Pretty Polly (16 page)

“Not alarmed,” said Verity. “But surprised. Why should you tell such a lie?”

“To get you alone,” he said, drawing her into his arms.

Verity sank against his chest with a little sigh. She could not ever remember being so happy. He had proposed once, he was about to propose again, and she loved him with all her heart. The fact that she was alone and unchaperoned in his company did not shock her. She trustingly and innocently turned her lips up to his.

He took off his gloves and tossed them onto the table. Then he bent his head and sank his mouth onto her own. One strong, white hand clasped itself
around Verity’s left breast. She gave a little start of alarm and began to pull away, but he was now kissing her fiercely and her body was melting and burning under his touch. He forced her back until she was lying beneath him on the sofa. His thigh slid between her legs, and his hands moved caressingly over the smoothness of her silk gown, running down the length of her body. In spite of her heady, aching passion, a cold draft of air on her legs shot a horrified message to her brain. He had raised her skirt.

His mouth was nuzzling at the neckline of her gown against her breast as one experienced hand glided slowly up her stockinged leg to the bare flesh above.

Verity gave one enormous push and toppled him off the sofa. He rolled across the low table, scattering books, before jumping nimbly to his feet. He stood with both hands on his hips, laughing down at her.

“You are quite right to stop me,” he said. “I would prefer you in my bed.”

Verity tugged down her skirts and stood. “I have drunk too much,” she said. “You shock me, Your Grace.”

“You surprise
me
, Miss Bascombe. It was interesting to find out just how far I could go before you cried halt.”

“But we are to be married!” cried Verity. She was now more shocked by the mocking insolence she saw in his eyes than she had been by his over-intimate caresses.

“Don’t be silly. I was stupid enough to propose to you once. But when you told me you were in the habit of being, er, generous with your kisses, I realized I could take what I wanted without having to marry you first.”

“I thought you loved me!” cried Verity. “I would never have let you touch me otherwise.”

“Now, now,” he said soothingly, advancing on her again. “We know that is not true. You let me kiss you before.”

Verity edged away. “Keep your distance,” she said.

He moved quickly between her and the door.

Verity was shaken by such a wave of rage and disgust she could have killed him.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the white gleam of a bust on a pedestal.

She darted toward it, picked it up, and threw it at the duke, who ducked. The bust sailed over his head and crashed into smithereens on the floor.

“You hellcat,” he said gratingly, advancing on her.

Verity ran to the fireplace and seized the fire irons. First she threw the poker at his head, then the tongs, then the shovel, and then the toasting fork.

He ducked and weaved, trying to get to her.

Verity picked up a vase of roses and sent it sailing at his head just as the door of the library opened and a crowd of startled guests rushed in.

Charlotte had seen them going into the library together and had told Lord James and anyone else who happened to be listening. The news quickly spread, and the guests decided it would be fun to burst in on the couple.

They arrived just in time to see the duke neatly fielding the vase of flowers.

“A romp!” cried one excitable young miss. Laughing hysterically, she pulled a volume from the shelves and threw it at the duke.

The cream of society, those sticklers for good behavior
and good
ton
, leaped into the fray like children, and soon the whole library was full of screaming and laughing guests and flying books.

The duke stalked out. He wanted to get as far away from Verity Bascombe as possible, and for a reason that infuriated him. He felt he had behaved badly and disgracefully. He felt he owed her a sincere apology, and, at the same time, he was damned if she was going to get one!

“So let us go over this again,” said Lady Wythe severely. “You let him take you into the library and you let him close the door. You are old enough to know that a gentleman with honorable intentions never does that. Then he kissed you, lay on top of you, and raised the hem of your gown. I must ask you again. How far up did he get?”

“Two inches above my knee. That was all. I told you and told you—”

“Humph! Are you sure he proposed
marriage
to you?”

“Yes, definitely. He said he would call on my father.”

“As your father is not here, I think that Denbigh had better explain his conduct to me.”

“Don’t! I never want to see him again!”

“If you are going to go about with me—and I go about a great deal—you are bound to see him again. It would be better to have an explanation out of him first. Not another word. I am disappointed in you, Verity. There—I shall call you Verity. I repeat, I am disappointed. At your age, you should have learned the gentle art of repulsing bold advances. You will be tying your garter in public next!”

“I had drunk too much,” said Verity. She was
lying in bed with the cat on one side of her and the dog on the other. Pretty Polly was perched on the bed head, looking very interested in the conversation.

“Of what? Champagne?”

“No, port.”

“
Port
! Mark my words, Denbigh was hellbent on seduction, and I wonder why. He never had the reputation of being a rake. How on earth did you turn down his proposal? Did you humiliate him?”

“No, no. I was miserable, for I had sworn loyalty to Charlotte, and she had told me she was deeply in love with Denbigh. He—he said I had accepted his kiss and had led him to believe I would favor his suit, and—and… I replied…”

“Yes, yes, you replied?”

Verity hung her head. “I told him I was in the way of being kissed by gentlemen.”

“Grant me patience.” The countess sighed. “In other words, you as good as told him you were a trollop! But I must tax him with his behavior. We must make sure he does not talk of it. Oh, I forgot. There is this letter for you. One of Mrs. Manners’s footmen delivered it. I meant to give it to you earlier today, but it went out of my mind.”

Verity opened the letter and glanced at the first few sentences. “It is from Papa,” she said. “Why, he has returned! I can go home.”

“Not until we make sure your reputation is in the clear,” said the countess severely. “Mind you, the disgrace of that romp, which half ruined a good library, will put memories of anything else out of society’s silly head. I hate romps. So undignified, but usually people confine themselves to throwing cushions at each other instead of wrecking a library. I shall send for Denbigh tomorrow and you may stay abovestairs until he is gone. The trouble
is that you fancy yourself in love with him. Quite ridiculous. A good, solid arranged marriage with one of your own class is just what you need. I thought Denbigh would do for you, but his behavior was disgraceful because, apart from anything he heard or you said, he obviously considers you beneath him.”

Verity lay awake for a long time after the countess had left. She could not believe her own wanton behavior. He had touched her here and here. She groaned, turned her face into the pillow, and prayed for sleep to come.

When summoned the following morning, the Duke of Denbigh came promptly. The countess waited until he was seated before demanding an explanation of his behavior.

“I usually do not listen to gossip, Lady Wythe,” said the duke heavily, “but when Miss Bascombe refused my suit, she said airily that she was in the way of being kissed by gentlemen. Then I had some of Mrs. Manners’s spite relayed to me by Lord James. I did not want to believe it. Then last night I met Mr. George Wilson. He told me he had proposed to Miss Bascombe and had been cruelly turned down.”

“Nonsense. He seemed on the point of proposing, but when he called, he was the one who was rude. He told Verity that he was calling only to say good-bye, for he was going to join his mother, and that he hoped she did not expect a proposal from him for he would not stoop so low, or some such rubbish. Now, Charlotte Manners had already received some peculiar rebuffs from angry gentlemen. Verity swears her parrot is relaying malicious gossip to callers, but I find it hard to believe, for the bird never says a word.”

“But what I do not understand is why, instead of taking the girl in disgust, you should set about trying to molest her—you, who could have any woman you wanted.”

“My pride was damaged,” he said stiffly. “I simply wanted a little mild revenge and became carried away. Pray convey my sincerest apologies to Miss Bascombe. I have always considered myself above listening to idle gossip. I do not quite know what happened to me.”

“Do not let it happen again,” said the countess, rising to show the interview was at an end. “Miss Bascombe is an innocent, unused to the cruel gossip or ways of society. She will shortly be returning to the country where she will be better off settling down with a worthy man of her own caste.”

When the duke walked off down Green Street, his first thought was that he had escaped lightly. This was immediately followed by such a wave of physical longing for Verity Bascombe that he could have cheerfully strangled her. He wished now that he had asked Lady Wythe if she had any idea why Verity had refused his suit. He wanted to confide in someone, but men did not discuss such things. Lord James was so besotted with Charlotte he would probably tell the duke he was well out of it.

The duke made up his mind to retreat to his estates in the country. Out of sight, out of mind, he told himself severely. But a niggling, treacherous voice at the back of his brain was telling him that it would do no harm to stay in London just to see her one more time. He would find her quite an ordinary female. He would find his feelings for her had been some sort of temporary madness.

And so, like a man suffering from a strong addiction, he persuaded himself that he had only to put it to the test one more time to prove to himself that he was a free man.

Charlotte and Lord James walked slowly along the Serpentine. She had felt in her bones he was about to propose and was anxious to get him out of that house in Berkeley Square before he said a word.

It was a still, gray day. All color seemed to have been bleached out of London. The tall trees stood motionless. Even the graceful deer in their pound over to the right looked as if they had been made out of iron. The water of the Serpentine was like glass; the only thing to disturb its mirrorlike surface were the gas bubbles rising from the bottom and the disgusting floating debris on the top.

“How romantic it is!” Lord James sighed. Charlotte thought cynically of various newspaper reports complaining of the awful smell of the Serpentine because the main sewer from Bayswater debouched into it, but wisely held her tongue and raised a scented handkerchief to her nose instead.

“I am glad you are your usual beautiful self,” Lord James went on. “That was a frightful scene last night.”

“Yes,” agreed Charlotte, wishing he would propose and get it over with. “Our London ways have gone to Verity’s head. I believe it was she who started the romp by playfully throwing a vase of flowers at Denbigh.”

Lord James reflected that Verity’s horrified face had made her look like a woman defending her honor but considered it politic not to disagree with his beloved. He was enchanted with Charlotte’s beauty. He often did not listen to what she said. It was enough just to look at her.

“I think London is not a suitable place for anyone of breeding to live,” said Lord James. “So many counter-jumpers and mushrooms have invaded society.”

“Where would you live?” asked Charlotte uneasily.

“I have estates in the country and a most beautiful home that only lacks a mistress to make it perfect.”

“The country is only for visiting when society has left town,” said Charlotte firmly.

“Of course, you are right,” he cried. “Last night’s episode, all the same, must surely disgust anyone with any sensibility whatsoever.”

“Mmm,” said Charlotte vaguely, wondering whether he meant to parade her up and down by this smelly stretch of water forever.

“Mrs. Manners,” he said, stopping and turning to face her, “I do not know quite how to find the courage to… Alas! I dare not.”

A chill little wind sprang up, ruffling the waters of the Serpentine. A rotten animal carcass rose to the surface.

“Oh, do try to say whatever it is you want to say,” urged Charlotte.

“My head aches, my heart burns, I feel as if I am
in the grip of a fever,” he cried. “Oh, that tongue might dare speak the precious words. Oh, that—”

“Yes,” Charlotte said in a flat voice.

He looked down at her in surprise. “Yes what, fair one?”

“Yes, I will marry you,” said Charlotte, “only the day has turned cold and I do not want to stay in Hyde Park forever.”

He seized her hand and kissed it. Charlotte surveyed him while her dispassionate aristocratic eyes assessed him. Good legs and his own teeth; unmarked face. She could have fared worse.

They walked back in the direction of Berkeley Square, Lord James in a daze of happiness, Charlotte with a sense of achievement and already planning her wedding gown.

Pretty Polly flew overhead and let out a mocking squawk. Charlotte brightened. “Verity must be around somewhere.”

“Do not worry,” said Lord James caressingly. “We shall cut her if we see her.”

Charlotte bit her lip, a lot of her pleasure in the proposal gone. It would be fun if Verity could be her bridesmaid. They could drink champagne and laugh and discuss clothes. Verity had been the only female friend Charlotte had ever had. She missed her humor, her sharp remarks; she even missed that wretched menagerie.

“We must not be too hard on poor Verity,” she said. “Denbigh has behaved disgracefully.”

“Charles! But, my love, you said—”

“Now, did I ever say a word against my dear Verity?”

Lord James remembered vividly every single word that Charlotte had said about Verity, but when he looked at the whiteness of her bosom, revealed by the low-cut gown she wore, the roundness
of her arms, and the beauty of her eyes, he felt it did not matter one bit.