Prologue #2
He’d never courted a woman. Never had harbored any misguided urge to marry.
There was the presumption, of course, that one approached a lady’s father to request permission.
Two problems with that in this particular instance—Lady Verity’s sire was dead, and she also believed they had already received her brother’s approval.
That could be used to King’s benefit, he was sure.
“Would you?” Lady Verity asked, eyes wide.
“When he and the duchess return, perhaps,” he suggested.
Shortly after King’s arrival, Riverdale and his wife had excused themselves.
They’d had an air of secrecy between the two of them, their eyes continually locking as if they engaged in communication only they understood.
King had reckoned husband and wife—once estranged and newly reunited—were off in search of a hasty coupling.
It wasn’t done, to be sure. But it wouldn’t have been surprising. Riverdale was hopelessly in love with his wife. Any fool could see it. Except for Riverdale, until it had nearly been too late and he’d almost lost his lovely duchess to the same orphanage fire that had caused Lady Verity’s injuries.
“That would be excellent,” Lady Verity agreed. “If we both approach him, he shan’t be as likely to deny us, and we have waited long enough to be together.”
King cleared his throat, the notion of deceiving her settling uncomfortably in his gut. “It feels like an eternity, though I do believe your brother has been rightly concerned about your convalescence, my lady.”
“How odiously formal you sound, my love,” she teased softly. “Do call me Verity.” She hesitated, her brow furrowing as an expression of puzzlement tightened her features. “That is what you ordinarily call me, is it not?”
He felt an inexplicable pang in his chest at her confusion. King rubbed it discreetly, hoping it would go away. He was going to lie to her just now. It wouldn’t be the last time.
“I also call you angel,” he said, because he liked the way it sounded.
She was one after all. And he felt an odd sense of possession where she was concerned, sharpening like a blade.
He wanted something that only he called her.
Not whatever silly tripe her Lord Leopold had undoubtedly referred to her as.
Probably something stupid like his blossom or his rosebud or his sweet rabbit, King thought acidly.
Her confusion remained. “I don’t recall that. I’m so sorry, darling. I wish I could remember everything, but my mind has strange blank spaces inside it now, like the pages of a journal that have yet to be written upon, even though they were once filled.”
He reached for her hand, wanting to soothe her, and brought it to his lips for a chaste kiss. “You mustn’t worry. We shall fill the pages again together.”
The fretting faded, and she smiled, her fingers tightening on his. “Oh, I just knew you would say something to bring me cheer. You always do, don’t you?”
King was reasonably certain that the only cheer he had brought the fairer sex in as long as he could remember had been with his tongue, his hands, or his cock. But he refrained from saying so.
He smiled instead. “You are too kind to me, angel.”
Their fingers remained laced together. King was rather startled to realize he liked the way it felt, her smaller, softer hand in his.
He hadn’t touched a lady without seduction in mind in…
perhaps never, now that he thought upon it.
How strange to find he enjoyed such an unassuming connection.
That he relished the trust she placed in him. Trust that was richly undeserved.
“I shall be even kinder to you soon,” Lady Verity promised.
Was it his imagination, or was there a hint of wicked promise lingering in her words, in her gaze? Likely, it was his own depravity making him think so.
Either way, the door to the drawing room opened before he could respond, admitting Riverdale and his wife once more. Just as well. It wouldn’t have done for King to suffer from a cockstand in the presence of his old friend.
Bad enough he was cozening Riverdale’s sister into a marriage she thought was the one her heart was set upon.
King rose to his feet in deference to the duchess, who was positively radiant with happiness.
Whilst he couldn’t blame Riverdale for surrendering to the temptation his wife presented, King was nonetheless unimpressed that the duke hadn’t at least had the manners to avoid debauching his wife in the bloody shadows when a caller was present.
The bastard almost deserved what was about to unfold, given how ridiculously he’d behaved in recent months.
First, hiding the fact that he had a wife at all from their set and then stubbornly insisting he felt nothing for the duchess when the opposite had been obvious from the moment she’d stormed into their wicked house party.
King offered a courtly bow in the duchess’s direction. “Your Grace.”
Riverdale’s wife smiled, though her expression faltered when her gaze dipped to where King yet held Verity’s hand.
He liked the way it felt there. Not ensnared but protected.
He felt quite absurdly responsible for her at that moment, as if he would face a phalanx of enemy soldiers on his own if it meant saving her.
Not that she required saving. His angel was fashioned of determination, goodness, and steel.
All one needed as evidence was the way she had placed herself in danger to save the trapped orphans.
“Verity,” Riverdale acknowledged, his tone tight with rebuke. “Kingham.”
An amused smile crept upward on King’s lips. The longer he continued to hold Verity’s hand, the more vexed his friend grew. “The two of you enjoyed your turn about the gardens, I hope?”
“Very much so,” the duchess enthused, slanting a maudlin look in her husband’s direction. “Riverdale had a surprise for me that I couldn’t have fathomed.”
King felt vaguely ill. He could live a lifetime without ever having to contemplate Riverdale’s surprise.
He kept his smile in place with naught but sheer resolve. “A small surprise, to be sure.”
Riverdale’s eyes narrowed on him, and King imagined his chum was cataloguing a list of ways he might bring about King’s untimely demise. King’s searing jibe was lost upon the angelic Lady Verity, however, and the duchess appeared equally blissfully unaware.
“Why are you holding my sister’s hand, Kingham?” Riverdale bit out, apparently having reached the limitation of his patience.
Perhaps the taunt about the size of his manhood had been a bit much. But amusing, nonetheless.
Lady Verity looked to King. He felt her gaze upon him like a touch, a caress.
No, something more crucial. A benediction.
He turned to her, losing himself in her eyes.
For the first time, he realized they were not entirely the same as Riverdale’s, but unique and striking in their own way.
Cobalt rimmed her irises, flecks of silver dancing in the pale depths.
Here was his reckoning. Riverdale awaited his response.
Was King truly going to do this hideous, evil thing?
He had a moment to consider, to weigh the ramifications.
If he took Verity as his wife, there would be no going back.
Riverdale would never forgive him, even if he didn’t crush her tender heart to bits in the process.
Very likely, he ought to release his hold on her hand, to gently explain that he was not, nor had he ever been, her betrothed.
That she didn’t love him. That the paragon upon whom she had bestowed her innocent heart had been long moldering in the ground these last ten years. But something stopped him.
He hadn’t felt this alive.
Not once.
Not ever.
And King wanted, quite suddenly and with shocking clarity, to believe himself capable of being the man Lady Verity Saunders saw when she looked at him.
Even if it was another man’s ghost.
He turned back to Riverdale, a calm settling over him, sinking deep into the marrow of his bones and residing there. “Because your sister and I are getting married.”
Riverdale couldn’t have looked more alarmed if King had announced his intention to set himself aflame in the next ten seconds right there in the drawing room.
“The devil you are,” his friend said grimly. “I know you like your sallies, Kingham, but this one goes too far.”
Not nearly far enough, in King’s estimation.
This was not a lark. He was going to take Lady Verity as his wife—Hades stealing away with Persephone, et cetera. Yes, he rather liked the notion of that. Quite dramatic.
He held his friend’s gaze, unflinching. “It’s no joke.”
Indeed, he, who delighted in living his life as flippantly as possible, was more serious than he had ever been.
“Why would you think otherwise, brother?” Lady Verity asked, her eyes wide and guileless.
If King had possessed a soul, he might have experienced a twinge of guilt right then at the clear evidence of her confusion. The blow to her head had addled her wits beyond his ken. But he didn’t experience so much as a pinch.
“Yes,” King added calmly, making certain his face was expressionless. “Why would you think otherwise, old chum?”
Riverdale’s nostrils flared. “Because it isn’t—”
The duchess stayed his denial with a warning hand on his arm, halting his words. They exchanged a telling look.
“It looks as if the two of you have finished tea in our absence,” the duchess announced brightly. “Verity dearest, the physician has said you must rest often. Now that you and His Grace have had the opportunity to speak, perhaps you ought to have a lie down.”
The duchess had good intentions, King knew, but he bristled at her words.
She was treating Verity as if she were an invalid.
As if she didn’t know how to properly care for herself.
The Verity he had come to admire was not just capable and intelligent; she was fearless.
She didn’t require anyone to tell her what to do.