“And yet you do not believe in what I am saying, not truly. You do not trust that Miles knows his own mind, or that together you cannot overcome whatever difficulties may arise. Let him court you, darling. And just…see where it leads.”
“I…I…”
“It is not your fault, Verity. I know you bear no ill-will towards Sir Oswald and your Great-Aunt Lucia but to my mind, they abandoned you in your hour of need.” She patted Verity’s hand. “With all that you went through, your father’s death and that awful asylum, some might have succumbed to despair but instead you became stronger. You surmounted your problems, brought order to your life and became independent.”
“Only thanks to you, Aunt.”
“No. It was your courage.” She stroked her cheek. “You know me, darling, I call a fig a fig and I acknowledge that any potential future with Miles would not be without its challenges, requiring a change to your way of life. A frightening prospect for one who’s had to lead such an ordered existence for so long, to contemplate losing your independence. But change is not to be feared.”
Verity inhaled a stuttering breath and closed her eyes to Aunt’s words.
“But if your courtship leads to more, then a life with Miles, would also bring passion, excitement and such verve. I know you. I know you can cope with all of this. You had a recurrence in Miles’ carriage yet overcame it, and if another comes, you willdo so again. Miles is also prepared to face such challenges so you must trust in him. Trust that you can face those challengestogether.” Aunt’s hand fiercely clenched her own. “Think on what you really want, and then believe in it, reach for it and fight for it, Verity, accepting yourself as you are, yes, but also accepting Miles’ support.”
As Verity lifted her lids, Aunt stood, leaned forward and placed a gentle buss on her forehead. “You are ready, Verity,” she whispered. “Ready for a new adventure.” Then she turned and softly left.
With an absent stroke of hand to Valmont’s neck, Verity let her thoughts scatter and then settle.
Was she afraid to trust in Miles? To trust in love? Was she pushing him away not for his own good, but out of her own fears? Afraid to reach for love? Of change?
A low purr emanated from Valmont, the dangerous rogue, and so she rose from the chaise and pottered about, cleaning leaves that had acquired a dusting of ash from her stove and checking the dryness of the soil.
Yet tonight, her conservatory bequeathed no peace.
Instead she noted how the plants had changed in solely a day: new leaves unfurled, a flower faded, a new one in bud.
Stems grew sturdy with passing time. Seedlings emerged and strove to be all they could be.
All was subject to change.
Life always changed.
And perhaps…perhaps it was time she did too.
28
THE GARDEN HAS ITS WEEDS AS WELL AS FLOWERS
“I’ll expect a new barouche,” muttered Aunt Mildred, who’d turned up uninvited, “as part of the increased stipend. And a new drawing room mirror for our insufficient townhouse, to make it appear larger and…”
Miles stared into his own mirror above the fireplace as she wittered on about curtains.
It had been five days since he’d seen Verity. Five nights dreaming of her – impassioned kisses and impatient touches that woke him bathed in heat. Five days of seething frustration.
Those feelings which he’d struggled to define, ones caught in the crossfire of her secrets and the past, had fallen into formation and–
“Are you listening to me? Have you been carousing all the nights? You certainly look…”
As Aunt now sustained a diatribe on his sleepless appearance, Miles perused himself and admitted she had a point: tousled hair, black shadows beneath the eyes and a carved-in frown. He’d looked better when sleeping on rough French ground in a leaking tent.
For most of the day, he’d been sitting in the dragoon’s office studying the black books and the list of names, as after searching the mews, they’d found a gouge in the brickwork of No. 20’s garden wall where the bullet had glanced off before landing in the gutter. And there was a good chance it was from a cavalry-issued New Land Pattern pistol.
Of course once a man left the cavalry – in a box or otherwise – such a pistol should have been returned to the regiment but many were lost, looted, sold or surreptitiously kept, so the finding of the bullet had proved naught but–
“And you were seen, you realise? On outings with that…that scandalous scarlet spinster!”
Miles spun on his heel. “Who told you this?”
“Never you mind, Stonewold. But an artist, how could you?” A sniff. “By all means dally in private but cease being seen in public with that–”
