The Duke’s Desire Page 14

  Restricted by Verity’s admonitions and fear of scandal, it had been agonizing to watch the man and keep silent, as well as attend to Lady Mary as a dutiful suitor might.

  Still, he was thankful to Blackstone for one thing: he had revealed the shadow in Verity’s past that made her fearful of scandal and shame. While the slave trade still existed, for years now many people considered it a distasteful way to make money.

  “If one wants to make a tidy sum these days, I can think of nothing better than a cotton mill,” Blackstone continued. “After all, there is no such thing as too much wealth, eh, Your Grace? Sir Myron?”

  “No, no, I suppose not,” Myron mumbled un certainly as he rose. “Brandy, anyone?”

  Blackstone nodded and left the table.

  As Galen joined them at the decanter, he said, “Sometimes it is better to be poor than earn one’s money dishonorably.”

  Blackstone’s lip curled slightly. “An interesting notion, coming as it does from one whose family got their estate from the seizure of Catholic lands in the days of Henry the Eighth.”

  “That was well before my time,” Galen replied, only slightly impressed that Blackstone knew that. His family’s past was not exactly a secret, and many noble families owed their estates, or portions of them, to the dissolution of Catholic monasteries, abbeys and convents.

  “And you are such a fine example of aristocratic honor yourself.”

  Myron stepped between them and held up two glasses of brandy that shimmered in the candle light. “Your brandy, gentlemen.”

  “Thank you,” Blackstone muttered, while Galen accepted his with a nod.

  “I believe we should join the ladies,” Myron suggested after he downed his drink in a hurried gulp. “Don’t you agree, Galen?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied after wetting his lips.

  He didn’t want to overimbibe. He dared not, or he was surely going to tell this cursed Blackstone who dared to lust after Verity exactly what he thought of him and then challenge him to a duel.

  Charging out of the dining room like a boar roused by beaters, Myron led the way to the drawing room. Blackstone didn’t linger, either. Galen, however, took his time following, for he wanted to regain some measure of calm and self-control.

  When he reached the drawing room, he immediately and instinctively sought out Verity. He quickly spotted her seated at Myron’s pianoforte, a rather incongruous piece of furniture for his hunting lodge. Galen suspected it had come with the house and hadn’t been played in years, for it definitely needed tuning.

  Nevertheless, he enjoyed watching Verity play, even if he could only do so for a moment. Her face was illuminated by a candelabra she must have moved there herself; the glow and the bending of her head over the keys made her look like a Madonna. She moved gracefully as she played a light and charming air, with no music to guide her.

  He could have watched her for hours, waiting for the occasional little wrinkle of concentration between her delicately arched brows to show itself again, or for the light to flicker over her lovely cheeks.

  Suppressing a sigh, Galen strolled toward the other ladies.

  Fanny Blackstone sat so rigidly, she might have had one of the pokers from the hearth up the back of her bodice. Clive hovered nearby and Myron stood awkwardly by the mantel as if not quite sure what to do, even though this was his house. Eloise reclined on the sofa like Cleopatra on her barge, playing with a loose string from her side hem, and Lady Mary perched on another chair nearby, smiling shyly.

  She was always smiling shyly.

  “I never had the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Davis-Jones play at Potterton Abbey,” Galen observed.

  Clive’s gaze darted to Verity. “You never said the duke was at Potterton Abbey.”

  Verity glanced up. “Didn’t I?”

  “Is she regularly required to tell you about everybody she meets when she travels?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon.”

  “Lovely, simply lovely!” Eloise declared as the song ended. “George will be sorry he missed it.”

  “Is anybody else finding this room rather close?” Galen asked. “Lady Mary?”

  “Yes,” she ventured, her cheeks flushing.

  Eloise gave Galen a pleased look that made him want to gnash his teeth. Instead, he sauntered toward the terrace door, which happened to be behind the piano.

  “Myron, why don’t you tell the ladies about your pineapples?” he suggested.

  “Oh, indeed!” his friend cried happily. Then he launched into his favorite subject, after hunting, fishing, dogs, horses and guns.

  As Galen drew closer, Verity’s fingers fumbled over the keys, but nobody else seemed to notice.

  He felt anxious, too, being so close to her and yet unable to touch her.

  After he opened the terrace door a little, he turned and his glance encountered the exposed nape of Verity’s slender neck.

  He was astonishingly tempted to kiss her there.

  Gad, perhaps it had been a mistake to come this close to her—yet this might be the best chance he would have to speak with her.

  Ensuring that Myron still had his audience’s attention for the time being, yet mindful that that would surely wander once he got into the particulars of the pineapple, he ventured closer to her.

  Before he could say anything, however, she whispered, “Your Grace, I must speak to you. Privately. Tomorrow, if possible.”

  “Of course.”

  Even though this was what he himself had hoped to accomplish this evening, he felt a shiver of dread at her solemn tone.

  “Can you meet me in the wood after the noon?”

  “Yes.”

  “How very interesting, Sir Myron!” Eloise suddenly cried. “I had no idea the pineapple was such a fascinating fruit! Now, what do you say to some cards?”

  “Cards?” Myron replied, obviously caught off guard.

  “Cards. Whist, perhaps?”

  “I should enjoy a game of whist,” Lady Mary seconded.

  “I know how to play whist,” Myron replied, his pineapples obviously forgotten. “I’ll have a table set out, shall I? Mr. and Mrs. Blackstone, will you play?”

  Blackstone smiled his disgusting smile. “We would be delighted.”

  “We are too many for one table of whist,” Galen noted as he reluctantly moved away from the piano, “and not enough for two.”

  “My wife will sit out,” Blackstone offered.

  “I would prefer to continue here, playing Sir Myron’s lovely pianoforte,” Verity said. “I am not good at cards.”

  “While I shall content myself with interfering with Lady Mary’s play,” Galen said, “if she can abide my presence.”

  “I would be grateful for your assistance, Your Grace,” Lady Mary said, “for I fear I am not good with cards, either.”

  “Perhaps you are better at other games?” Galen suggested softly as a footman moved a round table and chairs for the players.

  As Lady Mary blushed, Verity continued to play as if she were deaf and blind to anything but the piano.

  Chapter Twelve

  T he next day, Galen glanced out the window of his bedchamber as he drew on his well-polished Hessians. Thank God the weather had cleared. It had rained all last night, and this morning had been foggy and damp.

  He had not told Rhodes he was going out. Nor was he taking his horse. He was going to creep out of the house via the back stairs and past the forcing garden, doing his utmost to avoid any servants, who should be at their dinner.

  He didn’t know what Verity wanted to see him about, but he knew it must be important for her to risk a rendezvous—perhaps as important as what he had to say to her.

  All night he had tossed and turned wondering if she wanted to confess that her feelings for him had changed, maybe even deepened into love, just as his feelings for her had altered.

  There were, unfortunately, other possible explanations for her request.

 
It could be something as simple as an alteration in the time of his next visit with Jocelyn, given that the Blackstones were in Jefford. Perhaps she would bring Jocelyn with her.

  Maybe Jocelyn was unwell—no, surely not, or Verity would never have left her to come to a dinner party.

  Whatever the reason, he had struggled with impatience and hope and dread ever since she had proposed this meeting.

  At last, however, it was finally time to leave and put an end to the questions and uncertainty.

  After ensuring that the corridor was empty, he went out, locking his bedchamber door after him. When he returned, he would explain that he had been tired and taken a nap so that he would be refreshed for the evening. He had locked the door so he wouldn’t be disturbed.

  His plan of departure worked so successfully he thought it was a pity he had not considered a career in the foreign service as a spy.

  Unfortunately, that would have required him to have some ambition in his youth, and he had possessed none.

  Refusing to brood upon what might have been, Galen hurried along the path through the woods until he could make out Verity’s house in the distance. Fearing he had come too close and might be seen, he stepped from the path behind some elder-berry bushes to wait. He was also mindful of Rhodes and his desire to keep his activity secret, so he was careful not to brush against the wet leaves or berries. Otherwise, Rhodes would surely notice.

  The scent of the damp earth and leaves reminded him of a cemetery, adding to his sense of foreboding. He looked at the dripping trees and watched as a crabapple fell to the soft ground. Cushioned by the humus, it barely made a sound.

  Somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker began a search for bugs. Other birds sang, and a slight breeze stirred the branches, making more drips fall, their slow patter reminding him of a death knell.

  Why was he so full of mournful thoughts? It must be the climate. He was not used to such gray skies and wet weather after his years in sunny Italy. Surely that would color a man’s ruminations.

  A twig snapped behind him and he glanced around quickly. Nothing. A squirrel probably, or a badger.

  Gad, here he was in an English wood on a cool damp day, and he was sweating.

  He wondered what Guido and the other villagers were doing back in Italy. Had they had a good harvest? Were they still arguing about the statue for the square? They couldn’t decide on which saint it should be, although popular opinion seemed to be heading in favor of St. Michael.

  Did they ever mention the solitary Englishman, or wonder when he would return?

  When would he return? He had no idea, and would have none until he knew how Verity felt.

  Then his love appeared, swathed in a long dark cloak, her expression grave and worried. Jocelyn was not with her, and although he would have enjoyed another visit with her, he was pleased that Verity was alone. He didn’t want to make a declaration of love with an audience, especially when he wasn’t absolutely sure of its reception.

  “Verity!” he called out softly.

  She halted, then held up her hand to stop him when he began to step out. “It will be better if you stay there, in case someone comes along the path,” she replied quietly.

  “Is that very likely? Perhaps we should go somewhere else.”

  He thought of the carriage house, and the kiss they had shared.

  “This will have to do, but we must be careful. I will sit here, with my back to you.”

  Her choice of seat was a stone, kept mostly dry by a sheltering tree.

  At her cool tone, more dread shivered down Galen’s spine. “I don’t want to talk to your back.”

  “It will be…easier,” she answered in a whisper that he had to strain to hear.

  “Why?”

  Verity’s shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “Galen, I have come to the conclusion that it is simply too much of a risk for you to see us anymore.”

  His stomach knotted. “What do you mean, anymore?”

  “I mean, I think you shouldn’t visit us ever again.”

  Her words hurt more than any physical blow could have.

  He marched around to stare at her. “Why not?”

  She rose quickly. “It is too dangerous! People may suspect.”

  “Your servant didn’t act as if she found anything amiss, nor have your in-laws. If they do not—”

  “Not this time, perhaps, but they might find it very odd indeed if you keeping visiting us.” She looked away and her voice fell. “You do resemble Jocelyn, you know.”

  “Perhaps it takes a mother’s eyes to see it.”

  She lifted her head, and her eyes flashed with resolution. “Or more than one meeting.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Even then, I cannot chance it. You have seen my in-laws. You can guess how Clive will act if he finds out the truth.”

  “What do you think he will do?”

  Although her eyes continued to shine with a defiant gaze, her lip trembled. “You’re a man. What do you think he will do when he discovers his sister-in-law, who he pants after like a beast in heat, is not as virtuous as he suspects? What do you think he will ask her to do to ensure his silence?”

  “I didn’t think you knew how he—”

  “Lusted after me? I am not a fool, Galen. And what weapon do you think I have wielded since my husband died to keep him distant? The shield of my supposed virtue. If that fails, he will not hesitate to use my secret against me, and Jocelyn, too.”

  “Yet if his wife knows—”

  “You’ve seen the way it is between them. He can tell her any lie he likes, and she won’t question it.”

  “Is there no way to be rid of the Blackstones?”

  She shook her head. “No. If anything happens to me, they must be Jocelyn’s guardians. They are her nearest living relatives.”

  “I do not like the idea of anything happening to you.”

  She swallowed hard. “I shall do my best to prevent it, I promise you.”

  “But if it does, Jocelyn has me.”

  “Not legally.”

  “I would change that if I could. That man is a greedy, disgusting lout.”

  “You didn’t seem to find fault with his business practices.”

  “I kept silent because of your wish to avoid any hint of a relationship between us, but I assure you, Verity, I do not excuse what goes on in the name of business these days. In fact, I have refused to invest in such enterprises for years, and I give financial aid to those who legally seek to improve the conditions of the workers.”

  She relaxed a little. “I am glad to hear that, Galen, and I do appreciate that you’ve tried to keep our secret. Nevertheless, we cannot continue in this way.”

  “I have lost you once, and that was enough,” Galen said, his voice hoarse with suppressed emotion. “I don’t want to lose you, or Jocelyn, ever again. Verity, I love you. I want us to be together, as a family, with our daughter.”

  She put her gloved finger against his lips, as she had touched him so long ago, but oh, how different was the expression in her eyes now!

  Before, they had been full of yearning and desire; today, he saw anguish—and stern resolution. “Please, Galen, don’t.”

  “Don’t love you? Good God, Verity, don’t you think I tried not to? You left me without a word of explanation and let me live with that for ten years. You bore my child and never told me. You married another man. How could I love you?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “The same way I could love you,” she proposed softly, “despite all rational reasons I should not.”

  He stared at her with undisguised happiness. “You love me? Oh, God, Verity! And I love you!”

  With a gasp of joy, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her hungrily, with all the passion she inspired.

  She twisted away. “No, Galen, don’t! Don’t make this more difficult for me—for us. We cannot see each other again.”

  “Because you fear scandal and rumors and gossip.” He reached out an
d took her gently by the shoulders, gazing at her intensely. “Verity, I am a duke, and as you said last night, I have influence. I can shield you—”

  “No, you can’t!”

  “Verity,” he began again, determined to make her listen. Resolved to make her agree. “I know that you have had to live with a certain notoriety, given your father’s failings and the family business but—”

  “A certain notoriety?” she repeated, pulling away. “Because of my father and my family’s involvement in the slave trade?”

  “Yes, and—”

  “Oh, Galen if only that were all! That is not the worst of it.”

  “There is more?” he asked, a horrible dread sickening him.

  Had his not been the first bed she had sought? Had there been other men afterward, other lovers?

  “I am a bastard, the offspring of an adulterous relationship.”

  He waited a long moment. “Is that all?”

  “All?” she repeated, eyeing him curiously. “Is that not—”

  She gasped and colored, even as anger filled her eyes.

  “Forgive me, Verity,” Galen cried. “I was…afraid.”

  “Afraid? Afraid that you had fallen in love with a woman little better than a whore?”

  “No,” he declared softly, looking at her with grim resolution. “Afraid I would not compare favorably with other men, in any way, beyond my title and notoriety.”

  “Galen, I have only loved two men in my life—you, and Daniel, whom I loved more as a father than a husband.”

  “Verity, if you love me, I fear nothing.”

  Despite the tender fervor in his eyes, she willed herself to continue. He could not know what it was like to be a bastard in English society, and she had to convince him that she knew whereof she spoke. “Galen, I will tell you what my life was like before I married Daniel.

  “Other people knew about my dishonorable parentage long before I was privy to the family secret. They would whisper and point and sneer, as if something was wrong with me. As if I had committed a great and terrible sin, and that I was not acting with appropriate contrition.