‘Basil has not had my upbringing.’ Will was frowning.
‘No, he has not. He has grown up with all those brothers and sister, like a litter of puppies. They love each other, their mother loves them, their father loved them. He has the confidence to speak his mind, demand what he wants. Ill mannered and naughty sometimes, yes, but he would yell the place down until someone sent for a doctor. You were brought up alone, raised to obey, be dutiful and proper and defer to those who knew best—and that was before your grandfather got his ice-cold hands on you. The two things they did not train you in was disobedience, which is a very useful skill, and loving. For you to have rebelled at all was incredible.’
‘You know how to speak your mind as well, that is clear.’ Will stood, took three angry paces away from her, then spun round. ‘Is this what you and your female friends do? Pick each other to pieces?’
‘We help each other see the truth. It was not your fault and, even if it had been, whipping yourself for it does no good now. You love those children and you are doing your absolute best for them. I just wish you would be as kind and loving to yourself.’
‘That sounds somewhat self-indulgent.’
‘It is no such thing.’ Verity refused to back down, even in the face of his most imperious expression. ‘You can learn from what has gone wrong, celebrate successes. It makes you stronger, happier, kinder, I think. It makes you see things in a truer light and helps you see what it is you truly want. What you need. That isn’t selfish.’ She let herself smile. ‘It makes you more pleasant to be with, too.’
‘What I need,’ Will said slowly, walking away from her towards the horses. He stopped, back turned.
Now what is he thinking about? Some other duty he must add to the load he carries around? Some objection to being happy?
She watched him—no hardship when he made such an attractive study standing there, beautifully cut coat emphasising broad shoulders and tight waist above a length of leg shown off by breeches and boots.
I could draw him.
But it would probably lack life and emotion—she was used to drawing bones and broken pottery, not flesh and blood.
Then Will turned and walked back. Strode back, as though time was of the essence. ‘Verity, will you—’
He broke off as a group of riders swept into view at a canter, calling to one another. ‘Not fair!’ a young woman in a dark blue habit called. ‘You had a lead, you beasts!’
The four men in front of her and her three companions reined in, swinging their mounts around towards the ladies, making the greys in the phaeton snort and back up.
Will ran to the team, caught the bridle of one of the leaders. While everyone was looking at the phaeton, Verity sat quite still, her moss-green walking dress, she thought, must merge quite well with the bushes behind her. One of the men rode up to Will, greeted him. She caught snatches of their conversation. ‘Apologies, Aylsham...didn’t realise anyone was here... Cousin Thea...race...’
No one glanced towards the bench. Will walked over to the others, raising his hand as though to doff the hat he had left on the bench. There were introductions, some laughter, then the group rode off and he came back to her.
‘I do not think they saw me, did they?’ she asked as he came closer. ‘What a relief.’
‘A relief?’
‘Well, yes. The whole point of me being in London is to kill the rumours about us and sitting on benches in secluded groves with you is hardly likely to help with that, is it?’
‘No.’ His smile was the cool ducal social smile that she had learned to mistrust. ‘No, we need to avoid speculation at all costs, do we not? The sooner I return you to Lady Fairlie the better, in fact.’
Now what have I said to put him in a temper? Verity thought as she followed Will back to the phaeton. Because a temper that was, however beautifully he disguised it. He doesn’t want to marry me. I do not want to marry him. Neither of us wants vulgar gossip and speculation about our relationship.
She was lifted up to the high seat by strong hands that lingered not a second too long, she noted, even as she was wondering why about her own choice of words. Relationship? Do we have one?
Will seemed to have all his attention on the horses. Verity studied the severe profile, softened by a sweep of dark lashes, the unexpected fullness of his bottom lip, the tilt of his head as he concentrated. Then he turned, caught her watching him and smiled. Smiled—and a trace of colour came up over his cheekbones before he looked back at the path ahead.
The realisation swept through her, the sudden solution to a puzzle. I love him. I love Will. Oh, no. No.
She clutched at the curling metal guard rail beside her. The fine kid of her glove split across the palm and she bit her
lip to stop the exclamation of pain as the thin metal dug into her hand. He did not love her; she would make him a terrible wife, a comprehensively unsuitable duchess. They would fight over everything—and Thomas Harrington would either spend a lifetime blackmailing her or she could defy him and have another scandal added to the name of the Duchess of Aylsham.
Because Will would insist on marriage if he discovered the slightest weakness in her determination not to accept him. She had held out against his insistence when her feelings for him had wavered between physical attraction and dislike of everything he seemed to stand for. But now, how could she refuse him when it would break her heart? Was breaking her heart.
* * *
‘Verity?’
She turned to him with a jerk of her head, so unlike her usual grace. ‘Yes?’ A moment ago she had been looking at him, looking as though she had to close her eyes and describe him in detail. He had felt the beginnings of a blush, not of embarrassment, he realised with surprise, but of pleasure.