“I just need a moment to myself,” Verity insisted. Her sisters knew how she craved the occasion time to herself. She raised an eyebrow before everyone grudgingly left her behind. Even while Lucien muttered something under his breath, she turned around for a side path to take some air.
One hand rested on her hip and the other on a tree. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply.
Life is suddenly changing so quickly all over again. It never seems to fade away. Will it slow down once I am wed? What changes can I expect with Dominic?
“For writing the most popular journal, I don’t know anything about him,” she realized slowly to herself.
Playing over the few memories she had of her betrothed, she confirmed he was polite. Publicly respectful. A good dancer. He smelled amazing and he asked questions without being irritating. As for answering her questions, she thought he could improve.
So long as he leaves me be and demands little of myself and my time, I shall be satisfied. And that I can continue to reside in London, of course. To leave behind my journal… unfathomable. Besides, there is something afoot between my brother and the duke, and what better chance could I have to solve this mystery?
It was part of why she had accepted the offer. Something was going on with Cassian; if he was concerned, then the matter concerned their entire family.
I would do anything for my brothers and sisters. Having lost so many people, I’ve realized how fragile this life is.Though Cassian might assume I’m willing to be a pawn, I will solve this mystery and I will help. This marriage will allow me to observeand influence what happens next.Whatever he knows, I’m certain the duke knows as well. We all have our own secrets… I have an identity to hide and secrets to unravel.
One more deep breath before Verity straightened up. She smoothed her hair and returned to the path.
Beyond the hedges, the world opened back up. Music played freely but only half of the audience listened while they talked and ate and laughed.
“Don’t be ridiculous, dear,” came the annoyed voice of Lady Monment, who was attempting to marry off her fourth and final daughter. “Every young lady wishes to marry.”
The young lady in question slouched. “But mother…”
Too tall and rather long in the face, Penelope Monment had high expectations riding on those narrow shoulders. Two sisters married other titles and the third married a German prince. Anything less than a marquess would surely disappoint her mother.
“It’s not simply about hanging on the hand of a gentleman as you like to complain of, but an opportunity for you to run your own home. Besides, it means protection. Do you think your father and I will live forever?”
Lingering nearby, Verity kept her head down and turned away while she walked slowly. She fumbled with her reticule tied toher wrist to appear busy and distracted; like she wasn’t listening at all.
Penelope sighed. “Sometimes it feels like it.”
“Hush, Pen. There is still good to be had in a marriage. You will have that protection. We will guarantee some level of financial support, as we did your sisters. And finally, it will allow you to have a family.”
“What if I end up with four daughters?”
“Then only heaven can help you.”
Verity stifled a giggle before hurrying on.
Considering the marchioness’s words on marriage, Verity couldn’t disagree. She was a middle child and first daughter to a viscount. It made her hungry for a life where she wanted everything. A family, her journal, all of London. Marriage would give her all of that; all she needed was to keep enough of her independence.
“…You can’t send a baron to debtor’s prison, can you?”
Her heart stopped. What was that about? A new mystery to solve. Perfect for her journal. Knowing how delicious gossip like that might be, she slowed to a stop.
She looked up just as she spotted Elowen nearby, waving pointedly at her. The other siblings were distracted.
Not yet.
Verity raised a hand to pause, showing she would be there momentarily. All she needed to do was… Pull out a small notebook from her reticule. A charcoal pencil.
“I’m practicing my drawing,” Verity would tell anyone who asked why she would pull this out at any given point.
It was a topic she was always made fun for within her family. “You’re the worst artist I’ve ever seen,” Lucien ribbed every chance he had. “Every face you draw looks like a pig. Every tree is only scratches.”
“Which is why I must do it often to practice,” she would insist.
Between one sketch and another, she penned a note about the hushed voices over to her right. She focused her gaze on the musicians ahead as much as possible, pretending to draw the scene before her. If only she could get a name…
