to part with nips and huskily murmured nonsense. She pleaded for more when he slowed his ravishment, and he rewarded her with even deeper kisses. Their tongues tangled, their moans merged, and greed flamed through Verity’s soul.
They broke apart, breathing raggedly. A sharp awareness filled her. “This felt like a farewell, James.”
“Only to our clandestine meetings. We shall see each other quite often about town.”
Disappointment swept through her like a chill. There was more twisting under the surface of her skin, but she could not examine it at this moment. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss against his cheek.
“Thank you, James. I am excessively obliged to you and shall never forget your kindness.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Perhaps one last lesson.”
Regret and something undefinable throbbed in his tone. Verity smiled, the ache in her heart soothed from the heavy sadness in his tone.
“Perhaps one more.”
Chapter 11
James had not thought there was anything under the sun which could have distracted him from thinking about Lady Verity. For the last three days and nights, she haunted his dreams. And he watched the setting and the rising of the sun as if that would make Monday’s session arrive any sooner. Their last lesson.
Twice they had now kissed. And the word ‘kiss’ seemed quite pedantic to describe the event which had unfolded last night, and that day in his library. She inspired him to compose poetry—admittedly all his writings would all be wicked reminiscence of the softness and the plumpness of her lips, the sweetness of her tongue, and those delectable whimpering noises of passion she made so breathlessly against his mouth. Not the muddled nonsense he had teased her with.
What did she think of their illicit embraces?
He wanted to lay her atop his sheets, naked, and lick and suck every inch of her body, bringing her to pleasure over and over. Did she hunger for more as he did? Of course, she would not be thinking of him in a similarly wicked manner. She was intelligent, amusing, and a lady of thoughtful manners. Not a delectable tart who would willingly be wanton with him between the sheets and perhaps in the library on the rug by a fire. Or even the desk before which he now sat. The broad surface filled his imagination with endless possibilities. James had never felt this way about a lady before in all his eight and twenty years, and instinct warned him; this was rare and precious.
With a groan, he sank back even further into the high winged back chair. Lady Verity was solely for marriage. A piercing yearning went through him for her. Though she appeared so delicate at times, she had never flinched from him or made him feel as if he were a damned brute.
She looked at him with trust…and passion, and he hoarded the memory of every smile she had ever bestowed upon him. What he hated the most was the shadow of pain which still lingered in her eyes. James wanted to be the one to lay her dreams at her feet and be the slayer of her nightmares. But what did she want? Merciful Christ. Never had he wished he understood the female mind more? Somehow, he did not believe if he were to call upon her home, as a suitor, she would be receptive of such advances. The lady had made it clear the kind of gentleman she wished to marry, and James was certain, though she liked and admired him, and even trusted in their budding relationship, the lady did not think of him for marriage.
These were the ruminations which had occupied his mind for the last hour. For days he had not been able to stop thinking about her. Must be some sorcery.
James’s man of affairs, Mr. Everton Powell, interrupted his musings and presented him with a box. It flummoxed James that the man had had to clear his throat three times to fully capture his attention. Even then, half of his thoughts had been on Verity, recalling her smile and how beautiful she had appeared at the ball last night. Should I send her flowers?
“My lord,” said Mr. Powell, clearing his throat. "I did not look inside the box, but I thought it wise to bring it to you s
ince it had…the late countess's name written on the side."
With those cryptic words, James’s attention was finally free of Verity’s beguiling sorcery. This box had his mother’s name. “You said this was found in the wine cellar?”
“Yes, my lord. Repairs have only recently started there.”
James nodded. The estate on which he had grown, or near where he had grown, Birchmount Manor—the seat of his earldom and the place where his father had sequestered himself until his death. James had always roamed those walls, feeling hurt and angry that there was no portrait of his mother, and that he could not live at the last place she had resided. Many of the villagers had believed in spirits, and they had regaled him with dozens of stories. And the foolish hope in his heart had made him fervently think that if he could just live at the manor and avoid his father in the large one hundred room home, he would sense something of her presence. And maybe he could have asked her a question which had lingered in his young mind for so long. Did she hate him and blame him for her death as his father had done?
“Was anything else found with her name?”
“No, my lord. After we found this, Mrs. Thompson gathered the servants and had the manor searched from top to bottom.”
Warmth filled James. Mrs. Thompson, the manor's cook, had been one of his fiercest champions growing up and had been a listening ear to many of his musings. She had also been the first person to attempt to teach him his letters.
“And, how is she?”
The man cleared his throat. “If I am permitted to say so, my lord, she misses you.”
James nodded. He hadn't returned to Dorset in almost six years. Every brutal fight and purse he had won had been pushed into restoring those neglected lands and tenants' houses. Thousands of pounds had been invested into new types of machinery for the farmers, larger houses, a village school, fixing and expanding the church, and to commission a hospital. He had never forgotten those he had cared for dying from various diseases, waiting for a doctor to visit from a nearby village. He had sweated blood and tears for the people who had grown him, yet he had not returned since he left.
“I promise a visit soon.”
“Yes, my lord. The repairs on Birchmount Manor should be completed in less than two weeks, my lord. Every room has been restored to its former glory, the furniture refurbished and restored. The silverware replaced. The servants walk with pride in their steps.”
“Thank you, Mr. Powell. That will be all.”
The man departed, and James stared at the box for an inordinate amount of time. He hadn’t hungered for knowledge of his mother for years. Not when it had all seemed so futile. He had several different descriptions of her from the villages, yet it had not been enough for him to paint a picture of her. He knew she was kind. So all the tenants had said. She would attend to them often, brought the poorer villagers food and medicine. And she loved to sing. James sounded like a frog whenever he attempted it, so he knew he did not get that talent from her.
But he loved the pianoforte, and he heard from the housekeeper more than once his mother's skill had been unmatched.
He turned the box almost idly, wondering if he was afraid of opening it. The wild scrawl of her name on the box was in his father’s handwriting. James could almost sense the rage and pain that had been in his father as he wrote the letters.
For the first time in years, and perhaps ever, he felt a pang of sympathy. James suspected he was falling in love with Lady Verity’s charming wit and fierce spirit. How long had he known her? A few weeks? And the knowledge if harm were to befall her it would ravage somewhere deep inside of him sat on his shoulder.
His father had fallen in love with his mother and married her. He'd had her for a little over ten years before he lost her, but he must have loved her with a depth and breadth little would comprehend. James had been in the room when his father had laid dying.
“Georgiana,” James whispered, saying the name his father had cried, right before he had smiled and gone onto his rewards.
He traced the name on the box. Georgiana. With a muttered oath and great annoyance at his prevarication, he wrenched the lid off the box. The first sight that greeted him was a white blanket, with blue trimmings. He took it up, and a pleasant scent of lavender hit his senses and sent him reeling.
Why was a blanket at the top of the box? He flashed it open, and something tugged his attention to the edge. It was an embroidered name: James.
He took a deep breath and glanced into the box. There he spied a small brown book, well five of them, tied with a red ribbon. He untied the strip and took up the first book and opened it. A diary and it was hers. He sat heavily into his chair and started to read.
Dearest Diary,
I met the most wonderful, amiable, and so very handsome young man today. Our meeting was by happenstance. He knocked into me as I exited the library and knocked over my package of books. He apologized so charmingly as he gathered them for me. At least four times. I had to reassure him he did no harm, and I cannot explain how my heart pounded in his presence. Somehow neither of us thought to affect introductions, so caught up we were on staring into each other’s eyes. How gloriously alive I felt. And how happy I had followed mamma and Judith to town for the season. I usually find balls so intolerably dull, but that day my boredom vanished. My dear friend, Theodosia, told me he is the Earl of Maschelly, and he had only recently inherited the earldom, and that he is seeking a wife! Wouldn't it be just wonderful if he considered me?
The joy infused in the words said so much about her character. A wound he thought he had long closed, burst open, and that keen sense of loss, and hope that he would one day know her scythed through his heart. Hours passed in the library as he pored over her journal. He was there on the journey as she attended lavish balls after balls, dancing with his father, their first scandalous kiss. Then their marriage, and her pregnancy.
James’s heart kicked when he saw his name in a passage that had started with her wondering if she would birth a boy or a girl.
I know you to be a boy, my darling. I am so confident about it, and I shall call you James. We cannot wait to meet you. After ten years of wonderful marriage, I am finally fulfilling my duty. I am eager to hold you in my arms and kiss your forehead. Your powerful kicks tell me you will have your father’s size—
Christ. He slammed the diary shut. His father's size. James glanced down at his hand. Had she known to birth him would have taken her life? He glanced back at the diary. Of course not, each word had been filled with hope and love. And he was glad she'd had that rare kind of love in her life. And she had loved him before he had even born.
He reached for the stack of letters, and opened one. James frowned. They were all pleading letters from Mrs. Judith Brimley. After reading several letters, he realized Mrs. Brimley was his mother's sister and his aunt. Shock robbed him of breath for several moments. He had a family he did not know about? The last letter had been sent eleven years ago from an address in Hampshire. Had she sent more letters since? His father had only died seven years past. James gathered from the tone of the letters, which enquired after his health with pleadings for her to visit, she had never received a response.
How cruel his father had been in his grief. Packing away everything into the box, he rose and made his way from the library to his room. There he dismissed his startled valet and lay atop his sheets fully clothed. The emotions in his heart could not be fully understood by James. They were a tangled mess of anger, sadness, and hope. He closed his eyes, and it felt like hours later before he was finally able to fall asleep to the memory of Verity laughing and dancing in his arms.
Early the very next morning, before the dawn had broken, James was on his way to Hampshire in a carriage pulled by his fastest horses. He had sent a cautious note to Lady Verity, canceling their lesson for the upcoming week. James had not provided an explanation, but he had apologized, knowing how much their sessions meant to her. The journey down was uneventful and took him two
days at the pace he traveled. He stayed overnight at inns and was on his way again before the sun rose. After arriving at the return address on the letters, the butler informed him the master of the manor was not at home, and that Mrs. Brimley resided at a cottage about a mile away.
James wasted no time pondering why his aunt had moved and arrived at a modest cottage with the loveliest garden he had ever seen at about two in the afternoon. He dismounted from his carriage and noted no stable lad appeared to offer water or oats for the horses. In fact, he spied no stables. The gravel crunched under his feet as he walked along the driveway, up the few front steps, and knocked on the door.
It took a few moments before a rosy-cheeked, rotund woman opened it. She stared at him and then at the well-sprung carriage behind him.
“May I help you, Sir?” she asked a mite nervously.
"I am here to see Mrs. Judith Brimley. I've no appointment, but if you tell her Lord Maschelly has called, I would appreciate it."
Flustered the lady stepped back and beckoned for him to follow her. James was escorted to a small but tastefully furnished parlor—a pianoforte and a harp were positioned near a small chaise; the dark damask sofa matched the red and peach patterned wallpapers and drapes which covered the floor to ceiling windows. It was only upon close inspection one would notice the furniture and carpets had the appearance of shabby gentility.
When Mrs. Judith Brimley entered her small but tasteful parlor, James glanced up. She paused, a hand fluttering to her chest.
”There is no mistake you are the earl,” she said after a minute of staring.
