Page 56 of An Extraordinary Lord

Veronica followed his gaze across the room. “What is it?”

“The woman in the dark-blue dress with the white ostrich feather in her hair.” He lowered her hand. “Lady Malmesbury.”

Reality crashed into her dream like an ax blow. She pulled in a deep breath. The fairy tale was over.

Knowing what she had to do, she slipped her hand from his and walked on without him. She moved casually through the crowd toward the countess without a single glance back.

Lady Malmesbury excused herself from her conversation with an older woman in a bright orange turban and walked out of the ballroom. The countess headed toward the main reception rooms—rather, toward the series of anterooms and closets that served as retiring rooms—and Veronica followed. Gladly so.

After that conversation with Merritt, she needed a moment to herself to catch back the breath he’d stolen and ease the nervous flutters stirring low in her belly. Not butterflies, nothing as delicate as that. These were roiling rapids that threatened to sweep her off her feet and carry her away.Neverhad she been as torn about anyone as she was about him.

But there was no help for it. There was no way to shore with him.

Veronica stepped into the retiring room shortly after the countess, then paused to glance around the room. Dressing tables adorned with tortoiseshell brushes, powders, and rouge pots lined one wall, and a red velvet settee sat against the other. A large screen separated off the end of the room from where the soft rustle of fabric tattled on where the countess had gone. Two women inside the room who were chattering up a storm over the most recent on-dit fell silent as they raked their gazes over Veronica, then excused themselves from the room, leaving her alone with the countess.Perfect.

A few moments later, Lady Malmesbury emerged from behind the screen. The distracted frown on her face from adjusting her skirts turned into a faint but pleasant smile when she saw Veronica, who suddenly busied herself with adjusting her stocking.

“Surely, the combination of long skirts, tight corsets, and having to use the jordan is an invention of the devil,” Veronica tossed out in an attempt to establish friendly banter.

“Most likely just a man’s,” the countess corrected, falling into easy conversation as she sat at one of the dressing tables to check her hair.

“Fascinating party, isn’t it?” Veronica fussed with the hem of her gown. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” That was the God’s truth.

“This is your first time to Carlton House.”

Not a question, and her heart missed a beat. Of course a countess would recognize that Veronica didn’t belong here. “Yes, it is.”

“Well, now that you’ve arrived in England, you should know the parties here are unlike anything you’re used to on the Continent.”

Her tense shoulders eased down. Lady Malmesbury hadn’t recognized her for a fraud. She’d thought Veronica was part of the foreign contingent. Warm pleasure spread through her that someone as high ranking as a countess thought she belonged here.

She played along and thickened the Portuguese accent she normally worked to quash. “How so?”

“No sense of restraint, for one.” She frowned at her reflection and reached for the tiny ceramic rouge pot. “I’ve always found that tendency ironic in the prince regent, given the usual reserved nature of the English.”

Veronica smiled, having thought just that herself. “I understand it is unusual to have such a grand party at this time of the year.”

“It is. Most balls are held when Parliament is in session and the aristocracy are all in town. It’s shooting season now, so most everyone is away at their country houses until after the new year.”

“But you are not. You are in London.”

“Only as of yesterday afternoon. I was in Brighton until then.”

So…it wasn’t Lady Malmesbury who was in the carriage outside the Ship’s Bell. “And your husband?” She grimaced at a nonexistent tear in her hem. “Why is he not in the country?”

“Oh, but he is.” The countess dabbed the red pigment lightly onto her lips. “Malmesbury would never give up an opportunity to hunt, not even to meet the prince of Lithuania. He left London as soon as Parliament ended and refuses to return until January.”

Just as Merritt had said. But if neither Lord nor Lady Malmesbury were in London, who was in the carriage?

“That cannot be,” Veronica muttered. “I am certain I saw a carriage bearing the earl’s crest two or three days ago.” An ironic smile tugged at her lips. “The baron who was with me said it was yours.”

Lady Malmesbury stiffened, her fingertip pausing as she smeared the rouge over her bottom lip. Then she smiled tightly. “I’m not the only woman in London who has a carriage marked with the earl’s crest.” She wiped off her hands on a towel and shoved the rouge pot away as she muttered caustically, “Malmesbury’s like a hound that pisses around his kennel to mark his territory. He loves to put his mark on all he possesses.”

Veronica noted the feminine hostility with which she’d said that, the underlying wounded pride…

A mistress.

The countess rose from the bench and pulled on her long white gloves with as much dignity as she could muster. Without another word or glance at Veronica, she left the retiring room, as if afraid she might see amusement on Veronica’s face at her predicament. Or pity.