Miss Pymbroke's Rules

by Rosemary Stevens

  Verity contemplated the sculpture atop a marble base set in the hall where they were standing. In a low voice she said, “It seems I have been a poor judge of people. First, Mr. Sedgewick, then Louisa—

  “And me, Miss Pymbroke. I am all sincerity, and on many occasions you have called my integrity into question.”

  Verity straightened her shoulders. A discussion of the marquess’s character was not one she wished to enter into when her own thoughts on the subject were so perplexing. “We are supposed to be locating Lady Hyacinth.”

  They walked down the hall and peered into the library, then a saloon, and Verity investigated the ladies withdrawing room, all to no avail. Retracing their steps, they encountered Sir Ramsey approaching them from the roof stairs. “I’m for White’s, Perry. Care to join me?”

  “No, my friend. But why are you leaving so early?”

  Sir Ramsey glanced uncomfortably at Verity. “Forgive me, Miss Pymbroke, but it’s your sister. Don’t know what maggot she’s taken into her head. I swear I never gave her any indication I was the marrying type. Deuced uncomfortable business, but Louisa knows the way the wind blows now and she’s not happy. Thought it best to take my leave.”

  Sir Ramsey moved past them. Verity’s mind raced. Her sister must have brought up the subject of marriage to the baronet and he had denied her just as Lady Iris had guessed he would. Poor Louisa!

  Lord Carrisworth read her mind. He grasped her arm in a tight hold. “Miss Pymbroke, you cannot be thinking charitably of your sister after the events at Vauxhall. You just admitted you had been wrong about Mrs. Barrington. Confound it, you are an intelligent girl! Realize her way of life is not compatible with yours and you cannot change her.”

  Tears formed in Verity’s eyes. “Yes. I shall let her go her own way. I saw last night I have no choice.” She raised pain-filled eyes to his. “Tell me, my lord, why is it that people we love often hurt us so much?”

  The marquess caught his breath. He pulled Verity into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder and he stroked her back gently. His jaw had tensed, and he had a faraway expression in his green eyes. “We give them that power by loving them.”

  Verity eased out of his hold. Brown eyes stared into green. “You speak as if from experience. Did someone you love hurt you?”

  Lord Carrisworth turned away to adjust the sleeve of his coat. When he looked at her again, his face betrayed no emotion. Verity had a sudden urge to shake him.

  From the other end of the hall came the sound of muffled weeping. As one, the marquess and Verity hurried to its source.

  Chapter Nine

  Lord Carrisworth and Verity reached an anteroom they had previously failed to explore. Lady Hyacinth reclined in a half-swoon on a red velvet sofa, her hand to her brow. A nervous Lord Killigrew was standing nearby. “It was nothing to fly up into the boughs over,” he said, shifting his bulky weight from one foot to the other.

  Verity crossed the room to the lady’s side. “My lady, are you all right?”

  Lady Hyacinth’s eyes were round with fear. The woman who claimed to have had many amorous adventures with gentlemen cried out in anguish, “Merciful heavens. Verity, that terrible man kissed me!”

  Lord Carrisworth hid a smile. Then he became aware of Miss Pymbroke’s flashing brown eyes. His expression turned stern and he spoke coldly to Lord Killigrew. “Sir, I shall not insult Lady Hyacinth by asking you what your intentions are toward her. A lady of such spirit would never consign herself to a marriage with a dull dog like you.”

  Lord Killigrew’s complexion paled, and his jowls shook as his mouth worked soundlessly.

  A tiny cry escaped the spinster on the sofa, but she rallied under the marquess’s next words.

  “A beauty like Lady Hyacinth can have her pick of suitors. It is unfortunate for us gentlemen that she has not deemed anyone worthy of her hand thus far, but that is her choice. You will not force your attentions on her again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Lord Killigrew replied, a bit too hastily. “So terribly sorry. No offense meant.” He bowed himself out of the room and could be heard rapidly retreating down the hall.

  Verity patted her ladyship’s hand. Once she realized her friend was in no danger, she had been free to admire the masterful way Lord Carrisworth protected and flattered Lady Hyacinth while sending Lord Killigrew on his way. His gallantry, his concern for the older lady’s sensibilities, touched her heart.

  Lord Carrisworth came to the ladies and gazed down at Lady Hyacinth. He shook a finger and scolded, “My lady, you are heartless. You know a gentleman can only restrain himself in the presence of a lovely woman for so long before he succumbs to her charms.”

  Verity could not believe the sudden transformation of Lady Hyacinth’s features. The older woman’s red lips curved into a coy smile and her eyes danced merrily. She sat up on the sofa and allowed Lord Carrisworth to assist her to her feet. “Should I apologize to poor Lord Killigrew?” her ladyship asked while adjusting a shawl about her shoulders.

  Lord Carrisworth’s shoulders shook, and Verity shot him a warning glance. “Nonsense, my lady. The matter is best forgotten,” she said.

  But it was kept very much alive by Lady Hyacinth herself when the trio returned to the party on the roof. She immediately rushed over to where Lady Iris was seated with three other ladies of a certain age and proceeded to boast of her latest conquest.

  Lady Iris was clearly out-of-sorts upon hearing the story. While the other ladies gasped in dismay and fanned themselves vigorously relishing every detail of Lady Hyacinth’s “seduction,” Lady Iris took a large pinch of snuff—Violet Strasburg, Queen Charlotte’s favorite—and declared it was all just another of Hyacinth’s fancies.

  Lady Hyacinth hotly denied any exaggeration of the matter, and the two sisters were off and running with one of their famous quarrels.

  Lord Carrisworth turned to Verity. “I think we may safely leave them. Ah, I hear the strains of a waltz. May I have the pleasure, my landlady?”

  Verity shyly accepted his arm and they joined the other dancers. The Earl of Northbridge held his Gloria, pretty in turquoise silk as, totally engrossed in each other, they swept past.

  The marquess placed his gloved hand at the hollow of Verity’s spine. His other hand came up to hold hers, and they swirled into the steps of the dance. Under the stars he twirled her around, the golden topaz eardrops shimmering against the creamy white of her neck.

  As he looked down at her, Perry thought she had never appeared more like an angel. A light breeze wafted over them, and he could smell her rose perfume. Her body was warm and pliant under his hands and her hair shone. He felt there was an almost unbearable sweetness about her.

  It would be a small step to fall in love with her.

  Lord Carrisworth pulled back slightly and placed another two inches between his body and Miss Pymbroke’s. He could not allow his thoughts to travel down that sort of dangerous path. Good God, the small step it would take to fall in love with Miss Pymbroke would be tantamount to the small step it would take to fall off the roof!

  He realized he had been staring down into her pansy brown eyes for most of the dance without uttering a word. He cleared his throat and said, “I have not been able to run Lord Davies to earth. It is being said in the clubs he was publicly accused of cheating at cards and has not been seen since. Rest assured, though, I intend to take him to task for his behavior toward you at Vauxhall.”

  At his words, Verity slowly exhaled. The marquess had been looking at her with tenderness and an affection that had stopped her breath. Now the wonderful warm feeling his gaze had elicited dimmed. “You need not trouble yourself, my lord. I doubt Lord Davies will call on me again, but if he does, I confess I should like an explanation from him as to why he kissed me.”

  The marquess looked at her skeptically and drawled, “Come now, Miss Pymbroke, you plan to demand a reason?” He shook his head and chuckled.

  The last notes o
f the music died. The marquess and Verity were standing near a large stone turret. Suddenly, there was a loud shrieking sound and the black sky exploded with color. The duchess was providing her guests with a brilliant display of fireworks.

  Startled by the sudden noise, Verity clung to Lord Carrisworth’s arm.

  He was acutely conscious of the pressure of her small hand. Trying desperately to suppress his feelings, he said, “The duchess has thought of everything. But you have not answered me, my landlady. What explanation could Lord Davies give other than he was enchanted by you?”

  Verity felt a wave of frustration like she had never experienced before. Was he humoring her the way he had Lady Hyacinth a short time ago? “You odious man, can you never cease your flirting and he serious?”

  The teasing twinkle left Lord Carrisworth’s eyes. He pulled Verity around the other side of the stone turret away from view. “Certainly I can be serious. Allow me to show you,” he replied, and crushed her against his chest.

  His lips came down on hers in just the sort of kiss a rake would bestow on one of his paramours. It was a cold, hard, practiced kiss meant to exact a response from her.

  A small whimper came from Verity’s throat, and the marquess immediately drew back. He saw her brown eyes were huge in her face reflecting her hurt and bewilderment.

  The Marquess of Carrisworth felt something deep inside him snap.

  He lowered his dark head and began pressing very light, soft kisses on her face. First her forehead, then her eyelids, the tip of her nose, until finally his lips hovered above her trembling mouth.

  He raised a shaking hand to cradle the back of her head while his lips met hers with a surprisingly gentle touch. This time, the kiss was more of a caress which deepened until his mouth pressed harder and then began moving across her lips.

  Verity shivered at his tenderness, and when the pressure of his lips increased, she felt her mouth burn. A searing passion raced through her and she kissed him back with a hunger so intense that she felt faint.

  Lord Carrisworth was lost in a world where Miss Pymbroke’s lips were the most delicious delicacy he had ever tasted. His hand at her waist pressed her ever closer to him so that her breasts were pushed against his white

  waistcoat. His thumb moved in circles against the small of her back in the familiar gesture he often used on her hand.

  From a great distance his lordship heard someone give a loud cough. With a Herculean effort he raised his head from the drugging sweetness of Miss Pymbroke’s lips, noting they were red and swollen. He looked around. Charles, the Earl of Northbridge, and his wife were standing next to the turret. Charles had a worried expression on his face. Gloria was grinning.

  Verity felt her face flame. She slowly pulled away from Lord Carrisworth’s embrace because he had forgotten to let her go. She raised a hand and attempted to tidy her hair, avoiding everyone’s gaze. Her heart was hammering painfully in her chest and the bottom of her stomach ached.

  Charles broke the silence. He fixed his disapproving gaze on his friend and spoke somewhat stiffly. “The fireworks have ended, and Gloria and I are going to take our leave. We just wanted to say hello.”

  “And goodbye,” Gloria added cheerfully. “A jolly party was it not. Perry? And, Verity dear, your gown is perfection. I shall call on you tomorrow.” With that, she firmly led her husband away.

  “And I shall call on you, Perry,” Charles said over his shoulder.

  Lord Carrisworth spoke for the first time, his voice husky. “I must return you to Lady Iris.”

  In a daze, Verity took the marquess’s arm and they made their way to Lady Iris. That lady’s sharp eyes rested on Verity’s lips, but she said nothing. A niggling doubt about whether the marquess was serious troubled her ladyship on the way home in the carriage. But, she reminded herself, Carrisworth had never toyed with an innocent young miss in the past. His heart was engaged, she was sure. Now if she could just depend upon him not to do anything rattle-headed. A large “if” for weren’t gentlemen famous for want of sense? She was able to ponder these questions in peace because Lady Hyacinth, exhausted from the excitement of her conquest, promptly fell asleep as soon as the wheels of the coach began turning.

  Lord Carrisworth considered feigning sleep, but rejected the idea in favor of staring out the coach window into the black night. He was overcome by a riot of emotions and needed time to sort them through. Alone. His feelings were so raw he could not bring himself to exchange pleasantries with Lady Iris or with the angel— nay, sorceress—sitting next to him. It was disturbing enough that the entire side of his body closest to Verity throbbed as if it were being pulled by an invisible magnet toward her. He moved as far away on his side of the seat as he could.

  Verity was equally aware of him. Some of the lime scent he wore must have rubbed off on her glove as she had wound her arms about his neck during their embrace. She had only to raise her hand to stroke the eardrops he had given her to smell the light, pleasing scent.

  Drawing in a deep breath and releasing it slowly. Verity clasped her hands in her lap and stared down at them. Tonight the marquess had shown her a side of his personality she instinctively knew no other woman had seen. He had been vulnerable to her, as she was to him. Verity had never felt so afraid. All her life she had determined not to fall in love. And what must she needs do but give her heart to a rake?

  The heart in question abruptly fell as if it jumped from her chest into her throat. She was not in love with Lord Carrisworth! No, indeed not, she told herself firmly.

  How could she be? She had only to remember what her father had done to Mama.

  The treacherous idea that Father had never loved Mama presented itself in her thoughts. Her eyes filled with tears as she recognized this as the truth. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience. Mama had a large dowry, and Viscount Eldon had heavy gaming debts. But Mama had always told her the handsome viscount had been so charming she had thought that besides the money he had cared for her, but, alas, that had proven not to be the case.

  Perhaps, a little voice in Verity’s brain cried, Lord Carrisworth—Perry—was different. Perhaps he did love her. She bit her lip when the memory of the tenderness of his touch came rushing back. Was not his tenderness a sign of love? Oh, but what if it were only a fleeting passion? She could not be sure unless his lordship declared himself and until—if—that time came she would have to be strong and judge for herself if his feelings were genuine.

  * * * *

  Late the next morning, Lord Carrisworth sat on the bench in the rose garden behind Verity’s townhouse. The day was sunny with a brisk chill in the air. He had just returned from his morning ride, changed into a dark green morning coat and tan pantaloons, and was feeling burnt almost to the socket. He had spent a devilish bad night tossing and turning, trying to ignore the fact that every fiber of his being was calling out for Miss Pymbroke. No night spent drinking and gaming had ever left him this out of frame.

  “Miaow.” Empress jumped up on the seat beside him.

  Lord Carrisworth reached out a hand to scratch Empress’s crowned head. “You are looking content this morning, my feline friend. Treated you right last night in Lady Iris’s kitchen, did they?”

  The cat purred in answer.

  Digby appeared at the glass doors to the morning room. “My lord, a Mr. Flanders has called. I believe he is with the company doing the restoration work on your lordship’s family portraits.”

  The marquess rose to his feet. “Show him into the morning room, Digby.”

  Empress followed Lord Carrisworth through the open door into the house and promptly found a gold velvet-covered chair—-the most comfortable in the room—and stretched out on its plump seat.

  A moment later a thin, tall man with light hair entered with a servant who carried a painting wrapped in protective paper. “Good day to you, my lord. I am Mr. Flanders.” He bowed low. “I thought your lordship would like to see some of the work I have done for you.”

&
nbsp; The marquess gave a nod of assent.

  Mr. Flanders snapped his fingers at the servant who then unwrapped the painting.

  Lord Carrisworth instantly felt a knot form in his stomach. He gritted his teeth and braced himself for the jolt of pain he still experienced every time he saw his mother’s face.

  “A beautiful lady,” Mr. Flanders was saying while he propped the painting up against a chair. “It was a privilege to restore her portrait, my lord. Is she perhaps an older sister? Her emerald-colored gown appears to be a fashion of perhaps twenty years ago—

  “My mother,” the marquess bit out tersely, cutting off the man’s stream of chatter. “You have performed your services satisfactorily, Mr. Flanders. I trust you will repair the other paintings equally as well.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Mr. Flanders blinked at this abrupt dismissal. “I shall just wrap the portrait and be on my way.”

  “Leave it,” Lord Carrisworth commanded.

  The two men bowed and left the morning room. The marquess left the portrait where it was and sat on the gold satin sofa opposite where the painting was placed. He stared at his mother’s features, his own like granite.

  Digby entered the room, drawing back a bit when he saw the look on his lordship’s face. “I am sorry to disturb you, but Mr. Flanders said he found this in the back of the painting. He forgot to give it to you just now.”

  The butler extended a silver salver upon which sat a yellowed piece of parchment tied with a frayed blue ribbon.

  The marquess accepted the missive and Digby left, closing the door behind him.

  His expression hard and set, Lord Carrisworth tossed the unopened paper onto an occasional table placed at the end of the sofa. He had a strong feeling he did not wish to know its contents.

  The very second the missive landed on the polished wood, Empress bounded from her chair, ran the length of the sofa, jumped across his lordship’s lap and onto the table, which rocked ominously under the cat’s weight. She pounced on the ribbons of the missive, grabbing one end in her dainty jaws, and dashed under the sofa with it before the marquess could do more than stare.