Chapter Two

 

Verity stared wordlessly at the tall stranger who stood framed in the doorway.

His eyes were a dark emerald green, the lids heavy and curved, giving him a languid, sensual look. Thick, glossy black hair shined over a broad forehead. The cut of his coat emphasized his wide shoulders and slim hips.

“Verity, may I present the Marquess of Carrisworth?” Lady Iris was saying.

For some reason, Verity felt breathless. The heady scent of the riotous rose bushes around her seemed almost too pungent. Her hands began shaking, and suddenly, she dropped the basket of roses.

The marquess bowed low and strolled with a nonchalant grace to Verity’s side. He knelt at her feet and gathered the roses back into their holder.

Finishing his task, Carrisworth straightened to his impressive height. He held one red rose between them, and his long white lingers caressed the flower, while his eyes never left hers for an instant.

“Miss Pymbroke,” he murmured, his deep voice causing her heart to leap, “you must take care. Something so lovely and fragile should be cherished by an expert hand.”

The look in his eyes, the subtle message behind his words, the meaning she could only guess at, snapped Verity out of her trance.

Her mind registered the fact he was inappropriately dressed in evening clothes. Upon closer inspection, she discovered the eyes she had been admiring were shot with red. His firm, full mouth was stretched in a decidedly wolfish grin.

Oh! Here, surely, was a rake of the first magnitude!

Everyone knew rakes spent hours practicing their art of seduction. Had not her body just been behaving in a most peculiar way? She congratulated herself for taking his measure so promptly.

Verity snatched the rose from Carrisworth’s fingers and took a determined step backward. She placed the flower on top of the others in the basket. Her chin came up, as she said coolly, “Thank you for your assistance, sir.”

He raised his dark eyebrows in what she interpreted as surprise at her icy response. There was a maddening hint of arrogant self-confidence about him. Why had Lady Iris brought the handsome viper into her garden?

Verity wrenched her gaze away quickly lest he somehow detect the effect he was having on her. Turning to Lady Iris, she spoke with a calmness she was far from feeling. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, my lady?”

Lady Iris looked at the young girl’s flushed face and ignored the question. “Verity, your cheeks are pink from the sun. Come inside, gel, and offer us some tea.”

Verity picked up the basket of roses. Good manners forced her past the marquess, whose face she noted held an expression of amusement. She led the party through the doors into the morning room, stripped off her gloves and tossed them, along with her bonnet, onto a nearby table where she placed the basket of flowers.

Across the room, a middle-aged woman appeared and sat in a chair. She pulled a tremendous amount of knitting out of a large bag and placed it in her lap before noticing the company. “Oh, Verity, I did not know we had guests,” she bleated, her gaze darting nervously over his lordship.

“How are you this morning, Miss Woolcott?” Lady Iris inquired. “May I present my late cousin’s grandson, the Marquess of Carrisworth?”

A relation! Heavens, Verity thought, looking with distaste at the shameful way the marquess was bending over Woolsey’s weathered hand. Surely he would not be so brazen as to place a kiss upon it—it appeared he would. Woolsey simpered.

Verity pursed her lips in disapproval. She sat down on the gold satin sofa close to Woolsey’s chair as if to protect her companion from the marquess.

Undaunted, Carrisworth had only a moment to wait while Lady Iris seated herself on the chair opposite the sofa, leaving the way clear for him to sit next to Verity. He looked at her, seemingly pleased with himself. “This is a comfortably furnished room,” he drawled, with what Verity thought a strangely proprietary air.

“I find it so, my lord,” she replied curtly. He would not be allowed to practice his flirtations in her house. She might have to endure his company during this unwanted morning call, but after that, since she never went about in Society, most likely they would not meet again.

A maid settled a heavy tray on the table in front of her. Trying to disguise her annoyance at the marquess in front of the others, Verity busied herself with the tea things.

But the marquess was not a man to be ignored. “You may want to consider ordering a fire made up. Miss Pymbroke. Is this room always so chilly?” he inquired blandly enough, but she saw the teasing twinkle in his eyes.  He referred to her manner rather than the temperature of the room, the rogue.

The teacups trembled in their saucers as she passed them to Lady Iris and to Woolsey. Preparing a cup for the marquess, she was suddenly seized with a mad desire to fling the contents into his lap. Mayhaps that would persuade him she was not one to fall into his arms. Verity gritted her teeth.

Instead, passing him the cup with every evidence of martyred civility, it was she who almost received a drenching when Carrisworth sat forward abruptly and clasped her hand.

Startled, Verity’s gaze flew to his face. The marquess adroitly removed the cup from her nerveless fingers, placing it aside and holding her hand firmly. He spared but a glance at the two older ladies, assuring himself they were busy examining Miss Woolcott’s knitting, before raising a handkerchief to one of Verity’s fingers.

“You must have pricked yourself on a thorn, Miss Pymbroke,” he whispered.

Struck speechless, Verity watched in fascination as he wiped at a smear of blood on her index finger. Appalled at the intimacy of his action, she tried to tug her hand away, but he held fast. “Let go of me at once, sir,” she commanded, keeping her voice low.

His lordship did not oblige her. Instead, before she knew what he was about, he lowered his dark head to mere inches above her hand. She could feel a whisper of warm breath against her wounded finger. A tingling sensation ran through her while at the same time her stunned brain cried out in protest of his disgraceful behavior. He would not dare kiss her ungloved hand as he had Woolsey’s!

As if reading her thoughts, the marquess met her gaze, and again Verity saw the teasing twinkle in his green eyes before his lordship slowly, reluctantly released her hand.

Lady Iris loudly cleared her throat.

In the wink of an eye, the Marquess of Carrisworth was sitting at his leisure, drinking his tea, as if he had not just made advances to a young lady of virtue in her own home.

“Have you explained to Verity why we have come this morning, Carrisworth?” Lady Iris asked.

The marquess placed his empty teacup on the table. “Yes, and I’m happy to report Miss Pymbroke has been all that is kind. She took pity on me when I told her my townhouse burned down last night.”

Struggling to retain her equanimity, Verity listened to him with increasing disbelief.

Leaning back in his seat, the marquess smiled on the company and continued, “Being able to lease a suitable house from a gracious lady has made me feel the luckiest of gentlemen. All that we have left to decide is when I may move in.” He turned to her, a look of unholy glee on his handsome face.

Still feeling the heat in her cheeks from the marquess’s bold conduct with her hand, Verity felt a fresh rush of indignation at his latest piece of impudence. Lease him her house? She might as well rent the premises out to a group of Cyprians! Insufferable man, how dare he say she had agreed to such a scheme?

She opened her mouth to protest, but Miss Woolcott asked bemusedly, “What can this mean?”

Lady Iris hastily explained the plan to lease Verity’s townhouse for the Season while Verity lived next door, ending with, “And, Miss Woolcott, you may at long last return to the country.”

Miss Woolcott’s knitting fell to the floor when she lurched from her chair to embrace Verity. “Oh, my girl, thank you! I know you will be as happy with the Ladies Iris and Hyacinth as I shall be with my widowed brother back in my dear village with its marvelous sheep and cows.”

Verity returned the woman’s hug while the marquess politely gathered the fallen knitting. Miss Woolcott thanked him and flew from the room declaring she must begin packing.

“How neatly this has fallen into place,” Lady Iris said and beamed at the young people.

“Indeed,” Verity responded crossly, feeling as if she had been manipulated and was now trapped in an odious coil. Her conscience would not allow her to disappoint Woolsey. And, because rudeness was foreign to her nature, she shrank from insulting Lady Iris, who had been so kind since Mama’s passing last year, by denying the lady’s relation occupancy of a house she had previously agreed to lease.

It was entirely his fault, Verity decided, glaring at the marquess. He must know she would not want to lease the house to a rackety sort such as him. But, then, he would hardly spare a thought for her feelings, she reflected. Rakes never concerned themselves with the sensibilities of others. Her father certainly had not cared for his wife’s or either of his daughters’ feelings when he had run off with an actress.

The butler entered. “Mr. Cecil Sedgewick has called, miss. Shall I show him in here?”

Lady Iris moaned. “Must we?”

“Of course,” Verity replied, frowning at Lady Iris. Turning to the waiting servant, she said, “Yes, Digby, and please bring fresh tea.”

The butler bowed and left the room.

The marquess rose to his feet, a glint of humor in his eyes. “I shan’t keep you from your guest, Miss Pymbroke. Would three days be sufficient time for your removal next door? I would like to occupy the house by the end of the week.”

Verity wished she might turn up her nose and send him away with a flea in his ear. However, since her finances were past praying for, such emotions would have to be kept in check. She must make it clear, though, that he follow certain rules if he were to live in her home.

Rising to her feet, she threw back her head in a martyred way and said, “Yes, three days will do, my lord, but we have the rules of your tenancy to discuss.”

He waved a careless hand at her. “Rules? Miss Pymbroke, I rarely concern myself with such trivialities. My man of business will call upon you tomorrow and settle whatever sum you require for the arrangement.”

Verity stood aghast at these proclamations.

Lady Iris struggled to her feet with the aid of her cane. Adjusting her high white wig she declared, “Good. Everything is decided.”

In an aside Verity missed, Lady Iris added to the marquess, “Let us lake our leave before I am forced into the company of that moralizing prig, Sedgewick.”

Verity faced her soon-to-be tenant. “I was not speaking of money, Lord Carrisworth. What of the servants? Will you be bringing your own and thus turning mine out into the streets? If so, I take leave to remind you how difficult it is for servants to find a place.”

The marquess raised a brow and gazed at her speculatively. “How unusual you are, in that you should consider the fate of mere servants. But, you need not bristle up that way. I have sent my servants to the country and have no intention of displacing yours.”

Verity breathed a sigh of relief. “Very well. Now, the other matters to consider—”

At that moment, Digby opened the door to reveal a slight, thin man in his middle twenties dressed in black. His sandy-colored hair was noticeably thin on top, and he peered out at the world from behind a pair of spectacles that magnified his pale blue eyes. In his hands, he carried a sheaf of pamphlets.

He looked at the gathering with an air of perplexity. “Good day to you, Lady Iris. Miss Pymbroke, I hope I have not called at an inopportune time?”

Smiling sweetly at him, Verity hastily introduced Mr. Sedgewick to his lordship, noting with indignation how the marquess merely gave a fleeting nod at the aspiring cleric.

For his part, Mr. Sedgewick bowed and turned beet red upon hearing the marquess’s name.

Lady Iris begged leave to be excused, but Carrisworth lingered. He gazed down at Verity as his hand reached for hers. In a voice full of meaning, he murmured, “I shall be next door should you require assistance of any kind.”

Verity’s large brown eyes sparkled with anger.

Mr. Sedgewick coughed and turned away.

Carrisworth’s thumb gently moved in circles across the back of Verity’s hand, sending a rush of warmth up her arm. She pretended not to feel anything, positive this was another of his rakish accomplishments, and with what she thought was a brilliant air of unconcern, removed her hand from his and dropped him the briefest of curtsies.

He chuckled, startling her. “You know, Miss Pymbroke, when you purse your delectable lips that way, I find myself hard pressed to refrain from kissing them.”

Wisely, he strolled from the room before Verity could form a response. She found she had been holding her breath and now released it in a long sigh. She stood for a moment, holding her hands to her warm cheeks. To one used to being in total command of her emotions at every moment, it was disturbing to find her feelings swung back and forth like a pendulum by none other than a careless pleasure-seeker. She resolved not to let him affect her so in the future. After all, toying with her feelings was but the merest game to him.

Mr. Sedgewick moved toward her from where he had retreated by the window and eyed her sternly. “Miss Pymbroke, I cannot imagine why a lady of your good sense would allow London’s premier rake to cross her doorstep.”

“London’s premier rake? As bad as that?” Verity asked faintly, motioning the gentleman to a chair near the tea table. When they were seated and Mr. Sedgewick, was fortified with a cup of tea, she continued. “I judged his character at once, of course. But, he is a relation of Lady Iris, and as such I could not but treat him courteously.”

“I daresay many noble families have a black sheep,” Mr. Sedgewick ventured. “It is most unlike Lady Iris, though, to foist unwanted company on you.” His pale, magnified eyes peered curiously over his teacup at Verity. “You appear agitated, Miss Pymbroke. Was there a purpose to his lordship’s unpleasant visit?”

Verity quelled the notion that Cecil Sedgewick was like a ferret when it came to gossip. It was simply, she told herself, because of his desire to serve people that he concerned himself with their troubles. And she had landed herself in a muddle, agreeing to let her house to Lord Carrisworth. Not that she had precisely agreed. The sneaksby had tricked her into capitulating.

Placing her teacup carefully on the table, Verity folded her hands in her lap. She spoke with a quiet dignity that belied the emotional turmoil inside her that the marquess had caused. “I find myself in circumstances that require me to practice economy. The Ladies Iris and Hyacinth have opened their home to me, and I shall be renting out my house for the Season. Lady Iris brought his lordship here as he requires temporary lodging, and we reached an agreement. I shall remove next door presently.”

Verity watched the growing astonishment on Mr. Sedgewick’s face as she imparted this news. She wondered briefly if he would be brought up to scratch by the knowledge that she had been reduced to leaving her home to gain an income, but this hope of a matrimonial proposal was quickly dashed.

“By all that is holy, Miss Pymbroke, could you not have dissuaded him? Why, every feeling must be offended by a man of Carrisworth’s reputation calling on you, no less to move in bag and baggage. Surely a respectable family would be more desirable tenants.” Mr. Sedgewick’s complexion had taken on a purplish hue, and he produced a handkerchief with which to mop his damp brow.

Though Verity’s feelings on the matter ran in perfect harmony with Mr. Sedgewick’s, she felt her temper rise. If he was so appalled by the plan, why not suggest an alternative? Why not offer her marriage?

None of these ruminations showed on her ivory countenance. Patiently, she explained, “As I have told you, his lordship is related to Lady Iris. It was my duty to aid him. He is the victim of a fire, after all, and one must be charitable.”

“A ... a victim?” Mr. Sedgewick blustered. Then, his tone changed to one suitable for addressing a small child. “Miss Pymbroke, you are too good, too virtuous to realize that Lord Carrisworth’s misfortune is the result of his own folly. The fire occurred during one of his parties, one of his sinful parties. It was in the Times this morning,” he concluded with relish.

Verity’s mind reeled from this latest proof of his lordship’s rakish ways. “Oh! How very like one such as he, I imagine. But I fear there is naught I can do at this point save keep my distance from the marquess as much as possible. And that you may be sure I shall do, Mr. Sedgewick.”

Though he tsk-tsked loud and long, Mr. Sedgewick seemed appeased by this statement. The remainder of their time together was spent going over the pamphlets he’d had printed for her special cause, and the two parted much in charity with each other.

After the distressing events of the morning, Verity perceived she would have to lie down upon her bed for an hour, so she might revive her spirits enough to undertake the task she had set for herself later that afternoon in Drury Lane. But after some fifteen frustrating minutes had passed, spent tossing and turning while the Marquess of Carrisworth’s handsome features remained imprinted behind her closed eyes, Verity rang for a cold luncheon and prepared for her outing.

                   *  *  *  *

Lounging at his ease backstage at Drury Lane’s Theatre Royal, Lord Carrisworth, restored to his usual elegance in Weston’s finest blue superfine, allowed his former mistress, Roxanna Hollings, to massage his temples.

He had come to the theater to visit Monique and Dominique and interrupted a rehearsal. The stage manager had grudgingly allowed the company a respite, especially as it wouldn’t do for him to antagonize a member of the nobility when he was trying to establish his newly rebuilt theater against the heavy competition of Covent Garden.

The twins had chattered away at Carrisworth until called by their dresser. As if on cue, Roxanna had swept to his side, her raven hair hanging loose to her waist.

The marquess was not suffering from the headache. But Roxanna, after hearing of the fire, had exclaimed he must be and offered one of her massages. As he was never one to turn away pleasure, Carrisworth let her perform her ministrations.

Rather than standing behind his chair for this benevolent service, Roxanna leaned forward in front of the marquess so he might enjoy a perfect view of her luscious breasts, which rose tantalizingly from the bodice of a revealing crimson-colored gown.

“How does this feel, my darling Perry?” Roxanna cooed.

“Mmm ... wonderful. You always have been artful with your hands,” he replied with a grin.

Roxanna lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “Perhaps you are chastising yourself for casting me aside in favor of those two French trollops. I shall not hold it against you, my love. It was a mere whim on your part to shock and scandalize Society. Now that those print shop caricatures are all over Town, your purpose is served, and we may be comfortable again. Why not come to my

house tonight after the performance? I have obtained some new scented oils....”

The marquess fixed his gaze on her sapphire blue eyes. Roxanna Hollings was one of those females who always managed to project an air about her that bespoke a woman who favored a state of undress. Indeed, he’d spent many pleasant evenings with her that bore testimony to his theory.

When he’d first decided to rescue Monique and Dominique from Lord Armstrong and Lord Davenport, he’d sent a magnificent diamond necklace to Roxanna to signal the end of their three-month relationship. Since then, he had frequented a certain house whose madam, a Mrs. Dantry, could always be counted on to provide him with a beauty that would eagerly satisfy his physical needs.

He raised a dark eyebrow at Roxanna. “My dear, what would Rupert say of such behavior?”

Her pink lips formed a pout at the mention of her new protector. She dropped her hands to her sides and straightened. “I don’t care two straws for Rupert’s opinion. You know that. In fact, you and I know each other very well, do we not, Perry?” She ran her hand down his lordship’s muscular thigh.

The fact that she did know him so well was the problem, in the marquess’s estimation. However tempted he might have been by her offer, he drew back at her astute judgment of at least part of his motivation when it came to the twins. He reveled in his reputation as a dissolute rake. It kept people at a comfortable distance.

And Roxanna had seen the truth.

He rose to his feet and, regretfully, ran a finger across the top of her white breasts. “As much as it pains me to refuse you, I have no wish to meet Rupert across a set of dueling pistols.”

Dropping his hand, he turned toward the doorway, missing the look of cold fury that passed over his former mistress’s face.

Across the hallway in the Green Room an altercation seemed to be in progress. The marquess strolled to the entrance of the room and stopped short at the sight that met his eyes.

Clad in a Quakerish black wool gown, Miss Verity Pymbroke spoke earnestly to a small group of young actresses who were vehemently disagreeing with her. Each held a pamphlet in her hand like the one his soon-to-be landlady was reading from. By squinting his eyes the marquess could make out the title. Evils of the Stage.

His lips twisted in amusement.

“Not again!” Roxanna snapped, appearing at his elbow. “How monstrously boring. The girls and I have taken to calling that moralizing Methodist, Miss Primbroke.”

The marquess made no comment to this witticism. Focusing his attention on Verity’s huge pansy-brown eyes, her sweet countenance, and the lovely glint of gold in her brown hair, he decided she possessed an innocent appeal refreshing to his jaded gaze. As to the lady’s personality, Carrisworth believed his initial vision of her as angelic had proven prophetic.

Studying her sincere expression, he realized Miss Pymbroke cared deeply about the subject she was expounding on. He wondered what could have caused her to feel it was her mission to try to reform actresses. Experience told him most of the women on the stage loved the life and basked in the attention given them. True, after a certain age many could no longer find protectors, but the wiser ones planned for this eventuality.

Miss Pymbroke lectured on, oblivious to his presence. “Young women are lured from their homes by the promise of fame and money, when the reality is that vulgar gentlemen use them for their own immoral pleasures—” She broke off here, her face flushed with embarrassment at the delicate nature of her words.

“Tell us about those pleasures, fair lady,” a masculine voice taunted.

Carrisworth swung his gaze to the gentleman who was slowly making his way toward Miss Pymbroke. The man’s red hair was cut in a fashionable Brutus crop, but because of its wiry nature, it looked more like a red squirrel’s fur. That hair made him easily recognizable as James, Lord Davies. He emulated the Dandy set. His shirt points were ridiculously high, and the bright salmon color of his coat clashed violently with his hair.

Lord Davies was known to the marquess because of his acquaintance with Sir Ramsey. Randy had often referred to the baron as bad ton, and suspected the reckless gamester was not above the unforgivable practice of loading his dice or fuzzing his cards.

The baron moved close to Verity. “Tol rol, for all your Puritan airs, I’m persuaded a man with my wealth, title, and superior taste in clothing could persuade you to change your thinking.” He snaked an arm around her waist, pulling her close.

Verity struggled against his strength. Pressing both of her palms firmly against his chest, she said, “I am not interested in your purse or your title. You are exactly the sort of man who preys on these young girls. Have you no conscience, sir?”

Several of the actresses sniggered.

Carrisworth shrugged off Roxanna’s restraining hand and advanced into the room swinging his quizzing glass to and fro on its black cord. His voice was deceptively casual. “Davies, is it not? I must say I am surprised to see you here. Thought I heard there was a wager at White’s on Brummell’s opinion of Alvanley’s new coat. I should not think you would miss it. Remove your hand from Miss Pymbroke, by the way.”

Freed from the baron, Verity raised a shaking hand to her hair and secured a strand that had fallen loose. The appearance of the Marquess of Carrisworth in the Green Room unnerved her more than Lord Davies’s advances. That gentleman’s expression turned mulish, but only for the space of time it took him to perceive the iciness of the marquess’s eyes. He reluctantly dropped his arm to his side, saying pettishly, “Just looking for a little fun, Carrisworth. You get your share.”

“Indeed I do,” the marquess agreed cordially, “but with willing females.” Turning to Miss Pymbroke, he observed her expression turn from relief at her release to one of stubborn purpose.

Before she could attempt to return to her sermonizing, he said, “Miss Pymbroke, I am sorry to inform you that Miss Woolcott has overexerted herself in her efforts to be on her way out of London. She requires your assistance.”

Verity gasped in alarm.

Ignoring the stricken look in her brown eyes, he concluded this Banbury tale with an offer to take her up in his carriage. “I assure you the conventions will be observed as I have my tiger with me, and I assume that Friday-faced chit outside the door is your maid. You have not already bespoken a vehicle, have you?”

“No, my lord, I came in a hack,” she replied distractedly. Accepting his proffered arm, she called to the maid and allowed herself to be hurried away.

Watching their retreating backs, Roxanna’s blue eyes narrowed.

Lord Davies assuaged his wounded pride by commencing to flirt with a buxom girl dressed in a shepherdess costume.

Outside in the street, Lord Carrisworth halted their progress and turned to face her. “I daresay you have never seen a play, am I correct, Miss Pymbroke?”

“Y-Yes, I mean no, I have not,” she stammered, confused by the question. Pray, sir, Miss Woolcott’s condition is not serious, is it?”

Dusk was falling over London. The streets were growing more crowded as people hurried home to prepare for the evening ahead.

Lord Carrisworth contemplated the young woman standing anxiously before him. She could not be more than twenty, yet she had affected the manner and dress of an old prude. He experienced a sudden desire to see her dressed in finery, with her hair curled about her face in the latest fashion. “I shall tell you only after I have your solemn promise to attend the theater with me on an evening of my choice.”

For a moment, she stood there, struck dumb by such an astonishing proposal. With a quick intake of breath, she retorted, “You infuriating man! What has that to do with anything?”

His lordship folded his arms across his chest. “Give me your promise,” he commanded.

“Very well, if I must,” she said, her voice rising an octave. “I promise I shall attend the theater with you. Now what has happened to Miss Woolcott?”

The marquess leaned negligently against a lamppost and smiled a bewitching smile. “Not a thing that I know of. I made the whole tale up to get you out of there. You should not be gallivanting around London in a hack, nor preaching sermons at theaters, Miss Pymbroke. Surely one with your superior sense of the proprieties would know it is not ladylike behavior.”

Hands on hips, Verity was the picture of righteous indignation. “You tricked me?” Then, recalling herself, she took several deep, calming breaths. “You glib-tongued devil,” she said at last, glaring at him.

Lord Carrisworth raised his hands in a deprecating manner. “Please, Miss Pymbroke, do not try to turn me up sweet.”

This nonsense and the lively twinkle in his lordship’s eyes only incensed her more. “Are you a complete care-for-nobody, my lord? I find it hard to believe someone as astute as Lady Iris could be so taken in.”

He reached out and flicked her cheek. “I care about you, of course, Miss Pymbroke. After all,” he said, ticking items off on his fingers, “we shall be neighbors, and I have your promise to attend the theater with me, and then there is the fact that I shall be sleeping in your bed. You’re so charming when you blush that way, my avenging angel. Naturally, I meant while you are sleeping next door. Are you sure there is not an unmaidenly cast to your mind?” he inquired.

At that moment a fiendish wind blew down the street, depositing a bristling sheet of paper against Verity’s skirts. Distracted, she retrieved it, glancing at the content in the most cursory manner. Then, a look of horror crossed her delicate features.

It was one of the print shop caricatures circulating about Town. In it, the marquess was depicted reclining in bed with two women. Underneath the lampoon ran a poem:

 

Most gentlemen are satisfied, ’tis said,

To have one mistress warm their bed.

 

But a certain eligible marquess,

Just won’t be content with less

 

Than a pair of French turtledoves,

To have as his light o’ loves.

 

Now, can there be any pleasure on earth,

Left to be pursued by my Lord                                                    

Carrisworth?

 

Verity felt her face flame.

The Marquess of Carrisworth stood at her side viewing the paper over her shoulder. Abruptly, he let out a roar of laughter. Had a man ever been so vilified for a deed he had not done?

Unaware of the marquess’s innocence in the situation of the twins, shock and anger lit Verity’s face as she turned to him. In a choked voice, she railed, “You laugh at this disgusting lampoon, my lord? It amuses you to know these poor girls’ reputations are soiled forever? That all of London knows of your vile behavior?”

A crowd gathered to watch the pretty young girl deliver the aristocrat a scathing set-down.

Beyond caring that she had an audience, Verity pointed an accusing finger at his broad chest. “Do you think it funny you have disgraced your name in this way?”

The marquess chuckled and said, “Really, Miss Pymbroke, you refine too much on the matter. In this age, no gentleman is condemned for pursuing his pleasure.”

The assembly snickered and guffawed their agreement. Verity looked at them in disgust. “Perhaps that is a sad truth, sir,” she said archly. “In that case, people need to learn that true happiness comes from helping others and from maintaining a pure mind and heart.”

Groans and hisses issued from the crowd.

A smile spread across Lord Carrisworth’s face. “You see, the multitude is in my corner, dear lady. You would be wise to remember ‘Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall’.”

Digging in her heels in the face of adversity, Miss Pymbroke unwittingly delivered the marquess a verbal facer. “What would your mother think if she saw this sheet of paper?”

Lord Carrisworth’s features hardened. “Why damn me, I declare she could not say anything about it. Nothing at all.”

Verity stared at his unyielding countenance. In the following silence she felt a deep mortification grow within herself to mingle with a number of other emotions. Here she was, in the middle of the street, raising her voice like a hoyden. Despite her earlier resolutions not to let the marquess cut up her peace and cause her to behave with less than her usual composure, he had done so again.

“If that is how you truly feel, my lord, I must decline your offer of transport. I would much prefer to find my own way home than to be seen in your company.” She turned on her heel and, with her maid trudging along, marched away through the parting crowd.

Seeing the show was over, people began moving on their way, leaving the marquess to stand alone. He shrugged his shoulders thinking he would not have been able to rally quickly enough to protest her departure.

Shouting to his tiger, Lord Carrisworth entered his carriage hell-bent on spending another evening at Mrs. Dantry’s becoming thoroughly, disgustingly drunk.