by Sophia Nash
He dropped her hand. But just after turning to depart, he stopped in his tracks, then quickly turned back and closed the gap.
She swallowed as he stared down at her from his great height.
In a rush, he leaned down to press a kiss on her cheek. “I’m very glad to see you safe, V.”
She chastely kissed his other cheek, and just like that the awkwardness between them dissolved.
The only problem was . . . she needed the awkwardness, as that would make it easier for her to put to rights all her grave wrongs.
With a grave look, he bowed once and was gone.
Verity fell into a slumber like no other not a quarter hour after his departure.
She slept through her maid’s valiant attempt to wake her eight hours later, as Verity had requested. Four hours after, at six in the afternoon, her maid attempted again, armed with water and smelling salts. To no avail.
Another three hours passed before someone else attempted the impossible.
There was something about touching her skin that ignited a place within him with which Rory was not familiar. The flesh of the top of her hand was so soft, and yet her palm spoke of untold hours of handling a bridle’s reins.
He could not stop the grin he could feel spreading on his face. She was on her back, her mouth slightly open, and every once in a while she emitted a gurgling snore.
Her maid behind him cleared her throat in a most unpleasant manner. “I’ve tried everything to wake her, Your Grace.”
He brushed a stray lock of her warm, dark hair from her face and kept his gaze on her. “She is exhausted.”
“But it’s been more than fifteen hours. It’s nearly half ten at night!”
He finally turned and headed for the open door. “Madam, I don’t care if it’s half past never. Let her sleep.” He stopped at the door. “Uh, that’s an order, by the by.”
The maid appeared suitably chastened. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“Don’t look so forlorn. You can blame me when she wakes. Tell her I will be waiting for her in the library.” He sighed. “Forever the library, it appears.”
Her maid bobbed a curtsy and informed in a whisper, “His Grace, the Duke of Candover, keeps the racing journals in the upper west corner.”
“Lovely,” he whispered back. “Why are we whispering?”
She nodded toward her mistress. “She doesn’t approve of racing.”
“Why, that’s unpatriotic.”
“Not according to the horses, Lady Verity insists. And so her brother hides the journals so as to not offend her sensibilities.”
“His Grace is not very manly, is he?”
The maid giggled.
The night in the library passed with surprising swiftness as soon as Rory pushed together the two sofas that faced each other in front of the fire. Only his booted heels hung over the edge of one side of the strange contraption he had devised.
But it was not as secure as he had hoped, for when someone entered the great chamber and cleared her throat—Lord, would that maid ever just cough like normal servants?—he sat up and his posterior fell between the two sofas, which had chosen that moment to separate.
But it was not the maid with the annoying phlegm.
Verity rushed forward, placed a tray on a nearby table and rushed to help him to his feet.
“Thank you,” he said, rearranging his rumpled shirt. “Ah. Breakfast.” He squinted toward the daylight flooding from the windows. “Or is it nuncheon?”
“Both,” she replied. “You must be famished. You slept for hours and hours.”
“Your wit has taken a turn for the better, I see.”
“It is only natural. If I had only known what a solid eighteen hours could do for one’s spirits.”
When had her face become so dear to him? He had to physically restrain himself from going to her and taking her in his arms. Instead he rearranged the furniture to the original order, with the table between the two sofas. Silently, she moved the overburdened tray to the low table.
She sunk into the plush center cushion of one of the sofas, looked at him, and gently tapped the cushion beside her. He immediately complied like the lapdog he was meant to be.
They fell into an easy rhythm, with each of them taking turns at placing morsels of the delicacies on each other’s plates.
He was just on the point of dabbing a crumb from the corner of her lovely lips, as the initial action before kissing her senseless—as he should have when she had first returned—when the maid with the throat irritation (that he should insist required a three-month cure in the Swiss alps) intruded once again. Did no one knock before entering in this crumbling monstrosity?
“Excuse me. I’ve brought the Morning Post as soon as it arrived, as you requested, my lady. And the ostler, who returned the team from the posting inn, also brought a pamphlet.”
He stilled, before casually reaching for another hot bun. This should be interesting. Of late, the Morning Post had returned to its original purpose, that of advertisements on most of its pages. And the pamphlet? Probably a lot of blubbering, gnashing of teeth and wailing at thieves in the night and the unfairness of it all. The little knacker should be jailed for sedition.
Verity reluctantly handed him the pamphlet as she silently spread the pages of the paper. Her index finger traveled over the page until it slowed to a halt.
“Read it aloud, if you will?” he asked.
Her eyes filled with shock. “You first.”
“Of course,” he replied, opening the pamphlet.
He scanned it quickly and stood up suddenly without a word. Balling it into a wad, he tossed it into the fire.
“What did it say?” She stared at the burning mass.
“Nothing of importance.”
“That bad?”
“Not if you speak French like a native, and are good friends with the owner of a charming house in the Pays Basque . . . which I do and I am.”
She bowed her head. “So if I understood, you were in London recently.”
He nodded. The words of the pamphlet, Prinny’s henchman might have stolen one of the diaries in my possession, but not the one I gave to my loyal employer at the Morning Post before I resigned, were still hot points of light in his brain. The little bugger had probably sold the other diary to gain enough capital to begin publishing the pamphlets. May all scavengers go to hell.
He was losing his touch in the game. And Prinny would be furious.
“I assume you saw the recent column, which suggested you were the author of the diaries,” she continued.
He glanced at her. “Yes.” Would she ask him straight out if he was the infamous scribbler? Would she doubt him if he told her he was not? He waited.
“I know you’re not the author,” she whispered.
“And why is that?”
He was an expert at reading faces. As the creeping flush above her lace fichu began to rise to her cheeks, so did his instincts whisper to him that something was gravely amiss.
“Why did you follow me to London?” She twisted a napkin in her lap and then released it when she realized he was looking at her hands.
She had turned the subject. Ah, she learned quickly.
“Why did you go to London?” He kept his tone easy and neutral.
She glanced at her hands, which now covered her knees. “My abigail, well, she’s really a companion now—”
“Miss Primrose?”
“Yes . . .” She paused. “Right. You met her.”
“And dear Mr. Wharton.”
“Yes, I remember. I was a bit tired when I arrived last night. My memory is not serving me well.”
“So?”
“Of course.” She hesitated. “Miss Primrose has been unwell, and I was worried, so I decided to see firsthand how she was faring.”
“This is the female you consider the finest in Creation. The one your brother threatened to relieve the night at Carleton House, is it not? The archangel who was apparently tasked with
keeping your bed free of marauders like me, I suppose?”
She shook her head. “How silly. James didn’t mean it.”
God. Rory’s heart sank. She was protecting that beautiful devil of a servant. Miss Amelia Primrose was the author of the scandalous diaries.
Why hadn’t he pieced it together sooner? It made perfect sense.
He took up Verity’s hands again, which had begun to feel as if they belonged there. “Verity, listen to me. I am going to help you. I know who is the author of the diaries.”
She blanched. “You do?”
“Yes. And I can offer protection.” He stroked the back of one of her hands.
Her dark eyes turned serious. She shook her head.
“I promise I will see Miss Primrose safely out of the country. I know she is dear to you.”
Verity’s brow wrinkled. “You could do that if necessary?”
“Of course. I know you care for her like a sister.”
She closed her eyes and a shiver ran through her, before she reopened them. “Rory?”
“Yes, my love?”
She stared at him. “Who are you suggesting is the author of the diaries?”
He sighed. “You don’t have to protect her any longer by yourself. I already told you I will spirit your Amelia to safety, even if it costs me Prinny’s favor. I will do it,” he emphasized, “for you.”
“So you think Miss Primrose is the diarist?”
Perhaps he had been a bit too hasty in his conclusions about his beloved’s quickness of mind.
“Of course.”
Verity blinked. “You’re completely wrong.”
“Prove it.”
She pushed the Morning Post into his hands, which were still warm from the soft touch of her fingers, and stood up. The blush had disappeared from her face.
“Amelia was in Kent the month that entry was penned. She was not with me in London.”
Her expression was off. He gazed at her steadily. His sixth sense told him she had something more to say. She finally looked away.
“It’s me,” she murmured. “I’m the idiot who authored that rubbish.”
Verity had never seen someone struck dumb. But there was a first for everything, and she was obviously cursed with having to experience everything and more. The last six weeks were proof of that.
She hoped never to see that look on anyone’s face ever again. But she rather feared her brother’s and sisters’ expressions would mimic his.
She did not wait to see more of the same or worse while Rory read the newest column in the paper. While the infamous “Fashionable World” column was gone, the publisher of the newspaper had filled the space with a new column entitled . . . “The Unfashionable World.” Gone was the biting commentary by the former columnist. Instead, the publisher used the space to include a larger excerpt from Verity’s diaries.
And that day’s excerpt? Oh, the events described were just another string of spectacularly unimportant examples of excess just like the earlier columns. But the excerpt lent support again to the conclusion that Rory was the author, as again his name was not included.
Fine print at the conclusion of the excerpt stated: The publisher of this fine newspaper does not necessarily endorse the free-spirited thinking of the anonymous author of this important and inspiring report. This is not gossip, it is not revolutionary in nature, it is merely news, which this newspaper has a duty to report.
Verity raced down the burgundy carpet runner covering the centuries-old stone corridors of Boxwood. She had to get to her room. She should have finished her letter to the vicar about how none of the teachers she interviewed would do, and the other letters to Amelia, her brother, and the Prince Regent before she had woken Rory. She should have already finished packing two valises with her maid, and given instructions to the housekeeper and butler. She should have called for a carriage to take her directly to London, since hopes for permanent banishment to the family’s cold abbey in the Lake District were fast fading.
She never should have allowed herself another look at his face. When would she learn to think first and act later instead of the opposite?
But in her heart she knew why she had gone to him.
She’d just had to know.
Did he truly love her?
Or was she again imagining it?
Chapter 15
It felt like he was really getting old. It took Rory a good twenty seconds for his brain box to start sparking again after her declaration. By then it was too late.
She was gone.
His heart stuttered in his chest, and his lungs constricted as he leapt from the blasted overly soft sofa, and nearly broke his knee crashing over the table, on the way to the door. At least he knew where her chambers were. She would be too distraught to think of going anywhere else.
He hoped.
He ran down the carpeted corridors—what was Candover thinking, covering the perfectly acceptable stones of this place with such slippery runners?
At the end of one corner, that maid with the obvious symptoms of a throat plague stood her ground. Without a word, she giggled and pointed in the direction of Verity’s apartments.
He almost kissed the woman.
In fact, he turned around and did kiss her. Right on the lips. He wanted the damn plague, if it would lead him to her, the one and only person who had insisted—without question—that he was not guilty. And then she had destroyed the stone evidence.
And damn it all. Cliché that it was, turnabout was fair play. He would not let her make the same mistake he’d made so very long ago.
She should not feel guilty for writing a diary that had fallen into the wrong hands. He might have thought the diarist was an idiot in the past, but now that he knew it was she, he thought the writing brilliant. He loved the dry humor of them.
He nearly raced past her door, before skidding to a halt. He pounded on it with force, then stopped and leaned against the wood to listen.
Nothing.
“Verity, let me in. I need to talk to you.” He paused. “Please. Look, I’m not angry with you. At all.” God, he was allowing his stupid sensibilities to cloud his speech. Even he knew his words sounded false.
He cleared his throat. Lord, the plague was already upon him. “Verity, damn it, open this bloody door. I mean it. If you don’t, then I will.”
He placed his ear to the door and concentrated.
Crickets.
“All right. We’ll do it your brother’s way at Carleton House. I’m sure he would side with me in this matter. So stand aside, I’m coming in.”
This would be child’s play. He had kicked in so many doors during his war years that Welly had nicknamed him “Rory the Doory.” It was part of the reason he preferred double-locked and reinforced doors at his own houses.
The other part of the reason was that doors were like love. Once opened, reason fled and emotions entered—never a comfortable or good combination. It only had ever led to death or disaster in his case.
Rory took two steps back, concentrated on the sweet spot in front of him, and fired off a kick that would have pulverized Prinny’s three-inch-thick doors.
The door did not budge.
He made a second attempt and then a third. God, he really was getting too old for this.
On the fourth attempt he changed tactics, and legs.
He swung back his boot, and Verity opened the door.
He stopped in mid-kick. “It was unlocked all this time, wasn’t it?”
She nodded, her face still filled with fear.
He opened his arms, and after a second’s hesitation she walked into them.
Moments later, without even knowing it, he’d backed her into her chamber, locked the door with one hand while still holding her, and then lowered his head to kiss her in earnest.
God. He had forgotten the sweetness of her lips. He was like a half-starved castaway finally found.
He could spend hours just kissing her, holding her, breathing in the
mysterious scent of her that drew him to explore the nape of her neck, her lovely ear, and the starkly defined hairline above her aristocratic forehead.
She had been made for him.
He suddenly imagined hundreds of her ancestors behind her and hundreds more of his behind him, and after a thousand years of history, they had been born to get to this moment—a meeting of two souls destined for one another.
“Rory,” she whispered as he stroked her chilled arms.
“Yes, my love?”
“You know this is impossible.”
He brushed aside the fabric of her bodice at her shoulder. “I know nothing of the sort.” He kissed the delicate flesh.
She pushed away from him, creating space he didn’t want.
“Rory, it might have taken me a long time to understand who you are. In fact, I’m beginning to think I’m the worst judge of character of all time. It took me nearly fifteen years of watching you and all the members of the entourage to finally understand that you are nothing more than a fraud. An angel masquerading as the devil’s spawn.”
He closed the space she had created, enfolded her into his arms and breathed in the scent of her warm, beautiful dark head again. “You are obviously a bit biased, I’m afraid,” he murmured.
She wiggled out of his arms and stalked to the other side of a large round table in the center of her bedchamber. “No. I will have my say.”
“You know, I’ve been looking forward to this.”
“To what?” Her eyes were haunted and old beyond her years.
“To taking off our gloves and fighting properly, unlike the last time.”
“You’re not supposed to look forward to fighting,” she said, misery still in her expression.
“Well, that first time, both of us exhibited a lackluster performance. And by the by, what in hell were we arguing about then?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. We didn’t argue about anything.”
“Precisely. That was the problem. It was all cold distance, misunderstandings, and each of us dancing some strange minuet of which neither of us knew the steps. This time, I say let’s enjoy ourselves. Let’s waltz and squash each other’s toes.”
