by Sophia Nash
Chapter 17
Dinners were early in the country, even during the summer when the sun warmed the land for far more hours than in the winter.
Verity knew James preferred to entertain early and with military precision.
The Duke of Norwich, Esme, and Rory arrived an hour before the other guests, as prearranged. Verity would try one last time to break through the ill-ease that had replaced the easy manner she and Esme had shared throughout their girlhood. There was nothing like the bond of two wallflowers who had wilted together through the endless Seasons barren of beaux. And yet, ever since Esme had returned far earlier than expected from an ill-fated trip to pursue her artistic passion, and gained a husband mysteriously in the process, their confidences had withered.
Verity was determined to pull the weed of reserve from her garden of friendship with Esme before she left. And so she tugged Esme’s hand to pull her next to her as soon as Esme entered the main door at Boxwood, preceding the Duke of Norwich and Rory, who had traveled in the same carriage.
It was amusing to watch three dukes of the royal entourage starched up to the nines, their collars so high and so stiff that Verity remarked quietly to her cousin, “You’d think they’d have scars on their chins from trying to turn their heads.”
Esme’s return smile was easy.
Oh, she hoped it would continue. She gripped her cousin’s arm and stepped slightly away from the three men who had already begun to drift toward a more private nearby salon.
Her brother suddenly turned toward her. “We’ll return at the appointed hour.”
Verity nodded and turned to her cousin. “Esme, do you mind accompanying me to my bedchamber? I’ve managed to lose one of my favorite slippers and I want to find it since the ones I’ve got on now are a trifle too loose.”
“Of course, dearest. But, may I say that it would help if you would just start wearing that lovely style of slipper with ribbons that circle the ankle.”
Verity pulled a face. “Said the lady whose mother is on the forefront of fashion.” On a whim, she grasped her cousin’s hand, and together they mounted the stairs, crossed all the corridors, and finally squeezed past the door frame of Verity’s chambers.
She turned to Esme, who had shared every awkward moment of youth with her, as they were the exact same age, and finally spoke. “Esme?”
“Yes, dearest?”
“We’ve barely seen each other these past weeks. And I know it’s my fault. It’s just that—”
Esme closed the distance between them and enfolded her in her arms. Verity felt a portion of the weight of her crumbling world fall as she rested her shorter frame against Esme’s. There had always been something ethereal, almost magical, about her cousin, whose artwork reflected untold gifts.
“No, Verity. It’s my error. I fear that this wretched, disastrous marriage of inconvenience to Norwich has made me withdraw from everyone I love.” Esme pulled away a bit to examine her.
Verity searched the depths of the ageless wisdom in Esme’s gray eyes. “Oh, Esme, please, I am begging you. Will you tell me . . .” she whispered.
“Go on and ask me anything”—Esme stroked her head with such gentleness—“I know I’ve been distant. Reserved even. I can’t explain why. I don’t even know myself.”
“I’ve become the same. And I don’t know why either.”
Esme tucked Verity back into her arms and whispered, “I suspect it’s love, then.”
“For me or for you?”
“For us both. It’s not surprising, actually, when you think about it. We’ve done just about everything else together.”
“Well, not exactly everything,” Verity said softly.
“I love you, Verity. Never forget it. While you had four sisters, I had none. I always wished I was your sister in truth, even if we were so much more because we chose each other.”
Verity could barely speak for the gratitude she felt toward her cousin. The weeks of meaningless pleasantries exchanged between them at the usual round of country social events had worn on her. And Esme always seemed to be able to unravel the mysteries of life, especially when it concerned gentlemen.
“Why is love so complex?” Verity knew her cousin would have answers.
“In my case it’s because the man the Prince Regent forced to marry me will never open his heart, or take a chance.”
Verity watched Esme swallow awkwardly.
“But I at least can take comfort that I truly believe you and Rory have an immense chance to grab onto happiness. I know no other man like him. Oh, he has always worn dark mystery on top of the suit of armor all men wear.”
“I know,” Verity agreed.
“Inside, many men are made of marshmallow, others of good solid oak. But in Rory? My dearest, I see nothing but gold: malleable, but strong, and pure through and through.”
“I always knew it unconsciously.” They moved toward the two damask-covered slipper chairs near the window, which offered an extraordinary view of the earthly delights Boxwood’s park offered.
“He loves you, Verity,” Esme said quietly. “I saw it as soon as we arrived. It was in the way he watched you every moment when you were not looking.”
“Esme . . . Oh, please will you not dismiss what I will tell you?”
“I never do,” Esme replied.
“Yes, I know. It’s just that I have always been so practical, and I abhor theatricality and what I shall relate reeks of it.”
Esme smiled. “Love always seems to be the handmaiden of melodrama. Especially great love.”
Verity nodded. “I do love him. I always have, even as a silly girl of three and ten.”
Esme bit her lip to stifle a giggle. “I know.”
She shook her head. “Was it that obvious?”
“Only to me,” Esme said.
“So the thing of it is— You will not tell anyone what I tell you, will you? You promise? It’s just that I have to rely on someone to deliver a few letters.”
“Where are you going?” Esme glared at her.
“I haven’t even told you I’m going anywhere.”
“Where?”
“To London. Just for a bit.” She knew she was dissembling. “To see Amelia.”
“Again?”
“Yes. The thing is, I might not be able to return straightaway.” She was careful to keep her tone light, her expression even.
Esme studied her, and Verity felt as if her cousin could see inside her mind. Esme’s face turned ashen. “You must trust him, Verity.”
“I do!”
“No, you do not. I can see it. Look, each of us has lessons to learn in life. And the only way to become the person we were meant to become, is to take a leap of faith when you least want to veer away from the familiar. Verity, listen to me. You must take a different path if the one in the past led in the wrong direction.”
“But I have an excellent sense of direction.”
Esme sighed.
“You know I will always take the path which hurts the fewest, and has the best chance of protecting those I love.”
“Perhaps you should protect yourself first,” Esme ground out. “Specifically now.”
“Coming from the lady I have no doubt would lay down her life for me.”
“There is a difference, Verity. You and I might be the most independent, strongest females in England. We always give to others. But we have to remember, just sometimes, that it’s vital to trust others and allow them to help.”
“Esme?”
“Yes, dearest.”
“You’re right. But this is not one of those times.”
“No,” Esme said firmly. “Oh, botheration. You are stubborn to a fault, Verity Fitzroy. There. I’ve said it.”
“I know my flaws, Esme.” There was not a hint of annoyance in her tone.
“It’s not a flaw. It’s a strength.” Esme leaned forward and gripped her shoulders. “Your flaw, right now, is that you’re trying on martyrdom, and I fear you’re going to
like the fit.”
Anger filled her. “I am not! I loathe martyrs. The odds are against selfless actions ever solving anything. I wish you would save your breath for Rory. He’s the one primed for self-sacrifice.”
“Are you listening to yourself?” Esme said archly. “Look, I know why you’re going against your true self. It’s love.”
Verity trembled. “Esme? Promise me you’ll do what I asked.”
“No need to say it.”
“But I must be sure. You promised you will not—”
“Say anything. My word is my promise.”
Esme squeezed her hand and became still, her gaze drifting. “I do believe I should descend. Three dukes in one chamber are two dukes too many. Shall you come with me?”
“No. I have one last thing to do,” Verity said, glancing about the chamber for her slippers. “I’ll leave the letters at the mill, under the rock where you always sit to paint.”
Esme gave her one last hug and whispered in her ear so softly that Verity was not sure if she had really said anything. It was more like a breeze murmuring in the treetops . . . Take the less familiar path.
Ten minutes later, still wearing the ill-fitting slippers, Verity descended to join the others in the receiving hall.
The first handful of twenty-eight dinner guests trickled through the door. Verity took her place beside her very tall, elegant brother. It was perverse how the Fitzroy physical traits appeared to far greater advantage in the males of the line. And why had stature seemed to skip over her in particular?
A flurry of “good evening,” “lovely to be included,” “so good of you to come,” mixed with a heavy round of “Your Grace,” “His Grace,” and even “Their Graces,” allowed Verity to lose herself in the familiar ways of her role in her family.
The baron and his baroness were as jovial and kindhearted and loud as always. Verity successfully suppressed a giggle when the baroness actually had the effrontery to kiss James on the cheek in her exuberance.
Verity was never so grateful for all the different characters that flowed through her life.
But gratitude came to a grinding halt when Miss Phoebe Talmadge drifted through the entrance along with her younger brother. The vicar, Mr. Robert Armitage, followed them. Verity peeked at the visages of others nearby. No one took any notice of Mr. Armitage.
Not that she blamed her guests. Phoebe was a stunning vision of beauty, wrapped in elegance. Never had she appeared lovelier. And while Catharine Talmadge had been a diamond of the first water, Phoebe far surpassed her. She was draped in a very pale ice blue silk gown that delicately clung to her figure, revealing nothing, except everything. A small hint of Belgian lace trailed the longish hem behind her as well as the edges of her very low-cut bodice, which barely skimmed the tips of her breasts.
Back arched, chin tilted, Phoebe’s femininity was so achingly beautiful that it was impossible to take one’s eyes off of her.
But Verity could. And she did.
Her gaze flitted from face to face of the guests still gathered in the receiving hall. Each person was transfixed—gentlemen and ladies alike. Verity’s eyes flew to James when Phoebe floated before him.
Her brother’s expression was not one Verity had ever seen before.
Phoebe bowed her head as she slowly curtsied before him. “So very honored by the invitation, Your Grace,” she said, her dulcet voice carrying in the silence.
When James did not respond, Verity drifted so close to him they were touching. She shot her hand behind him and pinched him in a place she should not.
He didn’t flinch, but finally his gaze refocused and he did the necessary with the grace only a duke possessed.
And then Phoebe was before her, and while no one else would have ever noticed it, Phoebe’s smile was a fraction less bright and her expression a fraction less warm than a moment before.
A wallflower gone to seed knew well this treatment. The one thing time had done, however, was bring perspective.
It must be very hard to spend all the hours of every day of one’s life trying to achieve and maintain such a level of flawlessness. And yet despite all, time would march on, and other beauties would have their day, pushing the older ones to the edges of the ballrooms, until the night when the former beauties had been forced against the wall to join the wallflowers they had once shunned. Only then, these fading rarities would find it was too late to learn how to take immense joy from the enduring friendships behind the withered faces who knew the freedom only anonymity could bring.
Verity welcomed Phoebe as she would any guest, and Phoebe continued to engage the notice of everyone in her path. Verity watched it all out of the corner of her eye until her gaze snagged on Rory, leaning in half shadow against a column.
His green eyes glittered as he stared right back at her—not Phoebe.
Verity had always suspected there would be at least one moment in a plain woman’s public life that would shimmer brightly in the small chamber of vanity.
For Verity that moment was now.
And he seemed to know, for he winked at her.
She laughed without a single person taking note.
Rory smiled at her, uncrossed his long, lean legs and walked toward the staircase leading to the grand salon. His wide shoulders strained his unfashionable black coat, which he always had favored. She had always suspected it was to remind himself of his aristocratic family’s impoverished circumstances. Only people anxious of staining their garments wore black, unless they were in mourning.
When the last of the guests arrived, Verity accepted her brother’s proffered arm and they mounted the stairs to join all the others.
A wistfulness filled her. It might be the last time her brother looked at her with any affection tonight. She refused to dwell on it. She would enjoy every moment of this respite from thoughts of the future.
She left her brother’s side when they entered the elegant chamber filled with the fragrant flowers she had arranged with care. She drifted to her favored place, beside a large potted palm, in which she could casually dispose of any mysteriously green hors d’oeuvre chef might have gotten in his ornery head to slip onto the menu. It was also the perfect spot to oversee the flow and hum of the evening.
Esme was engaged in conversation with Sir John and his tall, thin wife. The vicar was sternly gazing at Phoebe, who was casting her net at the only three bachelors in her vicinity. Mr. Armitage was not one of them.
This is why Verity had loved being an observer in the corridors of humanity. She spun a hundred different absurdities in her mind as she gazed at the tableau before her.
She felt rather than saw someone come to stand behind her.
“You are quite ravishing tonight.”
She could not help but smile. She was immune to false flattery, but it was indeed, lovely to receive compliments.
“I would steal a kiss but considering the recent great strides I’ve made with your brother, I rather think I’ll not risk it.”
She nearly jumped when she felt his warm hand caress her bottom.
He leaned in closer. “So this is how you did it.”
“Did what?”
“Took such excellent notes.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He nipped her shoulder and she jumped. “Perhaps not, but now it’s time for you to enter the fray. Come along, then. Take my arm.”
And she did. It was lovely, and warm.
He swatted at an arched palm frond. “It’s like a damn jungle in here.”
“I like jungles.” She smiled as she remembered the day she had begun writing the Duke Diaries all those years ago. “I ofttimes give people animal identities.”
He grinned. “Really? What am I?”
“Easy. A panther.”
“James?”
She rolled her eyes. “Ox. A drunken ox, once. ”
“I can see I’m making this too easy. Esme?”
“She’s the entire zoo.”
�
��Ah, I have you now. Miss Primrose?”
“She’s an enchanting combination of only the good animals.”
“All animals are good,” he whispered in her ear.
“That’s not true,” she whispered back. “I don’t like cheetahs.”
He laughed long and loud. “Me neither. Predators through and through and entirely too ugly what with those spots.”
She bit back a smile. If she could have loved him more, she would have at that moment.
“All right, time to earn our food. Let’s circulate and regroup.” He pulled her back as she took a step away from him. “But do not make me jealous of Mr. Armitage again. You know how I feel about vicars.”
She was well and true enjoying herself for the first time at an event of her making. Normally, she was too engaged in ensuring the comfort of all her family’s endless stream of guests and visitors. The estate was open to visitors nearly year-round. She leaned toward Rory, turned her head and whispered, “Go and talk with the baron. He likes to talk about the war.”
He pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “That’s certainly more interesting than avoiding ducks with Norwich.”
“Ah, the romantic couple,” Mrs. Greer announced loudly as she approached them. “It has been far too long since a wedding in our parish.”
Verity felt a flush rising from her neckline. “Good evening, Mrs. Greer. And where is Mr. Greer?”
“At home with the gout, poor dear. But you know how he is. He will not allow me to miss a thing. I think he secretly likes to be alone.”
Verity glanced at Rory, who had not departed when he had the chance. She knew he was thinking Mr. Greer’s secret was not really a secret at all. The man barely said five words to his wife’s five hundred.
James drifted toward her, Phoebe casually in his wake.
“So, my dears,” Mrs. Greer continued, looking at Rory. “When is the happy day?”
Verity’s hands numbed.
“We’ve been enjoying ourselves a bit too much to finalize—” Rory began before someone interrupted him.
Verity was never so shocked when James cut in.
“July twenty-eighth, madam. I trust you will spread the word.”
