Miss Pymbroke's Rules (17 page)

Verity stood very still. While she was certain he had not meant to, the marquess’s words made her think of her father. She raised her eyes to him and the tears she had held rigidly in check coursed down her cheeks. “I-I never encouraged Lord Davies. He saved me from th-three odious young men wh-who were ... and then he ... oh!”

The marquess produced a large handkerchief and handed it to her. The sight of her small figure tormented, and clearly scandalized, gave him pause. But wait. Had not his mother always resorted to tears when his father had grown angry with her?

Uncertain what to believe, he stood irresolute. Part of him wanted to drag Miss Pymbroke into his arms and comfort her, but the other part did not. Bitterly, he realized it was easy enough for him to draw a female into his arms for seduction, but now under the influence of tender emotions he felt frozen.

He saw she was drying her eyes and attempting to regain her composure, assuming a saintly mien, which was rather marred by a reddened nose.

“I had forgot,” she said. “You are too self-absorbed to think of anyone else’s feelings, and you have none yourself,” she declared as one stating a plain truth.

The marquess felt himself relax. Of course his prim landlady would not have permitted Lord Davies to kiss her. Nor would she lie. He would have something to say to the baron on the morrow. The dastard.

He reached out and tenderly smoothed a curl from her face. “You amaze me, my avenging angel,” he told her and pressed his hand to his heart. “I am all feeling. In truth, it would please me to show you, but, with what you have been through tonight, if I did so I would prove a coarse creature indeed.”

“Thank you! You are all that is kind.” To further her irritation, he suddenly chuckled. She longed to hit him. “If you would be so good to help me, my lord, I must find Lady Hyacinth.”

Lord Carrisworth raised a dark eyebrow. “Why was Lady Hyacinth not with you?”

Verity looked down at her slippers as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. In a low voice she explained. “The servants told me Louisa had gone to Vauxhall with Sir Ramsey. I felt I needed to find her, and Lady Hyacinth offered to come with me. Lord Davies escorted us. When we arrived, I saw Louisa with Sir Ramsey and I followed them. That is when I was separated from Lady Hyacinth.”

The marquess felt he could imagine Mrs. Barrington’s anger at the interruption. But to leave her sister alone on the notorious Dark Walk—strumpet!

“Come, Miss Pymbroke,” he said, adjusting the black gauze mantle about her shoulders and then offering her his arm. “We shall no doubt find Lady Hyacinth indulging in some of Vauxhall’s famous ham and their rack punch.”

She accepted his arm and smiled up at him.

Lord Carrisworth’s heart swelled with an emotion he had not thought himself capable. He brutally pushed the feeling aside.

They searched for Lady Hyacinth for almost half an hour, the increasingly thick fog hampering their efforts. Finally, they came upon her ladyship, seated in a box with Lord Killigrew, tucking into a large helping of ham. The elderly lord’s bulldog face was sulky because he had been unable to budge Lady Hyacinth away from her food so he might steal a kiss.

Lady Hyacinth waved her fork at them. “There you are, Verity, dear child. Oh, you are with Lord Carrisworth. That’s all right and tight then.”

They took their leave of Lord Killigrew, and her ladyship babbled on about Vauxhall all the way home in the marquess’s Town coach, never once questioning the whereabouts of Lord Davies.

Both Lord Carrisworth and Verity were quiet.

Verity was tired and upset over the events of the evening. Upon arriving home, she was relieved to find Lady Iris had not yet returned from the Grahams’ musicale.

Betty helped her mistress into a scanty lace shift, informing her anxiously that she had somehow lost one of miss’s red silk garters. Verity dismissed her concern with a yawn. Exhaustion overcame her and she was asleep the minute her head rested upon the pillow.

Next door, lying in Verity’s bed under her pink coverlet, the marquess was not so fortunate. He stared up at the pink and white bed hangings, unable to sleep.

Mr. Wetherall had been frosty upon his return. The servant’s eye twitched convulsively as he reminded his master of the indiscretion he had committed by bringing Roxanna Hollings into the house. Furthermore, when he had taken his lordship’s morning coat belowstairs to be brushed, he had been shocked to find a lady’s red silk garter in the pocket.

The marquess had snatched the scrap of silk from the valet’s fingers and tossed it onto the dressing table, curtly dismissing the servant for the night.

Only after he was alone did he allow his thoughts to return to his feelings for Miss Pymbroke. No, it would not do. He was not the man for her, even though he judged she was not indifferent to him. She was too innocent, too good to align herself with such as him. Besides, he reminded himself firmly, he would never marry and subject himself to the random whims of a woman’s heart.

* * * *

The morning of the Tremaines’ ball, Verity stood in the hall of Lady Iris and Lady Hyacinth’s house. The dressmaker had just delivered her ball gown, the one Lady Iris had commissioned in gold silk.

“Oh, my lady, thank you. It is the most beautiful dress I have ever owned.” Verity was struck with awe. The material shimmered like liquid gold. Gold silk roses, embroidered in gold thread, adorned the bodice, the tiny puffed sleeves, and the full hem.

Lady Iris eyed the gown critically and finally pronounced it acceptable. “Have you any jewelry to go with it, gel?’

Verity’s eyes opened wide in delight. “Mama’s hair combs, the ones set with yellow topaz stones, will be the very thing.” Then, she frowned. “Only I am quite certain I left them in my dressing table next door. I suppose the marquess would not mind the intrusion if I sent Betty—

A crafty look came into Lady Iris’s eyes. “Betty is busy helping Beecham repair one of my gowns. Run next door yourself. You needn’t worry about Carrisworth. I saw him ride off earlier.” Lady Iris felt no need to tell her young friend she had also seen his lordship return some fifteen minutes ago. The two needed a bit of prodding, she thought impatiently. Lawks, it was already May. They should be announcing their betrothal by now!

Verity folded the gown and replaced it in the box. “I had better be quick then, before the marquess returns.”

Placing the box on a nearby table, she went out the front door.

Lady Iris’s face creased into a smile. She began climbing the stairs on her way to the drawing room when she saw Empress standing at the top of the stairs, gazing down at her. The cat’s tail swayed back and forth sinuously, and the expression on her face was one of a coconspirator.

Reaching her pet, Lady Iris bent down and scratched Empress’s crowned head. “Not quite as drastic as burning down his townhouse, but with any luck, it might prove interesting.”

Had Lady Iris but known it, she had yet another cohort in her plans for the marquess and Verity. Mr. Wetherall happened to be passing through the hall when Verity knocked. He opened the door wide and recognized her at once. “Good morning, Miss Pymbroke. I am Mr. Wetherall, Lord Carrisworth’s valet. May I be of assistance?”

“Thank you, Mr. Wetherall,” Verity said, entering the house. “I do not wish to disturb anyone. It is only that I have left something in my dressing table I wish to retrieve. I understand his lordship is away from home, so I thought I might just run up and get it.”

A good servant knew how to keep his expression a perfect blank. “Of course, miss. Please go ahead.”

Verity smiled at the old man and then hurried up the stairs.

Mr. Wetherall raised a shaking, veined hand to his brow. Never had he been so blind to the conventions. But, he told himself, the circumstance of seeing that actress Roxanna Hollings in the house yesterday had driven him to extreme measures. He staggered under the weight of his duplicity down to the butler’s sitting room, where he was sure a glass of wine would restore his equanimity.

Upstairs, after throwing open the door to her old bedchamber, Verity quickly crossed the room to the dressing table. Abruptly, she stopped short, staring down at her missing red silk garter resting on the smooth surface. “How on earth—

“So, Empress was correct. It is yours,” a lazy voice drawled.

Verity whirled around. The Marquess of Carrisworth lounged in a bath situated in a corner not ten feet away. His manner did not indicate any uneasiness at finding himself stark naked in the presence of a lady. Instead, his face held an expression of unholy amusement.

Verity’s breath caught in her lungs. She stared, saucer-eyed, and tried to speak, but could not. How muscular his chest and shoulders were! Oh! She must not look. But, unbelievably, she could not stop herself.

“I must say, Miss Pymbroke,” he said casually, ignoring her confusion and discomfort, “my imagination ran rampant when Empress brought me your garter. Tell me, why does such a proper young lady possess such an enticing piece of silk?” His green eyes sparkled.

Ooooh! Empress and her ribbon fetish. How dare the marquess mention . . . this was insupportable. Verity made as if to move toward the door.

Lord Carrisworth placed both hands on the sides of the huge copper basin and slowly began to rise. “If you try to leave before you have answered my question, I shall stand up.”

Verity froze. Averting her head, she answered him in a stilted voice. “If you must know, I enjoy feminine undergarments, my lord. Please, I merely came here for some combs I left in my dressing table. I thought you were out riding.”

The marquess waved a hand negligently, causing some water to splash on the floor, but his gaze never left her. “Ah, red silk. I knew all along you were a romantic. But, please, do not let me distract you from your task.”

A naked gentleman a distraction? Verity felt a nervous giggle rise in her throat. Suppressing it, she turned around awkwardly. While doing so, her treacherous gaze rested for a moment on the light covering of dark hair across his lordship’s chest. A new and unexpected warmth surged through her. Confused and shaking, she turned away. Snatching the garter from the table, she jerked open the drawer and grabbed the combs.

Clutching the articles in a trembling hand, she averted her gaze from his lordship and dashed for the door. Racing down the hallway, her cheeks burning, she heard the marquess’s laughter. There was no sign of Mr. Wetherall downstairs—never again would she place the slightest confidence in him—and, so, she let herself out, mercifully unnoticed.

Bursting into the hall of Lady Iris and Lady Hyacinth’s, Verity came face to face with Gloria, Countess of Northbridge, who was handing Bingwood her card. The butler said, “There you are, miss. I was just going to say you were not at home. Lady Iris informed me you had gone next door to the Marquess of Carrisworth’s house.”

The countess raised an elegant eyebrow and gazed speculatively at her new friend. “Why, Verity, you are looking overset. Have I called at an inopportune time?”

Verity gathered her shaken wits. She crammed the combs and the garter in her pocket. Dismissing the butler, she held out both hands to her guest saying, “Not at all, Gloria. In fact, I had hoped to see you yesterday.”

“Do forgive me,” the countess begged, accepting Verity’s outstretched hands and giving them an affectionate squeeze. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I hope you are not offended by plain speaking. You see, I was with the physician, hoping he would confirm my suspicions that I might soon be providing Charles with the heir he longs for. But, alas, the doctor said he did not believe me to be with child.”

“Oh, I am so sorry.”

The countess shook her head and smiled. “Do not be. It is my experience that women know more about these things than even the doctors. It is early days and I still have hope. Now, I did not come here to talk of myself. I hear Perry is to escort you and the Ladies Iris and Hyacinth to the Tremaines’ ball this evening. Charles and I are going as well. We shall have such fun.”

Verity tried to hide her dismay from Gloria’s intelligent gaze. How could she face the marquess again so soon after this morning’s embarrassing episode? Putting a smile on her face, she said, “I am glad to hear you will be attending. But, you must think me rag-mannered, indeed. Let us go up to the drawing room for some tea. We can discuss the ball there.”

“Yes, and I shall show you the steps of the waltz. It is most romantic,” Gloria assured her.

The two women linked arms and climbed the stairs. Each was busy with her own thoughts.

At Gloria’s offer, Verity’s mind flashed back to the night of the Lexhams’ turtle dinner when the marquess had “waltzed” with her in the hall. Really, he had done no more than hold her in his arms, so Gloria’s instruction would be welcome. What was not welcome was the memory of the warm feelings Lord Carrisworth had roused in her that night... as well as only moments ago.

After seeing his lordship in his bath, Verity could not banish the vision of the marquess’s bare chest from her brain. It seemed every encounter with him left her dizzy with an emotion she could not name. Well, that was not exactly true. Certainly she could name annoyance and frustration. But underneath them was this other feeling. The one that frightened her. The one she closed her mind to as she led the countess upstairs.

The Countess of Northbridge was thinking that if Verity had really, as the butler had indicated, come from Perry’s house, it was fascinating intelligence indeed. The girl’s cheeks had been quite pink. What could be going on?

While Perry liked to give the impression he was a rattle, Gloria had long ago determined he had a code of honor as strict as any gentleman. Never would he seduce a young innocent like Verity. Which meant his interest in her must be serious. How wonderful it would be for Charles’s best friend to finally settle down. She could hardly wait to see them together tonight so she might judge for herself.

* * * *

Impeccably garbed in a dark brown evening coat over a white waistcoat and cream-colored knee breeches, the Marquess of Carrisworth stood in Lady Iris’s drawing room waiting for Miss Pymbroke.