The Duke Diaries (21 page)

When James pursed his lips to hide a smile, Rory knew he had him, and so he muddled on. “Well, Seventeen lived through it so let’s not ever let the Duke of Duck forget it. Now, where was I?”

“The list of all the things you will not do to avoid getting yourself killed, and a promise to make her happy.”

Lord, Rory thought, he was apparently already making lists like a Fitzroy. “Right. Shall we just cut to the end? I will attempt to keep out of harm’s way to the extent possible.”

“A true, lying diplomat in every way,” James muttered.

The two men stared at each other. Both were of the same height, with the same width shoulders and the same dark, dark hair. The only difference was their eyes. James’s were brown and held untold truths, while Rory’s were green and world weary.

“So will you honor me with your blessing, Jay—reluctant though it may be?”

“You don’t know her at all, if you think my blessing will help you win her.”

Rory finally exhaled with a smile. His friend was back. “Shall we have a brandy, then?”

James whacked him on the back in a show of brotherly affection or strength. Rory wasn’t sure which, but who was he to care. He had just won the longest stand-off in history.

Candover gestured with his arm in an “after you” movement toward the doorway. Rory led the way toward the ducal study he had once visited on a near daily basis all those years ago.

A growl sounded from his back. “And by the by,
brother
, if I find you again in my sister’s bed before the wedding?” James paused. “I will—”

Rory turned and faced his newfound friend. “Jay?”

“Yes?”

“You know I love you, right?”

It was funny how fast one little four-lettered word could render the greatest of men into mortar statues glued together with horror and mortification.

Yes, Verity had taught Rory well the ridiculous way that one word could paralyze the strongest of men.

F
or the next day and a half, Rory worked nearly straight through. The serious cramp in his hand began only after the first six hours passed.

And so it went. Sunlight by day, candlelight at dusk, full candelabra at night—all at his desk by the window. His old window, the one in his room from his boyhood. Not that anything had changed since returning here.

He would never reside in the rooms his parents had occupied. They had always been and always would remain people he would never know or understand.

Not by his choice.

His childhood hadn’t scarred him. He had thought that all parents lived separate lives from their offspring while residing in the same house—until he met James’s mother and father.

His best friend’s family had been his salvation then, and now Rory would return the favor and become the Fitzroys’ salvation.

He lifted his head from the paper lying on his desk. He had fallen asleep. He hoped he didn’t have ink spots on his forehead. There was only so much sleep a man in his advanced years could miss before he fell like an oak.

He glanced at the words he had written.

The curlicues at the end of each capital letter in the alphabet were going to kill him.

He sighed heavily, arched his back to relieve the stiffness, trimmed the quill, and dipped it back into the India ink. He paused for a moment and studied the crumpled paper next to him.

And then applied words to the page. For another six hours he continued to write, until there were no more words to say.

He rang for his butler.

S
he still had not finished what she needed to do if she stood a chance of success, and a sense of completion toward her obligations to her family and the people who depended on her. For three days and nights she had worked to finish every last task. She even attended to the future needs of the boys heading to Eton.

Verity sat at the desk she had occupied for so many hours of all the many days since her mother had died and she’d assumed all of the duties of hostess of Boxwood.

At first she hated the role. But it had been her penance.

She had caused her mother’s distress that day.

She alone.

And the shock of it had stopped her mother’s frail heart. Verity accepted that she was ultimately responsible.

That was why she had sat in this old, empty, beautiful room, away from everyone else, performing the duties her mother had not liked either.

Her mother had constantly said that a moment indoors was a moment wasted. Verity smiled at the memory.

Remembering her didn’t pain her nearly so much anymore.

And the oddest thing was, the household duties had taken on a certain charm as the years sped forward. There was a certain rhythm to the calendar of a grand estate such as Boxwood. And rhythm brought harmony and . . . peace.

Verity studied the latest list of things to do that the housekeeper had suggested. It might just be the last time she would do this, and so she took care and joy in the small task.

Her time in Derbyshire was limited. She was balancing the need to carefully plot her course against the worry that Rory would do something he had no right to do.

Her short snatches of sleep had been plagued by visions of Rory running toward the broken form of Catherine Talmadge, whose death had triggered a guilt in him that lasted fourteen years. She would not let that happen again. When she did what she planned, she would not allow him an inch of guilt.

Verity had given herself less than a handful of days to accomplish far too much. She filled short parts of them with Rory for the sheer joy of being with him, and more importantly, to keep an eye on him. She even stooped to wheedling his stable master to send a note if he left the estate.

She also interviewed the three candidates to replace Miss Woods and herself at the school, and during the first night she secretly finished packing her two trunks, even if she still had to figure out a way to drag them out to the stable without anyone seeing.

She also still had to finish the letters to each of her sisters and the longer one to James, and finally had to put on a very convincing act toward Rory that she wasn’t going to do what she was, in fact, going to do.

She had already gathered her nerve to write the greatest love letter and good-bye in the history of mankind.

Today was to be a day where she had to endure the weight of the world with an innocent smile on her face while she entertained a long dinner table filled with neighboring families, now that her brother had become once again the acknowledged crown jewel bachelor in Derbyshire.

Verity feathered her chin with the quill’s soft end and reviewed the chef’s proposed menu.

She hoped Rory liked roasted asparagus, quail eggs in gelatin, and goose. Of course there was not a single pea to be found. The chef knew better now. Five courses later the menu was done. Another three hours later and everything had been neatly crossed off the long list of duties to see to.

There was really only one last important thing she had to do today before she could escape to the outside world she loved. And it was not on the list.

Verity reached into the drawer with her small key, lifted the board, and removed the stack of red leather volumes.

She ran her fingers over the labor of ridiculous ramblings through the years and could not help but feel pride despite everything.

She carefully replaced the inner workings of the drawer, pushed back her chair, swept her dark blue lawn morning gown’s skirting behind her and stood up slowly. Grasping the small stack, she crossed to the crackling fire housed by the beautiful gray marble mantel.

Verity stood before the fire for a long time.

And then she tossed the volumes into the blaze, one by one, and watched her years of work catch fire and turn to cinder.

She should have felt relieved that now she would never have to ensure they stayed hidden again. Instead she felt ill, as if she had lost part of herself. The part no one would ever know existed.

And yet a small part of her sensed freedom. Freedom from the past.

Chapter 17

D
inners were early in the country, even during the summer when the sun warmed the land for far more hours than in the winter.

Verity knew James preferred to entertain early and with military precision.

The Duke of Norwich, Esme, and Rory arrived an hour before the other guests, as prearranged. Verity would try one last time to break through the ill-ease that had replaced the easy manner she and Esme had shared throughout their girlhood. There was nothing like the bond of two wallflowers who had wilted together through the endless Seasons barren of beaux. And yet, ever since Esme had returned far earlier than expected from an ill-fated trip to pursue her artistic passion, and gained a husband mysteriously in the process, their confidences had withered.

Verity was determined to pull the weed of reserve from her garden of friendship with Esme before she left. And so she tugged Esme’s hand to pull her next to her as soon as Esme entered the main door at Boxwood, preceding the Duke of Norwich and Rory, who had traveled in the same carriage.

It was amusing to watch three dukes of the royal entourage starched up to the nines, their collars so high and so stiff that Verity remarked quietly to her cousin, “You’d think they’d have scars on their chins from trying to turn their heads.”

Esme’s return smile was easy.

Oh, she hoped it would continue. She gripped her cousin’s arm and stepped slightly away from the three men who had already begun to drift toward a more private nearby salon.

Her brother suddenly turned toward her. “We’ll return at the appointed hour.”

Verity nodded and turned to her cousin. “Esme, do you mind accompanying me to my bedchamber? I’ve managed to lose one of my favorite slippers and I want to find it since the ones I’ve got on now are a trifle too loose.”

“Of course, dearest. But, may I say that it would help if you would just start wearing that lovely style of slipper with ribbons that circle the ankle.”

Verity pulled a face. “Said the lady whose mother is on the forefront of fashion.” On a whim, she grasped her cousin’s hand, and together they mounted the stairs, crossed all the corridors, and finally squeezed past the door frame of Verity’s chambers.

She turned to Esme, who had shared every awkward moment of youth with her, as they were the exact same age, and finally spoke. “Esme?”

“Yes, dearest?”

“We’ve barely seen each other these past weeks. And I know it’s my fault. It’s just that—”

Esme closed the distance between them and enfolded her in her arms. Verity felt a portion of the weight of her crumbling world fall as she rested her shorter frame against Esme’s. There had always been something ethereal, almost magical, about her cousin, whose artwork reflected untold gifts.

“No, Verity. It’s my error. I fear that this wretched, disastrous marriage of
inconvenience
to Norwich has made me withdraw from everyone I love.” Esme pulled away a bit to examine her.

Verity searched the depths of the ageless wisdom in Esme’s gray eyes. “Oh, Esme, please, I am begging you. Will you tell me . . .” she whispered.

“Go on and ask me anything”—Esme stroked her head with such gentleness—“I know I’ve been distant. Reserved even. I can’t explain why. I don’t even know myself.”

“I’ve become the same. And I don’t know why either.”

Esme tucked Verity back into her arms and whispered, “I suspect it’s love, then.”

“For me or for you?”

“For us both. It’s not surprising, actually, when you think about it. We’ve done just about everything else together.”

“Well, not exactly everything,” Verity said softly.

“I love you, Verity. Never forget it. While you had four sisters, I had none. I always wished I was your sister in truth, even if we were so much more because we
chose
each other.”

Verity could barely speak for the gratitude she felt toward her cousin. The weeks of meaningless pleasantries exchanged between them at the usual round of country social events had worn on her. And Esme always seemed to be able to unravel the mysteries of life, especially when it concerned gentlemen.

“Why is love so complex?” Verity knew her cousin would have answers.

“In my case it’s because the man the Prince Regent forced to marry me will never open his heart, or take a chance.”

Verity watched Esme swallow awkwardly.

“But I at least can take comfort that I truly believe you and Rory have an immense chance to grab onto happiness. I know no other man like him. Oh, he has always worn dark mystery on top of the suit of armor all men wear.”

“I know,” Verity agreed.

“Inside, many men are made of marshmallow, others of good solid oak. But in Rory? My dearest, I see nothing but gold: malleable, but strong, and pure through and through.”

“I always knew it unconsciously.” They moved toward the two damask-covered slipper chairs near the window, which offered an extraordinary view of the earthly delights Boxwood’s park offered.

“He loves you, Verity,” Esme said quietly. “I saw it as soon as we arrived. It was in the way he watched you every moment when you were not looking.”

“Esme . . . Oh, please will you not dismiss what I will tell you?”

“I never do,” Esme replied.

“Yes, I know. It’s just that I have always been so practical, and I abhor theatricality and what I shall relate reeks of it.”

Esme smiled. “Love always seems to be the handmaiden of melodrama. Especially great love.”

Verity nodded. “I do love him. I always have, even as a silly girl of three and ten.”

Esme bit her lip to stifle a giggle. “I know.”

She shook her head. “Was it that obvious?”

“Only to me,” Esme said.

“So the thing of it is— You will not tell anyone what I tell you, will you? You promise? It’s just that I have to rely on someone to deliver a few letters.”

“Where are you going?” Esme glared at her.

“I haven’t even told you I’m going anywhere.”

“Where?”

“To London. Just for a bit.” She knew she was dissembling. “To see Amelia.”

“Again?”

“Yes. The thing is, I might not be able to return straightaway.” She was careful to keep her tone light, her expression even.

Esme studied her, and Verity felt as if her cousin could see inside her mind. Esme’s face turned ashen. “You must trust him, Verity.”

“I do!”

“No, you do not. I can see it. Look, each of us has lessons to learn in life. And the only way to become the person we were meant to become, is to take a leap of faith when you least want to veer away from the familiar. Verity, listen to me. You must take a different path if the one in the past led in the wrong direction.”

“But I have an excellent sense of direction.”

Esme sighed.

“You know I will always take the path which hurts the fewest, and has the best chance of protecting those I love.”

“Perhaps you should protect yourself first,” Esme ground out. “Specifically now.”

“Coming from the lady I have no doubt would lay down her life for me.”

“There is a difference, Verity. You and I might be the most independent, strongest females in England. We always give to others. But we have to remember, just sometimes, that it’s vital to trust others and allow them to help.”

“Esme?”

“Yes, dearest.”

“You’re right. But this is not one of those times.”

“No,” Esme said firmly. “Oh, botheration. You are stubborn to a fault, Verity Fitzroy. There. I’ve said it.”

“I know my flaws, Esme.” There was not a hint of annoyance in her tone.

“It’s not a flaw. It’s a strength.” Esme leaned forward and gripped her shoulders. “Your flaw, right now, is that you’re trying on martyrdom, and I fear you’re going to like the fit.”

Anger filled her. “I am not! I loathe martyrs. The odds are against selfless actions ever solving anything. I wish you would save your breath for Rory. He’s the one primed for self-sacrifice.”

“Are you listening to yourself?” Esme said archly. “Look, I know why you’re going against your true self. It’s love.”

Verity trembled. “Esme? Promise me you’ll do what I asked.”

“No need to say it.”

“But I must be sure. You promised you will not—”

“Say anything. My word is my promise.”

Esme squeezed her hand and became still, her gaze drifting. “I do believe I should descend. Three dukes in one chamber are two dukes too many. Shall you come with me?”

“No. I have one last thing to do,” Verity said, glancing about the chamber for her slippers. “I’ll leave the letters at the mill, under the rock where you always sit to paint.”

Esme gave her one last hug and whispered in her ear so softly that Verity was not sure if she had really said anything. It was more like a breeze murmuring in the treetops . . .
Take the less familiar path
.

Ten minutes later, still wearing the ill-fitting slippers, Verity descended to join the others in the receiving hall.

T
he first handful of twenty-eight dinner guests trickled through the door. Verity took her place beside her very tall, elegant brother. It was perverse how the Fitzroy physical traits appeared to far greater advantage in the males of the line. And why had stature seemed to skip over her in particular?

A flurry of “good evening,” “lovely to be included,” “so good of you to come,” mixed with a heavy round of “Your Grace,” “His Grace,” and even “Their Graces,” allowed Verity to lose herself in the familiar ways of her role in her family.

The baron and his baroness were as jovial and kindhearted and loud as always. Verity successfully suppressed a giggle when the baroness actually had the effrontery to kiss James on the cheek in her exuberance.

Verity was never so grateful for all the different characters that flowed through her life.

But gratitude came to a grinding halt when Miss Phoebe Talmadge drifted through the entrance along with her younger brother. The vicar, Mr. Robert Armitage, followed them. Verity peeked at the visages of others nearby. No one took any notice of Mr. Armitage.

Not that she blamed her guests. Phoebe was a stunning vision of beauty, wrapped in elegance. Never had she appeared lovelier. And while Catharine Talmadge had been a diamond of the first water, Phoebe far surpassed her. She was draped in a very pale ice blue silk gown that delicately clung to her figure, revealing nothing, except everything. A small hint of Belgian lace trailed the longish hem behind her as well as the edges of her very low-cut bodice, which barely skimmed the tips of her breasts.

Back arched, chin tilted, Phoebe’s femininity was so achingly beautiful that it was impossible to take one’s eyes off of her.

But Verity could. And she did.

Her gaze flitted from face to face of the guests still gathered in the receiving hall. Each person was transfixed—gentlemen and ladies alike. Verity’s eyes flew to James when Phoebe floated before him.

Her brother’s expression was not one Verity had ever seen before.

Phoebe bowed her head as she slowly curtsied before him. “So very honored by the invitation, Your Grace,” she said, her dulcet voice carrying in the silence.

When James did not respond, Verity drifted so close to him they were touching. She shot her hand behind him and pinched him in a place she should not.

He didn’t flinch, but finally his gaze refocused and he did the necessary with the grace only a duke possessed.

And then Phoebe was before her, and while no one else would have ever noticed it, Phoebe’s smile was a fraction less bright and her expression a fraction less warm than a moment before.

A wallflower gone to seed knew well this treatment. The one thing time had done, however, was bring perspective.

It must be very hard to spend all the hours of every day of one’s life trying to achieve and maintain such a level of flawlessness. And yet despite all, time would march on, and other beauties would have their day, pushing the older ones to the edges of the ballrooms, until the night when the former beauties had been forced against the wall to join the wallflowers they had once shunned. Only then, these fading rarities would find it was too late to learn how to take immense joy from the enduring friendships behind the withered faces who knew the freedom only anonymity could bring.

Verity welcomed Phoebe as she would any guest, and Phoebe continued to engage the notice of everyone in her path. Verity watched it all out of the corner of her eye until her gaze snagged on Rory, leaning in half shadow against a column.

His green eyes glittered as he stared right back at
her
—not Phoebe.

Verity had always suspected there would be at least one moment in a plain woman’s public life that would shimmer brightly in the small chamber of vanity.

For Verity that moment was now.

And he seemed to know, for he winked at her.

She laughed without a single person taking note.

Rory smiled at her, uncrossed his long, lean legs and walked toward the staircase leading to the grand salon. His wide shoulders strained his unfashionable black coat, which he always had favored. She had always suspected it was to remind himself of his aristocratic family’s impoverished circumstances. Only people anxious of staining their garments wore black, unless they were in mourning.