The Duke Diaries (13 page)

“Does James know the truth?” Verity’s whispered words floated to his brain.

“Yes. He was riding to Rutledge Hall. He saw me carrying her.”

Silence reigned. Only crickets could be heard.

He finally continued. “I had planned to take her to her family, but your brother preferred that we make it appear that the accident happened on Boxwood land. He would not let me take the blame.”

She touched his arm. “Of course you see it that way, but that is not why he insisted. You know why. If she had been found on your property there would have been a huge chance that people would have speculated about why she was here since her family’s estate is next to ours, not yours. The gossip would have plagued James, possibly tainted Catharine, and haunted everyone,” she stated quietly. “So you were with her when it happened?”

“Yes.”

“Did your horse jump first, or did she . . .”

“It was my fault,” he rushed on. “She was headstrong, to be sure, but she would not have gone if I had not told her of this jump. She was determined to prove she was fearless. I’ll never know . . .”

“Never know what?”

“Why she was always trying to prove herself to me. She didn’t need to prove herself.”

“Rory . . .” she began.

“Yes?”

“I know why.”

“You do?” He studied the grave face of the lady seated slightly below him.

“She was ashamed.”

He started. “Why would you suggest that?” He leaned forward.

“She was obviously in love with you, but despite this she had agreed to marry my brother.”

“You presume much.” His heart raced. “Was this common knowledge in your family?”

“Not at all. But after hearing your story now, and what I alone observed in the past, it makes complete sense.”

He watched his hand reach down and stroke the outside of her arm. She looked at him with such dark, fathomless eyes. Honest eyes.

“So you were both riding when this happened. I only ask because it’s important to get it straight in my mind so I can give you my opinion as a friend would.”

“No,” he began. “I was walking. Just like I was walking when you came around the bend. I had told her the night before that only the bravest riders of Derbyshire had the daring to negotiate that wall.”

“And?”

“She had laughed and insisted she could do it. I realized my mistake straight away and so I decided to dismantle it the next morning, to be certain she wouldn’t do anything foolhardy. But I didn’t do it soon enough.”

“And so you blame yourself.” It was not a question.

“No,” he said.

“Yes,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t, but you do. It’s your nature.”

“How would you know my nature?”

She shook her head. “I have one last question.”

His eye twitched with tension. “Yes?”

“Why is this sodding thing still here?” She stood up and marched toward the wall, leaving her horse behind to munch on a tuft of grass. She reached as high as she could and wriggled a topmost stone until it fell into her hand. She immediately tossed it into a dense patch of the woods and grasped another.

“What are you doing?” He couldn’t let her destroy this. Not this.

“Dismantling this monument to your guilt.”

He rushed to her side and stilled her hands. “Don’t, Verity.”

“I will,” she insisted. “Even if you stop me now I swear to God I will return in the dead of night and take it apart. And I don’t care if you come here and lie in wait for me every day and night. I’ll see it done. It was
her
own fault, not yours. She never sat a horse well. And I’m guessing she was stupid enough to attempt it in a sidesaddle.”

He could not draw his breath properly. “It never would have happened if I had turned my back on her once she was engaged. I should have let her go—wished her truly happy with James. But I was selfish. I wanted her for myself.”

Verity rolled her eyes, and he, given the tension of the moment, nearly laughed. He was pouring out such revolting soggy sentiments, and this was her response?

“I only have one question,” Verity said dryly. “Did you love her before James loved her?”

“I don’t know. But I’m not certain it was love. It was more that I was entranced by her wild exuberance for life.”

“When did James deduce there was something between you?”

“I haven’t the faintest. Gentlemen don’t speak of such things.”

She rolled her eyes again. “This is precisely why you need me for a friend. Ladies are not nearly as reticent. Oh, and by the by, James knew Catharine revered you.”

“What? He told you that?”

“Are you sure you’re a rake? We sound like two twits at the Pump Room in Bath mulling over thirdhand gossip. Look, I always observed my brother watching Miss Talmadge who was always watching you.” She shrugged. “He knew.”

She was the most peculiar female he had ever known. And she made him feel . . . like their roles were reversed. And worst of all? He hated this entire revolting conversation. He had to end it to regain a measure of virility before someone caught wind of this brazen brush with
feelings
and booted him from the royal entourage.

He reached above her and removed a stone and threw it into the woods. And then he reached for another. For some blasted reason he took enormous joy throwing each stone as far as he could. With each one, he felt lighter.

Despite his efforts to stop Verity from helping him, she refused. Three-quarters of an hour later, the wall half its original size, Verity reached for a jagged rock and . . . well, it was a good thing that while watching females jump fences terrified him, bloodied limbs—even the hand of his betrothed—left him unmoved.

That did not mean he did not inspect her cut with more care than he had ever taken with anything in his life.

Chapter 10

H
e bandaged her hand with his neckcloth as best he could, despite her protestations. Then Rory insisted that she go with him to Rutledge Hall, which was closer than Boxwood.

His housekeeper flurried about when they arrived and instantly went in search of a salve while Rory made her comfortable on the chaise lounge in the far corner of what had been his mother’s small salon, which adjoined his father’s favorite chamber of the great house: the billiard room. Forever with cards in his hands or a billiard cue balanced on his shoulders between shots, it was in this room that the last Earl of Rutledge had spent the majority of the short periods of his life he’d been forced to endure at his country seat instead of in Town.

Rory felt guilt drip from every pore of his body. Guilt for Catharine’s death, guilt for ruining Candover’s future happiness, and now guilt for admitting everything to Verity, who should not know of such sordid affairs.

The housekeeper finally returned with the salve and a parlor maid, who carried a tea tray with chocolate biscuits balanced on a plate.

After the servant laid everything out, Rory herded them away so he could tend to Verity himself.

She deserved as much, despite her steady stream of assurances that she was perfectly fine. He didn’t feel the need to insist that a maid stay for propriety’s sake. She was his betrothed, temporary or not.

“The tea is all I really need and you know it,” she said calmly, trying to reach behind him.

He sighed and stopped unwinding his neckcloth from her hand to prepare her tea as she liked it.

“How did you know how I take my tea?” Her brow was furrowed in confusion.

“It’s important to always remember how a lady takes her tea,” he replied, handing her the cup and saucer.

“Anything else I should know about rakes?”

“Yes. A bona fide rake also remembers food preferences and dislikes, special occasions, comments on new apparel, or in your case—your, um, extraordinary hats.”

“Then I must inform that you are slipping.”

He finished unwinding the bloodied neckcloth and closely examined the nasty gash on her palm. “Am I?”

“I suspect, indeed I shall wager a small fortune, that you cannot name my favorite delicacy or what I consider the most loathsome food in Creation.” She took a sip from her steaming tea.

He glanced up at her for but a moment before he dabbed a large amount of salve on her wound. At least she didn’t complain or jump about like most ladies. “I’ll admit I’ve been a bit lax in your case. I suspect this is due to your easy capitulation to making me the happiest—”

She interrupted. “Your happiness will come much later I assure you.”

He studied her carefully. He had never known a woman so determined to distance herself from him. It reminded him of . . . himself, albeit his manner of doing so was far different. He had learned the art of wit and charm to bridge unbreachable gulfs in the past. “Well, I shall confide that in my book—peas are the most vile legumes ever created.” He stopped short when he spied her shocked reaction.

“I thought I was the only one.” Her expression was that of a young girl.

He smiled as he took her empty teacup from her still fingers and returned to bandaging her hand with a clean cloth. “There you have it, V. We are, indeed, made for each other. Just think of the signs you—or more likely little Tommy Redmund—shall paint for our vegetable garden.” He tucked the ends inside her palm, but would not release her hand. It felt so comforting to touch her.

She was staring at their joined hands. “I know you mean well, Rory. But I must ask a favor of you.”

“So serious,” he said, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. “Anything, my dear V.”

“I’m tired of playing this game.”

“What game is that?”

“Where you pretend this betrothal is real, and that your sensibilities go further than friendship.” Her eyes were huge and dark in her face. “I know you must do this in public, but in private I would ask you to be genuine. You owe me that, Rory.”

His neck itched but he would not remove his hand from hers. It was so warm. “So we are to be serious then. No more teasing.”

“No. I like teasing just as much as you. And I’m used to it. It comes with having five siblings. But there are times there is an awkwardness between us and I would prefer us to be true.”

He stared at her. Never in all his days had he known a lady who spoke her mind without reservation. She simply refused to dissemble or be cunning and artificial.

“Do you have much pain?”

“No.”

“I am certain the housekeeper has laudanum stashed away somewhere.”

“No thank you.”

He stifled the urge to fill the silence.

“I should go,” she said softly. “I should really—”

“No,” he interrupted.

She looked down at her hand, which he was squeezing, unthinking. He immediately released it. She refused to meet his eyes, and her dark lashes against her delicate complexion was suddenly everything feminine and beautiful to him. Half of her dark hair had escaped the confines of her coiffure, and his fingers, unbidden, reached to touch the loose ends.

Still she did not look at him.

Her hair was so very soft. Slowly, ever so slowly, he stroked her head, still warm from the sun. And then he was on his knees, gathering her to him, wordlessly.

She rested her head against the top of his shoulder. Soon her arms slid up the taut fabric of his coat and he could finally exhale.

He eased onto the long, wide chaise and took her more properly in his arms. She fit there so very perfectly, naturally. He dropped a kiss on her head and she finally raised her eyes to his. It was then he noticed the dark circles.

“You haven’t been sleeping well?”

She looked away. “Not last night, no.”

“And why is that?”

“I would rather not say.”

“I see.” He could so easily tease her, but the urge was gone. “So rest your eyes now.”

“No. I really should go back—”

“Humor me as I humored you by obeying your every demand earlier today.” He brushed a lock of her hair from her face.

Without another word she closed her eyes. Oh, he knew she did not sleep. Her breathing was not even and deep, but he took such comfort, holding her, and stroking her head and arms and back. Her riding ensemble—voluminous white shirt and breeches and ancient, scratched up boots—was boyish and practical; the least feminine articles of clothing he had ever seen a lady sport. And yet they were uniquely her.

When she moved restlessly, he tilted her chin and lowered his lips to hers. She responded with a small sound and pressed herself closer. Enfolded in his arms, she tasted of goodness and passion and woman.

Rory could not stop himself from lowering his hand to cup her breast over the thin fabric. But he wanted more. He wanted to touch that shimmering flesh of hers below the frantic pulse at the base of her neck. He released a few buttons from their holes and delved beyond the fine edges of the shirt. The shock of her bare flesh against his hand nearly undid him.

The bud of her breast instantly tightened between his fingers, and he caressed her, valiantly struggling against his desire to crush her to him.

He wanted so much to taste her. He didn’t want to stop even though his mind was screaming its refusal. He lowered his lips to hers, all rational thought deserting him.

Through the roar of sensation of her kiss, he felt her touch his chest. She had unbuttoned his own shirt and her hand was cool on his hot flesh.

This was madness, surely. And yet it was not. He could have stopped if she had paused for one moment. But he did not want to. He wanted to give her anything and everything she would accept. But he would not take from her.

“V . . .” He spoke softly. “Is this what you want? Tell me.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “And you?”

“Of this there is no question.”

Oh, he would not truly take her, but he would give her all the pleasure she could stand. And then some.

“Do you trust me?” He echoed the same words she had so recently said to him.

“Of course.”

“Then wait here.” He closed his eyes for a moment to gain the strength to leave her for but a moment. He then carefully disengaged her from his arms and rose, keeping his back to her. Desire was heavy upon him and the evidence was a bit too obvious. He crossed the small chamber and locked the door. And then crossed to the adjacent wall, where the door to the billiards room was ajar. He entered his father’s favorite room, took care to lock its main door to the hall and returned to the small salon. He closed that door and set a chair under the lever. Finally, he walked to the two windows, checked the sashes and unleashed the dark amber velvet curtains.

She was watching his movements silently until he returned to her side. “You are worried the servants will intrude?”

He regarded her small form on the chaise. “No. They know never to enter unless they announce their presence and are invited to enter.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I just don’t like open doors.”

“I know,” she whispered.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Nothing,” she murmured. “It’s not important. It’s just something I observed many times.”

He extended his hand and she placed hers in it. He urged her to her feet and drew her into his embrace once again.

I
t would be so easy to lose herself in his arms, Verity thought. She had once longed for it. For so many years of her girlhood he had filled the romantic corners of her mind until she had witnessed him with Catharine beneath the old pine tree.

Even after he went away to war a few months later so abruptly, she had dreamed of him. And now she finally understood why he had gone without a word. In her naïveté, she had never imagined Catharine Talmadge’s death had been anything different than the story her brother presented to the family.

Her diary entries had changed a few years after he had gone away. A new name cropped up in her ramblings one summer. She pushed the thought away, when Rory whispered something incoherent in her ear. She didn’t want to remember the past or the future. She only wanted to feel this moment. To drink it to the dregs.

Rory pulled her deeper into his arms, and she could not resist him. He was so warm in the coolness of the darkened room. She wanted him desperately. All she could hear was his breathing and the rustle of their clothes as he stroked her.

She lifted her head and tugged his to hers. He kissed her once again, his lips easing hers open and twining his tongue with her own. He smelled of dark spices and shaving soap. Irresistible.

And all at once she knew. She was going to fully experience the feelings he had awakened in her and allow herself to make love to him. For that is what it would be, at least for her . . . showing and giving her love to him, a man who deserved it more than anyone she had ever known. Oh, she harbored no hope at all for marriage now that her diaries had been stolen and published for all the world to see. She gave herself one chance in a hundred that her identity would not be discovered, which would very well taint the reputation of anyone and everyone associated with her.

But there was something vitally important she suddenly longed to do despite her ruined future. And it would harm no one.

She wanted desperately to grab onto the one chance she would ever have to conquer her fear. She could only do it by giving and receiving from the only man she could trust . . . Rory. Just once, she wanted to have the courage to experience physical love with someone who truly cared for her on a genuine level. She knew he would be gentle, and kind, and she would show Rory all of the secret love she possessed for him in return. Then she would forget her past of ten years ago and know, once and for all, what she might have had.

His breath was uneven along her jaw as he traced his mouth down her neck.

“Rory?” she whispered.

He didn’t lift his head from his ministrations. “Yes, V?”

“I have a great favor to ask.”

“Anything,” he breathed.

“Make love to me.”

He stiffened.

“I should not have said make ‘love,’ Rory,” she murmured. “What I mean is that I want to lie with you. Have—”

He interrupted gently. “I know what you’re trying to say, V.” He straightened slowly, grasped her shoulders with his large hands and gazed at her.

“Well?” She hardly dared to breathe.

“May I ask why?” His eyes were a dark, still green in the light of the afternoon.

“Of course,” she replied softly. “It’s just that I will go away eventually as I said. I will never marry. No one will ever know except you and me. We have another secret between us, and I’d like to have this one too. It will hurt no one, will it? And I would like to have this as a memory. Would you?”

“Verity . . .” He raked back his dark hair with one hand. “It’s not so simple. And I would not hurt you for the world. I just don’t think—”

“I understand,” she interrupted. “Really I do.” She broke away and put distance between them.

“You don’t understand,” he replied. “Having relations can create serious attachment for many fe-ahem, I mean for people such as me.”