Pretty Polly (17 page)

“Of course not,” he said happily, and tucking her arm in his, he led her from the park.

Late that afternoon, Verity was sitting reading to Lady Wythe when the butler announced that Mrs. Manners had called to see Miss Bascombe.

“We are not at home,” said the countess.

“Wait,” said Verity nervously. “I would like to see her, dear Lady Wythe. Just to see what plots and plans she is making now.”

Lady Wythe rose to her feet. “You want to see her because you want to be reassured that Denbigh has not proposed to her. I shall not stay here and be party to your nonsense. If you want to see her, then see her alone.”

Charlotte came tripping in wearing one of the new Invisible hats, which was a circle of stretched gauze. She ran to Verity and tried to kiss her, but Verity backed away behind a chair. “State your business, Charlotte,” she said.

“So hard!” cried Charlotte. “You are a most peculiar female, Verity. Hot one minute, cold the next. I have great news. I am to wed Lord James.”

Verity slowly came round from behind the chair. “I thought you were after Denbigh.”

“And so I was. But it is hopeless. He is a strange man, and after the way he treated you last night—shocking!—I quite put him from my mind.”

“My felicitations, Charlotte. But why have you come? Can you possibly have forgotten the way you treated me?”

“I do not know what you are talking about,” said Charlotte, opening her blue eyes to their widest. “Did I not invite you to London? Did I not take you everywhere? You rewarded me by shouting insults
at me and walking out. But I am prepared to forgive you.”

“Charlotte, you are quite mad.”

Charlotte gave a ripple of laughter. “There! You have the right of it. So we can be friends and you can be my bridesmaid.”

“Thank you, but I must refuse.”

“Why?”

Verity gritted her teeth. “Because,” she said firmly, “I do not like you, Charlotte.”

“Oh, oh, oh!” shrieked Charlotte, and then burst into floods of tears.

Verity looked at her helplessly. “Do pull yourself together, Charlotte.”

Charlotte continued to sob. She slumped down in a chair, looking the very picture of beauty in distress. Her crying became louder and harsher, and sobs shook her body.

Verity became alarmed and rang the bell. James, now a first footman, came in. “James, fetch the hartshorn,” said Verity. “Mrs. Manners is having a spasm.”

“No, no.” Charlotte coughed. “Brandy, I beg of you.”

James went hurrying off. Verity knelt on the floor beside Charlotte and gently took her hands. “Please do not cry, Charlotte. You must not be so sorely distressed.”

Charlotte leaned her head heavily on Verity’s shoulder and continued to cry. The action crumpled her new hat and that worried Verity more than anything else. Charlotte must indeed be very upset to ruin a good hat. She patted her on the back and looked up with relief when James came in with a decanter of brandy and two glasses.

Verity sent him away and detached herself from Charlotte. She poured a stiff measure into one of
the glasses and held it to Charlotte’s lips. How someone could sob and cry and yet drain a stiff measure of spirits was amazing to Verity. She thought it must be an acquired social grace, like learning to always sit down on a chair without looking behind you or to eat asparagus without letting the butter run down your chin. “More,” whispered Charlotte weakly. “My nerves.”

Verity gave her another glass, then poured one for herself with a shaking hand and drained it off.

“I miss you, Verity,” mumbled Charlotte.

Verity’s kind heart was touched. Charlotte was very spoiled and willful, but she was not going to marry Denbigh. That glorious thought finally sank into Verity’s mind. She felt she could forgive Charlotte anything.

“We will let bygones be bygones,” said Verity. “Do not cry, Charlotte. If my father gives me permission, I will be the bridesmaid at your wedding.”

It was like watching a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, marveled Verity, as the crumpled, sobbing heap in the chair slowly straightened up, stopped crying abruptly, straightened her hat, poured another glass of brandy, winked at Verity over the rim, and knocked it back with a practiced twist of the wrist.

“We shall have such fun!” cried Charlotte. “Now, you know the veil is quite outmoded. No one who is anyone gets married in church these days. But I think it might prove vastly fashionable to do unfashionable things. I shall have a veil of Brussels lace and be married in St. George’s, Hanover Square. Oh, and a
very
long train. Do you think you could manage a long train?”

She prattled on. Verity drank another glass of brandy to sustain herself and wondered what on earth Lady Wythe was going to say when she
learned that Verity had agreed to be Charlotte’s bridemaid.

“And you
reek
of brandy,” Lady Wythe ended crossly after raging at Verity for half an hour. She had been unable to believe her ears when Verity had told her of the renewed friendship. “I tell you this, Verity Bascombe, society was amused because the stupid Mrs. Manners had such a clever and bright companion, but
she
is the clever one and you have as much brains as that parrot of yours. Thank goodness nothing came of that business with Denbigh. You! A duchess. Saints preserve us, you wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to go on. You are going to be taught a lesson. I am going to give a dinner party for the highest sticklers in London society, including Denbigh. Mark how we go on, mark the difference between us and you, Verity Bascombe, and wonder that you ever thought to marry a duke!”

“What a nasty thing to say, you old termagant,” said Verity, rallying. “You encouraged me to fall in love with Denbigh. People are just people, no matter what their rank. There are good and bad, common and vulgar people, saints and sinners in every walk of life.”

“Heavens! I have housed a radical.”

“No, you have housed someone who will not put up with your insults. You have said because of my birth that I am not your equal. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“There! Do not fly out at me. I like a girl with spirit, and I admire yours. It is my love and concern for you that make me oversharp in my speech.”

Verity looked amused. “Now, I am going to insult
you
, Lady Wythe. Has it ever dawned on you
that you and Mrs. Manners have a great deal in common…?”

Two weeks passed, and although Verity went everywhere with Lady Wythe, she did not see the Duke of Denbigh. At last, she began to feel an easing of the pain in her heart. Good sense took over. A man who treated her so wantonly was a man to be avoided at all costs. Her treacherous body, which previously had shown alarming signs of wishing the duke would inflict those disgusting intimacies on it again, settled down, like a burned-out fire settling in the hearth.

And then a letter arrived from her father. He was in high alt to learn she was the houseguest of a countess and begged her to remain in London for as long as she liked. But the rest of his letter made Verity exclaim in dismay. Emily Butterworth had written to her father while he was in Scotland, tender and charming letters, Mr. Bascombe said. He had proposed to Emily on his return and she had accepted him. Verity put down the letter. She was to have a stepmother the same age as herself. Emily was pleasant and friendly, but Verity knew her old life had gone. Emily would be the mistress of the household and she the unwanted spinster intruding on her father’s happiness. She had a sharp longing for her mother. She did not blame her father for not remaining faithful to the memory of his dead wife, yet she had never imagined he really would marry again.

Verity was fond of Lady Wythe, but nevertheless she did not quite trust her friendship. She, Verity, was a novelty that kept the old countess amused. Verity often felt that the countess might one day soon become as bored with her as she had initially been delighted with her company.

*   *   *

The Duke of Denbigh had allowed his common sense to prevail and had taken himself back to his stately home in the country. The memory of Verity was dimmed by distance. Shame at his own behavior made him want to forget her, and he prided himself on having done the sensible thing. And then he received a card from the Countess of Wythe inviting him to dinner. It was simply a gold-embossed card. There was no letter to explain why the old countess obviously expected him to uproot himself from the country and ride to London to attend a dinner party in three days’ time.

He pulled forward a sheet of paper to send a courteous refusal. And then he felt Verity’s lips against his own. The sensation was so vivid that he half closed his eyes. Damn her!

He pushed the sheet of paper away. He would not go. He would not even trouble to reply. He had tried to get her drunk. He had only meant to teach her a lesson, but his feelings had overcome him. He would have gladly seduced her if he had been allowed the chance.

For the next day, he worked hard on his estates, hoping physical work would ease the torment in his brain. He could not help hoping that she might be disappointed when he did not arrive.

“No word from Denbigh,” said the countess, entering the drawing room where Verity was reading.

Verity looked up, startled. “Were you expecting word?”

“Yes, I invited him to my dinner party. You remember, I told you about it.”

“I remember your idea was to invite him plus the cream of society in order to illustrate to me what a lowly creature I am.”

“Well, that was wrong of me and I apologize, but I am holding a dinner party just the same and I found out he had retreated to the country, but I thought he might have troubled to send some sort of reply.”

The smoldering ashes of Verity’s dying passions suddenly felt as if someone had poured a can of whale oil on them. Once, at home, when the fire would not draw, her father had drained off one of the oil lamps into a jug and had thrown the contents into the fireplace. There had been a great
whumph
and then a tremendous sheet of flame. Her hands shook so hard that she hid them under her book.

Surprised that her own voice sounded so even and calm, Verity said, “Have you time to invite some other gentleman to make up the numbers?”

“No, but it does not matter. I have two extra gentlemen as it is. I always did like an excess of gentlemen at dinner,” added the countess, as if discussing cookery instead of guests. “Have you a new gown to grace the affair, or have you been spending all your time racketing about the shops with the poisonous Mrs. Manners?”

“Charlotte has been amusing company of late,” said Verity. “But I have made myself a gown that will be eminently suitable, although I did not anticipate your dinner party.”

“What color?”

“Green. A sort of leaf-green. Vastly pretty. The finest India muslin.”

“Then you shall borrow my emeralds. No, No. I insist. It is good for jewels to have an airing. And talking of airings, you should not run in the park with the dog and the cat. Most unbecoming. Mrs. French said she saw you the other day running
about and throwing sticks for the dog. She said she could see your ankles.”

“Then she must have been lying on the ground,” said Verity tartly. “My skirts are long enough.”

“You are too old to frolic, and you will soon be wearing caps.”

“Yes,” said Verity dismally. She had a sudden vision of herself as an elderly eccentric in a high muslin cap with a parrot on her shoulder.

The Duke of Denbigh raced toward London at breakneck speed. It seemed as if one minute he had been helping at one of his tenant’s farms with the drainage, standing dressed only in leather breeches, top boots, and his shirt open at the neck; and the next he had found himself running like a madman toward his home, shouting for his racing curricle to be brought around.

In order to reach the Countess of Wythe’s in time for her dinner party, he would need to ride through the rest of the day and all of the night, only stopping briefly at a posting house outside London on the day after that in order to change into his evening clothes. His town house was closed up and all of his servants had removed to the country. Of course, he could have gone to his town house and unlocked it himself. He had his valet with him. But he could not bear to think of the time it would take to heat cans of water, and a posting house would have such luxuries ready and waiting.

He made such good time that he presented himself in Green Street a full half hour before anyone was expected. The intelligence of his arrival was conveyed upstairs to the startled countess.

“Do not tell Miss Bascombe,” she said to her butler, fearing that Verity might run down to see him.
“Serve him wine and biscuits and tell him I shall be with him directly.”

Feeling rather silly, the duke sat in the countess’s drawing room and sipped a glass of canary. Why had he come? Now that he was here, he doubted whether he even wanted to see Verity, let alone hear her voice again. Who was she, anyway? Some little provincial, not precisely pretty, hardly a Circe. But then he found himself thinking of the soft sensuality of her body. It was a wicked body, he thought crossly, and ought to be chained and padlocked. There was nothing precisely remarkable about her figure, but there was something in the way she moved that whispered promises of unbridled passion such as men dreamed of and hardly ever found.

A rattling sound disturbed his thoughts. He looked up. The parrot was sitting in a large gilt cage on a stand at the other side of the fireplace. As he watched, it put one claw through the bars and deftly unclicked the lock of its cage. It fluttered down onto the floor beside him, put its head to one side, and looked up at him.

The duke was amused. He thought the parrot looked like an elderly barrister surveying the jury with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Good evening, Polly,” said the duke politely. “Say something.”

“Urk,” said the parrot.

“Say Pretty Polly.”

The parrot turned its back on him.

“You are like your mistress,” said the duke bitterly. “There’s no understanding you. Bloody women!”

The parrot turned around and looked at him. “Pretty Polly,” it squawked. And then it began to talk in Verity’s voice. The parrot had listened in to
many of Verity’s sad monologues, for she often consoled herself by talking her thoughts out loud to the parrot. It proceeded to treat the duke to one of the best examples.