Oh, why hadn’t she just ignored that blasted cat? Then she wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Verity turned her head away from her fast-approaching adversary on horseback and glanced down to the ground again.
She was high, but—quite possibly—not too high?
The more practical side of her nature, which she vehemently chastised for not having been with her before she’d climbed the tree, told her that she could come out of this reasonably intact if she managed to drop down softly in the way that her brother had shown her when they were young. She might suffer a sprained ankle. But really, wasn’t saving her neck—or bottom, in this case—worth it in the end?
Making her decision before it was too late, she stiffened the arms wrapped around the branch, locked her hands tightly about the wrists, unhooked one leg, then the other . . .
Oh, blast. That was a mistake. She heard another rip as the momentum swung her body with more force than she’d anticipated.
There wasn’t any way she could hold on. Her arms were already slipping, legs whisking in the air.
“I’ve got you,” the duke said.
In that same instant she felt a strong hand curve around her calf to the back of her knee, past her garter ribbons and the ruffle trim of her drawers to her—
“Don’t you daaaaaare!” Her reprimand came out on a screech as her arms gave way and she fell.
And yet, she was not falling. Instead, she was being held securely, albeit awkwardly.
He was seated on his mount. Her arms were now wrapped around his head, his face smothered to her midriff, with her legs on either side of his hips and her knees bent with the tops of her feet against the tops of his thighs, and . . .
He was gripping her bottom. With both hands.
Though, he seemed to realize this at once and quickly adjusted his hold, sliding up to her waist as he lowered her down . . . directly onto the pommel!
With a yip, she lurched forward, nearly unseating him as she wrapped herself around him like the lemur she’d become.
His gruff grunt stirred the disheveled curls resting against the side of her neck, and a frisson of awareness trampled through her. All at once, her senses were inundated with the warmth and smoothness of his cheek against her own, the strength of his arms, the rapid thudding of their hearts beating in tandem, chest to chest.
She drew in a startled breath, her nostrils assailed by the scents of saddle leather, horse, male sweat and some spice she couldn’t name.
“Your pommel,” she said by way of explanation, her voice oddly husky. She swallowed, too embarrassed to meet his gaze. Then, untangling her fingers from his hair—which was thick, dark and slightly damp at the roots—she pressed her hands against his upper chest and eased back. But their hips were still inappropriately close. “You should probably . . . um . . . lower me to the ground.”
His fingers flexed as if he did not entirely agree. But he nodded, nonetheless, and took pains to ease her over the pommel and down to her feet.
While he dismounted, she shoved a fall of hair out of the way to look down at the ruins of her dress.
Drat! The snagged and soiled muslin was rent from hem to hip, revealing her petticoat beneath. Inanely, she clutched the two edges as if expecting the perspiration on her palms to fuse the fabric together. It did not.
Looking for her shawl, she found the blasted thing dangling from the branch and too far out of her reach. And when she looked back at the duke, she saw his swift perusal of her from hairline to hem as he assessed her predicament.
“Here. Take my coat,” he said, already shrugging out of the garment. Reaching around her, he draped it over her shoulders, his low voice eliciting a peculiar shiver. “And allow me to escort you home.”
The pleasing fragrance she’d noticed before clung to the superfine blue wool that fell to the middle of her thigh. The very same thighs that had been wrapped around him a moment ago, she thought, feeling her cheeks color. “There is no need.”
“I insist. You’ve been through an ordeal and I cannot in good conscience leave you.”
Longhurst was being awfully nice to her. Which was surprising after their heated exchange yesterday. It was almost as if he’d forgotten all about it. And she hadn’t taken him for the forgetful or forgiving sort.
Whatever the reason, she hoped he would be this genial when she asked him her favor. Not to mention, she should probably stop ogling his broad shoulders. But it was rather difficult. There were miles and miles of them to ogle and they were accentuated so nicely by the fit of his waistcoat.
She blinked, forcing her gaze up to his. “Very well. I thank you for the offer.”
“Excellent. Where do you live?” he asked as he proffered his arm.
Her brows furrowed. “In the . . . um . . . same house I’ve always lived in?”
It was only when he responded with a blank expression that she began to wonder if he didn’t recognize her. Apparently, there was something worse than the last grape look. It was the you’re so forgettable that I don’t even remember meeting you look.
“Hartley Hall,” she supplied. “The same house you used to call upon when you knew my brother.”
He considered this for a moment, then nodded. “Ah. Then you must be the middle Hartley sister, Honoria.”
“Hardly.” She laughed. “And, pray, do not insult my sister by comparing us. I am Verity. We were introduced yesterday in your grandmother’s parlor.”
He shook his head at once, adamant. “You must be mistaken. The woman I met had brown hair and brown eyes. She was . . .”
“Plain?”
Frowning, he scrubbed a hand against the back of his neck, studying her with the intensity of one searching for a hairpin in a nest of pine needles. Then he pointed a finger at her. “You’ve altered your appearance. Applied rouge to your cheeks and lips.”
“I have not.” She straightened with a sniff of haughty indignance. “Are you accusing me of being vain?”
He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Your hair is a different color—nay, colors, for there are shades from barley wheat to chestnut with strands of burnished gold and cornsilk . . .”
That was oddly specific. But were there?
As he spoke, she grabbed a hank of it from over her shoulder and held it up to the light. It looked the same as it always had done, an unremarkable brown.
“. . . and your eyes are different, too.” His accusatory tone took on a grandiose edge as if he were ready to be crowned King of Spotting Deceptive Females. “They are not brown. They are a deep violet with a ring of umber around the center.”
“I. Know,” she countered, rolling her “not brown” eyes. “Did I accidentally kick you in the head or something?”
He stared at her. Hard. His gaze raked down her form, from the top of her tousled head to the bark-scuffed toes of her shoes, then slowly up the rip in her dress as if he were replaying the entire event in his mind. His hand tightened on the lead, the leather creaking under the pressure. His horse shifted.
“Aye. You must have done, for that is the only explanation. Either that”—his eyes slitted with suspicion—“or this is simply another one of your lies, which I’m more inclined to believe.”
“I beg your pardon! You don’t even know me.”
“I know your kind well enough.”
She growled, seething as she twisted to jam her arm into the sleeve. A thousand sharp retorts lined up on her tongue, but all she managed to utter was, “Oh, why don’t you just fly back to London!”
“I would. Gladly. However, there is a certain matter we must discuss first. Here,” he said impatiently as he assisted her with the overlarge garment. Then, as if for good measure, tugged the lapels closed. When that was complete, he took a step back. “You will tell everyone that you have released me from our betrothal because of a change of heart. Your change of heart, to be precise.”
Her hackles rose. Was he actually ordering her?
“If you want out of this, then why don’t you just announce to the entire village that I’ve made it all up?” Oh, please don’t announce to the entire village that I’ve made it all up.
“Unfortunately, my grandmother brought up a salient point. Though it is altogether preposterous, should I end this farce, then I will appear the blackguard.”
“And what should that matter?” she asked flippantly. “You are a duke. By title alone you can afford to have people think whatever they so choose.”
“First of all, I abhor deceit. And second, I cannot afford to have my reputation as a gentleman and man of honor sullied. Before your untimely falsehood, I intended to take a wife whose father has a great deal of pride.”
She hummed with intrigue. “So, in a sense, I’m holding your fate in the palm of my hand.”
As soon as the words were out, she knew that was the wrong thing to say. He seemed to grow larger before her eyes, his countenance darkening as he loomed over her.
“Make no mistake,” he growled, “if you refuse to cooperate, I will do whatever I must.”
Verity didn’t doubt it for a minute, but she wasn’t about to be intimidated by a broody man. She had her own future to think about. And while it would give her great pleasure to keep him wondering if she would cooperate, she decided to be honest.
“Oh, settle your feathers,” she said, standing her ground. “That is actually the reason I was headed toward Swanscott Manor this morning, to let you know that I will gladly tell everyone we didn’t suit.”
“Which will likely be the only truth to ever pass your lips.”
Her mouth tightened. “I understand that we have met under somewhat strained circumstances, but do not make assumptions about me. Ask anyone and they will tell you that I’m dreadful at professing things that aren’t true. I don’t know why my falsehood was believed this time. Whatever the reason, it matters not at this point. However, that brings me to a favor I should like to ask.”
“You are hardly in a position to—”
“One week,” she interrupted, holding up her index finger with only the top portion sticking out from the cuff of his sleeve. “All I’m asking for is one week of a pretend betrothal.”
“Considering the trouble you’ve caused, why should I grant you a minute longer, let alone a sennight?”
Should she tell the humbling truth about this as well? Considering the fact that he’d already seen her at her worst, there was no pride to be gained by withholding it.
Therefore, on a deep breath, she said, “Because there is this horrid insect who takes great pleasure in reminding me of all my failings and I cannot bear to have her laugh in my face again. Her family is hosting a dinner on the eve of her return to London for the remainder of her Season. I simply want to survive that. When she is gone seven days from now, I will happily make an announcement releasing you. Then you will be free to marry your . . .”
“Miss Snow.”
She nodded, briefly wondering what it was about this other woman that had captured his interest. Beauty? A biddable nature, perhaps? A willingness to overlook his argumentative and testy temperament?
Whatever it was, she hoped Miss Snow would knock him down a peg or two.
“Then do we have an agreement?” Verity extended her hand, watching as he considered her with a mixture of curiosity, speculation and distrust in the minted copper of his irises. But when he reached out, she made the mistake of adding, “After all, surely you could lie for a single week, if I can.”
His hand lowered and he shook his head.
“Oh, come now, Longhurst. It’s only seven days.”
“I realize that,” he said. “And, truth be told, I was going to agree to it regardless of your reasons, if only for the sake of appearances.”
“Then I do not see the problem.”
“Of course, you don’t. But how can I willingly enter into an agreement which I know to be a deception? It goes against every fiber of my nature.”
She wished she could be angry at his reasons, but she couldn’t. And though it pained her to admit, she actually admired his deeply rooted sense of honor. It was just rather inconvenient for her.
“Very well,” she said. It was only a matter of time before she would have to face the consequences of her own actions. She began to turn away.
“So, I will have to ask you to marry me.”
She stopped dead in her tracks. “Did you just say . . . marry me?”
“Not to actually marry you, of course. Devil’s teeth but that would be a trial. No, I mean only to ask you. Formally,” he clarified. “Then, in one week’s time, you will formally resign from our agreement. Unfortunately, that is the only solution I can see that will allow me to maintain any measure of honor and dignity.”
“But it will still be a lie, all the same.”
“Not for this week. I fully intend to treat you as I would if we were betrothed. Therefore”—his lungs expanded and contracted on a resigned breath—“Miss Hartley, for the next seven days, will you consent to be my betrothed?”
Her skin tingled. Why did her skin tingle? She did not want to tingle, or to have the fine hairs at her nape lift, or for gooseflesh to cascade down her arms.
She opened her mouth to respond, but her throat was unaccountably dry. So she just nodded.
His mouth flattened into a grim line. “Formally, if you please.”
Irritation quickly subdued any of those unwanted sensations.
Clearing her throat, she looked up directly into his gaze and said, “Magnus Warring, Duke of Longhurst and most vexing man in all of England”—she flashed a grin when he growled—“I hereby accept your offer to be your betrothed for one week. Even if it kills both of us. Though, preferably you.”
There seemed to be something happening to the corner of his mouth. It was lifting ever so slightly.
Was that a smirk? Did the man actually possess a sense of humor?
Hmm . . . she doubted it.
“I already regret this.” He reached out to take her hand.
She obliged without thinking and instantly felt the shock of their skin connecting, the rasp of his calluses, the heat of his palm. Beneath her skirts, she could still feel the imprint from where he’d gripped her. Surely that wouldn’t be the case if he had the proper, refined hands of a gentleman. Instead, he was rather rough around the edges in a way that she never imagined a man of his rank would be. Perhaps there was more to the stuffy duke than met the eye.
He released her abruptly and looked down at his hand as he closed it into a fist, his brow furrowing. Absently, he said, “Send the invitation to Swanscott Manor.”
“No,” she said, her voice edged with a note of alarm. “I mean, that isn’t necessary. If they haven’t sent one already, then there is absolutely no reason for you to return from London to attend a mere trifling dinner.”
“I won’t be in London. I’ll be here.”
“But . . . but whyever would you stay?”
He arched a dark brow. “Am I to leave my fate in the hands of the woman whose lie brought all this about? I think not.”
Ooooh! That man!
She gritted her teeth. “I assure you, there is no need to linger. I will be more than happy to tell everyone how disagreeable you are without you needing to prove it.”
“One week, Miss Hartley. And then everyone will see just who is disagreeable.”
He swung up to his mount with the ease of a man born into the saddle. With the slight urging of his knee, the horse stepped beneath the ash branch and Longhurst plucked the shawl from its roost.
However, as he turned to hand it to her, he glanced across the river.
Verity cringed.
Through the cluster of the guelder rose on the islet, she could just make out a figure climbing from the water, a flash of pale skin, and then the darkness of the robe.
She colored as the duke looked at her.
Heaving out a great sigh, he handed her the shawl. “Why am I not surprised?”
“I don’t know what you could possibly mean,” she said, unable to meet his gaze as she hurriedly took the bundle.
“And that, Miss Hartley, would be another lie.”
Before she could explain about the cat, he spurred his mount and rode off.
Of course, it didn’t matter at all what he might think of her. Not a whit. In a week, he would be gone from her life and she was already looking forward to it.
In the middle of the night, Verity awoke in bed, her nightclothes damp with perspiration, heart thundering like a racehorse.
She’d just had a dream of a man bathing nude in the river. Only it wasn’t the vicar. And before he’d stepped into the water, he hadn’t stripped out of a clergyman’s robes either. No, indeed.
With eyes that burned like bright coals in a brazier, Longhurst had held her gaze as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, untied his cravat and collar, and slowly peeled away every stitch of clothing he wore. Then he swaggered toward the riverbank, lifted his arms above his head and dove, swift as a seal beneath the ripple of slate gray water.
She’d scarcely been able to breathe as she waited for him to emerge. And he was under for so long that she feared something terrible had happened. So she’d stepped to the edge, her toes sinking into the cool grass and soft earth.
Suddenly, he broke the surface directly in front of her. His hand surrounded her ankle, climbed to her calf, to her knee and higher still . . .
Then he’d paused and looked up at her with something of a grin curled at the corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid I must demand the return of my garment, Miss Hartley.”
Confused, she’d looked down at herself, at his hands parting the dark blue wool. And that was when she realized she’d wasn’t wearing anything other than his coat.
The very same garment illuminated by a shaft of moonlight as it hung on the door of her wardrobe.