Miss Pymbroke's Rules (21 page)

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.

Chapter Ten

Lady Iris was coming down the stairs from the drawing room where, with the aid of a fresh plate of pastries, she had finally succeeded in comforting Lady Hyacinth. She was startled when the front door swung open and a pale and shaking Verity hurried inside.

The older lady stopped on the bottom step. “Zounds! What the devil—”

Lady Iris broke off as Verity covered the distance between them, hurled herself into her arms, and burst into tears. Her ladyship reached up to keep her high white wig from flying off her head and then hugged her young friend. “’Tis Carrisworth, I’ll wager.”

Verity sobbed harder.

“Come, gel. Let’s go up to your room away from the eyes of the servants and you can tell me all about it.” Lady Iris linked her arm with Verity’s, and they climbed the stairs, her ladyship muttering under her breath the entire way. “I feared the handsome ass would do something stupid. He’s led a rackety sort of life ... not accustomed to dealing with a young miss of virtue . . .”

At last, they gained Verity’s bedchamber. Lady Iris dipped a handkerchief into a bowl of cool water and then sat down on the bed next to the girl. She gently patted Verity’s tears away with the cloth and said, “What is this foolishness?”

The events of the morning tumbled from Verity’s lips.

Lady Iris listened until the girl finished. Then she took a deep breath and asked, “Do you love Lord Carrisworth?”

Verity looked away from her ladyship’s intelligent gaze. A moment passed before she whispered, “Yes. But it cannot signify.”

Lady Iris scoffed at this reply. “His mother and your father running away together can mean nothing to your future with the marquess. And if you’re thinking in terms of loyalty to your Mama, you’re a fool. You were a good, devoted daughter, and I know she loved you. But I tell you where her husband was concerned she was a weak, silly thing who would never have been able to hold any man’s interest.”

Verity remembered how her mother had spent most of her life after the viscount’s desertion lying on the morning room sofa, the epitome of the invalid. She had allowed her daughter to take over the running of the household as soon as Verity was old enough. Still, Verity deemed any deficiency on her mother’s part not relevant to the present insupportable position she found herself in with the marquess.

Turning to face Lady Iris, she pursed her lips and then confided, “My lady, people might find out eventually about the undesirable connection and then the tale-bearers—

Lady Iris let out an exasperated snort. “Cut line and give over, Verity. Society will always find someone to talk about. If one is the current subject of tittle-tattle, one simply holds one’s head high and pays no attention.”

Verity made as if to protest, but Lady Iris took both her hands in hers and squeezed them. “No, gel. You are being overly sensitive about what is proper. Idle gossip cannot matter. Unless I miss my guess, which I rarely do, Carrisworth is on the verge of offering for you. He will settle down—rakes make the best of husbands don’t you know—and the two of you will rub along well together. Don’t throw away a chance at happiness.”

Mixed feelings overwhelmed Verity’s thoughts. At length she blurted, “The marquess said he had a great affection for me. But he never said he loved me!”

“What! Of all the paper-skulled, beef-witted ...” A martial light came into Lady Iris’s eyes. “Well, that is really beyond all bearing! But Perry will realize his error and come to you. Mark my words. He’s most likely suffering as much as you are right now—and it serves him right too. In the meantime you must regain your composure. Rest here for a while, gel.”

Lady Iris helped Verity out of her gown and settled her into bed. “After the ball last night, we are bound to have callers this afternoon. I’ll send Betty up in an hour to help you dress. You think on what I’ve said.”

The older lady softly closed the door behind her, leaving Verity to her disordered thoughts. Was Lady Iris right? Did Lord Carrisworth want her as his wife? A sudden vision of his lordship’s naked chest as she had seen it that day in the bath appeared in her mind’s eye, and she experienced a rush of warmth. She relived the feelings his kiss had called forth at the Tremaines’ ball and groaned.

She lay on the bed twisting and turning in her agitation. In this instance doing what was proper—terminating the intimate side of her relationship with Lord Carrisworth—had not brought about the usual feelings of gratification. Why?

Could it be that her feelings for his lordship were much more significant than her sense of what might be virtuous behavior? Was the real source of her pain that the marquess had not declared himself?

Lady Iris had not drawn the curtains around the bed. Out of the corner of her eye Verity caught a flash of golden light coming from her dressing table. She eased off the bed and crossed the room. The topaz eardrops the marquess had given her lay shimmering in the light.

Verity slowly picked them up, feeling a burning behind her eyes. Tears threatened but she held them back and walked over to her desk, pulling out a sheet of paper. The jewelry must be returned to the marquess at once.

If only she could ask him to return her heart.

* * * *

Meanwhile, next door, the Marquess of Carrisworth was growing steadily drunk. Seated in the large leather chair behind the desk in his library, his lordship stripped off his coat, tossed it onto the floor, and reached yet again for the brandy decanter.

Mr. Wetherall watched the expensive garment crumple in an untidy heap and then glared at his master, his left eye twitching. “You allowed dear Miss Pymbroke to leave this house quite upset,” he scolded. “I saw her from the upstairs landing.”

Lord Carrisworth took a long drink of the liquid before turning a haughty eye on his valet. “You forget your place.”

Mr. Wetherall’s sparse frame stiffened. “And you choose to ignore yours. You should be on one knee in front of that sweet, pretty miss, asking for her hand instead of drowning your fears in drink.”

“Fears!” The marquess rose angrily to his feet.

Mr. Wetherall did not give one inch. Staring straight at his employer, the valet’s eye convulsed at the enormous lapse in the conventions he was making by confronting the young peer. However, the valet had rarely held his tongue when it came to serious matters. “Yes. You are afraid to tell her you love her. Afraid she’ll reject you.”

Lord Carrisworth opened his mouth prepared to give the impertinent old man a blistering set-down, devil take the number of years he had been in his service, when a scratching sound preceded the entrance of Digby. “The Earl of Northbridge has called, my lord.”