by Stacy Reid
And standing before the fireplace, he was aware of how he would appear to her—a powerfully built man with dark hair, and a swarthy complexion.
A pleased smile settled on her lovely countenance, and she advanced further into the room. When she made to dip into a curtsy, he stopped her.
“Please, let’s not stand on formality.”
She beamed at him, and he couldn't help staring at her loveliness.
“This is indelicate of me, but might I enquire of your age, Mrs. Brimley?”
Verity would have scolded him for his forward and ungentlemanly manners.
"Please call me Judith…or aunt Judith if you would prefer," she said hesitantly, and with such a hopeful air, he disguised the shock of emotions her word elicited.
“Perhaps Judith for now?”
Her smile got even brighter, for his familiarity showed he was willing to accept a degree of intimacy. “I am four and fifty.”
"And still one of the loveliest ladies my eyes have ever beheld," he said with soft charm, thinking how pleased Verity would be with his compliment. It had come from a genuine place inside, and he couldn't help wondering if Judith and his mother bore any resemblance.
She flushed and patted her hair with self-conscious charm. They sat on the sofa closest to the windows overlooking the beautiful gardens.
“Forgive me for arriving without advance notice.”
Her eyes brimmed with unexpected tears. “Think nothing of it. I have been waiting eight and twenty years to meet my sister’s child.”
He cleared his throat. “I never knew you existed,” he offered, as a way to soothe the hurt glaring from green eyes so very much like his own.
His aunt tears spilled over. Discomfited at the sight, and unsure what comfort to offer, James withdrew his handkerchief and handed it to her. She dabbed at her eyes and breathed in shakily. Then she told him of his mother, a young lady from a family of gentry which had ties to nobility through an uncle who was a baronet, before she had fallen in love with the earl.
"Their love was a scandal of sorts, a match of the season, an evident love match. Though through her marriage my prospects for a good marriage improved considerably, I moved with her to Birchmount Manor because we were best of friends. I lived with Gina—"
“Gina?”
“It is what we called her growing up. I stayed with her from when I was seventeen until her death.”
James flinched, and she leaned forward and patted his arms reassuringly. "She had a good life, a blessed life I would say, and she was deliriously happy. After…after she had gone to her rewards the earl banished me from Birchmount Manor. At that time I was six and twenty, a spinster, without many prospects, but I made a good match only a few months later with a most wonderful gentleman. We had twenty good years and two fine daughters.”
“I have cousins?”
“Yes, Alice is seventeen and Eleanor nineteen. They are lovely girls, however overly inquisitive and have been known to act without decorum and eavesdrop at doors.”
Muffled laughter sounded, then footsteps were heard scampering away.
“Please forgive their impertinence,” she said, flushing.
James smiled. “Think nothing of it. I am looking forward to meeting them.”
They spoke in length of his father's refusal to have her at the manor, and the several times she had been turned away when she had ventured there without an invitation. His father had shut everyone out in his grief. James sensed if he told her of his harsh and neglected upbringing, she would blame herself unjustly for not trying with more diligence to see him. Eventually, he would tell her a bit of his youth, when they had formed a much closer relationship, and he could assess the strength of her character, for he would not burden her when there was no need.
“And what of your husband?”
Pain darkened her eyes. “My Giles died a little over a year and a half ago.”
And it was then he noticed her dress was a dark bombazine gown. “I am deeply sorry.”
"We have rallied, and I daresay the girls shall be fine."
He glanced around the parlor once more, it testified to how much they have been struggling. “Did my mother get a chance to look upon me or did she pass immediately after birthing me?”
His unexpected question froze his aunt.
He raked a hand through his hair. “I found some diaries, and she had so looked forward to seeing me…I wondered if she got the chance,” he said gruffly, a bit embarrassed by his sentimentality.
Judith’s eyes softened with sympathy. “My dear boy, your mother had not died a few minutes after birthing you,” she said. “But three days later.”
“She suffered?” he demanded hoarsely.
“The opposite. I had never seen her happier.”
Confusion rushed through him. “I do not understand.”
"It was the childbed fever which took her. But in those three days, for hours she held you in her arms and sang. Whenever you cried, all she had to do was sing, and you would fall into a contented sleep. She died in her sleep, with a smile on her face, and I cannot help think it was thoughts of you and the earl who had comforted her.”
“My father believed my size killed her.”
She gasped. “Rubbish! In my experience, childbed fever can happen with babes of any size. Your father was a wounded lion, and nothing could have made him better. Only Georgiana, and she was gone from him."
The oddest sensation tugged deep inside of him. “Thank you for telling me.”
His aunt smiled. “I am glad you got my letters.”
They spoke well into the afternoon. He then met his two cousins who were quite lovely, having taken after their mother. Their excitement to meet him had been contagious, and he had found himself chatting quite comfortably with them when he had always been a man who was reserved with new acquaintances. He learned the girls had not come out and had never been to London since they did not possess land or dowry to attract any suitors. The cottage they now lived in had not been the one they had grown up in, but their father’s heir, a distant cousin, had removed them from their home once he took possession. They had been living a retrenched life on a small widow’s portion which had been bequeathed to Judith. He was invited to stay for dinner which he accepted, and by the end of the meal, James had persuaded his aunt and cousins to live with him in London, permanently.
Chapter 12
Verity smiled at the charming young man who bowed over her gloved hands. He was barely an inch or two above her in height, his manners were pleasing, unpretentious, civil, and she did not feel threatened by him in any way. This man, Viscount Stanhope, had a distinguished reputation and was considered the first cut of a gentleman. His estates boasted an income of over thirty thousand pounds a year, a rumor existed he was overly generous with his servants, and he was in want of a wife. Many maters and their daughters had fluttered when he'd entered Lady Prendergast's ballroom, dreams of being his viscountess filling their hearts.
"Will you honor me with a dance, Lady Verity? I have been told the waltz will be announced now," he murmured with a good-natured smile as he rose from his bow.
She dipped into a curtsy. "I would be delighted, my lord." And she allowed him to escort her toward the dancefloor. He had been at the ball for over two hours, and Verity was the only person he'd asked to dance for the evening. Several brows rose at that significant action. Lord Stanhope was the ideal type of gentleman she had planned to set her cap for, yet as Verity strolled onto the dancefloor with him, she felt no sense of thrill or anticipation.
Her thoughts were simply too occupied with missing James. It had been a full week since James had disappeared. His note had been infused with a sense of cryptic urgency.
Dear Vincent.
At first, she had grinned at that salutation. And she understood that greeting, for if his note had been intercepted, the reader would assume it was delivered to the wrong address.
I regret I must cancel our lesson for the foreseeable future.
There is a matter I must deal with that cannot be delayed. I apologize and will speak with you upon my return.
Yours, J.
Upon his return? Had the man left London? Of course, no answer had presented itself to her silent questions. And there had been an odd sense of hurt that he had not provided more information. She had berated herself sharply for her silliness. He owed her no explanation for there was no understanding between them. Yet she thought their present friendship would have allowed for such confidences. She rested many of her dreams and burdens upon his shoulders in the fascinating conversations they had.
Exactly nine days had passed, and the man had not the decency to write and inform her if he was well. Vexation had settled in her heart, and she would not forgive him anytime soon for making her worry.
Are you well, James?
She pushed him from her mind as she danced with the viscount. They engaged in banal conversation which she did not mind, though she was a little bored. A few times the viscount made her laugh as he recounted tales from his travels to India. When the dance was over, he escorted her to the side and offered to fetch her some punch. Verity thanked him with a smile, and he wove through the throng toward the refreshment table.
A finger brushed over her elbow from behind, and a shiver of distaste crawled over her flesh. Swallowing back the nerves and awful feeling pitting in her stomach, Verity turned and peered up into the eyes of Lord Durham. Her brother stood beside him, and Albert smiled at her as if he saw nothing wrong with his actions.
“My dear sister, you remember my friend Lord Durham? Only this afternoon in the club the marquess and I reminisced about the times we spent together in friendship in Bedfordshire.”
The marquess bowed briefly. "Will you honor me with this next dance, Lady Verity?" he asked with charming amiability.
Her civility and the fact so many in the ton stared obliged her to say what was proper. "Lord Durham," she murmured. "I must decline. I feel as if I am about to vomit. A distemper of the stomach."
His lips tightened for a moment before he said, “Perhaps a walk on the terrace? I feel we have not conversed for a while, and dear Albert would like for us to be friends once more.”
Several other couples and matrons lined the terrace, and they would be in full view, so anything improper was unlikely to occur. But she could not bear it. How dare he approach her in this manner? As if his terrible actions should be forgotten and forgiven. Verity realized her brother believed he was fixing a quarrel that had existed merely for far too long. The dispassionate disrespect to her pain made her want to howl her agony.
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice so only the Marquess could hear. "I would rather kiss a snake."
The marquess stiffened, his eyes snapping with anger. “Your sister is quite uncivil with an unbecoming tongue,” he drawled cuttingly to Albert.
Verity smiled. “And do not forget it, you pig!”
A flush ran along the marquess's face, and she could feel his anger. In his eyes, she saw that it was the public setting which saved her from his fury. She stepped back a few paces.
Her brother had the nerve to send her a disapproving glance, one which promised a strict private set down. “Verity—” he began warningly.
She turned around and pushed through the crowd, unable to bear being in their presence a second longer. Up ahead, she spied Duchess Carlyle and Viscountess Shaw in animated conversation. Verity would join them and prayed the marquess did not trouble her for the rest of the night. How she hated that her fingers trembled, and her heart raced. And she sensed in her dreams tonight, there would be an emergence of the nightmares.
A feeling of despair came over her, and she resiliently pushed it away. Courage…Verity, Courage.
His Verity appeared resplendent, sheathed in a full yellow gown that flattered her lush frame to its exquisite advantage. Elbow-length white gloves covered her hands with sleek suppleness, and matching yellow dancing slippers encased her elegant feet. Her dark hair was caught atop her head in a riot of curls, a brilliant sapphire necklace encircled her throat, and matching earbobs winked at her ears. She was striking in her loveliness.
Beauty like the night.
He’d only just returned from Hampshire this evening, and he had been urged to attend tonight’s ball by a driving impulse and a hope that he would see her. A rush of pleasure filled James’s heart as he peered at Verity again, and he knew at that moment he would marry her or none at all. He would resort to using all the wicked charms he was so blithely told he possessed to convince her there was more than friendship between them. He could be all that she desired and more.
James moved down the stairs at a leisurely pace, keeping track of her almost frantic progress through the crowded ballroom. He frowned, belatedly realizing her agitation. Someone followed her, and he recognized Lord Durham, heir to the dukedom of Hartington. His father had been ill for some time, and the news about town was that the man would not live out the year. Instead of Durham sitting by his father’s side, he was about town racing and gambling quite heavily on the promise he would be the duke soon.
Ice congealed inside James, as Durham watched Verity with single-minded concentration. The marquess ignored all attempts of those who tried to gain his attention, his regard only for Verity.
She chose that moment to glance up, and she flushed when she recognized James. Her entire face glowed with the prettiness of her smile, and the joy she found in seeing him. It almost became impossible to breathe, so visceral was the hunger dancing through his soul. He lifted his chin, the motion quick and discreet, indicating the exit of the ballroom leading to the hallway.
She changed her path, moving with discreet surety through the crowd. Only one person observed her, and he followed. James thrust through the crowd with little finesse, ignoring those who nodded at him and tried to capture his attention. Verity disappeared from the ballroom, and soon so did the marquess. James wanted to snarl as the crush impeded how fast he tried to move. Finally, he was in the hallway, he broke into a run, and then skidded to a stop when he came upon Verity leaning against the wall of the hall, with the marquess standing only a few feet from her, his face mottled with anger.
“How dare you try to slight me!” the man snarled.
She paled for a moment, her lower lip trembling before she lifted her chin. "If I have no wish to dance with a rapist, that is my choice.”
Disbelief shot through James as the marquess lifted his hand and stepped forward threateningly.
A throb of violence poured through him in relentless waves. "If you take another step, I will break your goddamn arms!"
The marquess spun around, allowing his arm to drop. "Maschelly," he said, tugging at his cravat. "You interrupted a private moment with a…a friend."
"You were about to hit Lady Verity," James said, shocked at the man's arrogance and calm brutality. They were in a public setting, and the man would have placed his hands on her and remained confident that there was nothing she could do about it. The one person residing in her life left to defend and protect her honor had failed to do so repeatedly.
“What I was about to do is not your concern, Maschelly,” Durham said coolly.
Within two strides he stood in front of the marquess, grabbed him by his collar, and slammed him into the wall with barely restrained fury.
“James!” Verity gasped, her eyes widening with her alarm.
"My word what is happening here?" a lady's voice gasped before she hurried away. No doubt to summon someone.
Verity hurried to him and touched his hand briefly. “Please, James. Not here. Do you want to start a scandal? May we just leave?”
He roughly pushed the marquess away from him, and all the m
an did was fix his cravat, his eyes narrowing on them.
“I wonder, is Albert aware of this…?” The marquess lifted his head between Verity and James, a sneering curl prominent on his lips.
“I have a mind to drag you outside and cut your fucking tongue from your head,” James murmured with lethal softness.
Verity flinched at the leashed violence throbbing in his tone, and James ruthlessly suppressed the need to pummel the marquess into the ground.
“James, please,” she whispered so softly he almost did not hear her.
He peered down at her. Her eyes appeared so wide and wounded, and the confidence he'd seen growing in her over the weeks was replaced by a fear that made him want to howl. She looked so vulnerable and soft. James would be damned if he let such an insult and dishonor pass any longer.
“Let’s go,” he said, ignoring the marquess as if he was refuse underneath his boot.
They walked away, and James said. “We are leaving.” He could not explain the emotions gutting him.
Her slippers clip-clopped on the floor as she matched his pace. “Leave the ball?”
He stopped, and she halted and stared up at him, a worried frown splitting her brows. James glanced down the length of the hall, noting the marquess had disappeared. "Yes. I'll bring around my carriage, and you will plead a headache and make the necessary excuses to your mother or whomever you need to. If the marquess approaches you while I am outside, I do not give a damn about the scandal, you will kick him in the balls."
Her lips quivered, and a smothered laugh escaped. The tight tension around his heart eased. She'd laughed, the fear had been reduced. Part of his job had been done. The other…Lord Durham needed to understand the error he had made in touching Verity.
James smoothed a thumb along the curve of her lower lip. “Say it, Verity.”
She cleared her throat delicately. “If that bounder should approach me, I will…I will deal with his manhood quite decisively. I vow it.”
