‘I believe so. I was momentarily stunned and I did not see it.’ She braced herself for the explosion.
‘How wonderful!’ Aunt Caroline clapped her hands together. ‘So romantic.’
‘It was nothing of the kind,’ Verity said, wishing that Will had been inspired by love, not by gallantry.
‘If you say so, dear.’ Her aunt bit her lip in thought. ‘Perhaps it would be best to cancel the dinner engagement. You are bound to be a trifle stiff after that fall and I would not wish you to appear anything but graceful.’
And I would like a little respite before I have to face him again... ‘Yes, I think that would be for the best,’ Verity agreed.
* * *
Will normally slept well. It was a matter of composing oneself to sleep and having the discipline not to allow disturbing thoughts to intrude. As he sat up in bed at five in the morning the day after the incident in Hyde Park he admitted to himself that he had obviously never had sufficiently agitating reflections to truly put that to the test. Except, of course, for that wakeful night spent in extreme discomfort on the floor of the island hut.
Being in love as an adult was not the state of idiotic, rose-coloured happiness he had always assumed it was. It was painful and the physical pain of unsatisfied arousal was the least of it.
A month ago, faced with a reluctant young lady, Will would simply have exerted his powers to charm her and would have relied on her own self-interest and her parents’ pressure to secure her acceptance of his suit. But Verity had made him see things from the woman’s point of view and he realised that was simply a form of bullying, with his rank and wealth as the weapon.
Verity did not want him, other than for kisses against her better judgement. She had even been dubious about his offer of friendship. It was not false modesty that held him back from trying to change her mind. Will knew his own worth. His mirror told him that he was acceptablooking. His fencing master, a hard critic, assured him he was in fine physical shape. He knew himself to be intelligent and hard-working, believed that he was fair and loyal. His bed partners always seemed more than content. If there were aspects of his personality or life that a wife objected to he would do his best, within reason, to modify them. No, what stopped him was that Verity knew her own mind, had her fair share of pride and pushing her would only make her either dig in her heels or retreat.
If she could come to like him and trust him, then he could build on that. He had almost a year before he was out of mourning and would be expected to make a public show of seeking a wife. Months to show Verity the man behind the title, to build on what they had. And if that was not enough, then he at least knew how to hide pain.
* * *
Will pushed aside a pile of paperwork sent through by Fitcham and managed a rueful smile for his secretary’s choice of phrase. No, he had not found the tangled tale of an ancient lease of considerable interest. Of any interest at all, in fact, although his concentration was not helped by an internal battle over whether or not to call on Verity that afternoon. It was too soon and she had said she was shopping for a new wardrobe, which would mean time-consuming fittings, he told himself. He would leave it for a few more days.
‘Your Grace. A Reverend Harrington has called.’ One of the footmen proffered a silver salver with one card in the centre. ‘He is waiting in the Jade Room as I was unsure whether Your Grace is receiving.’
‘Harrington??
?? Will picked up the card.
The Reverend Thomas Harrington, B.D. Cantab.
Vicar, St Wulfram’s Church, Chelsea
Ah, yes, the large, dark, self-assured specimen who had behaved so possessively towards Verity in the park. Now what did he want?
‘Your Grace?’
Will realised that he was tapping the rectangle of pasteboard against the edge of the salver. ‘Show him into here, John.’ It might be more courteous to go to the visitor in the reception room and offer him refreshments, but instinct kept Will in the study. My cave, he thought with an inward smile.
‘The Reverend Mr Harrington, Your Grace.’
They shook hands, Harrington took a seat, shot his cuffs, crossed his legs and smiled, displaying a fine set of white teeth. Will decided that he did not like the man and that he had no grounds other than Verity’s impatience with him the day before and his own instincts.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?’ he asked, taking the other seat on the visitor’s side of the desk. No need for displays of dominance. Yet.
‘As you may have gathered yesterday, Your Grace, I have the pleasure of Miss Wingate’s acquaintance.’
‘Yes, I observed that Miss Wingate knew you.’
‘And I observed that you had an admirably protective attitude to the young lady. Almost, I might venture, proprietary.’
Will narrowed his eyes at the cleric, whose smile hardened.
‘As a man of the cloth I feel it my duty to come to you on a most delicate matter, one I feel bound to mention, as it touches the honour of your great house and name.’
‘I find it extraordinary that you might concern yourself with something so personal to me. It might be best, Mr Harrington, if you were to come to the point directly.’