by Louise Allen
Will got up and walked back towards the cottage, looking for some sheltered spot, some hollow tree or a patch of low-hanging foliage that might form the framework to make a rough shelter such as he had seen the Romany use.
‘That is complete hypocrisy.’ Verity spoke close behind him. ‘You are not going to attempt to ravish me, are you?’
‘Certainly not!’ Will stopped so suddenly that she walked into him and grabbed at his shoulders to keep her balance. The pressure of curvaceous femininity imprinted itself on his back for a moment that was both far too long and achingly brief. He turned, steadying her with one hand under her elbow. ‘Whatever can you mean, hypocrisy?’
‘There are three possible scenarios,’ Verity said. She held up one finger. ‘Firstly, neither of us has any wish to, shall we say, misbehave. Our word as a lady and gentleman of good reputation should be adequate for any reasonable person in that case.’ She held up another finger. ‘Secondly, one of us wishes to, but the other doesn’t. Again, as well-bred people with consciences, the wishes of the reluctant party will prevail. Or, thirdly, we both wish to...’ She waved both hands as words apparently failed her.
The first time that has happened, Will thought grimly.
‘Anyway, if we did, neither of us, surely, would intend merely a passing affaire, so we would have no reason to object to marriage as a consequence. The point I am attempting to make—’
‘Is that we are not going to indulge in any untoward behaviour and a reasonable person would accept our word for it,’ Will finished saying for her. One did not interrupt a lady but, as the alternative was to kiss her to stop her discussing all the things that were occupying his imagination, he was prepared to be blunt. ‘Unfortunately, the truth never outweighs the assumptions of society, even in the eyes of the most reasonable persons. You will be compromised, your reputation will never recover and your chances of a respectable marriage will be severely curtailed.’
He did not wait for an answer, but he got one nevertheless, once Verity had caught up with him outside the cottage.
‘Leaving aside the fact that I do not want to marry anyone, why is your word as a gentleman a cast-iron guarantee of the truth under any other circumstance but this?’ she demanded. ‘We both declare that you have not compromised me—but no one will accept your word, you say. Yet if they called you a liar over any other matter you would demand a duel, declare that your honour had been insulted.’
Will looked down into the indignant face raised to his. Verity was flushed, either with indignation or exercise, probably both, and her hair was coming down. If anyone had come across them in that moment they would leap to the conclusion that he had just tumbled her. He wished he had. He might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb... His brain felt like scrambled eggs as he sought for an explanation and for control.
‘Chivalry insists that it is inconceivable that a gentleman would put a lady in such a position—I should have attempted the swim, even at the risk of drowning.’ He wished he had, the cold water was very tempting just at that moment. ‘And to attempt to evade marriage is an insult to the lady.’
‘Even if she does not wish to marry you?’
‘Opinion would be that my behaviour must have been outrageous indeed for you to refuse a duke,’ he said drily. ‘Which makes it even more imperative that I marry you.’
‘Oh, poppycock.’ Verity turned on her heel and went through the door with a swish of skirts in what was perilously close to a flounce.
Will felt a grim satisfaction. It was curiously refreshing to leave Verity Wingate without an uncomfortably intelligent riposte. He was wise enough to wipe the smirk off his lips before he ducked through the opening after her.
‘What is the time?’ she asked without looking up from the fire she was tending.
Will consulted his pocket watch. ‘Just past six.’ He glanced out of the door. ‘And it is beginning to spot with rain. I must start work on a shelter.’
A low rumbling, felt through the feet rather than the ears, made both of them look out of the open door. ‘Thunder,’ Verity said. ‘You are not going to spend the night in woods in a thunderstorm. It is downright dangerous.’
‘I am a grown man—’
‘And there is all the more of you to be struck by lightning. And you propose to leave me alone here, in a storm, while you gallantly catch your death of cold? What if the cottage is struck by lightning? Really, I had thought better of your intelligence, but it appears you are nothing more than another of these convention-bound men who cannot think for themselves. Or would you rather die than be thought less than perfect?’
Will took several long, deep breaths. Convention-bound? It was enough to make him want to behave like a savage. But under the insults was common sense. It was foolhardy to spend the night in the open in woodlands during an electrical storm and Basil would feel just as guilty if he expired of pneumonia, or a lightning strike, as by drowning.
But he did not want to find himself leg-shackled to this woman. In bed with her? Yes. Buried in her warm, soft body? Definitely. Married? Absolutely not. And he had a nasty niggle of conscience that was telling him he was doing all the right things just in case, by some miracle, they gave him a loophole to get out of this.
‘I wonder whether I can arrange for Basil to be press-ganged,’ he murmured and received a flash of white teeth as Verity grinned at him. She was too easy to like when his guard was down and he forgot for a second just who he was, what was expected of him. It was worrying that the Duke seemed to be melting away to reveal the fallible man beneath what he had believed, and hoped, to be an impenetrable skin.
Was everything he had learned dependent on being in the right setting and in the right clothes? How else could he account for the way he felt, standing here in his shirtsleeves, dirty and bedraggled, in front of a woman who saw only the man, not the Duke? He seemed to be like an actor who could not perform without his props and costumes and that was shameful. His grandfather had been a duke to his core.
‘What is wrong?’ Verity was staring at him as though he had spoken out loud. ‘It will be all right, we must just be strong and not let anyone pressure us.’
She should not be reassuring him. Verity was the one who should need support and he should pull himself together and provide it. Support and leadership—and she should recognise the fact and stop this outrageous show of independence.
‘Nothing is wrong. There is nothing for you to worry about. I will go and gather more wood before the rain starts.’ And while he was at it, gather his wits to try to decide whether it was less honourable to refuse to marry a lady he had compromised, but who clearly did not wish to marry him, than to do what every instinct told him he must do and wed her, however much they both disliked the prospect.
Chapter Ten
So, I am not to worry my pretty little head about anything, am I? I suppose I could pretend that my head truly is empty of anything approaching independent thought or intelligence and then Will might be easier to deal with—provided he stops having suicidal but gallant and brave ideas about how to rescue us.
Verity shook out what bedding there was—two pillows and two blankets—and looked out of the door, hoping to find some dead bracken, but the plant did not seem to grow on the island. Will would just have to make do with the stone floor, she thought, her lips twitching at the realisation that she was not particularly sorry about that.
‘What are you doing?’ Will came in and dumped an armload of wood by the fire.
‘Making you up a bed. You didn’t think I intended to share that with you, surely? It is far too narrow. Neither of us would get a wink of sleep.’
That could have been better expressed, Verity.
Will clearly thought so, too, by the way one eyebrow lifted. She pushed away the speculation about how it would feel to be curled up against that long, hard body, what his kisses would lead to. Would he be a g
enerous lover or a demanding, peremptory one, convinced he knew what she would want, would need? Probably dukes thought that passion in a woman was unseemly. She wondered if he had a mistress.
‘I do not require a blanket.’ He dealt with her blunder by simply ignoring it.
‘As you say.’ And we will discuss that later. ‘Should we see what our kidnappers have packed for our supper?’
* * *
Dukes, it seemed, maintained formal dining manners even when marooned on desert islands, eating picnic dinners with cheap cutlery and earthenware plates. Will kept up a polite flow of innocuous conversation about the weather—the thunder was slowly getting closer—the latest Court gossip, the tricky issue of the replacement organist at the church, given that there were two likely candidates, both bitter rivals, and the design of mazes.
Verity preserved a ladylike propriety and responded with innocuous comments while cutting slices of veal and ham pie and fruit tart. ‘Are you intending to plant your maze here rather than in the grounds of Oulton Castle?’
‘This is where I intend my brothers and sisters to live and, as they requested the maze, it is better here. May I pass you the butter?’
‘And the bread. Thank you. And you will reside with them here?’
‘The Castle is not safe for children, not for...lively ones, that is. Can you imagine them with battlements and towers and moats and suits of armour and with sharp weapons displayed on every wall?’
‘Vividly,’ Verity said with feeling. ‘They would love it.’
‘The Dower House at the castle has a collection of elderly great-aunts and cousins already living there. The house here is far more suitable for my stepmother and, naturally, she should be close to the children.’
But not in the same house.
Although from what Verity had heard of Lady Bromhill she would be an exhausting presence at close quarters on a daily basis. She could hardly condemn the man for not wanting to live in his stepmother’s pocket, even though she could only admire the lady’s independence and defiance of convention.
‘The last straw at Oulton was the discovery that Basil was planning to experiment with boiling oil on the battlements to see whether he could pour it over the walls on to imaginary besiegers. I decided that—’
The clap of thunder was almost deafening. Verity jumped and set her stool rocking as Will lunged to close the door just in time to prevent the sudden downpour of rain from penetrating the room. He stood with his back pressed to it, dramatically lit by the flames from the fire.
‘What is amusing you, Miss Wingate? If this keeps up, we will be lucky if the roof holds.’
She got up and began to light candles from the fire. ‘You look like a dramatic illustration from a Gothic novel. The hero bars the door to the raging storm while the heroine cowers before its ferocity—and your magnificence.’
For a moment she wondered if she had gone too far, then a sound that might, just possibly, have been a gasp of laughter escaped him and Will sat down abruptly on his stool. ‘You will be the death of me, Verity.’
‘I thought I had been working quite hard not to be the cause of your demise,’ she said severely, pursing her lips to stop herself smiling, because he had sounded all too literal. ‘If it were not for my common sense, you would be drowned or in the throes of developing pneumonia by now.’
For a moment she thought she was going to receive another lecture on the importance of correct behaviour, but Will picked up a candle and began to inspect the low ceiling, presumably checking for leaks. His ability to simply disregard awkwardness by changing the subject was impressive, if infuriating.
‘It seems dry enough,’ he said. ‘I suggest we finish our meal, build up the fire and retire to our beds. No one will be searching for us in this weather.’
‘That seems sensible,’ Verity agreed and received a look that she had no trouble interpreting. His Grace had been issuing orders, not inviting a debate. She smiled sweetly and began to gather up the remains of their meal, closing away the uneaten food in case mice were about. ‘Can mice swim?’
‘I would not think so. Not this far. But they might travel on floating branches, I suppose. Are you scared of mice as well as of spiders?’
‘It was not I who screamed,’ she pointed out, banging the lid back on to the picnic hamper with rather too much emphasis. ‘And, no, I am not frightened of mice. I do not want my food nibbled by them, though.’
Will was building up the fire, banking it in with large logs that would smoulder all night. ‘Tell me, are the parents of your friends aware of what you get up to in your tower?’
‘We do not get up to anything. We engage in rational, creative pursuits. Our parents are well aware of where we are.’
‘That was not what I asked.’ He pushed the last piece of wood into place and sat back on his heels. ‘Do they know what you are doing?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Do you feel it to be your duty to tell them?’
‘Certainly not. You appear to be doing nothing dangerous, illegal or immoral, however inappropriate it might be for ladies, and in that case it is none of my business. You seem to insist that I am a righteous killjoy, Miss Wingate. I am not a monk. I drink, I play cards, box and fence, hunt, ride and bet. I enjoy the theatre and the opera and the company of my friends.’
‘But you do not approve of me, or of my friends, do you?’
‘Approval has nothing to do with it. Your friends are none of my concern, I am glad to say.’ All the froideur of the Duke was back in his voice, in the rigidity of his posture.
‘Excellent, because neither am I your concern. You need not feel compelled to offer for me, I will most certainly refuse you if you do and we may return to mutually ignoring each other as mere neighbours.’
Is silence consent or is he simply too annoyed to speak?
Verity began to search around the sparse interior of the cottage for something she needed before she could settle for the night. A large square of wood which might once have been part of a shutter was all she could find.
‘What are you doing?’ Will rocked back on to his feet and stood up in one easy movement.
Horseman’s thighs.
Verity blinked to regain her concentration. Miranda was wrong and indulging animal passions, even in thought and definitely in practice, led to nothing but useless distraction. And heartbreak. ‘I am searching for an umbrella. In the absence of one, this will have to do.’
‘Why on earth do you want to go outside?’ He loomed, large, male, uncomprehending, in front of the door.
‘Because it might surprise you to learn that ladies are not fairy creatures of such delicacy that we do not share the same bodily functions as the rest of humanity. And I have drunk several cups of tea.’
‘I should have thought of that. Here.’ Will took the board from her, stooped to pick up an old earthenware bowl that had been lying beside the door and handed it to her before he ducked out into the deluge, the board over his head.
Verity made use of the makeshift chamber pot and then concealed it behind a broken box in the far corner. Will was certainly resourceful. She eased her stay-laces while she had the privacy. ‘Come in!’ she called when there was a knock on the door. ‘Thank you.’
Will dropped the board, shook himself like a large dog and raked the wet hair back from his face. ‘It does not appear to be easing up.’
‘Then I am going to bed.’ She was not going to remind him to hang up his waistcoat close to the fire to dry off and certainly not going to suggest he remove his shirt. There were limits to trying to get an obstinate male to accept good sense.
She kicked off her shoes, climbed in under the blanket and pummelled the straw tick and lumpy pillow into something she might be able to sleep on. ‘What are you doing?’
Will had retreated to the far corner of the hut, not that it was very far away, given
the size of the place. He merely grunted.
‘For goodness’ sake, come and sleep in front of the fire. I am quite confident that proximity to a sleeping man will not imperil my virtue, although I may smother you with the pillow if you snore.’
‘I do not snore.’ He got up and moved pillow and blanket to the hearth. ‘I was attempting to make you feel as comfortable as possible.’
His drive to protect and nurture was attractive, even while it was infuriating. ‘I think we had established that I am not prone to maidenly shrinking, torrid imaginings.’ Oh, yes, I am. ‘Or dark suspicions about your character or motives.’
There was a sound that might have been agreement. Will punched the pillow, hauled the blanket up over his shoulders and turned on his side so that his back was to her. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Will.’
Sleep well on your hard, damp bed...
* * *
Will had not expected to sleep. The floor was cold stone, his clothes clung moistly, the pillow was lumpy and far too close for comfort was a sleeping woman in a snug bed. His imagination decided to run riot.
At least torrid fantasies were keeping him warm, he thought grimly as the storm passed slowly overhead—the thunder crashed, the rain lashed down, the cold draughts crept in from every crack and his bodily aches tormented him.
He drifted off to sleep eventually, the fantasies becoming dreams in which Verity Wingate’s flow of infuriating common sense was finally reduced to moans of passion and cries of desire as she writhed beneath him.
* * *
‘Will!’
‘Mmm?’
Again? I will do my utmost...
‘Do wake up. It is light, the rain has stopped. We should be packed and ready to leave when the rescue party arrives.’
He opened his eyes to find Verity looking infuriatingly awake, tidy and lively. Her face glowed, her hair was neatly braided and coiled around her head, her garments were, it was true, somewhat creased, but otherwise she had every appearance of having passed a restful night.
