The Duke Diaries (19 page)

“It’s me,” she murmured. “I’m the idiot who authored that rubbish.”

V
erity had never seen someone struck dumb. But there was a first for everything, and she was obviously cursed with having to experience everything and more. The last six weeks were proof of that.

She hoped never to see that look on anyone’s face ever again. But she rather feared her brother’s and sisters’ expressions would mimic his.

She did not wait to see more of the same or worse while Rory read the newest column in the paper. While the infamous “Fashionable World” column was gone, the publisher of the newspaper had filled the space with a new column entitled . . . “The Unfashionable World.” Gone was the biting commentary by the former columnist. Instead, the publisher used the space to include a larger excerpt from Verity’s diaries.

And that day’s excerpt? Oh, the events described were just another string of spectacularly unimportant examples of excess just like the earlier columns. But the excerpt lent support again to the conclusion that Rory was the author, as again his name was not included.

Fine print at the conclusion of the excerpt stated:
The publisher of this fine newspaper does not necessarily endorse the free-spirited thinking of the anonymous author of this important and inspiring report. This is not gossip, it is not revolutionary in nature, it is merely news, which this newspaper has a duty to report.

Verity raced down the burgundy carpet runner covering the centuries-old stone corridors of Boxwood. She had to get to her room. She should have finished her letter to the vicar about how none of the teachers she interviewed would do, and the other letters to Amelia, her brother, and the Prince Regent before she had woken Rory. She should have already finished packing two valises with her maid, and given instructions to the housekeeper and butler. She should have called for a carriage to take her directly to London, since hopes for permanent banishment to the family’s cold abbey in the Lake District were fast fading.

She never should have allowed herself another look at his face. When would she learn to think first and act later instead of the opposite?

But in her heart she knew why she had gone to him.

She’d just
had
to know.

Did he truly love her?

Or was she again imagining it?

Chapter 15

I
t felt like he was really getting old. It took Rory a good twenty seconds for his brain box to start sparking again after her declaration. By then it was too late.

She was gone.

His heart stuttered in his chest, and his lungs constricted as he leapt from the blasted overly soft sofa, and nearly broke his knee crashing over the table, on the way to the door. At least he knew where her chambers were. She would be too distraught to think of going anywhere else.

He hoped.

He ran down the carpeted corridors—what was Candover thinking, covering the perfectly acceptable stones of this place with such slippery runners?

At the end of one corner, that maid with the obvious symptoms of a throat plague stood her ground. Without a word, she giggled and pointed in the direction of Verity’s apartments.

He almost kissed the woman.

In fact, he turned around and did kiss her. Right on the lips. He
wanted
the damn plague, if it would lead him to her, the one and only person who had insisted—without question—that he was not guilty. And then she had destroyed the stone evidence.

And damn it all. Cliché that it was, turnabout was fair play. He would not let her make the same mistake he’d made so very long ago.

She should not feel guilty for writing a diary that had fallen into the wrong hands. He might have thought the diarist was an idiot in the past, but now that he knew it was she, he thought the writing brilliant. He
loved
the dry humor of them.

He nearly raced past her door, before skidding to a halt. He pounded on it with force, then stopped and leaned against the wood to listen.

Nothing.

“Verity, let me in. I need to talk to you.” He paused. “Please. Look, I’m not angry with you. At all.” God, he was allowing his stupid sensibilities to cloud his speech. Even he knew his words sounded false.

He cleared his throat. Lord, the plague was already upon him. “Verity, damn it, open this bloody door. I mean it. If you don’t, then I will.”

He placed his ear to the door and concentrated.

Crickets.

“All right. We’ll do it your brother’s way at Carleton House. I’m sure he would side with me in this matter. So stand aside, I’m coming in.”

This would be child’s play. He had kicked in so many doors during his war years that Welly had nicknamed him “Rory the Doory.” It was part of the reason he preferred double-locked and reinforced doors at his own houses.

The other part of the reason was that doors were like love. Once opened, reason fled and emotions entered—never a comfortable or good combination. It only had ever led to death or disaster in his case.

Rory took two steps back, concentrated on the sweet spot in front of him, and fired off a kick that would have pulverized Prinny’s three-inch-thick doors.

The door did not budge.

He made a second attempt and then a third. God, he
really
was getting too old for this.

On the fourth attempt he changed tactics, and legs.

He swung back his boot, and Verity opened the door.

He stopped in mid-kick. “It was unlocked all this time, wasn’t it?”

She nodded, her face still filled with fear.

He opened his arms, and after a second’s hesitation she walked into them.

Moments later, without even knowing it, he’d backed her into her chamber, locked the door with one hand while still holding her, and then lowered his head to kiss her in earnest.

God. He had forgotten the sweetness of her lips. He was like a half-starved castaway finally found.

He could spend hours just kissing her, holding her, breathing in the mysterious scent of her that drew him to explore the nape of her neck, her lovely ear, and the starkly defined hairline above her aristocratic forehead.

She had been made for him.

He suddenly imagined hundreds of her ancestors behind her and hundreds more of his behind him, and after a thousand years of history, they had been born to get to this moment—a meeting of two souls destined for one another.

“Rory,” she whispered as he stroked her chilled arms.

“Yes, my love?”

“You know this is impossible.”

He brushed aside the fabric of her bodice at her shoulder. “I know nothing of the sort.” He kissed the delicate flesh.

She pushed away from him, creating space he didn’t want.

“Rory, it might have taken me a long time to understand who you are. In fact, I’m beginning to think I’m the worst judge of character of all time. It took me nearly fifteen years of watching you and all the members of the entourage to finally understand that you are nothing more than a fraud. An angel masquerading as the devil’s spawn.”

He closed the space she had created, enfolded her into his arms and breathed in the scent of her warm, beautiful dark head again. “You are obviously a bit biased, I’m afraid,” he murmured.

She wiggled out of his arms and stalked to the other side of a large round table in the center of her bedchamber. “No. I will have my say.”

“You know, I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“To what?” Her eyes were haunted and old beyond her years.

“To taking off our gloves and fighting properly, unlike the last time.”

“You’re not supposed to look forward to fighting,” she said, misery still in her expression.

“Well, that first time, both of us exhibited a lackluster performance. And by the by, what in hell were we arguing about then?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. We didn’t argue about anything.”

“Precisely. That was the problem. It was all cold distance, misunderstandings, and each of us dancing some strange minuet of which neither of us knew the steps. This time, I say let’s enjoy ourselves. Let’s waltz and squash each other’s toes.”

He had finally coaxed the very faint beginnings of a smile to her face.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Rory, and it isn’t going to change my mind no matter what you say or do.”

He rubbed his palms together and strode to the table, inching around the glass top toward her.

She inched to keep the table between them. Her smile disappeared. “Please.”

He immediately stopped. “All right. Let’s try your way.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Shall we sit across from each other?” He indicated the Aubusson carpet in front of her elegant marble fire grate.

She nodded and crossed to the place with him. Each sank down, Verity gripping her knees tightly to her chest, Rory more casually sprawled in every direction after he tugged off his boots and wiggled his toes.

“Go on then. I won’t say a word,” he promised.

She extracted a rumpled sheet of paper from her gown’s pocket, her signature bold handwriting covering every inch on both sides. Lord, this was going to take forever, and all he wanted was to take her in his arms.

He waited patiently.

“There are several important things I must do before I go away.”

He straightened. He opened his mouth but then quickly shut it. He had promised to listen. And he would listen even if she began to sing an epic opera where a female heroine died in the end.

She smiled when she realized he would not say a word. “Thank you. But first I will explain why I am going away.” She spread the sheet again with her long, delicate fingers. “I’ve let my entire family down and have tarnished the Fitzroy name. Worse, I’ve caused someone I love to be in terrible peril.”

Lord, he hoped that last part was about him and not someone else.

“I’ve—I’ve, no, I think I’ll skip the next part.”

Oh, thank God. The full letter was going to take forever to read.

“I revealed that I possess no moral fiber when I asked you to make lo— Well, this is too long anyway, let me be brief . . .”

There was a God.
He resisted the urge to hum to distract himself from pondering if her breasts were as beautiful as he remembered. One might be able to take the gentleman out of the primate, but one could never extract the primate out of a gentleman.

“Yes, here it is.” She pushed aside that adorable lock of hair that always tumbled into her face. “I’ve single-handedly pushed the entire country to the brink of anarchy and revolution.” She glanced up from the paper. “Are you listening to me?”

“May I answer?”

“Of course.”

“Just checking,” he said. “Yes, I’m listening very carefully.”

“Then why are you staring at my—my bodice?”

How he managed to keep a smile from his lips, he would never know. “It’s a lovely bodice.”

“Keep you eyes right here, please.” She made a V with two fingers and pointed them at her own eyes.

He stayed silent but his eyes did not obey his mind and traveled to her exposed trim ankles.

“Pardon me,” she said crossly, “but did you hear me?”

“Is this how you treat the boys in the school? It’s a wonder they like you so much.”

“Fine,” she said. “I see how it’s going to be. I will finish now before I lose your attention completely.”

Oh sweet happiness, it was almost over.

“Hmmm . . . I’ve caused the, uh, person who does not love— Right, yes, what I mean to say is that you now stand publicly accused of not only authoring my own treasonous ramblings, but even worse, of also blackmailing the Crown for a duchy.”

She finally put down that blasted litany of hers and looked at him. Writers were always so damn
wordy
.

“Rory, I just need you to understand that you will be fully vindicated by the time I correct all of my unpardonable mistakes. You are the only one I can make that promise to. After I reveal myself, you will be proven not only innocent, but also you will never be vilified since your name was never in the diaries.” Her expression darkened with worry. “But my family and anyone connected to us will be forever tainted via association. Sadly, there is nothing I can do to truly fix that.”

“May I speak now?”

“Yes, of course.”

“First, I want to know why you never mentioned me in those diaries.”

She stared him in the face. “It took me until a day ago to figure that out. You never did anything stupid. You were always there to pick up the pieces.”

“Except the night I woke up in your bed.”

“Yes, but that was not your fault.”

“And whose fault was it?”

“It was the Duke of Kress who provided the absinthe.”

“Did he force the bottle to my lips?”

“No, but—”

“Verity, don’t you realize what you’re doing?”

“I’m listening,” she murmured.

“The French call this type of discussion ‘pondering the sex of angels’ or ‘considering the fragility of pipes.’ ”

“The first description is far more interesting.”

He smiled. “I know. But the point is that dissecting blame, regretting the past, and endless contemplation that will not change anything is absolutely useless.” He picked up her hand, and she allowed it. He turned it and pressed a gentle kiss on her palm.

She shook her head. “Well, this is no fun. You promised this would be more satisfying than the last time we
didn’t
argue.”

“Well, at least we learned silence is not the answer.”

“Agreed,” she replied softly. “So to continue, before I go to the Prince Regent and—”

“Verity?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve patiently listened to you, but now I think it’s my turn.”

She smiled. “Almost every duke I know insists dukes don’t have to take turns.”

“Sounds like Kress and Helston to me.”

“Precisely.” Her expression willed him to continue.

“I could utter a dozen hideously romantic words to you, or patiently explain everything I will do to make all your worries disappear.” He slowly pulled her into his arms, and she did not resist. He settled her in the cradle of his lap. “But what I really want to do is hold you, comfort you, do a few wildly wicked things with you, and then afterward I will promise you a few things that will ease your heart and your mind. Will you allow me to do all this?”

“But you cannot fix this.”

“I can and I will.”

She looked at him, trust coloring every inch of her expression. Never had anyone ever looked at him like that.

Verity finally replied, “Do I get to do a few wicked things to you, too?”

“I’m counting on it.” He traced a finger along her collarbone, and when he encountered the edge of her gown his fingers reversed course to the back of her gown to undo the small buttons. Her corset was a simple affair, and beyond the translucent shift lay what he had dreamed of forever.

She inhaled sharply when his hand touched her skin. He felt her inexperienced fingers attempt to unknot his neckcloth when he dipped down to kiss her. He brushed away her fingers in uncharacteristic impatience and nearly tore off his bloody neckcloth, soon followed by his coat and shirt.

And then Rory gathered her in his arms once again and nimbly regained his feet to carry her to her bed. She refused to let go of his neck when he placed her in the center of the heavily monogrammed white linens covering an eider-down duvet.

Rory dragged his knees across the covers to fully join her, nearly ripping his breeches in the process of removing the rest of his garments.