by Sophia Nash
It was most likely the first time in her life that a duke had asked her to spread the word about anything. Mrs. Greer reacted as if news of the end of the war between France and England had been placed in her hands to be trumpeted to the world. “Oh, indeed, Your Grace,” she replied with reverence. “I will not fail you. Oh dear, perhaps I should not stay. It will take some time to circle the neighborhood. Ah, but then tomorrow is Sunday. I shall tell everyone as they arrive to church. Is that not an excellent idea?”
Verity chanced a glance toward Rory, and while a smile was plastered to his face, there was an odd glint to his eyes, which Verity didn’t recognize.
James nodded regally to the flustered, plump lady. “Do what you must, madam. But good news travels fast.”
Verity attempted to change the topic. “I like your turban very much, Mrs. Greer. Wherever did you find it?”
“Oh, my dear.” The matron touched her hand, “I fashion all my hats myself. Far more original I think, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Isn’t it lovely, Abshire,” Verity murmured.
“Absolutely stunning. Perfection. Ravishing,” he replied straight-faced. “Is that leopard?”
“No, no.” She leaned forward with a conspiratorial wink. “Dyed goat. Far more practical.”
“You should make one just like it, Lady Fitzroy,” Rory continued.
Verity took a small step back, directly onto the toe of his evening footwear. Hard. “Yes, Mrs. Greer. I shall even promise to wear it on my wedding day.” The one that would never come.
Phoebe, ever graceful, slipped beside James. “I have been waiting so patiently, Lady V.”
All eyes remained glued to their theatre.
“Have you?” Verity replied.
“Oh yes. I have been longing to tell you, on behalf of everyone in the parish—especially those gathered here tonight . . .” She paused. “. . . how grateful we all are to you for stepping in for our dear Miss Woods to teach our poor tenant children.”
“But it is I who is grateful to them, Miss Talmadge. They teach me more than I teach them.”
“Yes, but it’s such an altruistic endeavor with so little hope for success.”
Mr. Armitage joined their circle. “How so, Miss Talmadge?”
Surely no one else, who had not been a keen bystander on the fringe of life’s events such as Verity, would notice, but there was the barest hint of something very like fear in Phoebe’s posture.
“Why, the cruelties of birth typically hampers their ultimate future. Would you agree, Your Grace?” She eyed James.
James gazed at her, remnants of the past still clinging to his remote expression. “You are both right, I fear.”
Rory broke the tide of swelling tension, in his usual well-timed method. “Shall we not take a tour of the air beyond the French doors? I, for one, need it after those magnificent duck confit canapés. What say you, Norwich?”
Norwich stepped up to the challenge without thinking. “I might agree you possess a good sense of direction, as long as one doesn’t mind ending up in a bedchamber.”
A hush fell anew over the assembled royalty of Derbyshire and stared at her.
And that’s when Verity knew.
The rumors from London had arrived at some point in time, and everyone knew why Rory was engaged to marry her.
Chapter 18
A sense of freedom enveloped Verity as she accepted Rory’s arm. She didn’t need it to steady her as the small crowd parted to then follow them as slowly as decency would allow.
“Don’t hover,” she murmured. “It’s far too obvious.”
He leaned down to her as they cleared the doors leading to the gardens. “I like being obvious.”
“I know. But I don’t.” She released his arm and wandered to the railing, where Esme soon joined her.
The rest of the audience staked out their places as unobtrusively as possible.
“There are times I wish I were you,” Esme murmured.
“There are times I wish you were me, too,” she retorted, a serene smile plastered to her face.
Esme laughed. “Never change, Verity. Please. I don’t want to live in a world without someone like you in it.”
You might have to, Verity thought, but without poignancy or a single regret.
This was her night. And she knew it. The night air ruffled and refreshed her feathers.
A sense of calm and purpose invaded her spirit as she and her cousin exchanged pleasantries, and the others began to lose hope that more drama was in the offing. The moon moved slowly across the night sky.
“Esme?”
Her cousin linked arms with her. “Yes?”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“Thank God.”
She smiled in the darkness, relieved only by the lanterns hanging in the branches of the trees nearest the ballroom. “The mill is a bit inconvenient, as I have so many duties to attend to tomorrow. And the day after, I have to write letters for the three boys off to Eton.”
Esme sighed.
“I’ll leave them in my slippers. And I’ll even give you leave to toss out these blister-inducing things as well.”
“Who cares about your slippers. If you disappear I give fair warning that I will give Rory leave to destroy every last hat you leave behind.”
Verity turned her head at the sound of Phoebe’s lovely laughter.
The other lady was beside Rory, who was leaning against the balustrade. She leaned in, cupped her hand and whispered something into his ear. An amused smile appeared on Rory’s handsome features.
And suddenly Verity was thirteen years old again and back in the old pine tree overlooking the lake. Below her, two painfully beautiful wild creatures were living a life she would never know.
Together.
A sudden visceral change began in the pit of Verity’s belly and shot to her limbs.
The familiar within her was suddenly replaced with an exotic need to assert her rightful claim in her domain.
She was not a bloody martyr. She refused it with every fiber of her being.
She marched over to them. And with a single step, she inserted herself between Phoebe and Rory. “He’s mine,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear.
She caught a fleeting glance of Rory. His eyes danced with humor and . . . and something more, before she heard the sound of laughter retort in the absolute silence of the entranced audience.
Verity turned to see Esme, standing on the railing all alone, laughter still coming from her in waves. She wiped her eyes finally. “Stubborn, through and through.” Her cousin caught her breath. “And just in the nick.”
“Well, I like that,” Phoebe said, meaning just the opposite.
Verity stepped so close to Phoebe that she had to look straight up to meet the beauty’s glittering eyes. “And stay away from my brother, too.”
Rory chuckled.
Verity swiveled her head and caught him scratching the place on his jaw where the high collar rubbed. “Don’t say a word.”
He put his hands up. “Never let it be said that I can’t listen to my betrothed.”
Phoebe sniffed. “My dear Lady V, I fear you—”
“You had better fear me,” Verity interrupted. “And I am not your ‘dear Lady V.’ My mother taught me that one should never assume familiarity unless the person invites you to do so.”
“She’s got you there, Miss Talmadge,” said an anonymous lady from the other side of the balcony.
The Duke of Norwich crossed to Esme and yawned far too wide for it to be genuine. “Lovely evening, Candover,” he called out. “But, I do think I prefer the fireworks at my wife’s estate. Shall we, Your Grace.” He looked down at Verity’s cousin, who nodded.
As they took their leave, Esme leaned in to whisper in her ear. “No need for me to revisit your chamber now, as I see it. Keep those slippers. They serve you well.”
Verity quickly kissed her cousin.
For the first time in Verity’s memory,
Esme had not an inkling of the future.
James had the good sense to leave his sister and Rory alone on the balcony as he escorted inside all the guests, who believed they had just witnessed a historic event.
Rory glanced down at Verity, whose face always startled him due to the deep attraction he felt whenever he saw her. “Will you walk with me?”
She nodded.
He offered his arm but then changed his mind. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her down the stairs. She said not a word of protest.
He gently deposited her at the base of the stairs and they walked among the century-old trees by the light of the waxing moon.
The silence was not awkward. He had found peace. Finally.
He halted at the site of the first time he had come to visit her this summer. When he had assumed he could easily convince of the necessity of marriage. He knew better now. She would only do what was in her heart.
Her actions tonight sparked hope within him.
“Verity?”
“Yes.”
He paused. She had said that one little word with such finality, not an invitation to continue with his question. “Did I understand you correctly?”
“Yes.”
“Yes as in yes, continue?”
She said not a word.
“Or, yes as in yes, you will give me the indescribable joy of truly becoming my duchess?”
“Yes.”
He looked down at her face, the face of the person he had come to love with every fiber of his being, and knew. Her yes was really a no. But his life depended on not showing that he knew.
He gathered her into his arms, slowly. Taking such care to hold her, so she would feel his great love for her. “V?”
“Yes?” she whispered.
“I love you.”
“I know,” she said very clearly. “I love you, too.”
They stood there for long minutes. Letting her go was the hardest act he had ever done.
When she slipped from his arms, he knew not to go after her. As her petite form reentered the ballroom, he could not believe the strongest person in the world could appear so small and fragile.
Verity walked to her chambers, not in a daze, but with a clarity of thinking that had eluded her for some time.
In the quiet of her apartments, she finished her letters to James, Mr. Armitage, Esme, and finally Rory.
It was not really that difficult to say good-bye once a decision had been taken. Especially when the decision was the right one.
She took off her slippers and placed them under her bed, the letters carefully balanced on top of them.
Then she stole into the night, with merely her saddlebags, stuffed with the necessities. Her valises were long forgotten.
She would not need them. Her last hope had died tonight as soon as she realized everyone knew she was ruined. Oh, none of them would ever dare say a word to her if she’d had the opportunity to stay, which she did not because of the diaries. They would be respectful because of her brother’s title. Some would whisper about her, others would pity her, but all of them would look at her, and their silent knowledge of her tattered reputation would hover over every conversation.
And because of her brother’s name, she would be known wherever she went.
But that was the least of her problems.
Esme was wrong. She was not being a martyr. She was being incredibly selfish.
No matter what happened in the end, she would know he existed. He was genuine and true and he loved her for herself, just as she would forever love him.
She stole into the stables, using the secret gap in a board that emptied into the old harness room. Sneaking past a slumbering stable boy, she silently entered Captio’s stall with everything overloaded in her arms.
Her mare nickered softly and nuzzled her side, searching for a cube of sugar, which Verity provided as she saddled and bridled her. She was the only thing of value Verity was taking with her, along with an inordinate amount of gold coin, which she now knew better how to hide than the last time she was in London.
She rode Captio in a southerly direction. She was bathed in the warmth of the night.
It was the exact right way to remember her mother the night of the tenth anniversary of her death. “Mother,” she whispered into the darkness, “I’ve missed you so.”
Little did she know, but in her haste to depart far sooner than she had planned, she had forgotten her least favorite cliché of all time: The future did not wait.
Chapter 19
Verity arrived at the White Horse Inn on the outskirts of London in record time. It was not due to her riding skills. It was due to the outrageous amount of gold coin she pressed into the hands of an ostler ten miles from Boxwood, who mysteriously appeared twenty minutes later with a very smart phaeton and insisted on driving her to London himself.
She rather feared he had nicked the fast vehicle and even faster horses from some poor gentleman at the inn.
Did she really worry? No. What was one more broken law when the penalties she had already accumulated would have put over a hundred hardened criminals in Newgate for the rest of their lives?
And she was tired of worrying and was ready for the story to be over—until the outlaw ostler and she drew into the well-maintained yard of the White Horse. The innkeeper winked at her and insisted a penny was well worth the price for the Evening Herald from last night.
“And the Morning Post?”
He shook his head. “The Herald be what everyone reads now.”
Not that it mattered anymore. How much worse could it get?
A lot worse, it turned out.
Her shriek from the neat little ladies’ withdrawing room was most likely heard all the way to London.
She stormed out of the inn, grabbed the reins from her lawless accomplice. By the look on his face, and his silence during the rest of the journey to Town, it seemed he regretted not insisting on twice the rate he had gleefully taken from her two days ago.
Verity drove them straight to Carleton House, politely returned the reins to the white-faced ostler, and dismounted without any aid. Both driver and passenger hoped never to encounter the other again in their lives.
She slowed as she marched toward the royal guards fronting the prince’s new-famed residence. The size and elegance, but more than anything the cost to redesign and refurbish, and re-gild the vast majority of it before Prinny had deemed it acceptable for royal occupancy, was what drove the masses armed with rotting fruit (but no peas, it should be noted) in their hysteria to these very gates each day after the first of her entries in the Morning Post.
And then she halted mid-stride. Stumbling forward and then righting herself, she slowly turned. There was not one single protester behind her. Where were all of the produce-wielding marauders, decrying the excesses of the aristocracy?
Was she hallucinating due to lack of sleep? It was entirely possible.
She walked to one of the guards. “I want to see the Prince Regent.”
He raised one brow.
Did they teach all males that trick? She hoped the three nice boys from her family’s school in Derbyshire would not adopt it. It was very unattractive. And rude.
A very thin man crossed the stone pavers from one of Carleton House’s eight arches. He elegantly showed a leg in deference to her. “Is that you, Lady Verity Fitzroy?”
She nodded without thought.
“Oh, we’ve been waiting and waiting for you. His Majesty was on the point of sending out a small regiment to comb the route from here to Derbyshire for you.” He again bowed low.
Yes, she was obviously ready to be placed in Bedlam. Voluntarily. Had the world gone mad when she had blinked at some point?
She was certain she had never met this strange little man before her. And why was he treating her like the queen reignant, or at the very least a foreign head of state.
And she had thought the tricky part would be “knocking over” a large man. She hoped that
was the popular jargon of criminals in the know these days, because if she had to break the law, she wanted to do it with style. Fashion, she might not care about, but lexicons were another matter altogether.
“So glad I did not put the prince to any trouble.” He might have very different feelings when it concerned a whole lot of trouble instead. And so she curtsied to gain this squirrelly man’s favor. “Um, is he—” She should have prepared for this better, she feared. She just wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “—or rather, is His Majesty at home?” She paused.
He stared at her, a smile overspreading his face.
“Or receiving?”
Nothing.
“Taking appointments today?”
He finally put her out of her misery. “He’s waiting for you, madam.”
“He is?” She feared she’d just squeaked for the first time.
He nodded and invited her to follow him.
Fourteen rooms, seventeen corridors, four sets of stairs, and untold number of doorways later she found herself ushered into the royal bedchamber. She was so in awe that she only realized she was alone with the future king of England when she heard a heavy door close behind her and wheeled about.
Perhaps beheadings were held in private in this day and age.
“Come here, my child,” a deep voice called from an immense bed in deep shadow.
Was he ill? Why, it was half four in the afternoon.
“Let me see your face,” he said gently.
She raised her chin and boldly strode forth. She would not be described as a coward in the history books. A fool or an idiot, perhaps, but not a coward.
She stopped midway. In her fluster, she had forgotten that she was looking for him. That lying, living, soon not to be breathing, masquerading conniver who was soon to be known as her ex-fiancé if she had any say in the matter. And, yes, she rather thought she had quite a lot to say or write about it.
Unless of course the prince regained his senses and cut out her tongue to shut her up and her hands to shut her down.
Then again she had nothing to lose. “Where is he? I know he’s here.”
The prince smiled in a great show of munificence. “All in good time, my dear, all in good time.”
