by Stacy Reid
He felt a peculiar tightening in his chest at the vulnerability he spied in her eyes. James felt like a cad. Her soft delicacy would never have been enough to deal with a man like Durham on her own. And he had seen how badly she wanted that courage to stand up to her attacker if the man should ever approach her again. The pursuit he had just witnessed spoke of the odious character of the marquess, the surety he felt in his power and privilege.
He caressed her chin briefly. “I’ll go bring around the carriage. Follow me discreetly.”
She nodded, and he made his way toward the entrance but waited until he saw that she had slipped inside the ballroom safely. He collected his coat, and his carriage was summoned. James made his way outside, grateful there was no long queue to leave the ball, for it was still early. In fact, more carriages were still arriving.
He entered his coach, drew back the curtain and put out the lantern inside. James wanted a clear view of the outside without anyone knowing he was in the equipage. After several minutes and Verity had not shown, he decided to go back in. On that thought, he saw a young lady come outside. She glanced up and down the road, tugged her coat closer around her body to ward off the chill in the air, and then made her way to his carriage.
The coachman jumped down upon her arrival, knocked the steps down, and assisted her in. James felt relieved when she entered.
“In here is dreadfully dark,” she gasped.
The coach rumbled away, and he leaned back against the squabs.
“Would you like me to relight the lantern?” The dark felt intimate, and wonderful, and provided him the opportunity to crave her without masking his expression of lust from her innocence.
“No, I do not mind.”
“I am sorry for what you endured just now,” he said gruffly.
“The fault is not yours.”
Yes, it was. He had known of the marquess’s dishonor for weeks now, and he had not rectified the matter. The only reason a gentle, refined lady as Verity had done something as reckless as approach a stranger to learn how to fight, was because she had felt cornered and helpless with no defender to aid her.
“He frightened you just now. I am so damned sorry. I should call him out.”
“Strike it from your thoughts.” She sighed a bit wistfully. “I admit I was afraid when he first called to me in the hallway, but I assure you anger soon overshadowed my fear.”
She said it defiantly, but even now there was a slight tremble in her voice. And at this moment, his Verity appeared more delicate than ever. Yet the set of her chin hinted at her stubborn streak and unique strength.
“I’ve always wished I could stare him in the eyes and let him know how much he truly hurt and frightened me. Let him know what a nasty blackguard he is. I wonder at the futility at wanting a confrontation like that. Even if he were to show surprising remorse, I would not forgive.”
He gripped the edge of the carriage seat, fighting the need to draw her into his arms and merely hug her. That would be dangerous. The searing anxiety in her and the rage in him would reach for each other, and he would end up taking her virtue in a damn carriage.
"Sometimes to overcome fear, there is a place in us, a place filled with resilience and defiance that wishes to stand up to that fear. It will first start as a tremor, but then it becomes a roar that cannot be silenced. That is why you wish to tell him the pain he has caused."
A smile curved her lips, and he was enchanted, as an unexpected silence stretched between them.
“Where were you, James?” she asked curiously.
He released a rough sigh. “In Hampshire. I have an aunt and two cousins.”
“An aunt and cousins? How marvelous!”
And then he told her everything, from the box to the journey and meeting his family.
"Oh, James you must be so delighted. I am looking forward to meeting your cousins. You will have to hire them the best of tutors and dance masters to help them take their proper places in society."
He grunted. "I'll most certainly need a wife to help with that. As it stands, my coarse manners might be more of a hindrance than a recommendation."
They fell into another deep silence, and he could feel her stare.
“Have you decided on a wife then?”
“Yes.” And James realized he was unworthy of her. For he had been falling in love with her and had failed to make plans to protect her. How shortsighted he had been.
“May…may I ask the lady’s identity?”
Was it his imagination there was a quiver in her voice and that it had hoarsened?
“No,” he said softly, a tender hope stirring in his heart. Verity was affected by him.
She spluttered. “Well, why ever not?”
“When I have done all I need to be worthy of her, I shall shout it to the world. I promise you shall be the first to know.”
She sniffed disdainfully. “If she does not know of your worthiness…she…she is a bacon-brained silly miss!”
Her voice cracked alarmingly.
“Are you crying, Verity?”
A few beats of silence, “Of course not, why would I be?” she then muttered, sounding as if she had been driven to the extreme limits of her patience. “I too have most excellent news. Viscount Stanhope has expressed an interest in courting me.”
James's heart cracked, and the doubts worked deep.
"Is Stanhope a man of your choice or is he your brother's."
And James wondered if she wanted the man if he could respect her wishes and walk away. Denial clenched his gut into painful knots, and he breathed deeply. He never wanted to force her into any situation, not of her own choosing, not when so much had been taken from her. And if this Stanhope matched the kind of man she has always wanted.
Christ! James did not believe he could be honorable, it was more likely he would whisk her away until she consented to be his wife. James leaned forward and touched her trembling lip with a finger. “Answer me, Verity. Is he your choice?”
Her eyes sparked with wild defiance, and she haughtily tossed her head. "I've not made one as yet, and my brother will never be the one to decide whom I marry."
James sat back against the squabs, tumbling her answer over in his mind. Verity did not speak another word for the remainder of the journey. When they arrived at her home, he assisted her from the carriage. He walked her to the wrought iron gate and watched as she made her way up the steps and knocked on the door. It opened, she paused, and his heart jerked.
Turn around, he silently beseeched.
But after that slight hesitation, she swept inside, and the door firmly closed.
An irritable snort slipped from him, then James smiled. His Verity was furious he had selected his countess. And that was more than adequate to let him know their friendship was simply not sufficient for her either.
Chapter 13
Vincent, my carriage will arrive for you by nine pm.
J.
Verity scowled at the succinct note, quite irritated with James. That sensation had been lingering in her heart from last night! Even worse, it had been the most restless night, for she was unable to sleep, tormented with the thought of James marrying Lady Anna or someone else. Surely their friendship would change. No wife would abide the close bond which they’d formed.
“I cannot lose you,” she whispered softly, not understanding at all the wretched feelings inside her. With a sniff, she slowly opened the box, gingerly unfolding the clothes inside. Dark blue trousers with a matching tailcoat jacket, a gold waistcoat, white undershirt, and cravat. There was another box with black evening boots which were surprisingly her size and a dark brown wig.
She glanced at the note once more. James was taking her to the club. There was no other explanation. But why? And how had the dratted man thought she would be able to dress in these clothes? The doorknob to her room twisted and she narrowed her gaze. Verity had been very deliberate in her actions for the day, locking herself away into her room. Albert usually reached home
from a ball or his club at dawn, fell into bed, and woke at noon. She had filled her breakfast tray and taken it into her room, all with the intention of avoiding him. The patience or perhaps strength to deal with him after last night's farce was just not present. Her family was blind to her pain, and she no longer wished for them to see and understand it. Verity desperately wanted to leave, be in her own home, and start a loving family not shadowed by betrayal.
Albert had pounded on her door at about one in the afternoon, and she had ignored all his threats and remained in her room eating the last of the breakfast scones when she got hungry.
“Verity?”
It was her mother. But she could not trust that Albert was not with her. Verity made her way to the door. “Yes, Mamma?”
“I would like to speak with you, my dear. Albert has told me of what transpired last evening at Lady Middleton’s ball.”
Verity made no reply, quietly waited with her forehead pressed to the door.
“Albert was very wrong in trying to manipulate you to make amends with Lord Durham,” her mother said after a few moments.
Verity stiffened and stared at the door, almost wishing she could peer through it. She grasped the doorknob but did not open.
“Will you join me for tea?” Her mother asked.
It felt like an olive branch, and a lump formed in Verity’s throat. “Perhaps another time, mamma. My head aches.”
Her mother’s sigh traveled through the hardwood door. "Will you attend Lady Escott's ball tonight? Lord Stanhope called earlier, and I was forced to inform him you were not well. Verity, I do not like speaking through this door!"
She glanced back at the box on the bed and everything it represented. A scandalous club and night of rousing impropriety. A night of freedom. "I hope you have a great time, mamma. I shall do a spot of reading and then retire early."
Verity moved away from the door, counting down the hours until her brother and mother departed for their evening of amusement. She sat before her small writing desk, opened the drawer, and withdrew a sheaf of papers. It had been a while since she had written to Aunt Imogen, at least two weeks.
Dear Aunt Imogen,
The season progresses at an intolerably tedious pace. I find I am not overly enthused with making the social rounds with mamma and Albert. I miss the countryside. Inhaling the morning chill into my lungs, smelling the freshly mowed grass and your rose gardens. I dare admit that I even miss Vicar Pomeroy’s outrageous sermons on the sins of fornication. I dearly miss our long walks through the countryside and to the village. Aunt, I have met a man: One lord James Radcliffe, the Earl of Maschelly. He is wonderful, and I believe I am falling irrevocably in love with him…
Verity crossed out that bit, a surge of fright filling her heart. In love? She bit into her lower lip, wondering if the way he made her feel was truly love? She continued writing to her aunt, chuckling at the irritation her aunt would feel at that crossed out bit in the letter. Aunt Imogen would still be able to read what Verity had intended, but the fact she had moved onto other topics would drive her aunt into a curious frenzy.
A few hours later, her mother and brother departed jointly in the carriage. Verity who had not gone down for the dinner gong, now rang the bell for her maid and requested a tray and a bath. Her stomach rumbled embarrassingly, and a few minutes later a tray arrived, and she quickly consumed the delicious, but slightly cold meal.
Next, she completed her bath, and as her lady’s maid patted her shoulders dry with a soft towel, Verity said, “I will need your help in dressing quite wickedly for a masquerade ball, Lily.”
The young maid’s eyes widened then she bobbed with a quick smile. “Whatever you wish, lady Verity.”
“I would like to be assured of your confidence. My brother and mother do not know I am to attend this masquerade and I will go and be back before they arrive. I rely on you to help me keep this secret, Lily!” she whispered conspiratorially.
Lily smiled. “I am right sure I’ll not tell a soul. Not even my aunt. And I would never tell Lord Sutcliffe. None of us likes how he shouts at you, milady.” She gasped. “Forgive the impertinence, my lady. I spoke out of turn.”
Lily’s aunt was the head cook, and the two were quite close. “Thank you, Lily," Verity said with a kind smile. “I shall not forget your kindness, and you have not spoken out of turn. And I too do not like how Albert speaks to me.”
About fifteen minutes later, Verity’s breasts were carefully bound with strips of linen. She then dressed in the clothes, wig, hat, and boots James had delivered.
“Lady Verity,” Lily breathed. “You look quite the fancy gentleman. I wouldn’t know it was you if I passed you in the streets!”
She laughed. “That is the aim, Lily. And I shall be off.”
Verity added the cloak to conceal her appearance as she made her way down the stairs and through the back entrance. The coach waited near the mews, and she strolled over, confident she would not be recognized. Seeing her approach, the coachman hurriedly knocked down the steps, then gallantly assisted her into the equipage.
A warm, clean, masculine fragrance filled the air. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
“I wasn’t sure you would be in here waiting. Are we going to the club? Or one of those wicked haunts of ill-repute it is rumored you’ve visited frequently in the night.”
The figure seated opposite her shifted and piercing green eyes settled on her. “What have you heard about me and from whom?”
“Ladies talk?”
“Genteel ladies gossip of places of ill-repute? I am impressed.”
She laughed lightly, aware of the increasing beats of her heart. “Why…why are we going?”
“There is a match I would like you to see.”
How unusual. Before she could question him further, he asked, “Did you have nightmares last night?”
“No,” she answered, turning her face away from his disquieting scrutiny. “My dreams were of a different sort altogether.”
He stretched his long legs casually before him, and their boots touched. “Dare I ask?”
“An answer won’t be forthcoming.”
“Ah…those kinds of dreams.”
This bit was drawled with such wickedness she gasped and turned to him. The gleam in his gaze contained a sensuous flame, flustering Verity. The man looked at her enigmatically, and she sensed tonight would be different to all their other encounters.
The coach stopped, and he closed his eyes briefly. "Do you trust me, Verity."
“I do.” Her answer was swift and uncompromising.
A spark of indefinable emotions lit in his extraordinary eyes.
"Have I ever told you, James, that you…your eyes are beautiful?"
A flash of teeth as he grinned. “Might I have a poem too?”
She choked on a laugh. “No. I am deplorable at that.”
They exited the carriage and made their way to the club. She felt nervous, and she could not understand why. It was James. A coiled readiness seemed infused in every line of his body, and though his lips and eyes smiled, there was something hard and frightening behind the joviality. She sensed the bonhomie had been for her, to relax her perhaps.
They entered the club, walking down a familiar long hallway to the interior of the gambling den. Raucous sounds of laughter, clinks of glasses, and snatches of conversations filled the air. They did not linger, wading through the excitement in the air, pushing past many lords and disguised ladies and made their way upstairs and to that fighting room.
Unaccountably, nerves jumped low in her belly with each step that took her closer to that large door. The bulky man guarding the entrance bowed, then let them in. It was the same as the first time she’d come, most of the room in shadows, but the ring in the center had several lanterns surrounding it. The deeper she went into the room, the more she could make out masked ladies and gentlemen seated before the tables, smoking cigars, and drinking liquor.
James took her to a tab
le so perilously close to the ring she could reach out and touch the rope. Verity glanced around noting they were the only table so close.
“James?” she asked, hating that a quiver existed in her voice.
“All will be well, Verity, I will be back shortly. No one will disturb you here.” His voice, though quiet, had an ominous quality.
What shook her the most was how silent the room was. The last time there had been background chatter and a ripple of excitement. Now the stillness unnerved her.
A ripple went through the crowd, and she scanned the room then realized they all looked at a point behind her. She twisted in the chair and almost expired in shock. James was entering the ring bare-chested with his wrists wrapped, and on the opposite side another man, similarly clad, entered to face him, and it was Lord Durham. Verity experienced a gamut of perplexing emotions—alarm, relief, fear, and happiness. She stared at her shaking hands before breathing in roughly.
She mattered to James, for he stood, proud and powerful to defend her honor. Tears pooled in her eyes, and her heart ached as if it would shatter. Verity stood, and it felt surreal as she moved closer toward the ring.
The marquess danced lightly on his feet, keen anticipation in his eyes as he stared at James. But James stood there, his hands hung loosely at his side, his head canted left as he stared at the man. “I want everyone to understand this is not a match,” James said, his voice traveling through the room. How cold and dispassionate he sounded.
“Of course it is,” Durham said with a taunting laugh. “The prize is twenty thousand pounds, and I’ve long wanted to fight you.”
“That money will be donated to a women’s relief society.”
Durham’s eyes glinted with mockery. “I see your sobriquet of the bare-knuckle king has led you to the delusion you will win this match. I plan to gamble and visit my favorite pleasure house.” He licked his lips suggestively and some in the audience laughed.
“This fight is about justice, and a matter of honor.”
