by Sophia Nash
She stepped away from him. “Get up. I know it’s not adorable, and it is a cornette not a bonnet. I only wear it to save myself and my maid the trouble of an endless bush of tangles in the morning.”
He dropped his hand to his side. “I could do it far better and faster than your maid, I assure you.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could. It’s probably the hallmark of someone who womanizes.”
A muscle in his mouth moved. “Actually that would be unhooking corsets.”
“Thank you for your elucidation. Now please,” she knew her tone was becoming a bit too high-pitched and unattractive, “please get up. You’re ruining your breeches. Grass stains are impossible—”
“No,” he interrupted without moving a muscle.
“ ‘No’ to what?”
He had stopped smiling. His face was alarmingly serious. He held out his hand again, palm up, urging her silently to accept it. “Verity, enough. I shall arrange for the first reading of the banns immediately. A Special License would only add to any gossip. I’ve had a word with the vicar, who said—”
“You told Mr. Armitage?” Her hand went to her throat.
He finally, slowly, regained his feet. The grass-colored cloth on his knees now matched the color of his eyes. Finally a better comparison than peas.
“I’m delighted to inform that that is how a marriage is done in England. One must go before a vicar unless one binds and drugs a female, crosses the border to Scotland, and pays an indecent amount to an unscrupulous smithy to perform a service over the anvil. I had hoped to save myself the trouble. But if you persist in this determination to ruin yours and your family’s name, then I can be counted on to reconsider the other option.” He paused. “Enough of this, V. Name the day.”
“Of course. The seventeenth of July.”
She almost laughed when she saw the odd combination of relief and fear mingling on his features.
“In the year of our Lord, nineteen hundred and nine,” she added.
“That’s what I thought,” he replied dryly. “You are a hard woman, V. And here I was even prepared to give up your promised pin money to have you.”
It was not often a person dumbfounded him. Indeed, it was this very quality—of reading people’s character, way of thinking, and deciphering their moral code—that had earned him his nom de guerre, Chameleon, for the uncanny ability to adapt to any and all situations with astonishing ease. Prinny and a handful of people at the top of Wellington’s food chain knew his true identity, to be sure, but they were determined to keep it secret in case the country’s needs became too great, in which case he would be pressed into service again, despite his last mission, during which his identity had been compromised.
Rory surveyed the activity in the rear gardens of Rutledge from the vantage point of his north-facing library. He still could not fathom how he had mangled something that should have been the least complicated event of his life. And all this time he had been given the impression that the young ladies of good ton and their ambitious parents were willing to do just about anything to land an eligible duke.
Apparently Verity Fitzroy did not subscribe to this way of thinking. Perhaps it was that after having a ducal father and brother, she’d had her fill of the arrogant, domineering males.
And so, for his inept preparation to charm his future bride, Rory was reduced to this: overseeing the installation of a formidable feast outside, otherwise known as a fête champêtre, which was really nothing more than a blindingly extravagant pique-nique for what appeared to be every last inhabitant of Derbyshire. Not one person invited had declined the honor. And yet, there had been only one response to which he had paid any heed.
Lady Verity Fitzroy and Lady Mary Haverty accept with pleasure His Grace’s kind invitation to the entertainment Tuesday next.
Well, at least she had not taken complete leave of her senses. Or more importantly, he still had a chance to make her see reason.
He scratched his jaw as he watched a parade of servants, bearing trays and platters, artfully arrange the fare on an endless series of elegantly appointed tables, dripping with mounds of grapes and oranges and lemons in etched crystal bowls.
All this to woo one petite, recalcitrant, dark flashing-eyed Fitzroy.
It was the most calculated bit of trickery since Welly had sent him behind French pickets in the middle of the night dressed as a replacement aide-de-camp for Napoleon.
There was really only one question far back in an unvisited corner of his mind. When had he become so ill-fired moral-minded that he felt it necessary to save someone? It was this thin air of the Peak District, it was.
Well.
He would successfully advance, subdue the enemy, use a bit of torture if necessary—he smiled to himself—enlist allies in the neighborhood if possible, and win the battle even if he had to eat every last grape in sight.
For the first time in a very long time, he had a mission. He hadn’t known he’d longed for an aim in life other than obliterating the past through every known method possible, the number one being a concerted effort to get himself killed, an endeavor that had failed miserably.
It didn’t matter that it involved winning the hand of a bride he did not want. He cleared away the cobwebs in that unused corner of his brain and reviewed the reasons:
1. She was the sister of the man he had betrayed.
2. She was a lady
3. She was in this fragile predicament due to his bloody error.
And 4. She was a female trying to elude, and he, being of the male persuasion, could not help but give chase.
There might be another reason lurking, he feared, but it was too hard to see. Point four was most likely the driving force. He’d seen a legion of gentlemen fall to that inherent jungle trait, and he should know better. And yet why could he not ignore that itch to conquer? It had been his undoing in the past.
And so it was with his natural black wit and charm, and unnatural trepidation, that the first Duke of Abshire opened his great house and vast gardens to a horde of two hundred eighty-six neighbors possessed of a curiosity that only a fourteen-year absence could foster. The chase was on.
“May I say, Your Grace, that Rutledge Hall is the very finest property in Derbyshire?” Baroness Littlefield inquired.
“You may, madam, however, I would not say it in Lady Fitzroy’s hearing for I should like to impress her, and your comment may have the opposite effect.”
The large-bosomed lady tittered, while her neighbor, the tall plain wife of Sir John continued. “Boxwood is extraordinary, Your Grace, but it is cold and imposing—especially that forbidding maze and lake of theirs. Rutledge Hall evokes romance and mystery.”
“I’m delighted to hear it, madam.” He smiled benevolently. “For there will be mystery and romance here today if I have anything to say about it.”
The ladies’ jaws dropped, and he suggested they help themselves to the wine and the duck canapés.
He did not have to say another word for he knew it would take all of a quarter of an hour to get back to her. If there was one thing he had learned, the art of gossip in England was even more efficient than in France.
Precisely one hour later he bored through the crowds to pursue his main objective. And while the guests appeared to avert their gazes, he knew that every person within a five-mile radius had their beady eyes upon him.
Verity had fortified her position by protecting her buttresses with Lady Haverty on one side, and on the other, her cousin Esme, now the Duchess of Norwich. Norwich, himself, stood next to his new bride, looking much like a man who just discovered he had made a deal with the devil, and a lifetime spent with these ladies in Derbyshire was the price. It had been three weeks since Rory’s fellow member of the royal entourage had mysteriously reappeared without a word of explanation for his hasty, hushed-up marriage.
“Delighted to see you again, madam, after all these years,” Rory said to Esme, and then nodded to Norwich, using his moniker, “Seventeen
.”
The duchess curtsied while her gray eyes examined him in a way that made Rory feel as if she could read his every thought.
“Lady Fitzroy was just saying she is not impressed,” Norwich stated.
“Nor is she interested in anything the guests here are circulating,” Esme added, moving closer to Verity.
Rory bowed to the other two ladies. “Your servant, Lady Haverty, Lady Fitzroy.”
He grasped V’s hand before she could say a word and pressed his lips on the back of her gloved fingers. His nose touched her bare wrist and the unmistakable scent of violets flooded his senses. He immediately released her hand.
“Are you now,” Verity began, a bit out of breath. “Since when does a servant inform guests there will be mystery and romance in the still of the afternoon?”
“Since today,” he murmured. “You’ve forced me to up the ante, Lady Fitzroy.”
Mary Haverty laughed, a deep, throaty melodic sound to most gentlemen’s ears. To Rory, it was a sound reminiscent of disaster.
He offered his forearm to Verity. “I beg you to join me for a stroll to the water’s edge. I’ve been given to understand that it is superior to Boxwood’s. Less forbidding.”
“And romantic,” Mary inserted, still smiling.
“Romantically mysterious,” he replied, looking only at Verity.
The Duke of Norwich sighed heavily. “Frankly, I don’t care if it’s where the eternal Lady of the Lake lurks. Either way, we shall, all of us, play nursemaids to the both of you. Candover would demand it.”
“Candover would not, I assure you,” Rory retorted. “Mind your own debacle, Norwich. Pardon me, Lady Haverty, Esme—”
“No offense taken,” Esme replied quickly.
He pointedly regarded Norwich. “I trust you will manage here well enough without us”—he offered his arm to Verity—“and in case you haven’t noticed, there are fowl lurking in the shallows down there.”
The odd comment drew a black glare from Norwich. Everyone in England knew his family had been cursed by a witch two centuries ago to die by duck—yes, duck. It had proven to be a most effective curse for the sixteen Norwich dukes who preceded Seventeen. The latter was known to avoid all bodies of water larger than a copper bathing tub—for good reason.
Verity cleared her throat and cut in before the fur on Norwich’s back rose another inch. “Do remember our neighbors’ talents at lip-reading. And, while I appreciate your effort, Your Grace”—she looked toward Norwich—“I assure you spinsters are perfectly capable of strolling with gentlemen without raising any alarm.”
She refused to take Rory’s arm, but moved forward to stroll down the wide lawn to the lake in the distance. Already, a bevy of energetic young ladies and gentlemen were rowing several small rowboats or strolling beside the willow trees edging the water.
“Rory?”
“Yes?”
“You are going to have to try a new tactic.” She smiled up at him, to confuse anyone looking at them, he was certain.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I know your game, and it won’t work.”
“Game?”
“Yes. The one where you allow everyone in the neighborhood to think you have lost your mind and suddenly developed a tendre for me.” She held her hands behind her back, her aristocratic profile tilted proudly despite yet another confirmation of her atrocious taste regarding hats. “But, you see, it won’t play out that way, Rory. Instead, everyone will wonder why you are in such need of a dowry in excess of fifty thousand pounds since you were just lavished with a title and an extraordinary surplus of riches by the prince. Or it will positively confirm any possible future reports that you ruined me. This isn’t the solution and you know it.”
They came to a stop close to several beached boats at the sandy edge of the lake. A small boathouse was adjacent.
“Let them wonder the former,” he said, leaning closer. Under the brim of her hat, a tendril of her dark brown hair fluttered in the light breeze. “Do we really care what they think?” A part of him filled with ill-ease at his actions. He guided her toward the deeply shaded corner of the boathouse, nearest the lake’s edge. She was hidden from the vast crowd on the rise behind them, but he was in plain view.
“I just don’t understand why you are behaving so gallantly and against your nature,” she insisted. “It isn’t like you. Since when did you become so determined to play the knight in shining armor to the damsel in distress?”
Since when, indeed.
“It will all blow over, you’ll see,” she insisted. “You know it,” she continued in a whisper.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his head until his forehead touched the rim of her hat. “Of course it might in time. Anything is possible, if not likely. But, you see, I find I cannot deprive myself of a chance to marry into the Fitzroy clan.”
“I refuse to live a lie,” she insisted, not meeting his eyes. Her dark lashes were fanned against the perfection of her smooth, even complexion.
“My dear V, everyone lives lies of some sort. Until the day someone devises a way for others to see another’s true thoughts, we will all of us only see truth in the privacy of our own minds.”
“Thank God for that,” she murmured.
It was the last thing he could have imagined she would utter. “We are of like mind, I see.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, turning serious. “More importantly, I’ve always believed the character of a person can only truly be discerned by their actions when no one is watching.”
“Ah,” he murmured, leaning his arm against the corner of the boathouse and moving even closer to her. “I don’t need to spy on you or your thoughts to know you are a good and honest person.”
“Not always.” Her dark hard-to-read eyes finally met his. “I have many flaws—some more severe than others—like everyone else. Actually, I know of only one person whose flaws I’ve never been able to perceive.”
“And who is this paragon?”
“A loyal friend who has more courage, character, intelligence, and innate good sense than anyone else in Christendom and beyond. She is also the most stunningly beautiful creature alive.”
“Lady Mary Haverty?”
She shook her head. “But Mary is in some ways like her.”
Lord, it was this way she had—of always saying the unexpected—that surprised him. She would not behave as the other ladies he had known, who drew attention to their own sterling attributes. “She sounds like a product of your vivid imagination, V. No such lady exists.” His smile belied his words. “So I don’t believe you.”
“Have you ever trusted anyone, Rory?” She tilted her head and gazed at his face. “Have you ever loved someone with all your heart . . . Unreservedly?”
“So serious, suddenly.” Bold honesty never led to anything good. “By the by, the ribbon on that, ahem, hat, matches your eyes to perfection. But, why in the name of God of all bonnets are you wearing grapes and kumquats on one side and a trio of crows on the other side?”
“They are lovebirds, you idiot. And everyone knows fruits on hats are all the rage right now.”
“But not an entire fruit stall. Are those violets tucked in back?”
She studied him silently for a moment. “I’ve never known anyone so capable of managing conversations via diversion, wit, or flattery. The last it has not been my privilege to ever hear from your lips, I might add. But, I would advise you to save your breath, for I think I’ve proven I’m quite immune to your ways. Now then, are you going to answer my question or not?”
“The love question?”
“Precisely.”
“Why are ladies uniformly infatuated with the notion of love?”
She studied him without a word.
“Love does not promise happiness,” he said, evading her question.
“I never suggested it did,” she replied softly.
He pursed his lips. Today had obviously been a bloody waste of time, not to mention
the cost of the food, and wine, and the effort to arrange the fruit artfully dripping from family crystal. He could have saved a lot of guineas by just using the elements on her hat.
Thank God the unmistakable sound of footsteps intruded.
“Coward,” Verity whispered as he backed slightly away.
A cool breeze fluttered through the swirling leaves of the nearby weeping willow, and two ladies arm in arm approached. One of the females had an expression that promised a knife in the back during the dead of night, whilst the other had that seductive, bemused look he had tried to forget for so many long years. Well at least his effort to provide a show for his guests had worked. Verity would be one step closer to accepting the inevitable by the end of the day.
“Fancy that,” Lady Mary Haverty said, stopping a few feet from them but addressing her walking companion. “I declare that now we’ve come all this distance, Miss Talmadge, I’m sorry to beg off rowing about in the heat of the afternoon with you. But perhaps . . .” She, of the daggers in her gaze, squarely looked at him.
He turned from the auburn-haired lady to the blond beauty.
Phoebe Talmadge smiled at him, her fine expression shimmering like a rose at the peak of bloom compared to Mary, who resembled a cross patch of nettles. Who was he to disappoint? He knew how to retreat, reassess, and regroup with the best of them.
“It would be my pleasure, Miss Talmadge.” He extended his arm.
“Oh, but I am perfectly capable of going it alone, Your Grace,” Phoebe purred. “No need to trouble yourself.”
“I cannot allow it, my dear,” he insisted, as he should. “I must assist you. Especially since I’m not furthering my cause here.”
Phoebe exhibited the same coy smile Catharine had used expressly in his direction and lay her pale, thin arm along the top of his.
He didn’t really want to go, but all his plans, schemes, and other ill-thought-out ideas, which had previously proved successful, needed time to simmer. “It’s my pleasure. Oh, and Lady Fitzroy?” He turned slightly to address her.
