* * *
Lord Fairlie nodded at the butler. ‘That will be all, Wethering. We will serve ourselves.’ He waited until the butler and footmen had left and the door had closed behind them, then turned to Verity sitting at his right hand. ‘So, you do not wish to marry the Duke of Aylsham? An unusual position for a young lady to adopt, one would think. What’s the matter with him? Thought the man was a positive pattern card of perfection. His grandfather certainly thought so. He’s been on the town, of course, moves with a fast, fashionable set and he’s called out a man, but he’s never attracted a whisper of scandal.’ He took a sip of wine, nodded approvingly at the glass, then raised one elegant brow at Verity.
‘The Duke has many good points. He is clearly a conscientious
landlord and employer. He is doing his best against great odds with his brood of half-brothers and -sisters, he is intelligent, good-looking and even, occasionally, shows a sense of humour.’
‘But?’ Her cousin grinned at her across the table. ‘He keeps a string of mistresses? He is a drunkard? He holds Black Masses at the full moon? He uses a revolting cologne?’
Verity shook her head at him reprovingly. ‘None of those things. But he does not approve of me and makes no bones about it. He thinks ladies should not use their brains, he disapproves of my antiquarian interests, he hates it when I argue with him and he is absolutely determined to be perfect in all things. He would expect his wife to be perfect—his idea of perfection, that is.’ She broke off to catch her breath and made herself slow down. ‘I cannot face the idea of devoting myself to being a perfect duchess for a perfect duke and raising a brood of perfect children. I swear, when that man dies they will find Always Appropriate engraved on his heart.’
Her aunt gave a little choke of laughter. ‘You want an imperfect man?’
‘A human being would be my choice.’
Aunt Caroline passed Verity the dish of peas. ‘Tell your uncle and Roderick what happened about the lake and the island.’
‘I know about it already,’ her cousin said with an apologetic grimace. ‘At least, I know the version that is going the rounds in the clubs.’
‘Oh, no. Already?’
‘Apparently Aylsham has a love nest on this island, complete with a vast bed and satin sheets. You are variously supposed to have defended your virtue by hitting him with a oar and bravely rowing off into the lake where you drifted about all night until rescued by Bishop Alderton and a flotilla of curates, or you climbed a tree and sat up there all night, fending Aylsham off with pine cones until help in the form of the local boating club arrived. Or—’ He broke off and took a gulp of wine.
‘Or what?’ Verity demanded. ‘Tell me, Roderick, please. I would much rather know the worst.’
‘Or...er... You were not rescued, you spent the night there, um, amicably, and either he refused to marry you or you refused to marry him. The rumours get a trifle vague at that point.’
Her uncle made a sound suspiciously like a growl, Aunt Caroline gave a hiss of displeasure and Verity told herself firmly that this was no more than she had expected.
‘That settles it,’ Aunt Caroline said. ‘We must ensure that the Queen knows the truth, ensure that you will be received at Court and then I will deal with the Patronesses.’
‘Thank you,’ Verity said. ‘I feel encouraged when you speak with such certainty.’ She smiled at them all, cut into her roast guinea fowl and hoped that she was going to be able to swallow it, because inside everything was just one large knot of nerves.
* * *
‘You are not still pining for that curate of yours, are you?’ Aunt Caroline perched on the end of Verity’s bed dressed in a wrapper of such frivolity that Verity feared for her uncle’s blood pressure.
The thought allowed her to reply lightly, ‘If you mean Thomas Harrington, he is the Vicar of a very fashionable parish in Westminster now, I believe.’
‘I know. That young man was always going to do well for himself. He is too handsome by far and knows it, and he has an eye for the main chance, cleric or not. He schemes to become the youngest bishop, mark my words.’
‘No doubt.’ Of course Thomas did and an essential step up the clerical ladder was to find a suitable wife. He had almost achieved it, four and a half years ago, when he had wooed the Bishop of Elmham’s naïve daughter. How fortunate for him that his plans had not come to fruition or he would have found himself leg-shackled to the daughter of a retired bishop in ill health with none of the influence over appointments and places that Thomas wanted so badly.
At the time, when she had found the strength to stand up to him and face down his blackmail, Thomas had been furious. Now he must give thanks daily for a lucky escape. At first, with the stinging hurt so fresh, she had wondered why he had been so ruthless, but, reading between the lines, she had concluded that a father who had granted his every wish, bolstering his sense of self-importance, in combination with early success at whatever he set his hand to, had left him convinced that he was entitled to whatever he wanted.
‘And are you pining for him?’ Aunt Caroline was nothing if not persistent.
‘No.’
Giving thanks daily that I found him out in time, yes. Pining, never.
‘He was not the man I thought he was and, thankfully, I discovered it before I married him.’
But not before I was foolish enough to sleep with him, unfortunately.
Verity wondered whether she could ask her aunt how likely it was that a man could detect whether or not a woman was a virgin. One day she might find this mythical creature, a man who would love and accept her for what she was, and she would have to decide what to tell him. But that was too remote a possibility to worry about, she told herself.
But the unpleasant thought occurred that Thomas might try to capitalise on the situation now. If he believed that Will might still offer for her, would he try his blackmail again? But surely not—no vicar, however well connected he was these days, would risk alienating a duke. Will could ruin him. Would ruin him.