Chapter Nine

 

Lord Carrisworth and Verity reached an anteroom they had previously failed to explore. Lady Hyacinth reclined in a half-swoon on a red velvet sofa, her hand to her brow. A nervous Lord Killigrew was standing nearby. “It was nothing to fly up into the boughs over,” he said, shifting his bulky weight from one foot to the other.

Verity crossed the room to the lady’s side. “My lady, are you all right?”

Lady Hyacinth’s eyes were round with fear. The woman who claimed to have had many amorous adventures with gentlemen cried out in anguish, “Merciful heavens. Verity, that terrible man kissed me!”

Lord Carrisworth hid a smile. Then he became aware of Miss Pymbroke’s flashing brown eyes. His expression turned stern and he spoke coldly to Lord Killigrew. “Sir, I shall not insult Lady Hyacinth by asking you what your intentions are toward her. A lady of such spirit would never consign herself to a marriage with a dull dog like you.”

Lord Killigrew’s complexion paled, and his jowls shook as his mouth worked soundlessly.

A tiny cry escaped the spinster on the sofa, but she rallied under the marquess’s next words.

“A beauty like Lady Hyacinth can have her pick of suitors. It is unfortunate for us gentlemen that she has not deemed anyone worthy of her hand thus far, but that is her choice. You will not force your attentions on her again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my lord,” Lord Killigrew replied, a bit too hastily. “So terribly sorry. No offense meant.” He bowed himself out of the room and could be heard rapidly retreating down the hall.

Verity patted her ladyship’s hand. Once she realized her friend was in no danger, she had been free to admire the masterful way Lord Carrisworth protected and flattered Lady Hyacinth while sending Lord Killigrew on his way. His gallantry, his concern for the older lady’s sensibilities, touched her heart.

Lord Carrisworth came to the ladies and gazed down at Lady Hyacinth. He shook a finger and scolded, “My lady, you are heartless. You know a gentleman can only restrain himself in the presence of a lovely woman for so long before he succumbs to her charms.”

Verity could not believe the sudden transformation of Lady Hyacinth’s features. The older woman’s red lips curved into a coy smile and her eyes danced merrily. She sat up on the sofa and allowed Lord Carrisworth to assist her to her feet. “Should I apologize to poor Lord Killigrew?” her ladyship asked while adjusting a shawl about her shoulders.

Lord Carrisworth’s shoulders shook, and Verity shot him a warning glance. “Nonsense, my lady. The matter is best forgotten,” she said.

But it was kept very much alive by Lady Hyacinth herself when the trio returned to the party on the roof. She immediately rushed over to where Lady Iris was seated with three other ladies of a certain age and proceeded to boast of her latest conquest.

Lady Iris was clearly out-of-sorts upon hearing the story. While the other ladies gasped in dismay and fanned themselves vigorously relishing every detail of Lady Hyacinth’s “seduction,” Lady Iris took a large pinch of snuff—Violet Strasburg, Queen Charlotte’s favorite—and declared it was all just another of Hyacinth’s fancies.

Lady Hyacinth hotly denied any exaggeration of the matter, and the two sisters were off and running with one of their famous quarrels.

Lord Carrisworth turned to Verity. “I think we may safely leave them. Ah, I hear the strains of a waltz. May I have the pleasure, my landlady?”

Verity shyly accepted his arm and they joined the other dancers. The Earl of Northbridge held his Gloria, pretty in turquoise silk as, totally engrossed in each other, they swept past.

The marquess placed his gloved hand at the hollow of Verity’s spine. His other hand came up to hold hers, and they swirled into the steps of the dance. Under the stars he twirled her around, the golden topaz eardrops shimmering against the creamy white of her neck.

As he looked down at her, Perry thought she had never appeared more like an angel. A light breeze wafted over them, and he could smell her rose perfume. Her body was warm and pliant under his hands and her hair shone. He felt there was an almost unbearable sweetness about her.

It would be a small step to fall in love with her.

Lord Carrisworth pulled back slightly and placed another two inches between his body and Miss Pymbroke’s. He could not allow his thoughts to travel down that sort of dangerous path. Good God, the small step it would take to fall in love with Miss Pymbroke would be tantamount to the small step it would take to fall off the roof!

He realized he had been staring down into her pansy brown eyes for most of the dance without uttering a word. He cleared his throat and said, “I have not been able to run Lord Davies to earth. It is being said in the clubs he was publicly accused of cheating at cards and has not been seen since. Rest assured, though, I intend to take him to task for his behavior toward you at Vauxhall.”

At his words, Verity slowly exhaled. The marquess had been looking at her with tenderness and an affection that had stopped her breath. Now the wonderful warm feeling his gaze had elicited dimmed. “You need not trouble yourself, my lord. I doubt Lord Davies will call on me again, but if he does, I confess I should like an explanation from him as to why he kissed me.”

The marquess looked at her skeptically and drawled, “Come now, Miss Pymbroke, you plan to demand a reason?” He shook his head and chuckled.

The last notes of the music died. The marquess and Verity were standing near a large stone turret. Suddenly, there was a loud shrieking sound and the black sky exploded with color. The duchess was providing her guests with a brilliant display of fireworks.

Startled by the sudden noise, Verity clung to Lord Carrisworth’s arm.

He was acutely conscious of the pressure of her small hand. Trying desperately to suppress his feelings, he said, “The duchess has thought of everything. But you have not answered me, my landlady. What explanation could Lord Davies give other than he was enchanted by you?”

Verity felt a wave of frustration like she had never experienced before. Was he humoring her the way he had Lady Hyacinth a short time ago? “You odious man, can you never cease your flirting and he serious?”

The teasing twinkle left Lord Carrisworth’s eyes. He pulled Verity around the other side of the stone turret away from view. “Certainly I can be serious. Allow me to show you,” he replied, and crushed her against his chest.

His lips came down on hers in just the sort of kiss a rake would bestow on one of his paramours. It was a cold, hard, practiced kiss meant to exact a response from her.

A small whimper came from Verity’s throat, and the marquess immediately drew back. He saw her brown eyes were huge in her face reflecting her hurt and bewilderment.

The Marquess of Carrisworth felt something deep inside him snap.

He lowered his dark head and began pressing very light, soft kisses on her face. First her forehead, then her eyelids, the tip of her nose, until finally his lips hovered above her trembling mouth.

He raised a shaking hand to cradle the back of her head while his lips met hers with a surprisingly gentle touch. This time, the kiss was more of a caress which deepened until his mouth pressed harder and then began moving across her lips.

Verity shivered at his tenderness, and when the pressure of his lips increased, she felt her mouth burn. A searing passion raced through her and she kissed him back with a hunger so intense that she felt faint.

Lord Carrisworth was lost in a world where Miss Pymbroke’s lips were the most delicious delicacy he had ever tasted. His hand at her waist pressed her ever closer to him so that her breasts were pushed against his white

waistcoat. His thumb moved in circles against the small of her back in the familiar gesture he often used on her hand.

From a great distance his lordship heard someone give a loud cough. With a Herculean effort he raised his head from the drugging sweetness of Miss Pymbroke’s lips, noting they were red and swollen. He looked around. Charles, the Earl of Northbridge, and his wife were standing next to the turret. Charles had a worried expression on his face. Gloria was grinning.

Verity felt her face flame. She slowly pulled away from Lord Carrisworth’s embrace because he had forgotten to let her go. She raised a hand and attempted to tidy her hair, avoiding everyone’s gaze. Her heart was hammering painfully in her chest and the bottom of her stomach ached.

Charles broke the silence. He fixed his disapproving gaze on his friend and spoke somewhat stiffly. “The fireworks have ended, and Gloria and I are going to take our leave. We just wanted to say hello.”

“And goodbye,” Gloria added cheerfully. “A jolly party was it not. Perry? And, Verity dear, your gown is perfection. I shall call on you tomorrow.” With that, she firmly led her husband away.

“And I shall call on you, Perry,” Charles said over his shoulder.

Lord Carrisworth spoke for the first time, his voice husky. “I must return you to Lady Iris.”

In a daze, Verity took the marquess’s arm and they made their way to Lady Iris. That lady’s sharp eyes rested on Verity’s lips, but she said nothing. A niggling doubt about whether the marquess was serious troubled her ladyship on the way home in the carriage. But, she reminded herself, Carrisworth had never toyed with an innocent young miss in the past. His heart was engaged, she was sure. Now if she could just depend upon him not to do anything rattle-headed. A large “if” for weren’t gentlemen famous for want of sense? She was able to ponder these questions in peace because Lady Hyacinth, exhausted from the excitement of her conquest, promptly fell asleep as soon as the wheels of the coach began turning.

Lord Carrisworth considered feigning sleep, but rejected the idea in favor of staring out the coach window into the black night. He was overcome by a riot of emotions and needed time to sort them through. Alone. His feelings were so raw he could not bring himself to exchange pleasantries with Lady Iris or with the angel— nay, sorceress—sitting next to him. It was disturbing enough that the entire side of his body closest to Verity throbbed as if it were being pulled by an invisible magnet toward her. He moved as far away on his side of the seat as he could.

Verity was equally aware of him. Some of the lime scent he wore must have rubbed off on her glove as she had wound her arms about his neck during their embrace. She had only to raise her hand to stroke the eardrops he had given her to smell the light, pleasing scent.

Drawing in a deep breath and releasing it slowly. Verity clasped her hands in her lap and stared down at them. Tonight the marquess had shown her a side of his personality she instinctively knew no other woman had seen. He had been vulnerable to her, as she was to him. Verity had never felt so afraid. All her life she had determined not to fall in love. And what must she needs do but give her heart to a rake?

The heart in question abruptly fell as if it jumped from her chest into her throat. She was not in love with Lord Carrisworth! No, indeed not, she told herself firmly.

How could she be? She had only to remember what her father had done to Mama.

The treacherous idea that Father had never loved Mama presented itself in her thoughts. Her eyes filled with tears as she recognized this as the truth. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience. Mama had a large dowry, and Viscount Eldon had heavy gaming debts. But Mama had always told her the handsome viscount had been so charming she had thought that besides the money he had cared for her, but, alas, that had proven not to be the case.

Perhaps, a little voice in Verity’s brain cried, Lord Carrisworth—Perry—was different. Perhaps he did love her. She bit her lip when the memory of the tenderness of his touch came rushing back. Was not his tenderness a sign of love? Oh, but what if it were only a fleeting passion? She could not be sure unless his lordship declared himself and until—if—that time came she would have to be strong and judge for herself if his feelings were genuine.

* * * *

Late the next morning, Lord Carrisworth sat on the bench in the rose garden behind Verity’s townhouse. The day was sunny with a brisk chill in the air. He had just returned from his morning ride, changed into a dark green morning coat and tan pantaloons, and was feeling burnt almost to the socket. He had spent a devilish bad night tossing and turning, trying to ignore the fact that every fiber of his being was calling out for Miss Pymbroke. No night spent drinking and gaming had ever left him this out of frame.

“Miaow.” Empress jumped up on the seat beside him.

Lord Carrisworth reached out a hand to scratch Empress’s crowned head. “You are looking content this morning, my feline friend. Treated you right last night in Lady Iris’s kitchen, did they?”

The cat purred in answer.

Digby appeared at the glass doors to the morning room. “My lord, a Mr. Flanders has called. I believe he is with the company doing the restoration work on your lordship’s family portraits.”

The marquess rose to his feet. “Show him into the morning room, Digby.”

Empress followed Lord Carrisworth through the open door into the house and promptly found a gold velvet-covered chair—-the most comfortable in the room—and stretched out on its plump seat.

A moment later a thin, tall man with light hair entered with a servant who carried a painting wrapped in protective paper. “Good day to you, my lord. I am Mr. Flanders.” He bowed low. “I thought your lordship would like to see some of the work I have done for you.”

The marquess gave a nod of assent.

Mr. Flanders snapped his fingers at the servant who then unwrapped the painting.

Lord Carrisworth instantly felt a knot form in his stomach. He gritted his teeth and braced himself for the jolt of pain he still experienced every time he saw his mother’s face.

“A beautiful lady,” Mr. Flanders was saying while he propped the painting up against a chair. “It was a privilege to restore her portrait, my lord. Is she perhaps an older sister? Her emerald-colored gown appears to be a fashion of perhaps twenty years ago—

“My mother,” the marquess bit out tersely, cutting off the man’s stream of chatter. “You have performed your services satisfactorily, Mr. Flanders. I trust you will repair the other paintings equally as well.”

“Yes, my lord.” Mr. Flanders blinked at this abrupt dismissal. “I shall just wrap the portrait and be on my way.”

“Leave it,” Lord Carrisworth commanded.

The two men bowed and left the morning room. The marquess left the portrait where it was and sat on the gold satin sofa opposite where the painting was placed. He stared at his mother’s features, his own like granite.

Digby entered the room, drawing back a bit when he saw the look on his lordship’s face. “I am sorry to disturb you, but Mr. Flanders said he found this in the back of the painting. He forgot to give it to you just now.”

The butler extended a silver salver upon which sat a yellowed piece of parchment tied with a frayed blue ribbon.

The marquess accepted the missive and Digby left, closing the door behind him.

His expression hard and set, Lord Carrisworth tossed the unopened paper onto an occasional table placed at the end of the sofa. He had a strong feeling he did not wish to know its contents.

The very second the missive landed on the polished wood, Empress bounded from her chair, ran the length of the sofa, jumped across his lordship’s lap and onto the table, which rocked ominously under the cat’s weight. She pounced on the ribbons of the missive, grabbing one end in her dainty jaws, and dashed under the sofa with it before the marquess could do more than stare.

“For God’s sake!” Lord Carrisworth got down on his knees and looked under the sofa. Empress crouched with the missive between her paws. Her slanted blue eyes challenged him.

The marquess was never one to walk away from a challenge. He lunged for the paper and took it away, managing to escape with only a minor scratch from Empress’s sharp claws for his trouble. Empress materialized from under the sofa and walked, stiff with outrage at the loss of her toy, through the open door to the garden.

Lord Carrisworth returned to his seat on the sofa and stared down at the paper, which he now saw was addressed to him in a feminine handwriting. Slowly, he pushed the ribbon aside and opened the parchment. Noticing the letter was dated over thirteen years ago, he took a deep breath and began to read.

 

London, 14 April, 1800

 

My dear Perry—

I write this on the eve of the day I shall finally be able to be with the Gentleman I have loved since I was seventeen. No one in England knows of our Plans as we have been very careful not to be Found Out.

Allow me to begin at the beginning. During my first Season in London I fell Unalterably in Love with Nigel, and he with me. Before we could become betrothed, a Scheming woman named Josephine, who wanted Nigel for his title and money, managed to lure him under False Pretenses into the deserted Library at a Ball. He saw her Plan almost instantly but the lady was too clever for him. Her Mama conveniently came upon them and threatened a Scandal. My Nigel was forced to marry Josephine.

I was inconsolable. Not caring who I married, I agreed when my parents chose your father, Arthur. He was so much older than I, and I believed him a wise man.

Although not many people knew Nigel and I were in love, Arthur somehow heard. Immediately after our wedding, he took me away from my family and everyone I knew to live in his house in Yorkshire. It was a lonely existence. My first happy moment came two years later, my son, when you were born. At least one good thing had come of my marriage—you.

I spent the next seventeen years trying to please your father, but I do not think he ever got over the fact that I had been in love with another man. You know, my dear, he could be Fearsome when he was angry. He often Forbade me from even seeing you, feeling it best you were raised by Nurse and later your Tutor. Then you were sent away to Eton. I often felt we had never been allowed to become Close. But know, Perry, that I have always Loved you.

Arthur finally brought me back to London one month ago. He wished you to see the Town before going to Oxford. At the very first party we attended I met Nigel. My dear, it was as if the almost twenty years in between had never happened. Of course, many things had changed. Before she died, Josephine had given him a daughter who was now grown and married to an army man. Nigel, thinking me lost to him Forever, as well as being Deeply in Debt, had married again and they have a little girl who is seven years old.

We did make a feeble attempt to stay away from each other, but found after we had both spent our lives in loveless marriages, we could no longer be Separated. Nigel insisted my name not be linked to his. He has paid an actress called Mary Jennings, who is preparing to retire to the country under another name, to put it about that it is she who is running away with him.

Perhaps you will think us selfish for wanting to be together. I shall not blame you if you do.

I have had the most awful Premonition I may never see you again, Perry dear, and could not bear the thought of your not knowing the truth. Please Forgive Me.

 

The letter was signed “Your Loving Mama.”

The Marquess of Carrisworth sank down against the back of the sofa. He leaned his head back, covered his eyes with one hand, and allowed the missive to drop into his lap.

All the years since his mother left her family, he had believed her heartless and uncaring—a belief encouraged by his bitter father.

Memories from his childhood came to him. It was true he had often seen his mother weeping, but had been told by his father that women used tears to get their own way. He saw now that these convictions had hardened him, causing him to put up a shield between himself and the world.

A true picture of his family sprang into clear focus. Trapped in a loveless marriage with a man who tyrannized her, his mother had done her best, but had been miserable. While he would always regret not being close to her, it was comforting to know she too grieved the distance his father had demanded be put between them.

And his mother had loved him.

Poor Mama. Could he really blame her for grasping the one chance she thought she had at happiness, one that had, after all, ended in death when she’d run away with her true love, Verity’s father?

Verity’s father. Oh, dear God. Perry sat up on the sofa only to drop forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands. How could he explain to Verity it was his mother that her father had run away with all those years ago? How would she react to the intelligence?

He remembered her work with the actresses and perceived how deeply wounded she was by her father’s betrayal of his family. Knowing that it was his mother whom her father had loved, would Verity turn against him?

For a moment he toyed with the idea of not telling her. She need never know. But almost immediately he realized the foolishness of such a plan. Someday, although it was not likely, she might find out. Then, she would know he had deceived her—and Verity’s high standards would forbid her from associating with him after such dishonesty.

His muscles tensed. No, he could not bear an estrangement between them.

The frozen barrier inside him had melted away with the gift of his mother’s letter and the new understanding of his life and feelings. In its place was the sure knowledge that he loved Verity. There could be no secrets between them.

Lord Carrisworth remained where he was. He needed a few minutes to compose himself, and then he would go and tell her the truth.

* * * *

The ladies next door sat in the drawing room.

Downstairs before noon for the first time in memory, Lady Hyacinth was still excited about her conquest of Lord Killigrew at the Tremaines’ ball. “I’m certain the gentleman will call on me this morning. I do hope he’ll bring sweetmeats rather than flowers.”

Lady Iris’s mouth puckered, and she cast her sister a fulminating glare. She was sick to death of Hyacinth’s boasting.

Verity stabbed a needle into a piece of stitchery deemed worthless by virtue of the fact its creator’s mind was on a pair of teasing green eyes and a mouth that made her senses swim.

Lady Hyacinth patted her red curls. “Yes, any minute now we shall receive word of Lord Killigrew’s arrival.”

As if in answer to the statement, the double doors to the drawing room were thrown open and a wide-eyed Betty rushed inside. “Mrs. Barrington has gone!”

Verity’s stitchery dropped to the floor as she rose to her feet in alarm. “What? Surely you mean gone out driving or shopping?”

Betty shook her head vehemently. “No, miss. I mean her bed ain’t been slept in. And all her gowns are missin’. I found this letter addressed to you on the mantel in her room.”

With a trembling hand Verity accepted the parchment and dismissed Betty. Unfolding the paper she began to read the contents out loud. “Dear Mouse, I am off on my travels again this time with a new husband—”

Verity broke off, her hand flying to her throat. Lady Hyacinth gasped, and Lady Iris thumped her cane on the floor. “Read on, gel! Don’t keep us in suspense.”

Verity swallowed hard and continued. “After Sir Ramsey left me so cruelly at the ball last night, a kind, older gentleman comforted me. We sat in a deserted room and came to know each other quite well. At length we decided that nothing would serve other than for us to fly to Gretna Green and be married at once. Afterward, we plan to travel to the continent. I expect I shall be away for a long time as he is most amorous. Goodbye, little sister. The next time I see you, Mouse, you will call me Lady Killigrew. Yours, etc.”

A sharp cry sounded from Lady Hyacinth and she beat her fists on the settee cushion. “Monster! Philandering old roué! Arch-fiend!”

Lady Iris ignored the sounds of her sister sobbing into a large handkerchief and instead studied her shocked young friend. “Now, Verity, this is the best possible thing that could have happened to Louisa. You and I both know she was fast on the road to ruin. Indeed, I wonder just what went on in that deserted room with Lord Killigrew that forced this hasty marriage. But in any event, you may take comfort in the fact that his lordship has his title, forty thousand a year, and his estates are in good heart. Keep in mind that an older husband will be more tolerant of any diversions Louisa might indulge in.”

Verity sighed and nodded. “I agree, my lady. It is just the suddenness of it all. Do comfort Lady Hyacinth. I believe I shall go to my rose garden. It is always a place where I can gather my thoughts.”

Verity walked out of the room, and for once Lady Iris took pity on Lady Hyacinth. “Hush, Sister. ’Twas surely that his lordship believed he could not have you which forced him into Louisa’s clutches.”

Lady Hyacinth raised a tear-stained face. “Do you really think so, Iris?”

Lady Iris pulled her sister close and allowed her to cry on her shoulder. “Of course! Men were always such damn fools.”

It was fortunate Lady Hyacinth could not see Lady Iris roll her eyes to the heavens.

* * * *

Outside in the sunshine, Verity wandered through her rose garden, pausing here and there to examine a new bloom. Although she had been considerably shaken by the news of Louisa’s elopement, she deemed Lady Iris’s view of the situation straightforward. She must wish the best for Louisa and Lord Killigrew and go on with her own life.

Maybe her future would include the Marquess of Carrisworth.

Her gaze shifted from the deep red petals of a flower to the open door of her morning room. Inside, she could see his lordship sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands. Verity moved forward and stopped a few feet from the doorway, unobserved by him. She frowned, thinking he appeared troubled.

Then she saw the portrait placed beside a nearby chair. From her vantage point, Verity could see the likeness of the lady clearly. A wave of shock swept through her.

It was the woman of the miniature she had found in her father’s room. She was sure of it. But no, she thought, shaking her head in confusion, how could that be? Verity’s mind reeled.

She lifted the skirts of her pale pink morning gown and silently hurried back to Lady Iris’s. She entered the house and dashed up the stairs to her room. Fumbling with the handle of the drawer where she had tossed the miniature to keep the ribbon away from Empress, Verity reached in and grasped the small portrait.

The woman’s sad eyes stared back at her.

Totally baffled, Verity clutched the miniature in her hand and flew back down the stairs determined to confront the marquess. Voices in the drawing room prevented her from going out the back way. She pulled open the front door and, unmindful of her flustered appearance, quickly covered the distance between the two townhouses.

Digby opened the door to her, and Verity rushed past without a word to the startled butler. She burst into the morning room, surprising the marquess, who jumped to his feet. “Miss Pymbroke, what is wrong?”

Verity stood by the portrait holding the miniature in her hand and compared the two. Just as she had suspected, the two women were one and the same. She whirled around to face Lord Carrisworth. “Who is that lady?” she demanded.

He looked into the depths of her velvet brown eyes for a long moment. “My mother,” he answered at last.

“Your mother,” she cried incredulously. “What, pray tell me, was a miniature of your mother doing in my father’s desk?”

Lord Carrisworth ran his hands through his hair. “Sit down, Miss Pymbroke. I was just going to call on you to reveal some astonishing facts I have learned only this morning.”

Bewildered, Verity sat on the sofa and the marquess sat next to her. His eyebrows rose in a question, and after her nod, he removed the miniature from her cold hand and studied it for a moment.

When he looked at her again, Verity saw his green eyes held the same sad expression as the lady in the portrait. “I do not know how to begin, Miss Pymbroke, so I believe it will be best if you read this letter from my mother. The man doing the restoration work on the painting found it hidden behind the canvas.”

Verity drew back. “My lord, I do not think it proper to read what can only be personal correspondence.”

Lord Carrisworth thrust the parchment into her hands. “Devil take what is proper! It’s the only way you will understand.”

Verity accepted the missive and began to read. Almost immediately her face whitened. “Oh, dear God,” she whispered.

Fearing she might faint, Lord Carrisworth strode to the brandy decanter and poured a large measure of the liquid.

He returned to sit next to her, handing her the glass. “Here, stop for a moment and drink this.”

Visibly trembling, Verity accepted the drink without her usual protests against strong spirits and took several sips. Placing the glass on a side table she continued to read while the marquess watched her carefully.

When she was done, she wordlessly handed back the letter and gazed at the roses outside the door. “My father did not run away with an actress, but with a lady of Quality. Someone he had loved in his youth—apparently never stopped loving. I tell you, my lord, I had long ago discerned the truth that Father and Mama’s marriage had been one of convenience. Naturally there can be no doubt now. This letter makes everything plain.”

Lord Carrisworth reached to comfort her but she avoided his hands and rose to stand by the door to the garden. He followed her, positioning himself behind her and to one side.

“Miss Pymbroke—Verity, this has been a shock for both of us. But perhaps it is to the good that we have found out. For myself, I can better understand my mother and what she did and the effect it had on me. Can you not say the same regarding your father?”

Verity considered his words. “Yes,” she replied slowly. “You have the right of it. Although I can never forget Mama’s pain when Father left. Nor can this knowledge erase the heartache of growing up without my father. But, I do comprehend their motivation. You know, it makes their deaths even more tragic.”

“Yes,” Lord Carrisworth replied seriously. He placed a hand lightly on her arm and turned her to face him. Her thickly lashed brown eyes were wet with unshed tears.

Verity stared into his green eyes. A tumble of confused thoughts and feelings assailed her. Desperately she wanted him to kiss her the way he had at the Tremaines’ ball. She needed him to hold her in his strong arms, to support her.

“Verity, my angel, this can have no bearing on our relationship, on our feelings for each other,” he told her. His jaw tensed, and then he spoke haltingly. “I have come to feel the greatest of affections for you.”

Abandoning this rather ungraceful speech, Lord Carrisworth moved his hand to cradle the back of her head, tilting her face up to his.

When Verity realized he was about to kiss her as she was hoping he would moments before, she drew back. He had not said he loved her. Besides, it would not have made a difference if he had, she told herself firmly. Society would be scandalized if the story of his mother and her father ever got out. It was an ill-fated connection, and ladies avoided being the subject of gossip at all costs.

She took a determined step away from the marquess. “My lord, I must make it a rule that you not kiss me ever again. Indeed, from this moment forward we shall revert to our landlord and tenant relationship, and when that is over we shall see each other only occasionally in public.”

Surprise flashed across his lordship’s features. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“The revelations of your mother’s letter mean we simply cannot be associating with one another. It would break every rule of genteel behavior and subject us to unpleasant conjectures.”

Lord Carrisworth stood very still and stared at her. “I fail to see why. No one knows of any connection between our families; you read what my mother wrote. Hell and damnation, even I had no idea! And if my father suspected it was your father Mother ran off with, he never gave any indication. Since my father has been in

his grave these three years past, I think we can trust his continued silence.”

Verity pursed her lips.

“Think, Verity!” the marquess snapped, righting the need to shake some sense into her. “No one could possibly condemn any relationship between us.”

Verity raised her chin stubbornly. “Even so, there would be undesirable talk. Give me your word you will not kiss me again.”

The marquess threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of resignation. “Very well. I give you my word I shall not kiss you.”

Perversely, hearing the words spoken aloud caused a rush of pain so intense Verity felt she would burst into tears right in front of him. Stiffly, she dropped him a brief curtsy, and then rushed from the morning room, across the hall, and out the front door.

Perry stood with his fists clenched at his sides. His angry gaze remained fixed on the door through which Verity had exited.

How could he ever have dropped his guard enough to imagine himself in love with any woman, no less one with as many rules and moral strictures as Miss Verity Pymbroke? That she should cast aside his feelings in favor of her notion of some addlepated version of “genteel behavior.”

Grim-faced, Lord Carrisworth picked up the brandy decanter. He strode to the library, whose door could only be said to be a credit to its maker since it did not fall to pieces under the strength of the slam it endured.

* * * *

Outside on the street, a closed carriage was stopped across from Verity’s townhouse. Pulling back the curtain, the occupant of the coach observed Verity’s arrival and departure.

Roxanna hissed. The chit had appeared quite flustered both times. What was Perry doing with little Miss Primbroke?

Ever since the day a drunken Lord Carrisworth had brought Roxanna to the townhouse, she had been waiting for him to make her another offer of protection. No proposition had been made.

To make matters worse, her current benefactor, Rupert, the Duke of Covington, had learned of her presence with Carrisworth at Vauxhall and had given her her marching orders. Boldly, Roxanna planned to present herself on Perry’s doorstep and use her charms to orchestrate her way back into her position as his mistress.

Tapping a long nail on the seat beside her, Roxanna decided her situation was desperate. Forgetting that Lord Carrisworth had dismissed her as his mistress long before he had met Verity, Roxanna viewed that Perry was too involved with the oh-so-innocent Miss Pymbroke to see he could have her, Roxanna, back in his bed.

And that meant Miss Pymbroke was an obstacle that would have to be removed once and for all.