by Jaimey Grant
News quickly spread that the great Duke of Denbigh and his family were resident in London. Although it was still a few months before the Season officially started, invitations from such persons as remained in Town all year started pouring in.
Connor and Verena were suddenly plagued by visitors wishful of ingratiating themselves with the newest member of the Denbigh family.
Pleasure and exasperation vied for prominence in Verena’s breast. It was obvious even to her that many of these visitors were simple toad-eaters hoping to have a new illustrious name to drop among their less fortunate acquaintances. Connor seemed to take it all in stride, even as his due, but Verena could not be quite so blasé about it all.
To Verena’s extreme consternation, among the first of the visitors, and only two weeks after their arrival, was the famous Mr. George “Beau” Brummell. She soon learned that her husband enjoyed a close friendship with Mr. Brummell. It said something for her husband’s sense of loyalty that he remained friends with a man who had fallen out of favor with the Prince Regent during the previous Season. Brummell’s popularity was on a rapid decline.
When this illustrious personage was ushered into the drawing room of Vale Place, Verena sat alone with her puppy, Lady Barnstable having gone up to her room for her usual afternoon nap. The butler, Samson—whose name had made Verena smile as soon as she saw his overly long snowy locks—announced the arrival of this guest without first seeing if Verena was “at home” to visitors.
But then, who would dare refuse Mr. Brummell?
Her first glimpse of Mr. Brummell made her smile. The social columns had not done him justice. An up-turned nose, rather ordinary features, and a pair of sparkling eyes gave his face character, hinting at a quick wit. Rumor suggested his wit resided on the sharp side. Nothing in his features or bearing indicated otherwise.
Verena welcomed her guest with none of the unease she felt showing on her usually mobile features. After flicking his coattails behind him and sitting beside her on a silk covered settee chosen more for comfort than the current fashion for Egyptian styles, Verena offered refreshment.
The butler was duly sent for the tea tray. Before leaving on his errand, Samson offered to take Orion to the kitchens, even though Verena knew how much they disliked the rambunctious little dog there. Refusing his offer, she retrieved her shredded handkerchief from Orion’s snapping jaws. The puppy took issue with losing his new prey and set up a howling fit to wake the dead.
Ignoring the possibility of injury, Verena snatched up the creature and deposited him on her lap. His howls ceased and he settled himself in for a long, undisturbed nap. Verena offered her apologies to her guest, feeling a pink heat creep into her cheeks.
Brummell, after admiring her pet with ill-feigned delight, turned the full force of his clever gaze on Verena and spoke, his voice light and pleasant. “Not that I am not delighted to make your acquaintance, dear Lady Connor, but I am come to see your husband. Is he about?”
“My husband has gone to attend to some business in the City, but he should return presently,” Verena answered in soft tones.
Connor’s efforts on her brother’s behalf were a welcome respite from her other, more pressing problems. But there were times she wished he was by her side instead. As disloyal a thought as that was.
Smiling at Mr. Brummell, she pushed all thoughts of Jeremy from her mind, determined to succeed as a London Society hostess. She couldn’t help but long for her husband’s return, however.
As if in answer to her unspoken prayers, Connor entered the room at that moment. He crossed to his wife and placed an affectionate kiss on her cheek before turning to greet her guest.
“George.” His voice held a note of surprise, as if only just realizing who he was. “What brings you by? You’ve met my lovely bride?”
It wasn’t surprising to her that her husband found something in common with the arbiter of fashion. They seemed to favor the same understated elegance of dress and cleanliness of person that had not quite yet caught on in fashionable circles.
Samson returned with the tea tray and the gentlemen sat down to be entertained with boring talk of the weather and such subjects as were deemed suitable for the drawing room. The butler announced two more visitors and Verena clenched her teeth in annoyance.
Brummell and Connor rose to their feet as the ladies were ushered in. Verena reflected ruefully that she really had to tell Samson to bar these particular women from Vale Place.
“Oh, Connor,” Lady Marigold Danvers gushed, “I was beginning to wonder if you were never coming to Town. Mama said you were probably too busy keeping your…affairs, shall we say…in line and wouldn’t favor us with your presence. But I told her that nothing could keep you from my side.”
“But of course.”
Verena stared at her husband. He couldn’t possibly be serious! Then she caught the hard glitter in his eye and noticed the falseness of his smile. He was annoyed but he obviously refused to cause a scene by putting the young lady in her place.
Oh, how Verena wished her husband would put Lady Marigold in her place!
Lady Marigold’s attention swiveled to Mr. Brummell who, despite his recent contretemps with Prinny, still had the power to make or break a social reputation with just a word…or two. “La! Mr. Brummell, that is quite the loveliest waistcoat I have seen. It quite brings out the color of your eyes. ”
Verena was hard put not to laugh out loud. Was it not the gentleman who was supposed to comment on the eyes of the lady?
“And that gown, my lady,” answered Brummell with a suspicious gleam in his eye, “is beyond words.”
Connor seemed to choke on his tea and Brummell pounded him helpfully on the back. Lady Marigold preened with joy at the dubious praise of her overly adorned frock, pale pink muslin dripping with yards of ribbon and lace, flounces and furbelows crammed in every possible place. Her mother seemed to puff up like a peacock. Verena had to hold back a giggle at that ridiculous image.
Lady Charteris made her greetings to the gentlemen, ignored Verena entirely, and plunked her bulk into a seat as far from Lord Connor’s wife as she could manage in the little circle of chairs.
Brummell seemed vastly amused by all of it, sharp eyes dancing as he favored Connor with a mocking grin. “Your wife is the talk of the Town, you know.”
“You are the talk of the Town, Beau. Was it really necessary to call Prinny fat?”
Verena held her breath, watching the gentleman wage a polite battle in the drawing room, speaking of two subjects that she would never have thought they would.
In her lap, Orion stirred, his mistress’s tension communicating itself through his small frame. He yawned, growled in the general direction of Lady Mari and her mother, then turned over and went back to sleep. The whole scene went ignored by all but Verena, who always had half her attention on her pet.
Before Brummell could respond, Lady Marigold’s childish tones silenced the room. “Oh, yes. Lord Carstairs arrived in Town only a week ago and he talks of nothing but his ungrateful daughter and how blue-deviled Mr. Winters is for having his only love snatched away from him.”
Air hissed from Verena’s lungs. Despite Connor’s warnings, she had hoped her father would forget all about her. What could he hope to gain by following them to London? Without thought, she stroked a gentle hand over Orion’s soft coat, the action as soothing to her as to the puppy, who’d begun to stir again.
“I’ll call the bastard out,” Connor said without specifying which particular man he meant.
“Language, my lord!” Lady Charteris reproved in shocked tones.
“Your pardon,” his lordship replied stiffly.
Lady Charteris nodded her great head complacently and fell silent once again completely oblivious to the thinly veiled sarcasm lacing Lord Connor’s words.
Lady Marigold sat placidly and accepted Verena’s offer of tea without a word of greeting and barely an acknowledgment. Which suited Verena just fine.
“That’s hardl
y an insult to your wife,” Brummell pointed out reasonably.
“Oh, but it is,” Lady Marigold laughed gaily. “The earl tells everyone how she gave herself to Winters and made him fall in love with her, then spurned him most cruelly for a title.”
Verena was given little chance to wonder at her father’s sudden lack of care in appearances. Her husband stepped forward, apparently intent on putting Lady Mari firmly in her place at long last.
Brummell held him back. “Not good ton to call a woman out, Northwicke,” he murmured sotto voce.
“Stay the bloody hell out of my business, Brummell.”
Verena’s eyes widened at her husband’s language but his words had been soft enough that the other ladies didn’t hear. Heavens! Connor was behaving in a most unusual manner. He glared daggers at Lady Marigold, seeming to care little that anyone with half a brain could see his emotions.
She swallowed her shock and turned to her unwanted guest. “I’m sure you did everything to contradict these rumors, my dear Lady Mari,” Verena said with a sweetness that nearly choked her.
“Well, of course I did,” Mari said with all the appearance of honesty. “I wouldn’t want Connor to be treated cruelly for his mistakes.”
“How very noble of you, my lady,” Verena retorted in the same sweet tones, “considering how cruelly he spurned you. And might I suggest that you address my husband by his title when you speak of him? From everything I’ve learned, only pushing mushrooms are impertinent enough to assume such familiarity with members of the opposite sex who are not family.”
A polite social mask slid over Lady Marigold’s pretty features. “Of course you are correct, my lady. One wouldn’t want to be classed with those vulgar people who so forget themselves as to aspire to lofty heights in the social world. Why they have the awful tendency to entrap worthy gentlemen into matrimony! One would definitely not want to be thought of as pushing.”
“Indeed,” Verena replied amiably as she sipped her tea. “That would be as bad as those who spread malicious gossip as a sort of petty revenge just because her own plans had been thwarted. Quite stupid, would you not agree?”
Verena was very angry. She despised people like Marigold and her mother who seemed to thrive on the misery of others. She forgot about the presence of one of Society’s most critical members. She even forgot the presence of her husband who now stood leaning on the mantel over the fireplace, heedless of the crackling blaze, the Beau beside him, watching avidly.
“One would think you were jealous,” Mari bit out. Then she smiled and patted her golden curls. “But of course you are. Connor could never love a lightskirt, you see. Otherwise he would have married his mistress, Lady Cartwright.”
Now, it was simply not good ton to mention a man’s mistress in polite society. Ladies were not supposed to know of their existence and were expected to avert their eyes if ever they inadvertently came in contact with one socially. Mentioning said mistress in front of the gentleman’s wife was beyond the social pale. But Lady Marigold was too upset to realize that she had just successfully killed her chances of a decent marriage.
Verena could feel her heart increase its tempo but she ignored the hurt little voice in her head that cried out in anguish that her husband kept a mistress. Instead, she smiled brightly, and said, “How can I be jealous when I am the one with his name?” Then, she added with a rare show of malice, “And all his money.”
As if wishing to add injury to his mistress’s insult, Orion opened his bright little eyes, bared his teeth at Lady Mari and growled as ferociously as a tiny, fluffy puppy possibly could. Verena settled him with a gentle hand but secretly laughed, despite the ugliness of the situation.
Lady Marigold’s face turned an alarming shade of purple; her mother’s turned red. They both appeared to be on the point of a truly colossal fit.
They were all saved from more embarrassment by Lady Barnstable’s timely entrance. Attired in a glorious creation of ruffles and lace, her full skirts brushing against the furniture she passed, she drew every eye.
She gazed about the room, features lighting up at the sight of her new niece. Striding forward, she greeted them all and placed herself next to Lady Marigold on the settee.
“Tell me, my dear girl, how is your papa?”
*
Twenty-One
Verena’s new Lady’s maid, Crummers, was not, in Lord Connor’s opinion, an equal replacement for Bridgette. Bridgette would never have allowed her mistress to retreat again into a world of fiction and fantasy. Crummers just stood back and watched it happen. If Bri had been unable to stop Verena, she would have at least informed Connor. Crummers let it drop as servants’ gossip into the ear of Meechum, who dutifully informed his master that Lady Connor was showing alarming signs of isolating herself again.
Connor had wondered about her sudden perpetual headaches—this being the excuse she used to avoid everyone—but he had thought she was now strong enough to resist her penchant for hiding from her problems and so had never considered it was happening again. She had already done this for several days before Crummers finally opened her mouth.
As tempted as he was to fire the abigail, he settled for giving her a blistering lecture on the folly of allowing her mistress to endanger her health. The maid seemed suitably contrite.
Connor again cut off his wife’s use of the library since that had seemed to make all the difference before. He waited until the following afternoon and stormed the castle, so to speak.
Verena sat curled up in the window seat overlooking the square. London was quiet that morning, the chill in the air driving all but the hardiest of hawkers into some kind of shelter.
Orion lay curled up on the floor beside Verena, sleeping peacefully.
Connor stood in the doorway and stared at the little dejected figure in the window. He wondered numbly if a divorce would make her happy. He certainly seemed to be making a mull of this marriage.
He crossed the room and sat beside her. She didn’t move. When he tried to take her hand, she flinched away.
She swallowed hard and a tear slipped down her face. Then another, and another, until twin rivers ran down her pale cheeks. She uttered not a sound. He perceived that this was what she’d been doing the whole of yesterday.
“Doll, what has happened to you?” he said sadly.
In a voice that froze the blood in his veins, his wife asked, “How is Lady Cartwright?”
He had actually forgotten about Mari’s ill-chosen remark about his mistress. He hadn’t been to see the woman since his marriage and he actually had no plans to go there even though she was technically still in his keeping.
He had the disloyal thought that one visit to Lady Cartwright would temporarily cure his raging lust and perhaps enable him to deal more calmly with his wife. The thought was quickly squelched, however, and he felt guilty for even entertaining the idea in the first place.
It might be wise to send Adam to break the connection for him.
“I notice you do not deny her existence,” Verena remarked bitterly.
“Of course not. She does exist, after all.”
“Get out.”
Connor’s temper rose a notch. “Excuse me?”
His wife hadn’t moved an inch since he had entered the room. She did now, lifting her head from where it had rested against the windowpane and glaring at him awfully. Surprise shot through him. It wasn’t melancholy that held her captive. It was anger.
“Get out, you unfaithful conceited fop!”
Connor’s temper, something he’d worked hard to control since childhood, snapped. He stood, looming over her, anger seething through him with an intensity that made little sense under the circumstances.
“Unfaithful?” he bit out. “Unfaithful? I’ve never been unfaithful to you, you ungrateful baggage. Lord knows I’ve been tempted. What do you expect a man to do, Verena, when his own wife keeps him from her bed?”
Verena shot to her feet, her hand connecting with Connor’s
face. His reaction was instinct, nothing more. He grasped her other hand before it could make the same journey, marring his other cheek.
She flinched and he released her, horrified at the red marks his fingers left on her delicate wrist. It didn’t matter that she’d probably left a far worse mark on his cheek.
More surprising than his reaction was hers. “No!” she screamed, her voice shaking with the force of her anger. “No! Never again! I won’t let it happen again!”
He stepped forward, ignoring her defensive step back. “What, Verena? Won’t let what happen again?”
A moment passed, the briefest moment in time, a tiny, insignificant second to the rest of the world. But in that moment all the rage and helplessness his wife had ever felt crossed her face. A split second of indecision, the fear and horror of a little girl holding a traumatic secret.
“I was…I was…forced! He forced me! I—” She broke off, raising one tightly clenched fist to her breast. Disgust radiated from her slight form, a disgust he knew was directed at herself.
And in her trembling lips and tense body he saw her fear of rejection, her underlying terror that he would blame her, no doubt as her father had. Something inside him cracked for this poor girl, this child trapped in the hell created by some nameless man.
“I know,” he whispered, reaching for her. “I was there.”
Verena stared, her mind refusing to acknowledge her husband’s confession.
And then, from somewhere deep inside, images flashed. A face, handsome features twisted into a cruel smirk, sun-drenched hair and crushing hands.
Pain lanced through her. Remembered pain, physical pain, the sensation of being torn apart. Then, through the white-hot terror, the sickening realization made itself clearly known.
“You were there?”
Disappointment bubbled up, quenched by rage and the feeling that she’d be physically ill in less than a second. She pressed her eyes closed, the roaring in her ears drowning out all sound and logic. Nothing mattered now. Nothing. Rage warred with despair and rage won.
