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“Are you afraid of me, Lady Verity?” he asked again, and she suspected the answer was of immense importance to him. How fascinating that his awkward touch could be both rough and infinitely gentle. The calluses Lady Susanna had cried prettily about were comforting, real.
The weird sensation jerking in her belly did not feel like fear, but she could not identify it for she had never felt anything like this before.
“I am not afraid of you,” she whispered.
A look of wonder, possibly admiration settled on his face, before smoothing into a bland mask. “Good,” he said and lowered his arm. “Let’s get you home.”
Her thoughts muddled for a few moments. “Are we not starting our lessons tonight?”
“It is late. Almost eleven. And you have learned enough today. I will take you home now.” There was an undercurrent in his tone she was unable to decipher.
“In these clothes?”
“My home first, then off you go. I will send my coach for you on Thursday. Never come to me without your veil.”
She nodded and they made their way to the parked carriage in silence. They sat on opposite seats and the carriage lantern burned low, creating a too intimate atmosphere. Yet neither made the effort to introduce conversation as the coach pulled away. His brief smile hinted at a discomfort. A heart-pounding awareness burned through her. Then a shocking surge of heat quivered through her and Verity desperately tried to force her silly heart to beat to its normal rhythm. She leaned back against the squabs, that single truth rattling her—Lord Maschelly was unsettled by her, liked her perhaps, and he had wisely retreated.
And I must do the same.
Yet at this moment she could not recall precisely why a man like the earl was unsuitable for a lady like her. Verity fiercely reminded herself that their connection was for only one purpose—learn enough so that when she closed her eyes, she wouldn’t ever see the face of her nightmare. That was the only reason she had aligned with a man like Lord Maschelly. And she needed to remember it always lest she deceive her heart to pain.
Dear Aunt Imogen,
I do hope my letter finds you in splendid health. I am trying to enjoy the season as you commanded. Last week I went to the theater and had a few outings in Hyde Park with Lady Caroline and the Duchess Carlyle. They are the best of ladies and we have become dear friends. The weather has been pleasant, and I am sorry to hear of the constant rains in Bedfordshire. I know you love and miss your gardens and I promise you shall be tending them soon. Mamma is well, and she received your last letter with pleasure. Arthur is the same boorish man
that you’d last seen. He has decreed that I marry one Lord Aldridge, but I am adamant to forge my own path. I want what you had, Aunt Imogen, a rare and beautiful love with a man of my choosing. I promise to visit in a few weeks when I tire of the frivolities of the season.
Your loving niece, Verity.
Verity carefully folded the single sheet of paper and added a wafer. She happily wrote to her aunt weekly, for her aunt had vowed to never to return to the foul London air which she blamed for her prolonged illness. The doctors had diagnosed melancholia and overwrought nerves, but Verity believed it had been a broken heart which had ailed Aunt Imogen who had lost her husband a few years before. They hadn’t been blessed with any children in their five and twenty years of marriage, and she hadn’t been the same since his passing.
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.”
