Provocative in Pearls (15 page)

Colleen swallowed an impish smile that said she understood why anyone would want to avoid her mother.

Hawkeswell handed Verity into the coach. For the first time on this journey, he entered behind her. Verity saw why. The other people at the inquest had decided to depart right now too, so they could watch the resurrected countess and her earl a bit longer.

“Will they send out riders to cry the news?” she asked.

“In their own way, yes.” He checked his pocket watch. “Their letters will reach London late tomorrow. We will wait it out here for a few days, before braving it out in town. Most of society will be long gone from London, of course, so you will never hear most of the talk.”

“There will still be questions. What do you intend to say in response?”

“Damned if I know.”

Not the truth, then. She could tell that this little drama embarrassed him. The coroner’s humor and Mr. Thornapple’s suspicions were the least of it. Those curious eyes, impatient for the details, had heralded what was to come.

He would hardly want to admit that his bride had never freely consented to marry him, so had run away and hid for two years until she came of age to have standing in a court of law. On the other hand, he could not lie and say she had lost her memory, even if she agreed to the ruse. Perhaps he would simply say nothing.

She watched the Surrey countryside that they passed. She had not noticed its beauty on the way to the coroner’s house. She had seen nothing at all the last two days alone in this carriage. The entire journey had been passed in an effort to maintain her composure and to prepare for the shock her arrival would create at the inquiry.

Now she realized that this county possessed a lush richness. A palette of greens decorated her view, with some dark browns in fields revealing good land for farming. Flowers flourished too, in beds at even modest homes, and as sprays of wildflowers running over low hills and roadsides.

They passed a small farmhouse blessed with many such blooms, but the summer display could not hide the house’s bad condition.

“That family needs a new roof,” she observed.

“They do not only need a new roof, but also a new floor. Improvements in irrigation would increase the yield of the land they work too. Regrettably, the man from whom they lease that land has not been able to help, much as he might like to.”

She could tell from his tight tone that he was the man in question. They were on his land now. “Can they at least sustain themselves?”

“Barely, and only because I took no rent two years ago, when the crops all failed for lack of warmth.” A man walking down the road toward the farmhouse waved at the coach, and Hawkeswell waved back. “I have known that farmer my entire life. His people have been here almost as long as mine, for generations. I was educated to see him as a responsibility, and not only as a tenant. His fortunes depend on mine as much as they do the sun.”

“It was the same between my father and his workers, even if the bond did not go back generations. To his mind their welfare was his responsibility. He knew that others who owned mills did not believe that, but he did.”

He smiled at her reference to her home, and her past. “It appears we have something in common after all, then.”

She rather wished they did not. She had assumed two years ago that he wanted her money to live in high style, not to put in new irrigation and build new roofs. More had compelled him than the chance to buy expensive indulgences, however.

That did not alter what had happened. It did not make her situation any more right or fair. It merely made it hard to blame him.

“Verity, I hope that you do not mind that I told Colleen she could write to your cousin,” he said. “That would be better than receiving a letter from a ghost, I thought.”

“I do not mind. It was not my intention to write to him at all.”

“If you do not want to write, then I will do it. In a few days, so the surprise is well digested first.”

“As you wish.”

“He will probably want to see you.”

“More likely he will want to see
you.
He will want to ensure that whatever the two of you agreed still stands. Promises were made, I am sure, that are important to him.”

She did not have to look at him to know that he did not like that reference. His displeasure came to her through the air. It was odd how that happened. His moods could sometimes be felt now, even if he did nothing to express them.

“You should see him, Verity, if he comes down to London, whatever his true reasons for doing so. You said he did not mourn, but you really do not know that. He is your family, and some amends are in order for what you did. Apologies at least.”

His scold angered her so severely that she barely kept her composure. She gave her attention to this man who refused to understand just who had to apologize to whom.

“I will not apologize to him or to anyone else. If you are determined that I must see him, I want your promise I will never be alone with him or his wife, ever.”

He found her demand interesting. Or else her anger surprised him enough that he forgot his own. She was not hiding her emotions about Bertram well, and she heard her voice speak in hard, brittle tones.

“Verity, surely you do not—”

“
Ever
. Promise it, or Bertram will be in hell before I greet him again.”

Again that curious, speculative gaze. “If it is what you want, I promise.”

 

 

S
he had little memory of Greenlay Park’s appearance, other than it was an intimidating house of ancient grandeur and old-fashioned furnishings. She had been too sad and worried when she was here for her wedding to notice much else. As they approached this time she took its measure, however.

It dominated its low hillside, and no forest obscured the view for miles around. The massive main block of the house faced the lane that led to it. The stones alone were big, and of a deep creamy hue, and the long windows marching up its facade spoke of many levels and high ceilings and a complexity of chambers that had made her feel tiny and perpetually lost two years ago.

Other blocks attached to the first, like a series of additions cobbled into wings spreading right and left. Classical, but in the old French style, Nancy had said on seeing this house. She meant the style of the old monarchy. The style of the aristocrats who lost their heads less than thirty years ago, to her father’s approval.

She noticed that the landscaping surrounding the house for a quarter mile was in bad condition. At some point Mr. Repton’s influence had been employed, and she could tell where ground had been moved to create artificial rises and falls, and a canal dug to wind picturesquely through banks of wildflowers and shrubbery. Lack of maintenance meant the banks had now returned to wilderness and the trees so artfully placed had lost good form.

She wondered, as the coach came to a stop and Hawkeswell opened the door, what her father would say if he knew his daughter was expected to live in such a place.

An old man and a woman of middle years emerged through the massive entry doors. The man hurried to the coach, buttoning his coat on the way.

“My lord. We did not expect—The messenger did not say that—”

“It is a long story, Krippin, and for another day, perhaps. This is Lord Sebastian Summerhays’s coach, and it must begin its return to Essex tomorrow. Have the coachman and horses dealt with for the night.”

“Of course, my lord. Mrs. Bradley, please see to my lord’s guest.”

Mrs. Bradley came forward just as Verity stepped from the coach.

“You remember Mr. Krippin and Mrs. Bradley, don’t you, darling?” Hawkeswell drew her toward them. “The countess has returned home, Krippin. Please inform the servants.”

Mrs. Bradley hid her shock, but Krippin’s mouth gaped for an instant. Then the training of a lifetime summoned his formal demeanor again. “I will of course give them the good news, sir. Welcome home, Madam.”

They all walked to the door as if she had been gone a mere fortnight in London. Inside, two footmen were summoned and sent to carry baggage.

“I would like to go to my chambers, Mrs. Bradley,” Verity said before anyone could suggest something else. “I would like to rest from my journey.”

“Certainly, Madam.”

Mrs. Bradley mounted the stairs by her side. Both of them pretended ignorance of the fact that Verity had no idea how to get to her chambers, or to anywhere else in this house except the gardens.

T
he Earl of Hawkeswell needed money.

Verity had not seen the evidence of that so clearly two years ago. Absorbed in her own worries, submissive in her decision, she had not paid attention.

Now a hundred little indications added to the ones she had already noticed in the farms and the landscaping.

There were few servants in this big house. Not nearly as many as at Airymont. Mrs. Bradley promised to send up a girl but it was doubtful the girl would be a proper lady’s maid.

The furnishings showed wear too. The drapes should be replaced on the tall southern windows where the sun had done its worst to their fabric. There had been little effort to improve conveniences here either. At Airymont, there were water closets and even a new bathing chamber. It was apparent that this household still made do with pots and portable tubs.

Each observation discouraged her more. They served as so many nails in the coffin holding her plan. The money denied him thus far from her settlement would continue to be out of reach during any petition, she suspected.

A huge sum was to come to him upon their wedding. It had not, he said. Perhaps she should promise to wait on any petitions until he received it. She would have to ask Mr. Thornapple if that would make a difference.

Mrs. Bradley brought her to the same apartment that she had been given when she came for the wedding. She realized now that someone had invested in these chambers at least. Recently. These drapes were new, as were the bed hangings in Prussian blue. The chairs featured unblemished upholstery and the fireplace sported scrubbed stones.

She pictured the earl ordering this done two years ago, so that his bride would not have to suffer the consequences of his finances. She wondered how he had paid for it all. Perhaps he had taken on debt.

He could have left it all as it had been and she would not have noticed that either. It would have made no difference to her. When one was in a sacrificial state of mind, one did not care if the stake on which she would be martyred was new and of good quality.

“All of your things are here, of course,” Mrs. Bradley said. She led the way into the dressing room, and opened three wardrobes and two trunks.

Verity fingered the fine fabrics. She had all but forgotten this wardrobe, purchased in London during the months before the wedding. Nancy had dragged her to modiste after modiste, demanding the best lace and silks. They had ordered enough dresses to wear four a day and still not repeat one for two weeks. Nancy had enjoyed the spree far more than Verity herself.

She pulled out several dresses and held them to her body and looked down. She had dressed very plainly at The Rarest Blooms, but not because she preferred humble garments. One did not garden in the best muslin or silk. Nor could she allow Daphne to lay out much money for her fabrics.

She found herself smiling at a lemon yellow sarcenet promenade dress as it flowed over her legs. It would be nice to wear pretty clothes. That was a feminine interest that she had never much indulged, but here was an entire wardrobe waiting to be explored.

“I will have water brought up,” Mrs. Bradley said, after unpacking the valise of its few items. “Then we will leave you to rest, Madam. Normally we keep country hours here, but the cook will be surprised that my lord is in residence today, and will be a bit later than normal with dinner as a result. I will send the girl up in two hours, to help you dress.”

Verity decided a rest before dinner would be wise. Resurrection had proven to be exhausting, and she needed to be in top form if she were going to spar with Hawkeswell at dinner.

 

 

H
e tapped at the door. When no one responded, he eased the latch down.

Verity’s little sitting room was empty. No sounds came from the dressing room either. He entered her bedchamber. An artificial twilight shrouded it because the drapes were closed.

She lay asleep there, in her chemise and stockings. The vaguest frown marred her peace. Perhaps she dreamed of something distressing. Her legs, drawn up as she rested on her side, caused the chemise to rise high enough that her left thigh and hip were uncovered.

The lovely line of that hip and thigh, the gentle curve made by her body in this position, captivated him. Another day, soon, he would give in to the urge to join her and caress that soft, graceful form. Today he kept his arousal from having its way, much the way he had learned to control his temper.

He set a small box on the bed beside her, near her face, and opened it. The pearls within glowed in the dim light on their bed of blue velvet.

He had come close to selling them several times during the last two years, even though they were family heirlooms. A countess of Hawkeswell had received them as a gift two centuries ago from a royal lover, the legend went. Perfect and priceless, they would have gone far to delaying the decline of this house.

He was very sure it had not been sentiment that stayed his hand. Rather, he had not been sure the pearls were his to sell anymore. He had given them to Verity as a wedding gift.

He looked at the note he had written, decided against it, and slipped out the door.

 

 

H
er nose hit something as she turned. The sensation nudged her awake. She rose out of a delicious weightlessness, and grew aware of herself and her surroundings.