Verity sat across from him in the carriage with a huff of annoyance. And that sound was the only utterance she would give him this night.
Longhurst didn’t deserve her conversation. Not that he noticed. He didn’t even bother to look at her when the footman handed her in, but merely rapped against the hood with his ungentlemanly large hand.
Then they were off, riding together in tense silence, occupying opposite benches, facing opposite windows, both gazing toward the dark indigo blanket that had immersed them into night.
She was grateful for the silence. It provided her more time to imagine all the ways she would like to murder him.
Doubtless, he was imagining the same. Tension rolled off him in waves, so palpable that she could almost taste it in the air. She most certainly could see it in the way he held himself, his hands fisted at his sides, jaw hard as granite, posture taut as a coiled spring as if, at any moment, he could seize her by the shoulders and do whatever he’d had in mind in the parlor a short while ago.
Which had likely been strangulation. She’d pictured doing the same to him, only to realize that her hands would never fit around his thick neck. That was the trouble with murdering brawny dukes, she supposed. It certainly limited one’s options.
When the carriage drew to a stop, she heard him expel a weighty breath, like a prisoner escaping gaol. The sound grated on her nerves.
Then the blackguard had the gall to stand on the pavement and present his open palm to hand her down as if they didn’t hate each other to the very marrow. She refused to accept. After all, he was only being polite for the sake of their audience of drivers, groomsmen, tigers and whoever might have been looking down from the windows above.
Verity would like to say that she descended from the carriage as regal as a queen and left him standing alone on the pavement without giving him a backward glance.
Unfortunately, ungainliness reared its ugly head at the worst possible moment.
Just as she rejected his proffered hand with a haughty sniff, her heel caught on the very edge of the step. She slipped. Her sniff came out as a snort, making her sound like a surprised piglet. And she stumbled. Or would have done, if not for him.
Longhurst rescued her, yet again. His hold was secure, his touch far gentler than his impatient growl as he steadied her at his side. Then he set her hand firmly on his sleeve, but said nothing. Neither did she. And when they entered the assembly rooms, they remained stiff at each other’s sides.
Thankfully, there was no need to talk when their hostess bustled up to greet them.
Mrs. Horncastle ushered them through the archway, chattering in a rapid succession of words as if required to use them all. “Ah, there you are, Miss Hartley, looking fine in your dress. I’m sure His Grace would agree that the small delay was much worth the wait. And while we normally never play a waltz at these country assemblies, Mr. Horncastle and I have decided to make an exception. Oh, yes, indeed. ’Tis a special occasion, after all and—Ah! He has cued the musicians already. Well, off with you now. No time to dally. Shoo! Shoo! We all want to see the two of you together . . .”
Verity found herself unceremoniously nudged—shoved was more like it—alongside the duke and onto the open floor just as the dancers around them began to step and turn, rotating in their direction.
The eager crowd pressed in behind them. She tried to retreat, but it was impossible.
Then, before she could think of what to do next, Longhurst took her in his arms and swept her into the dance.
Her vow of silence was broken on the gasp that fell from her lips.
Reflexively, her fingers curled around his palm as she misstepped in the first turn. Drat! Apparently, being filled with both righteous indignation and clumsiness at the same time did her no favors.
Embarrassed, she refused to meet his gaze. “I haven’t waltzed with anyone other than my sisters in many years.”
As soon as the words were out, she realized she’d just given him an open invitation to insult her. And since she was forever falling whenever he was near, she had made it easy for him.
But instead of saying anything about her lack of grace, he drew her closer. Shoring her frame against his own, he guided her into the next turn. And she matched him step for step, her memory of the dance quick to recover.
“You have not required the practice,” he said.
Verity eyed him with suspicion, waiting for him to finish that statement with one of his usual parries. After all, he couldn’t have meant it. Otherwise, he would have adjusted the space between them to a more proper distance. So he must have found fault with her. And it was surely unseemly to be held this close. Why, she could practically feel the buttons of his waistcoat!
And yet, he held her with such command, such utter assurance that it was difficult to object.
With her sisters, she was often the one who led, giving them the opportunity to further enhance their skills. After all, no one expected Verity to be asked to waltz.
She hated to admit it but, in Longhurst’s arms, she felt graceful in a way that she never had before. They moved in perfect symmetry, his solid form guiding her through every turn, their limbs brushing and twining fluidly as if they were one.
At the thought, she felt flushed, giddy as they whirled and turned, the room a blur of color around them. At this swiftness, any misstep or slightest separation could send them on a collision course with another couple. The possibility of calamity, along with the certainty that he wouldn’t permit such an event to happen, was all so thrilling!
It made her breathless. Not in a panicked sort of way, but in the flustered sort of way that reminded her of the dream she’d had of him. The confusing sensation made her want to . . . to feel more of his waistcoat buttons against her midriff.
He seemed to read her thoughts because he drew her the slightest degree closer. And when her gaze flew to his in silent query, he offered, “It is quite the crush.”
His eyes held that same dark look she’d witnessed in the library, his pupils spreading like drops of ink on a blotter. And when they lowered to her parted lips, her flesh tingled.
She wet them distractedly. “The assembly hall is not usually so full. Though, I’m sure they are all here for you.”
“Then that would be a shame,” he said, “because our hostess was correct. The small delay was, indeed, worth the wait.”
Her spine stiffened at once. He hadn’t even looked at her until now and when he did, he seemed . . . well, not angry but some cousin of that emotion. “I was not begging for a compliment.”
“No?”
“No,” she answered flatly. “Though if I were vain enough to do so, I certainly wouldn’t wish for you to pacify me with a regurgitation from Mrs. Horncastle. Not that it matters—the result of the delay, that is—for I wasn’t aware that I had a choice in the matter. Ten minutes, you’d said. Then you looked as though you were ready to throttle me or something.”
“Or something, indeed,” she thought she heard him mutter.
But then he cleared his throat and said, “I apologize for my earlier behavior. It appears as though the antagonism between our families has had an unforeseen consequence. However, that is all behind me now.”
“How fortunate for you. In the meantime, I am at the assembly in the dress that had the fewest wrinkles. My hair is in an untidy twist. I’m wearing two different slippers, and not a single piece of jewelry.”
His gaze traveled over the loose tendrils of her hair, her heated cheeks, her lips—again—and then drifted down, darkening even more as he took in the bare expanse of her shoulders all the way to the bodice of her apricot satin.
It was a brief glance. But thorough. And she felt exposed, her pulse thick, her breaths shallow, skin drawing taut beneath her corset and chemise.
“Your throat requires no adornment,” he said, his voice low, deeper. Almost hoarse. A tinge of red color slashed across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Then he swallowed and lifted his gaze before offering blandly, “And your ears are not pierced.”
Though, he must have found fault with her lobes because his gaze dipped once more to them and a muscle ticked along his jaw. His loathing was so powerful that they nearly collided with the couple in front of them as the music stopped.
She felt the flesh between her brows pucker in confusion. Did he truly despise everything about her?
“Such flattery,” she said testily as she curtsied to his bow. “It is a wonder that some debutante has not snatched you up yet.”
“And I wonder why you have not married. None of this would be happening if you had.”
Needless to say, she was only too happy when he delivered her to her waiting mother and sisters. Their required dance was over. At last.
Magnus wondered if he was losing his mind. A man of his age and distinction did not forget himself over a glimpse of a woman’s bare throat and earlobes!
And yet, he couldn’t even recall the last steps of the dance because his mind had been filled with thoughts revolving around the exposed column of creamy skin, imagining it arching on a sigh of pleasure. And those lobes, those little unadorned morsels appeared soft as the flesh of a peach, and he wondered what they would feel like against his lips, between his teeth . . .
Utter madness!
Clearly, the strain of these past few days had caused him to imagine an unfounded attraction to her. Which, of course, he did not have. She was a Hartley, after all. Born into a family of liars and cheats. Everything he abhorred.
Only an undisciplined fool would allow his thoughts to entertain the ludicrous notion that he actually desired her.
Therefore, the instant he deposited Miss Hartley beside her mother, he was only too eager to leave this infernal assembly.
Unfortunately, his escape was thwarted by Mrs. Horncastle, who reminded him of their dance, then proceeded to murder six of his toes while extolling him with tales of her acclaim on the local stage.
Having done his duty, he delivered his partner to her husband, then turned to leave. His errant gaze swept past Miss Hartley long enough to note her smug smile. Vexing creature!
Pivoting sharply on his heel, he took one step, but was blockaded by two more women.
Mrs. Hunnicutt introduced herself and her daughter, telling him that they had dined together in London. Twice, apparently. He merely nodded, not recalling either woman. Although, their narrow faces and long noses did remind him of horses but without the large teeth.
Mrs. Hunnicutt tried to cajole him into dancing with her daughter. A polite refusal was on his lips. Or at least, it was . . . until he heard a derisive snort from nearby.
He was certain the sound came from Verity’s quarter. Though, when he glanced at her, there was nothing in her expression to reveal her thoughts. Nothing other than those eyes and the flash of ire within their depths.
Feeling no qualms over fanning the flames of her irritation, he decided that one more dance wouldn’t hurt. So he proffered his hand to Miss Hunnicutt and relished the loathing that Verity directed at him.
But his sense of satisfaction was short-lived when she lined up for the cotillion with another man. A man whom she must have known quite well because she smiled and laughed easily in his company. But Magnus refused to be distracted by the two of them as they bowed and turned and circled each other, their eyes locked.
“That’s what I despise about our village assemblies,” Miss Hunnicutt said, drawing his attention. She tutted disdainfully in the direction of Verity and her partner. “They’ll simply let anyone through the doors. And Mr. Bennet Lawson is little more than a hired hand, for I’ve seen him working with the horses. But they allow him to live in their dower cottage, if you can believe that.”
He could. In his youth, Hawk had often told him of his father’s propensity to welcome those who were down on their luck to live on the estate for a time until they were on their feet again. Magnus had marveled at this way of thinking. Admired it, even.
But now, knowing that Hartley was allowing some transient to dance with his daughter, he thought it was irresponsible.
Not that it mattered, Magnus reminded himself. She was only his temporary fiancée, not a permanent fixture. In five days, he would hardly think of her again.
In the meantime, however, he returned Miss Hunnicutt to her self-satisfied mother and noted that Verity was taking the floor with another man. So, he decided to stay for one more dance. And then one more after that when he saw Verity with Lawson again. Magnus, in turn, escorted Mrs. Brown, all the while ignoring the smiles his betrothed gave to the transient.
This game of tit for tat between himself and Verity continued for another hour. And although she never danced with Lawson again, she was never in want of a partner.
Magnus was fairly certain that he had met and danced with every woman in this hamlet and the surrounding county.
Then an unexpected reprieve came in the form of Althea Hartley when she requested his escort to the refreshment table. The punch was surprisingly palatable, far more so than the pallid lemonade and tepid green tea served at many soirees in London.
“It appears as though my sister will soon be available for another dance.”
“I think not,” he said, his gaze already on Verity across the room as a young man approached. Though, recognizing him as the one who’d ridden past them on their way into the village yesterday, he narrowed his eyes.
“Oh, she won’t dance with him. That’s Percy Culpepper,” the youngest Miss Hartley said as if that explained everything. “I don’t blame her either. If he’d have left me standing alone in the center of town, for everyone to snigger at, I’d have killed him off in a play. And not one of those simple poisonings where he tips forward into his plate at dinner, but a vile, gruesome death. I’m thinking beheading. Perhaps disembowelment. Or both. Now, there’s a thought.”
Handing him her cup, she reached into a hidden placket on the side of her skirts, withdrawing a small leatherbound notebook and the stub of a black pencil.
As she scribbled, it was on the tip of Magnus’s tongue to ask for more information. He tamped down the urge. Such things were none of his concern. And yet, he was curious enough to watch the spectacle on the other side of the room.
Mr. Culpepper bowed, extending his hand in invitation. For an instant, it seemed as though Thea was wrong because Verity nodded. But then she took a step and cringed.
At least, it might have been a cringe. Or a sudden attack of her nervous system. She hopped, leaning on one foot and then, oddly, on the other. Then she shook her head and pointed down to her feet.
“Pitiful performance,” Thea groaned, rolling her eyes as Culpepper walked away from her sister. “The old ‘I’m too injured to dance’ excuse. She could have slapped him, at least. Now that would have been something to see.” On a sigh, she briefly took her cup, drained the contents and handed it back to him. “I cannot watch this any longer.”
Then, without another word, she walked away.
It would have been the perfect time for him to depart as well. He’d done his duty, after all.
But his attention returned to Verity as she hobbled around the corner toward the stairs, just as Culpepper took to the floor with another girl.
Planning to bid his inconvenient fiancée farewell on his way out, Magnus left the cups on the window ledge and followed her.
He found her sitting on the little bench down at the end of the hall from the stairs, a window open on the far wall. But he didn’t think it was the cool evening breeze that made her skin pale. It was drained of the becoming blush she’d worn when they’d danced. And those uncanny irises had lost the challenging flare he was becoming accustomed to seeing.
“They’re lining up for a country jig. Plenty of foot stomping for those so inclined,” he quipped, expecting a sharp retort from her.
But she did not take the bait. “Kind of you, but no. I’m afraid I’ve sprained my ankle.”
“Hmm. And which ankle was it, again? The right or the left? Or the right and the left?”
She slid him a glance, then winced, her lashes bunching together. “Was my performance that bad?”
“Well, I wanted to believe you,” he hemmed and that earned him something of a smile. It was only a small upward tilt at one corner of her mouth, but it was . . . something. And before he knew what he was doing, he shooed her to one side of the bench and took his place on the other.
“Then you are too kind. I really am terrible at lying.”
“Except for that one time,” he reminded her, stretching his arm along the back of the bench.
They shared a wry look. “Oh, yes. Except for that.”
Absently, he brushed the pad of his thumb against a burl in the wood just over her shoulder, so near that he could feel the warmth rising from her bared skin. His gaze drifted down the curve of her neck, along the graceful slope of her clavicle to the rounded protrusion of the acromion at the top of her shoulder joint. It was the size of a comfit and made his mouth water to think of pressing his lips—
Devil take it! He was doing it again.
“So tell me,” he said, requiring a distraction, “why didn’t you accidentally utter the name of Mr. Culpepper on that fateful day instead?”
She scrutinized him as he shifted on the bench, drawing his arm away from temptation. Then she issued a resigned sigh. “Thea told you, didn’t she?”
“Not all of it. Mostly that he deserves a grisly demise on the stage.”
“That would be too much fuss for something so trifling. The episode wouldn’t even deserve a page of a script,” she said and added a stiff shrug for good measure. “The curtain would open to the bakery. The narrator would then say, ‘Once upon a time, the eldest Miss Hartley had thought that Mr. Culpepper might have wanted to offer for her. But one day, she was left standing alone in this very shop because he became so distracted by the sight of her sister walking on the pavement outside that he forgot the spinster completely. That was when she realized she had merely been a placeholder. And so, she walked home in the rain and found him having tea with her family and no one even thought of her at all.’ End scene. Curtain falls. And there you have it.”
She dusted her hands together and swallowed, pasting on an unconcerned smile. And he had to admit, her indifferent expression was rather convincing. She must have practiced a good deal over the years.
“I suppose this is where a dutiful fiancé would offer words of consolation.”
“Likely so. Though it is fortunate that neither of us expects that of you. Wouldn’t want you to strain something, after all.”
“Kind of you to think of my health,” he said, his bland tone in keeping with their disinterested banter. And yet, before he could rein in the words, he heard himself ask, “Is he the reason you never married?”
She attempted a light laugh, the forced sound tinny to the ear. “Oh, I don’t know if I would have accepted. He practically fawns over Father. And I could never marry a man who admired my father too much or, with that said, regarded him too little. So that counts you out, as well,” she teased. “After all, neither sycophant nor enemy would make a worthy husband.”
He nodded thoughtfully. Even though she tried to make light of it, he could see the hurt. And in that instant, he recalled the odd thing she’d said yesterday.
You’re still here.
Now he understood. And in that moment, he felt an urge to grab Mr. Culpepper by the scruff of his neck and escort him outside, by way of the window.
The thought surprised him. Why should he feel compelled to do anything of the sort for someone who carried the blood of the man he hated?
He shouldn’t. After all, she was also the one who’d dragged him into this nonsense.
He rolled his shoulders to ward off the unwelcome stirring of protectiveness. “And this deserving victim in your sister’s play did not even bother to escort you to this bench?”
“I sent him to fetch me a glass of punch. Though, considering our history, he likely forgot.”
Knowing that was the truth since Culpepper was on the dance floor with the other foot-stompers, he offered. “If you are thirsty, then I will—”
When he shifted to rise from the bench, she laid her hand on his knee. It was the barest brush of her fingertips and withdrawn at once, her cheeks coloring, and yet the warmth of the touch stayed, lingering like a cinder that was burning a hole through his black trousers, heating the flesh and blood beneath.
She cleared her throat, her gaze drifting to the hands now clasped in her lap. “Thank you, no. I don’t need you to play the hero any more than you already have done. The only consolation in this entire mess is that it’s almost over.”
“Aye. At least, there’s that.”
That would have been the perfect moment for Magnus to stand and bid farewell. And yet, he suddenly found himself in no hurry to leave the stillness of this narrow corridor.
“I imagine you’re relieved that there is only one dinner to endure before this is over,” she said. “One more evening where we are cordial but otherwise indifferent to each other. Just one simple dinner, then our betrothal will—” She stopped and frowned. “Why are you shaking your head?”
“The dinner might not be as simple as you expect.”
“And whyever not?”
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I overheard Mrs. Hunnicutt and her daughter speaking to your mother, and they asked if your family might be willing to provide the entertainment—”
“No.”
“—for the evening.”
“Please tell me that my mother saw through Mrs. Hunnicutt’s obvious ploy to humiliate me and decided to do something truly altruistic by refusing to subject her own flesh and blood to ridicule.”
“I’m afraid I cannot. Lady Hartley seemed most eager, in fact.” He saw with some concern as Verity paled, an almost greenish cast to her skin. “Come now. The dinner won’t be that bad.”
“But it will. There will be . . . a play. I’m sure Thea is already writing it. And worse, I will be poked, prodded and cajoled until I am standing there, wooden and lifeless, in front of everyone. There will be no escape.” She leaned forward, elbows propped on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. “Do you carry a boot knife?”
His brow furrowed at the odd question. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I want you to thrust it into my heart. Right here and now.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”
She turned her head to look at him, those eyes beseeching. “That’s the problem. I’m serious. I am completely unable to be dramatic. Standing on a stage is sheer torture. I suppose my only consolation is that it will only be a small dinner party.”
“Well, actually . . .” he hemmed.
“She has invited the entire village, hasn’t she.”
“I wouldn’t say the entire village.”
He nearly laughed at her responding groan, but stopped himself.
A frown pulled at his mouth. Surely, he wasn’t actually enjoying her company.
Damn. He realized his problem at once. His efforts to be a dutiful—though temporary—fiancé were making him forget just how ruthless and diabolical her father had been. Just how despicable her brother had been, even while claiming to be his friend.
But that stopped now.
Magnus would never allow himself to be drawn in by a Hartley again.