He raked a hand through his hair. “I found some diaries, and she had so looked forward to seeing me…I wondered if she got the chance,” he said gruffly, a bit embarrassed by his sentimentality.
Judith’s eyes softened with sympathy. “My dear boy, your mother had not died a few minutes after birthing you,” she said. “But three days later.”
“She suffered?” he demanded hoarsely.
“The opposite. I had never seen her happier.”
Confusion rushed through him. “I do not understand.”
"It was the childbed fever which took her. But in those three days, for hours she held you in her arms and sang. Whenever you cried, all she had to do was sing, and you would fall into a contented sleep. She died in her sleep, with a smile on her face, and I cannot help think it was thoughts of you and the earl who had comforted her.”
“My father believed my size killed her.”
She gasped. “Rubbish! In my experience, childbed fever can happen with babes of any size. Your father was a wounded lion, and nothing could have made him better. Only Georgiana, and she was gone from him."
The oddest sensation tugged deep inside of him. “Thank you for telling me.”
His aunt smiled. “I am glad you got my letters.”
They spoke well into the afternoon. He then met his two cousins who were quite lovely, having taken after their mother. Their excitement to meet him had been contagious, and he had found himself chatting quite comfortably with them when he had always been a man who was reserved with new acquaintances. He learned the girls had not come out and had never been to London since they did not possess land or dowry to attract any suitors. The cottage they now lived in had not been the one they had grown up in, but their father’s heir, a distant cousin, had removed them from their home once he took possession. They had been living a retrenched life on a small widow’s portion which had been bequeathed to Judith. He was invited to stay for dinner which he accepted, and by the end of the meal, James had persuaded his aunt and cousins to live with him in London, permanently.
Chapter 12
Verity smiled at the charming young man who bowed over her gloved hands. He was barely an inch or two above her in height, his manners were pleasing, unpretentious, civil, and she did not feel threatened by him in any way. This man, Viscount Stanhope, had a distinguished reputation and was considered the first cut of a gentleman. His estates boasted an income of over thirty thousand pounds a year, a rumor existed he was overly generous with his servants, and he was in want of a wife. Many maters and their daughters had fluttered when he'd entered Lady Prendergast's ballroom, dreams of being his viscountess filling their hearts.
"Will you honor me with a dance, Lady Verity? I have been told the waltz will be announced now," he murmured with a good-natured smile as he rose from his bow.
She dipped into a curtsy. "I would be delighted, my lord." And she allowed him to escort her toward the dancefloor. He had been at the ball for over two hours, and Verity was the only person he'd asked to dance for the evening. Several brows rose at that significant action. Lord Stanhope was the ideal type of gentleman she had planned to set her cap for, yet as Verity strolled onto the dancefloor with him, she felt no sense of thrill or anticipation.
Her thoughts were simply too occupied with missing James. It had been a full week since James had disappeared. His note had been infused with a sense of cryptic urgency.
Dear Vincent.
At first, she had grinned at that salutation. And she understood that greeting, for if his note had been intercepted, the reader would assume it was delivered to the wrong address.
I regret I must cancel our lesson for the foreseeable future.
/> That part had filled her with alarm and confusion. Whatever did he mean? Had it been their kiss the night before and the wicked and scandalous way she had clung to his shoulders? Or had it been her wanton entreaty for more? Just recalling it brought a flush to her cheeks.
There is a matter I must deal with that cannot be delayed. I apologize and will speak with you upon my return.
Yours, J.
Upon his return? Had the man left London? Of course, no answer had presented itself to her silent questions. And there had been an odd sense of hurt that he had not provided more information. She had berated herself sharply for her silliness. He owed her no explanation for there was no understanding between them. Yet she thought their present friendship would have allowed for such confidences. She rested many of her dreams and burdens upon his shoulders in the fascinating conversations they had.
Exactly nine days had passed, and the man had not the decency to write and inform her if he was well. Vexation had settled in her heart, and she would not forgive him anytime soon for making her worry.
Are you well, James?
She pushed him from her mind as she danced with the viscount. They engaged in banal conversation which she did not mind, though she was a little bored. A few times the viscount made her laugh as he recounted tales from his travels to India. When the dance was over, he escorted her to the side and offered to fetch her some punch. Verity thanked him with a smile, and he wove through the throng toward the refreshment table.
A finger brushed over her elbow from behind, and a shiver of distaste crawled over her flesh. Swallowing back the nerves and awful feeling pitting in her stomach, Verity turned and peered up into the eyes of Lord Durham. Her brother stood beside him, and Albert smiled at her as if he saw nothing wrong with his actions.
“My dear sister, you remember my friend Lord Durham? Only this afternoon in the club the marquess and I reminisced about the times we spent together in friendship in Bedfordshire.”
The marquess bowed briefly. "Will you honor me with this next dance, Lady Verity?" he asked with charming amiability.
Her civility and the fact so many in the ton stared obliged her to say what was proper. "Lord Durham," she murmured. "I must decline. I feel as if I am about to vomit. A distemper of the stomach."