Chapter Eighteen
Verity had finallyadmitted it. She could not read. She had word swimming.
Lord Wembly wrinkled his forehead. “Is that similar to word spinning?”
“Possibly?” Verity had never heard the term, but then she’d never heard of word swimming before her father had mentioned it.
“The words mix themselves up so it’s all a jumble?” Lord Wembly asked.
“Yes, that is exactly what happens. So you see, another gentleman, a more sportsmanlike gentleman, might not mind—”
“I’m sportsmanlike!”
“What I mean is, a gentleman who might always be off fencing or boxing—”
“I fence and I box. Very well, actually.”
“You see what I say, though. You are an intellectual. You are a member of The Royal Society. You read and think and conjecture. How could you consider…what I mean is books and the knowledge in them mean everything to you.”
“Youmean everything to me. Why should I care that you have a case of the word spins? For all I know, I might go gouty in my middle age. Would you mind it?”
“Of course not,” Verity said. “If you were gouty, I would just put your foot up on a padded stool and give you willow barktea and make you give up your port.” She was babbling now, she knew it. He’d said: “You mean everything to me.” And here she was, babbling about the gouty foot he might or might not someday be afflicted with.
The balcony doors swung open, and Lord Kendrickson poked his head out.
“Get out!” Lord Wembly shouted at him. Lord Kendrickson took on a look of alarm and disappeared, the doors closing behind him. “Lady Verity Nicolet, before anything or anybody else tries to stop me, I adore you and could not care less that you get the word spins. Will you consent to wed me and live in my ridiculously complicated house in Somerset forevermore?”
“Yes! Yes, I do,” Verity said. “That is, if you are certain—”
“Of course I am certain, you ridiculous girl. I’m an intellectual, at least give me credit for knowing my own mind.”
He was sure. It had happened. He’d said it. He’d said it even though he knew she could not read. It was a miracle. What next? What would he do next?
Lord Wembly reached for her and pulled her into his arms. That was next. He pulled her into his very strong arms. He was such a man!
He kissed her gently and whispered, “You will put up with my red hair, then? Realistically, we might even have red-haired children.”
“I adore your hair.”
He put the bracelet on her wrist, fiddling with the delicate clasp until he’d got it closed. Then he kissed her again, and then again. The cold air did not seem so cold now. The world did not seem so dangerous now. As he kissed her neck and played with the curls in her hair, it really did seem a miracle. She was to marry. Most importantly, she was to marry as she was, not as some invented version she’d pretended to be.
Or even more importantly than that, she was to marrythisman.
The balcony doors opened once more. Wembly growled, but then suddenly took a step back.
“That’s probably enough now, Wembly,” Verity’s father said.
“Yes, of course, Your Grace, it’s just that things…”
“Got a little out of hand?” the duke asked.
“Papa, Lord Wembly has asked me to wed, and I know you will approve as you are the most darling father that ever lived, and I could not admire you or dote on you more.”
The duke laughed. “I suppose I must agree then, given that flowery bit of inducement. Though, I certainly will not approve of any further mauling of my daughter at a ball. Fix her hair, Wembly, and then come back inside.”
The duke left them out there to undo any damage that had been done. Lord Wembly did fix her hair, though it took some time to do so as there were considerable interruptions of the kissing variety. He did finally put her into some sort of order, and they reentered the ballroom.
The queen was looking very approving of them, and she gave Verity a little hand wave to signal she need not return to Her Majesty’s side.
