by Reid, Stacy
Aunt Imogen had been the only person who had believed Verity when she had named the marquess a debauched snake. She had been the one to come upon them in the grotto with the marquess’s heavy weight pinning Verity to the damp earth. Aunt Imogen thought she had interrupted a lover’s tryst, until she had seen the state of Verity’s clothing and her bruised cheeks. It still amazed Verity that even with her aunt’s unflinching support, her mother and brother had been so quick to turn a blind eye. The sisters’ close relationship had been altered to mamma’s distress, but Aunt Imogen was not forgiving of their disloyalty.
A knock sounded and she glanced up as her lady’s maid entered. “Her ladyship bids you to attend her in the drawing room, Lady Verity.”
“I shall be along shortly,” she said with a small smile which felt tight.
Her toilette had already been completed for the morning, her hair coiffed in a simple but elegant chignon, and she had donned a simple but graceful long-sleeved dark blue day dress with a scalloped neckline. She did not anticipate spending the day in the presence of her mother. She had escaped it yesterday by calling on Pippa for the better part of that afternoon, and then dining with the Duchess and her wonderful husband. Of course mamma had been happy to let her go, admiring the well-connected company Verity kept.
The only thing she anticipated today was the earl’s carriage arriving for her under the banner of secrecy. She was eager to start learning the rudiments of fighting. Even though a part of her suspected she might need more than fighting lessons to overcome the fear seeing the marquess always inspired. When he had approached James at the club, she should have been stronger, but how her heart had pounded, and the memories had ravaged her.
There had been a sick sense of fear that he might have recognized her and acted in a dastardly fashion. James wouldn’t have allowed it. Verity smiled. How odd that she should have such faith in a man she hardly knew. And what was it about him which made her find his presence relaxing? She recalled the harsh upbringing he’d endured and her admiration for him rose like a gentle swell.
Sounds of servants’ feet in the hallway urged her to stand. Her mother would not be pleased to be kept waiting. With an impatient sigh, Verity made her way from the chamber to the ground floor and rested the letter on the mantle in the hallway. The butler would frank and post it along with the others on the silver salver. Verity then made her way to the drawing room, foregoing the breakfast room.
Her mother awaited her, the room artfully arranged with flowers and a tea service.
“You’ve overslept,” her mother said, her lips thin with disapproval. “I am sure you are aware we are to receive several callers today. It is almost noon, Verity.”
“I wrote to Aunt Imogen and lost track of the time.”
Her mother’s face softened at the mention of her sister, and Verity did not like to admire her delicate beauty, not when she believed her mother’s heart was blackened by selfish desires and greed. Countess Sutcliffe was a lady in her early forties, and beautiful with lustrous dark hair which showed no gray. In truth her features held a unique blush of youth, her light blue eyes still sparkled with vitality. There had been a time when Verity had loved her and sought to emulate her grace and elegance.
Now, she was not sure what she felt for her mother. There was always a wash of pain and disappointment whenever she saw her. And it gutted her that she wondered some days if she loved her mother still. Or if her mother loved her.
“Lord Aldridge and his mother are to call today. I trust you will make a good impression.”
“There is a rumor that Lord Aldridge is impoverished,” Verity said, sitting, shifting on the plush sofa to face her mother. “It seems my inheritance of twenty thousand pounds from papa and my dowry of another ten thousand is quite appealing. I know talk of money is crass mamma, but surely someone should tell the viscount that papa made his will so that my inheritance is my own and does not become my husband’s upon marriage. Perhaps then he would be less evident in a pursuit I am not interested in.”
Her mother’s eyes flashed. “Upon my word, you will mind your tongue, Verity! It is these willful ways of yours that led to….”
Her mother looked away and Verity stared at her in pained silence. “It is my willful tongue which allowed a dishonest libertine to try and take my virtue?” Though she was just as surprised her mother had been about to mention the incident. Neither mamma nor Albert normally spoke of the pain of Verity’s past of their own volition.
Red swept along her mother’s elegant cheekbones and Verity fought down the guilt which had tormented her in the early days. If she had not flirted with the marquess, allowed his chaste kisses, walked alone with him by the lake and the grotto…she would have been safe. It had taken her a long time to realize that the dishonor belonged to him alone, and it had been the gentle guidance of her dear Aunt Imogen which had helped Verity.
When her mamma finally shifted her eyes back to Verity there was such heartbreak and pain in them, it almost strangled her. “Mamma?”
Her mother’s eyes welled with tears and Verity’s hand fluttered to her throat.
“Verity, my dear—”
A knock interrupted, and the butler entered to announce Lady Metcalf and her two daughters. Verity stood to receive their callers and her hands trembled as she smoothed down the skirts of her dress. There had been such strong emotions on her mother’s face, it reminded Verity of a time when her mother had kissed her bruises and hugged her before putting her to bed.
Lady Metcalf and her daughters entered, and her mother shifted into the consummate hostess, greeting them with pleasant warmth, and ringing for more tea and pastries. Verity hardly paid attention to the ladies of the ton who made their weekly calls at their townhouse—a few matrons her mother’s age with their marriageable daughters in obedient tow, all with the aim of securing her brother as a suitor. Before two in the afternoon they had received four callers. One was Lord Aldridge with whom Verity was obliged to take a turn in the small gardens at the back of the townhouse in full view of her mother from the drawing room.
He was a very elegant young gentleman who boasted a fashionable appearance. He was slimly built, with plain features, but with an air of considerable self-consequence. Which would be expected by some, since he was a viscount with a rumored income of over thirty thousand pounds a year. Could he truly be impoverished as the rumors hinted and sought an heiress?
He was surprisingly pleasant and amusing, but Verity only felt a sense of wariness around him and could not escape the knowledge that he and the marquess Durham were close friends. Did pits of snakes not writhe together? They spent several minutes in discourse with an exchange of very proper nothings—the weather, the latest on dits, and even a lemon pie he had eaten earlier.
“Oh dear!” she said in a deliberately dramatic fashion, but with charming civility. “I just recalled I have an urgent meeting, Lord Aldridge. I must take my leave right away. Please apologize to your mother for me.”
“Certainly,” he replied with such cordiality she felt a slight pang of guilt for her dismissive attitude. “I do hope everything is well, Lady Verity.”
“My lord,” Verity said, “May I speak frankly?”
He dealt her a considering glance. “It would please me.”
“I will not consent to a courtship if that is your desire. I am certain my brother made some assurance that I will agree to such a union, but he misspoke. I apologize sincerely.”
Lord Aldridge’s eyes widened and a flush ran along his neckline. Then he assessed her in narrowed-eye contemplation. “You are a delicately nurtured female with little understanding of the world, Lady Verity. Your brother and I believe we shall suit very well indeed,” he said chidingly, as if she were a simpleton.
Verity lifted a brow. “You are affable and gentlemanly, but I will only be persuaded to marry a man I have the deepest affections for. And one who loves me in return. I suspect that will not be the situation with you.”
; “You are very decided with your arguments,” he replied testily.
“It would be silly to be hesitant on matters of such grave importance. We will not suit, and I shall not be persuaded against my heart…ever. I also suspect my brother neglected to mention my inheritance is not transferable upon marriage. And with the rumors swirling of your gambling debt, my dowry is not a tempting enough morsel to justify persuasion on your part, my lord.”
Lord Aldridge’s face mottled with the force of his anger, but she lifted her chin and held her ground. He turned on his heel and walked off, and his lips tightly compressed. Her mamma would be furious but Verity could hardly drum up the withal to care. She went inside and collected her pelisse, hat, reticule, and an umbrella. The sky appeared decidedly overcast, quite befitting her current mood.
As she exited the townhouse, she could hear mamma’s twinkling laughter as she entertained her callers. Fortunately, Lady Caroline also lived in Grosvenor Square, only a few minutes’ walk from Verity’s own home. Walking briskly, she arrived at Caroline’s home just as she was being handed up in a carriage by a livered footman. A lady’s maid, who was to act as a chaperone, hovered by the carriage steps.
“Verity darling, how good of you to come,” Caroline cried, her pretty gray eyes sparkling with her usual humor and delight, her dark red ringlets styled fashionably to set off her gentle beauty. “I’m off to High Holborn for a spot of shopping, would you care to accompany me?”
Verity made her way over and was also assisted into the equipage by the footman. “I would be delighted, Caro. Though I am perturbed by the frequency of your shopping. It was only last week we bought an indecent number of hats and no less than three new parasols.”
“I only indulge every Monday and Thursday,” Caroline objected with a wink. “Papa can afford it and I do like new dresses.”
They laughed, and as the carriage rumbled off, Verity informed her of all that had happened since they last spoke.
“Oh Dear! Lord Maschelly took you to a gambling club and a prizefighting match? That man is truly wicked!”
Once they arrived in High Holborn, they strolled arm in arm, the footman keeping abreast at a suitable distance. They made several purchases, pored over fashion plates, and ordered a few gowns. They ran into Miss Cecelia Markham, a pleasant young lady with whom she was well-acquainted from Bedfordshire. They all visited Gunter’s together and indulged in an ice, chatting and laughing over the latest on dits, before promising to call on each other next week.
Upon returning home, her mother waited, fairly vibrating with anger. She was somewhat mollified by the shopping boxes, for such actions signaled to her that Verity was fully on board with the plan to net a wealthy lord, preferably of her and Albert’s choosing. Refusing to quarrel with her mother, she had hurried to her room, and closed the door with a snick.
Those diversions had kept her mind occupied for the day, but now Verity fairly vibrated with nerves and excitement to be on her way to meet with Lord Maschelly. Three hours remained before his carriage and coachman would arrive behind the mews.
After indulging in a lengthy bath, Verity attempted to read the riveting serial The Tower of London by William Ainsworth, but it provided little distraction against the trepidation and excitement dominating her thoughts. At six thirty, the dinner gong rang. Supper with her brother and mother was its usual torturous affair, but she bore it, and retired early pleading another headache. Though her mother had gone to her literary society meeting, and her brother to one of his clubs, she was very careful in dressing in a simple and serviceable dark bombazine gown. Verity slipped the veil and hat over her tightly pinned chignon and made her way outside to the back of the mews. Once again, the nondescript coach waited, and she lingered for a few minutes watching the surroundings before she hurried over to the equipage.
As she approached, the coachman hopped down from his seat, and knocked down the carriage steps. After entering and settling against the squabs her thoughts drifted to the upcoming lesson and she tried to convince herself the heady anticipation flowing through her veins and tumbling low in her belly had nothing to do with actually seeing the earl.
Nothing at all.
Chapter 8
Almost an hour after their lesson had started, Verity took a break. Dressing in breeches and a flowing linen shirt had allowed her much freedom of movement and flexibility as Lord Maschelly had shown her how to make a proper fist, and then how to throw it. Those motions had been repeated several times until she was confident, she could actually plant a facer on someone if it was warranted.
She had declared it, and the man had winked at her.
“It is time to resume,” he said, prowling towards her once more in that graceful masculine way of his.
She swallowed the last of the water and set the glass on the table beside the carafe. Verity met him in the center of the room.
“Remember my aim is to teach you to defend…to escape,” he said, watching her keenly.
She nodded a bit uncertainly.
“Everything before had been about making a fist, the poise and elegant footwork of boxing. Knowing those moves will build up your agility and confidence. Each session we will practice until those moves become an extension of yourself. You are a very quick learner, one of the quickest I’ve ever seen, I assure you in no time you will be proficient.”
Warmth burst inside her chest like sunshine itself, and she grinned. “I do believe I am,” she drawled, shuffling her feet in the manner he had shown her.
He laughed, the sound a low rumble of delight which stole her breath. “You should laugh more,” she said.
“I shall when I am given a reason.” He said this with a smile, and an almost tender expression in his eyes. “I want you to learn about escape. Do I have your permission to touch you?”
She licked her lips, an unexplained nervous tension thrumming through her. “Yes.”
“I do not refer to a fleeting touch.”
“I understand,” she replied huskily.
“Good.”
Then he moved with swiftness and grabbed her from behind. A loud roaring sounded in her ears and she panted furiously.
“Relax,” he murmured, his tone gentle and soothing as if he spoke to a skittish horse. “It is only me. That panic you are feeling now…that helplessness, breathe through it, and take control of the situation. You can drop your weight. The surprise of it will break my grip.”
She complied and they tumbled. They repeated the exercise with him showing her various ways to escape his unrelenting clutch. With each success her confidence grew, and somehow so did the anger inside of her. At one point when he held her down, the sense of powerlessness had been so great she had screamed her rage and frustration. And had gone for his eyes, a very vulnerable spot as he had taught her.
He had recoiled from her with agile speed and grace and grinned at her proudly. “As I said, very quick pupil.”
“My lord! I could have hurt you,” she cried, considerably distressed.
“I do believe it is time you called me James, especially after almost plucking my eyes out.”
Verity gasped and the man laughed. “Very well…James.”
His eyes darkened. “Thank you, Verity.”
They had another brief period of rest. She drank more water, nibbled on a delicious sandwich, and then they were back at sparring. Several moments later, she rolled away from him and scrambled to her knees. Every muscle in her body was sore; she could manage only a pained shuffle. “We have been training for over two hours,” she panted.
“Your endurance needs improvement. Giving up?” he drawled.
Verity grinned, amazed she could feel so sore yet gloriously alive. “Never.”
At least another hour passed in a blur of learning where to hit, punching, kicking, resting in between, and eating oranges. Now they lay on the floor, and she felt worn. “I never knew boxing involved learning about kicking a man…a man…you know where,” she muttered, horrified to rea
lized she still blushed at that bit of knowledge.
“I am not teaching you boxing.”
She turned her head to where he too lay a few feet from her. He stared at the ceiling, and she studied his left profile. The man was astonishingly handsome.
“You are teaching me how to fight,” she murmured.
“Yes. And fighting is unfair, gritty, raw, and violent.”
Something unspoken lingered in the room, and again felt uneasy. “You do not think I am capable of…of fighting if required. I am too ladylike and gentle,” she said, with a reproving glance at the earl.
Yet Verity acknowledged it was a deep fear in her heart. What if all this risk was for naught. What if she never used the skills she learned and worse…what if she was called upon to use them and could not. The shame of it would kill her.
“While you are an apt pupil, you are very delicate.”
“I am stronger than I appear,” she snapped.
“Perhaps. If your brother will not defend your dignity when needed, a husband would.”
“A marriage will be announced soon.”
He jerked as if he’d been slapped.
His smile was the most irresistible she had ever seen, and his tone was like dark velvet.
“You are engaged?”
“No, but I am aware of the man whom I wish to marry. Well not the man himself but of his attributes and qualities.”
The corner of the earl’s mouth curled upward. “And what merits are pleasing to Lady Verity?”
She blushed and looked away.
“Come now, your fierceness has been incurable so far, do not attempt shyness now.”
She scowled at him, and the dratted man smiled. “I do not mock the sincerity of your desire, I am only curious about you.”
There was that warm glow inside again.
“My ideal husband is fair and very elegant. We are of a similar height, and he is slim in built. The ton should respect him, but he does not need to be overly popular. He is kind, humorous, smart, and attentive. We should be quite close in age so that we grow old together with little chance of one dying long before the other. He should bring me flowers often, sing with me for I so love singing.”
