‘The Reverend Mr Harrington, my lady,’ Wethering announced.
Aunt Caroline broke off from her conversation with Lady Godwin. ‘Thank you, Wethering, another cup, if you please. Mr Harrington, good afternoon. It is quite some time since we have met, is it not?’
The shortbread finger that Verity had just picked up crumbled over her skirt and she brushed frantically at the mess while Miss Yarrow, sitting next to her, flapped with her handkerchief.
What was Thomas doing here? She looked around, but there was no possibility of escape. This was one of her aunt’s regular days for receiving; the drawing room was crowded with ladies, two elderly gentlemen and one awkward youth dragged along by his doting mama. She had actually been relaxing after a morning’s shopping, relieved to find that no one was tactless enough to refer to the scandal or the Duke.
For the first night after their encounter she had hardly been able to sleep, worrying over Thomas’s promise to call at the earliest opportunity, but daylight had made that seem like no more than a passing jibe. He could gain nothing from her and, surely, no one could hold a grudge over lost dignity for so long. When four days had passed she had begun to relax.
Now her stomach felt as though she had swallowed too many of Gunther’s ices and her hands were unsteady as she put down her plate and thanked Miss Yarrow for her help.
Aunt Caroline was introducing Thomas and he, with all the skill of a cleric used to a fashionable parish, was responding with appropriate suavity. Perhaps he was only baiting her, giving her a shock by appearing.
‘I see a place free by Miss Wingate,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, ladies, thank you so much.’ Balancing cup and plate, he wove his way between chairs and chaises and sat down beside Verity as the volume of conversation picked up. ‘And here I am, as I promised. I do hope you have suffered no ill effects from your fall in the park?’
She turned, creating a private space where, low-voiced, they would not be overheard. ‘None, other than the unpleasant sight of you.’
Thomas raised his eyebrows. ‘Tut, tut, Miss Wingate. That is no way to speak to someone who can ruin your reputation.’
‘Have you not heard? It is already besmirched and through no fault of my own. I am, as you can see, surviving that scandal. I am invited to Court. I am received and acknowledged.’
‘And you have a good friend in the Duke of Aylsham.’ His smile was smug, his eyes, spiteful.
‘The Duke is a good neighbour.’
‘Whose name is now linked with yours. You have already made society look at him twice for failing to marry the daughter of the so very respectable Bishop of Elmham after your island romp. Now just think how he will appear if it is revealed that he is still entangled with her and that she is not the virtuous young lady who has been receiving all this sympathy for the unfortunate stranding, but a wanton who seduces innocent young clerics? Lord Appropriate, the model of virtuous nobility, revealed as a fool and a shirker. Delicious.’
Verity put down her cup, the rattle of the saucer on the little side table seeming as loud as a church bell. No one took the slightest notice. ‘It would ruin your reputation as well. And you have more to lose.’ Somehow she kept her voice steady.
‘Goodness, I wouldn’t be spreading the tale myself and the poor young man would not be named, you silly chit.’ Now the venom was clear in his voice. ‘You cannot accuse me without confirming the story is true, now can you?’
No, she could not. But surely he could see the weakness in his threats? ‘What would be the point? I have nothing you want—no money, no influence.’
‘I do not want anything from you, Verity my sweet. All I desire is payment for your little jest by the river, for being made to look a fool. And your ruin and your knowledge that you have tarnished the name of the Duke of Aylsham will be quite sufficient.’ He put down his untouched cup of tea and stood up. ‘Now, delightful though it was to see you again, my dear Miss Wingate, I must bring this visit to an end and allow room for more of Lady Fairlie’s many important guests.’
Chapter Twenty
I must tell him. I cannot tell him.
Verity paced up and down beside the reservoir at the north-eastern corner of Green Park, her long-suffering maid trailing a few steps behind her. The occasional sound of a stifled yawn was audible above birdsong, the sound of early morning traffic along Piccadilly and the distant lowing of the park’s herd of dairy cows being gathered together for their morning milking.
If I tell him he will call Thomas out.
Which Harrington richly deserved, of course. But what if Will killed him? Surely a duke was powerful enough to escape the worst consequences of that, but how would Will feel with a death on his conscience, to say nothing of the resulting talk?
If I tell him he will despise me for being a fool and for my weakness in allowing myself to be seduced.
He might even think her wanton and suspect that she had slept with more men than Thomas. Will had never allowed the passion he so clearly felt overcome him, he had never tried to make love to her.
Because he believes me to be a virgin and a respectable lady and now he is going to discover that I am not.
She gave herself a little shake. What did that matter? What mattered was that none of this was Will’s fault and so she must tell him, as soon as possible, because then he might be able to prevent Thomas spreading his horrible smears.
I love him and he is going to hate me.
Verity turned the corner of the reservoir and stopped to allow three nursemaids taking their charges out for some fresh air to walk across to one of the benches. But what did that matter? Will did not want to marry her, had never wanted to marry her. He certainly did not love her. He already thought her behaviour unseemly, her interests faintly shocking and her willingness to speak her mind, outrageous.
But he had wanted to be her friend and, somehow, that brought the tears to her eyes for the first time. She shocked, baffled and annoyed him, even if he did desire her, yet he had still wanted to be her friend. One of the babies let out a howl and began to sob. And why was she letting that upset her? She had known the possibility of ever finding someone who would want to marry her, and whom she wanted to marry, was tiny. But the children of that marriage were theoretical, yet those she might have had with Will were, somehow, very real.