The dance came to a close and Lord Wembly led her to the dining room, her sisters all trailing behind her.
He led her to two open places and directed a footman to fetch them tea and cake. “I would ask you which you wished for—tea or lemonade—but this is your first time here. Nobody who tries the lemonade wishes to try it again, so I thought to save you from the experience.”
Verity nodded, conscious of Patience on her other side. What would Patience make of Lord Wembly wishing to save her from an experience? Even if the experience was only sour lemonade? As well, the offerings at supper were another subject she knew something about, as her sisters had advertised their opinions loudly.
“Felicity says the lemonade, the whole supper really, verges on an insult, and that is probably the point. She says that if people not privileged enough to have been issued vouchers willspend vast amounts on their entertaining on a Wednesday night to pretend they do not care, the patronesses will spend nothing on it to point out that they should.”
“I suspect you are right, though that sort of snobbery often strikes me as nonsensical. Perhaps those leading ladies of society would be better off improving their minds rather than proving a pointless point.”
Improving their minds? What did he mean by it? Did he suppose everybody, meaning her, should be improving their minds?
She would improve it, if she could. What if he discovered she could not? Would he so offhandedly condemn her as he had the patronesses? He might well do. After all, it was not every gentleman bold enough to make such comment on the patronesses. Especially not when he was seated in those ladies’ own palace of refinement.
He’d made the comment in such a decided manner. Almost derisive, really, as if he looked down upon the sort of pedestrian ideas the patronesses seemed to espouse.
Verity’s nerves, which had gone a long way toward calm, began to climb again.
“Tell me, Lady Verity, what are your interests?” Lord Wembly asked.
Interests? Did he mean intellectual interests? What could she say? She could not think of a thing to say. Did she have interests? Verity’s mind felt as if it were nearly collapsing in on her.
“Interests?” she said.
“Yes, well, I admit my own will not be fascinating to you. I am much taken up by The Royal Society. I imagine my research will not interest a lady.” Lord Wembly laughed. “I am sure it will not. After all, what is a lady to make of my inquiries into the circulatory systems of slow-moving animals?”
Verity’s mind was spinning and she felt her heart speed up. It was not a very foreign feeling either, as it came over her whenever someone talked about something she could not possibly know anything about. She always felt as if she should know something about it, and the details were hidden in a book somewhere. Everybody else would know something about it.
This overwhelming feeling had, in the past, caused her to say some of the stupidest things she’d ever said. It was a kind of panic that could not be reined in once it got going. Spinning, spinning, spinning, and then a dark blanket slowly fell over her rational thoughts, and she was not in control.
“On the contrary, Lord Wembly, I have looked into the same,” she blurted out.
What did she just say? Why did she just say that? He looked startled. Of course he looked startled. What a thing to say!
“I admit to being taken aback, Lady Verity,” he said. “I would not have guessed we had such a similar interest. Have you come to any conclusions on the subject?”
Conclusions! Of course she had no conclusions. She did not even understand the question.
“I believe the circulatory systems are at the bottom of why those animals move so slowly,” she said, attempting a blithe tone.
What animals were they? What did their circulation have to do with it? She had no idea!
“There you are,” the duke said from behind her chair.
Her father, thank the heavens, it was her father.
“You’ll never guess. My brandy flask has mysteriously drained itself. Happens every time I am locked up in this celebration of how dull the English can be when we really try.” Her father turned to Lord Wembly. “Wembly, is it? A baron, so I’m told.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Lord Wembly said.
“Hah! Could be worse, nobody ever knows what to do with a baronet. Say, Wembly, I’m having a dinner on Friday, come along. You can bring your aunt too—I’ve not seen Lady Pegatha in an age. Well now, girl, can we be off before I either fall asleep or throw my empty flask at Lady Misery’s head?”
That was quite a speech, and Lord Wembly did seem rather bowled over by it. However, Verity did not care a whit about that. She was rescued from being forced to expound any further on the circulatory systems of slow-moving animals.
What had she done? After she’d said that preposterous notion, she’d quickly concluded that she must never speak to Lord Wembly again. Now he was coming to dinner.
*
Henry was bothcharmed and confounded by Lady Verity Nicolet. He’d been surreptitiously glancing at her all evening leading up to squiring her himself. She was painfully beautiful; an old master could not conjure a more lovely lady. And then, she seemed so genial. At least, he imagined so as she was very often smiling.
