Chapter 1 #2
Those words had been recited to her from a poem, she thought.
But who had written the poem? And who had spoken the words to her?
Something about the hands holding hers in the memory was different.
Had she walked along a stream with King?
His capable hands seemed so much larger than the hands from her memory, so much stronger.
“Verity?” Everett prodded gently.
“Samuel Taylor Coleridge,” she blurted, the poet who had written those beautiful words occurring to her suddenly.
The poem in question was called “Love.”
“Are you feeling well?” Everett asked, looking at her as if she had gone mad.
She blinked, and as quickly as it had descended upon her, the fleeting memory was gone. “Quite well, thank you. I was merely thinking of a poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. I could recall the words, but not his name.”
“What does that have to do with what we were speaking about?”
She frowned, for once again, her curious mind was empty. “What were we discussing?”
“Kingham professing his undying love and devotion to you.”
“You know he isn’t an effusive man.”
Everett’s nostrils flared as they tended to do whenever he was displeased. “Try again, sister. Think about Lord Leopold.”
She stared at her brother, inwardly willing herself to remember, but as always, there was simply nothingness where her memories had once dwelled.
It was frustrating, but nothing could be done.
The physician had suggested that time would likely aid in the restoration of her past. But she wasn’t convinced.
Such injuries were unusual. The physician had only seen one other like it that had resulted in the loss of memory Verity suffered.
“I don’t remember him, Everett,” she said quietly. “Please, you must accept that I may never again be the Verity you knew before the fire. A part of me is missing, burned to ash with those flames.”
Her voice faltered as emotion welled up within her. Frustration, sadness, confusion. More than anything, she wanted to be happy. She wanted her brother to be happy for her. Wanted him to accept her impending marriage with King.
“Pray don’t weep, sister,” Everett relented as he reached for her, patting her arm in a consoling manner. “You know I cannot bear it when you do.”
Yes, she did. But her emotions were not as easy to control these days as they had once been. Tears pricked at her eyes now, her vision blurring until they overflowed and slipped down her cheeks.
“Verity,” he protested, his voice gruff.
“I’m sorry. I know you have been through a great deal these last few months.
I shouldn’t have been so stern with you.
It is only that you are my sister and I love you.
It’s my duty to protect you, and I cannot help but to feel as if I’m failing you miserably in allowing you to wed Kingham. ”
“He loves me,” she insisted.
Because he did. Kingham had given her the locket she wore at her throat.
He had told her he would love her always.
That marrying her and making her his wife would be the greatest honor of his life.
And he had saved her from the fiery depths of the Children’s Foundling Hospital.
He had carried her in his arms to safety.
They were the actions of a man who loved her. A gallant knight who had rushed to her rescue with no fear for his own welfare. Who had saved her. He was all she could think about ever since. Marrying him. Loving him. Beginning their life together. And now, at long last, the time had finally come.
“I hope he does love you,” Everett said, his countenance serious and stern. “If he hurts you in any way, I’ll thrash him to within an inch of his life.”
Verity dashed at her tears with the back of her hand before recalling the handkerchief she kept with her always, tucked into the pocket hidden in the skirts of her gown. She extracted it and used it to dry her cheeks, her thumb rubbing over the embroidered initials on the square of linen.
PSC.
King had given it to her. Those letters stood for his given name, Peregrine Septimus Castelyn. A mouthful, to be sure. Little wonder he chose to go by King instead.
“He shan’t hurt me,” she told her brother firmly.
“I wish I could be as certain,” Everett countered, his tone as grim as his expression.
“How can he possibly do so?” Verity smiled, confident. “We will be exceedingly happy together. You shall see.”
“You deserve nothing less, sister.”
And although Verity read the sadness in her brother’s eyes, mirroring the wariness in his voice, she was firm in her belief. Tomorrow was the day she had been awaiting.
The day she would marry the man she so desperately loved.
It was done.
Verity was his.
His wife, his duchess.
King felt the knowledge settle into his bones, becoming a part of him.
He had never been responsible for another soul in such fashion before, aside from his beloved dog, Spy, who had been gone for a few months now.
He still felt a burning deep in his chest at the thought of the hound who had been his steadfast companion for nearly all his adult years.
He had done it, this seemingly impossible feat.
He, Peregrine Septimus Castelyn, the tenth Duke of Kingham, who had once avowed he would never marry or carry on the family line, had wed the innocent sister of one of his best friends.
Granted, best friend no longer, as Riverdale had repeatedly warned him whenever their paths had crossed, the menace and underlying threats growing with each successive meeting.
King had lost his old chum. But how to explain?
His desire to possess Verity surpassed his need to maintain a friendship that had served him for many years.
It defied logic, he well knew.
And yet, King thought as the carriage he shared with his new duchess crept along busy London roads to Castelyn House, it was so. He had never denied himself what he wanted, and he wasn’t about to begin now.
They had married in the church of her mother’s choosing before their friends and family, including every member of the Wicked Dukes Society and their rapidly growing families.
The wedding breakfast had been hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Riverdale, the dowager duchess presiding as only a well-pleased matchmaking mama could.
Her smiles had been endless, and why should they not be?
Her daughter, who had consigned herself to spinsterhood and a lifetime pining over a long-dead betrothed, had landed a fine marital prize.
King was no fool. He knew that any number of ladies had set their caps at him.
He was wealthy, handsome, and a duke. He was sought-after, despite his unsavory reputation as a voluptuary.
He could have had any woman he desired as his bride this last decade.
And yet, he had not wanted a single one of them.
He had wanted Verity, however.
Enough to be seated in the carriage at her side, her gloved hand in his.
“You are quiet,” he observed to his bride. “Is something on your mind?”
“It has been a long morning,” she answered, smiling softly at him in the way she reserved for King alone.
It was a smile that never failed to make him feel as if he were indeed a king in truth rather than merely in sobriquet alone.
If this was the manner in which she had gazed upon Lord Leopold, as if he had personally stitched each star to the velvet of the night sky for her delight alone, it was a miracle the poor bastard had died.
It was enough to have King seeking eternal life.
“Your mother was pleased,” he told Verity lightly, striving to keep her happy and distracted.
And to keep himself from ravishing her in the carriage.
In her perfectly fitted gown, she was even more lovely than he could have imagined she would be.
Her white silk was adorned with Honiton lace and sprays of purple silk flowers, which had also been threaded through her hair.
Rose brooches encrusted in diamonds decorated her bodice, and a matching bracelet was on her wrist. At her throat, she wore her customary gold locket because, as she had said, it was a gift from him.
King wished she hadn’t. The locket was from Lord Leopold, and when King looked at it, the jewelry served as a pointed remonstration. A reminder he had stepped into a dead man’s shoes and taken his place in not just Verity’s memories, but her affections as well.
She laughed lightly, unaware of his tumultuous thoughts and the tension stiffening his shoulders.
“Maman was thrilled. She said something to me that I found quite curious, however, even for her.”
“Oh?” he asked, grateful for the distraction.
Her bodice was enticingly low. She was an alluring combination of angelic and wicked. He wanted to debauch her, right here in the carriage. Of course, he could not do so. She was his wife, and she was also an innocent. He’d have to settle for polite conversation instead.
“She said she had questioned if I would ever find a place in my heart for another,” Verity continued, her forehead wrinkled, “but she was relieved that I had. She also suggested that I had vowed never to marry. That doesn’t sound like something I would say, does it?
Not when we have had an understanding for so long. ”
They were creeping into territory that was vaguely unpleasant. He didn’t like lying to her any more than he already had.
King shifted on the squabs, wishing his neckcloth hadn’t been tied so bloody tightly by his exceptional valet that morning. But then, Hutchens had been intent upon turning him out to perfection for his nuptials.
“I wouldn’t concern yourself with it too much, angel,” he reassured her. “Your mother was likely overset, her joy at seeing her beloved daughter married leading to her saying things she otherwise would not have.”
Verity’s eyes were on his, open and earnest. “You are right, I’m sure, darling.”
Darling.
He wondered if that had been her pet name for Lord Leopold. Either way, it was King’s name now. The poor bastard would no longer have any need of it. King didn’t want to think about that either.
“I am right about a great many things, you know,” he teased, bringing her hand to his lips for a kiss.
About choosing to marry her? That remained to be seen.
It had been a sudden decision, like much of his life. He preferred spontaneity to predictability, excitement to ennui, the interesting to the boring, passion to indifference.
“Of course you are.” The adoring look she gave him was enough to make his cock twitch.
He released her hand, lest he be tempted to haul her into his lap and do unspeakable things to her—like consummate their marriage on the way home from their wedding breakfast. He had restraint. He was not a beast, he reminded himself.
At least, not entirely.
King cleared his throat. “Thank you, my dear.”
“When do you think we shall send for Emma?” she asked then, her mind traveling to the orphan girl she had been so determined to save the day of the fire that she’d nearly lost her own life.
Ah, the child.
Although he was not impervious to the plight suffered by the orphans, and Lady Verity herself had inspired him to donate quite generously to the Children’s Foundling Hospital, he didn’t savor the notion of bringing a girl into his household.
He had never cared for children. Not since Daphne.
He wasn’t entirely sure he could stomach the presence of one in his home, beneath the same roof.
His own childhood had been bloody wretched. What could he possibly offer a child?
“Do you not think she is happy where she is?” he suggested mildly. “The poor dear has already experienced so much upheaval. She seems contented at Riverdale’s town house.”
“But I promised her that she would come to us,” Verity protested, a dismayed expression crossing her features. “She is well enough where she is, but that is not where she wishes to remain.”
“How soon shall the orphanage be rebuilt?”
Verity’s brows drew together. “Do you not wish for her to live with us?”
Caught.
He forced a smile. “Of course I do, angel. Your little poppet can join you whenever it pleases you.”
If the child stayed out from underfoot, he supposed he could endure her presence. They would hire a nurse for the girl. One who understood children were meant to be seen and not heard. One who would keep the child tucked away from him.
“When we return from our honeymoon,” she suggested. “I don’t want her to be alone in London whilst we are away.”
They were taking a week-long sojourn to Wingfield Hall in celebration of their nuptials.
Not a true honeymoon, but it would have to do.
Riverdale had been insistent that they refrain from traveling abroad since Verity was still recovering from her injuries.
King had decided not to argue that particular point.
He had what he wanted most—Verity. And he would take her to Wingfield Hall if it was the price to be paid for securing his prize.
Oh, how he could not wait to debauch her.
Slowly.
With great pleasure. It would be perhaps the greatest achievement of his life.
“King?” she prodded, reminding him that they had been speaking of the girl child again.
“I shall defer to your decision on the matter,” he said.
“Thank you, my love,” she told him, her heart in her eyes.
King didn’t know quite how to respond to such candid, unaffected emotion, so he looked away, directing his attention out the window instead. If his new wife took note, she showed no concern. They proceeded to the town house, Verity’s pleasant chatter filling the silence.