The Duke Diaries (15 page)

She inhaled sharply the scent of the freshly cut lawn of the green. She’d had the horrible dreams of so long ago. Of Theo and his laughing brown eyes. But then they had changed to green and then turned serious and hard. Just like Rory’s eyes had changed as she confided her story yesterday afternoon.

He had taken great care not to show his disgust of what she had allowed to happen with Theo Battswell all those years ago. But she had felt the tension in his body next to hers as she revealed all. And his carefully phrased questions, oh-so-casually spoken, had shown the truth of his thoughts.

For years she had determinedly fought her memories to gain a measure of peace. She hadn’t even told Rory the entire sad truth of it. His eyes had begged her not to say another blasted word. And so she had not. It was far easier this way. Besides, she never allowed herself to dwell on the last event of that same summer.

Her poignant moments with Rory had turned awkward in the end. When he had become silent, she became discomfited and insisted she had to depart. And so she had taken her leave of Rutledge Hall—unlocking the connecting door to the other chamber, where she quickly dressed, while he did the same and then unlocked the chamber’s door to the hall.

And when he had insisted on riding beside her during her return to Boxwood, she urged Captio into a canter, as it was obvious any intimacy that had developed between them was at an end.

There had been less than a dozen words exchanged when they arrived at Boxwood’s immaculate stables. She had marched toward the avenue of tulip trees, which was the main approach to Boxwood’s sweeping entrance, and refused to look back at him as he departed.

What did it all matter? They would never marry. Why should she care what he thought of her? Oh, but in the recesses of her heart, she knew she cared a great deal. She had bared her most private secret to him and been found as guilty as she felt. His every kindness to her afterward had reeked of insincerity.

Now, Verity forced back her regrets and entered the small clapboard structure she had come to love. None of the students had arrived yet and so she quickly glanced through her lesson plans and organized her ideas. She was so grateful for the distraction.

The boys heading off to Eton in the fall entered the school first, with shy grins. They bowed and found their desks as the other children crossed the threshold. Verity approached the older boys and with a hushed voice pointed out the sections of the books she wanted them to read and discuss later. And then there was the mathematics she had to suffer through.

She loathed mathematics. Numbers gave her hives—unless they were in a ledger and involved simple addition or subtraction. Anything involving more than three letters in equations made her cross. Numbers mixed with letters reminded her of inedible legumes attempting to mix with lovely mashed potatoes.

The hours and minutes in the quiet schoolhouse ticked by. Tommy Redmund shocked all by reading aloud a poem he had written. It was about a lighthouse and a shipwreck, and a duke who appeared to save the day. His schoolmates were mesmerized, just like she. Verity looked at the young boy with pride. She was certain he would eventually follow the other three to Eton one day in the distant future. Not that she would be there to witness it. She would be in her family’s ancient abbey, lost somewhere in the northernmost portion of the Lake District.

“Excuse me, Lady Fitzroy,” a booming voice called from the doorway. It was the village baker. “I has the loaves you ordered.”

“Very good, Mr. Terrel. You may leave them over there”—she indicated a long side table —“And Mr. Felton?”

“Is coming, ma’am.”

The room had gone silent as twenty-odd pairs of eyes watched the bread being laid out on the table.

Mr. Felton, the butcher, entered on the heels of Mr. Terrel’s departure, carrying so many parcels that his knees nearly buckled under the weight.

“I knews I shoulda bring the cart. But ’twas silly, you’re jus’ across the green, you are!”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Felton. Please deposit it all over there, beside the bread.”

She said not another word while the tradesmen arranged all the foodstuffs on the long table.

As soon as they departed, leaving the door open to allow a breeze to enter, she looked at the sea of thin faces in front of her. Their huge eyes, a sea of brown, blue, hazel, and green, stared back at her.

She smiled and felt slightly embarrassed. “Well, let’s see, how do I explain this? I know. You all have been the most perfectly wretched students since I’ve replaced Miss Woods, the greatest teacher this village has ever had the pleasure to have. And I expect she will return any day now, so I decided you all deserved a gift from me.”

Not one of them moved a muscle.

“So here it is, in all its simplicity. You are each to take two loaves of bread and a parcel of meat and give it to your parents to thank them for allowing me to teach you. I shall also bring a few things from Boxwood’s vegetable gardens tomorrow, before I leave you.”

“Leave us?” a small voice called out.

“Yes, for a short while. I must go away for a very little while—but I shall return if Miss Woods is still away. But I expect you all to read at least three books apiece and write brilliant essays on each. But . . . well, we shall not worry about your mathematics until I return.”

“No mathematics?” a deep voice echoed from the open door.

Verity turned her head only to find Rory leaning casually in the doorjamb. He had not a hair out of place. His immaculate dark green superfine coat fit him to perfection. His eyes matched it. His buff breeches molded his thighs and ended where his gleaming, spit-polished boots began.

Not a sound could be heard in the schoolroom as the boys gaped at their exalted visitor.

She could feel a blush creeping from her bodice toward her collarbone. In a few more moments the unbecoming color was sure to rise to her face.

“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “May I help you in some way?”

“Not at all. Please don’t let me interrupt you. I merely came to watch our village’s newest teacher. My position in the parish requires supervision of schoolteachers.”

A few small giggles escaped from one of the boys’ lips before another hushed him and sent an elbow to his ribs.

She took her decision in a rush. “All right, you are all dismissed. Please, once again, tell your parents how grateful I am that they spare you each day. I shall have word sent when I am returned. It will be less than a fortnight.”

They filed past the long table, in wonder at the bounty. Arms full, they each bobbed their youthful heads in awe of the Duke of Abshire, who had entered and stood to one side.

Tommy Redmund was the last and he stopped in front of Rory.

“Yes?” Rory asked with great hauteur. “What is your name, sir?”

“Tommy. Tommy Redmund, yer highness.”

Verity worried her lower lip.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir. Did you have something to say, then, for I am a very, very busy man.”

“Yes, yer honor. Dids ye like them signs I made fer ye?”

“Indeed, Mr. Redmund. Excellent. I may have to commission you for a few more.”

“I don’ts know about missionin’ me fer anything, yer graceness. Me da won’ let me follow the drum till I’m grown. I’m sorry.”

Rory tipped his hat. “Well, then, we shall just have to negotiate with your father. I’m certain we will come to an agreement. I could use a man of your intelligence in my regiment.”

Tommy’s eyes widened with excitement. “Me da said he wagered you be Wellington’s Chameleon. Is it true then, yer lordness?”

“Tommy?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I promise you I will eat that, uh, confection on Lady Fitzroy’s head if someone can prove it.”

Verity did not know if she wanted more to laugh or cry. The awkwardness between them was still there. It was palatable. She valiantly attempted to maintain the fixed smile on her face.

She came behind Tommy and whispered in his ear, “Bow and tell His Grace that you would be honored to paint any sign he needs.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up. He tapped Rory on his hand. “No problem, yer sirliness, I’ll paint any ol’ sign ye want. Good-bye, then.”

They watched Tommy run off, his feet kicking up a trail of dust from the road before he hit the grass of the Green.

She wanted to fill the uncomfortable silence but could find no words.

“I see why you love it,” he said finally, still looking at Tommy trotting off.

“Love what?”

“Teaching these children. Are they all so amusing?”

“No. Most are very serious.”

“You’re good with them,” he said in a brisk tone, still not meeting her eye. “You are to be commended.”

Her heart fell to her toes. He really had cooled to her. She could feel the ill-ease creeping between them and she wanted to cry.

But she did not. Guilt she might possess, but pride she had in abundance. It was the one thing that had sustained her all these years.

He finally turned to her, his eyes remote. “Where are you going?”

“To Boxwood, of course.”

“I heard you telling the children that you were leaving for a fortnight.”

“Actually less than a fortnight. I’m departing for London in the morning.”

His chin rose and he looked down his perfect aquiline nose at her. “Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“What’s in London?”

“Affairs to attend to.”

“I see,” he said.

By his tone, Verity believed he didn’t see so much as the end of his nose.

“And what of your brother’s order to remain in Derbyshire?”

“He only demanded that I remain here unless I agreed to marry you. We are betrothed, and now, as you suggested when you first arrived, the incarceration is over. I’m free to go. But fear not, I know appearances must be maintained. I shall return very soon.”

“So I am to remain in the hellish boredom of the country while you trample off to London?” His eyes darkened. “I thought most betrothals or marriages work the other way ’round. While the females are languishing or breeding in the country, the gentlemen go to Town to gamble, drink, and attend to other
affairs—
Parliamentary in nature, of course.”

Now he was being vulgar and there was an edge to his tone. She didn’t have to stand for his contempt. He might be a duke, but she was the daughter and sister of the premier duke in the land. She might be ruined twice over, but she was his equal on the gilded ladder of English aristocracy.

She brushed against his arms folded one over the other as she swept out of the school. The anger began to build—at herself. She was such a stupid, stupid woman.

Why had she opened herself to him—of all people? She had sworn she would never speak of her past to anyone, gentlemen in particular, and she had committed a far greater sin—sharing her body.
Again
.

Well, she was through with all of it.

Today
.

She would go to London, find the diaries, solve Amelia’s pressing delicate situation, possibly descend to Cornwall, and then return to Derbyshire, ready to end the engagement from hell. And then she would immediately depart for the Lake District and begin life anew even if Faith and Hope were not with her yet. And pray for her soul. A lot.

And in that moment, she envisioned a school of some sort. She was going to change the course of her life and never, ever look back.

She swished her skirts around to face him as he stood in the door frame. “Good day to you, Your Grace. I wish you only the best, as a good friend would.”

She turned back toward the Green and marched as fast as she dared toward the stables to recuperate her beloved mare. She only wished she could move faster. And she prayed he would not follow her and stop her to torment her any longer.

“Lady Fitzroy!” a kind, familiar voice called behind her.

She turned. It was the vicar, waving a letter at her.

“Oh, Lady Fitzroy! So glad I found you.” He was out of breath from chasing her down. “I have a most important communication from our dear Miss Woods.”

“Yes?” she asked, refusing to see if Rory had followed her.

“Miss Woods is not returning. Her sister is recovered somewhat, but remains in a fragile state,” Robert Armitage stated, glancing at the letter he held in his hands. “Miss Woods has decided to remain with her indefinitely to care for her.”

Verity felt rather than saw Rory Lennox, the reminder of newest great folly, come to stand near her.

The vicar bowed. “Your Grace.”

“Mr. Armitage.”

“Pardon me. I was just informing Lady Fitzroy that—”

“Yes, I heard.”

The vicar nodded, uncertainty obvious in his expression and stature.

Rory stepped into her side view. “So it appears Lady Fitzroy’s presence is very much needed here.”

“Oh, yes, Your Grace. She is the most marvelous teacher. We are very lucky she has stepped in to oversee the school.”

Verity steadied her nerves by breathing deeply. “Thank you, Mr. Armitage. I am happy to continue for the short term, but for the moment I am needed in London. When I return, we shall discuss the search for a new teacher to head the school.”

The vicar stared at her and then darted a glance toward Rory, whose eyes she would not meet.

Mr. Armitage spoke quickly. “I do believe I should take my leave, Your Grace, Lady Fitzroy. Pray, offer my respects to His Grace, the Duke of Candover, should you see him. Lady Fitzroy.” He bowed deeply to both of them.

“I shall,” Verity replied.

A moment after the vicar departed, Verity turned to Rory. “I don’t believe in dancing about a subject, and so I shall tell you plainly. I am needed in Town. I am not going to tell you why—we owe each other no explanation for anything we choose to do, despite everything. I am asking you to allow me to pass. I have things to do before I take my leave.”

He narrowed his eyes, which appeared extraordinarily green in the heat of the afternoon. “So yesterday meant nothing.” It was not a question, but a statement.

“We offered each other solace and friendship, but that is all.”

“Solace and friendship, was it?”