Chapter 5
King was in the midst of being shaved when a knock sounded on his chamber door. Ordinarily, no one dared interrupt his morning ablutions, which were a sacred time in the household. It was generally understood that, unless the town house was aflame, no one was to intrude upon his daily routine.
Which meant that either the interloper wanted to get sacked, or the circumstances necessitating the knock were quite dire. Hutchens hesitated, mid-stroke of the razor, looking comically torn between continuing to perform King’s morning shave and answering the door.
The knocking intensified, and King sighed. “You may as well see who it is.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Hutchens placed his razor on the nearby silver tray along with the various other accoutrements he kept neatly arranged for the purpose of tending to King’s morning preparations.
As his valet moved to the door to determine what was so pressing that it couldn’t wait, King remained seated, his mind traveling, inevitably, to his new wife.
Verity was more potent than any elixir he had ever crafted for his chums during their days of decadence and debauchery.
Making love to her far exceeded the pale imaginings he had conjured as they had waited to wed.
In the end, it hadn’t mattered that he had failed to prolong her seduction or slowly introduce her to the pleasures of the flesh.
What mattered was that the two of them were incendiary together.
Even if he remained troubled by the way she continued to recall fractured memories of her past. And even if she did continue to conflate King with her beloved Lord Leopold.
His pride didn’t care for the latter. But then, he had known what he was doing, taking the place of a dead man.
He simply hadn’t expected it to sting so bloody much.
Nor had he expected her memory to begin returning so soon.
Or to worry about what would happen should it be entirely restored.
King sighed again at the thought. The skin on his face, lathered with shaving soap that had begun to dry, felt as if it might crack at any moment. He drummed his fingers on his thigh, trying to make out the hushed words between Hutchens and whoever was at his door to distract himself.
It wouldn’t do to fret over what couldn’t be changed. Besides, there remained the possibility that Verity would never regain her full memory. In that eventuality, he would emerge unscathed. He ignored the tiny pang of his conscience at the notion. What Verity didn’t know could not hurt her.
Hutchens closed the door and crossed the chamber to resume his shaving duties, wincing as he did so.
“Well?” King asked, growing impatient and irritated with himself for allowing his mind to wander to places it shouldn’t. “What is it?”
“I regret to inform you that His Grace, the Duke of Riverdale, is awaiting you below in the drawing room, Your Grace,” Hutchens reported.
Riverdale? What the devil was he doing here? Surely the man knew that King and Verity were meant to leave London this afternoon for Wingfield Hall. They didn’t need further intrusion.
“It’s half past eleven in the bloody morning,” King snapped, thoroughly vexed with his friend.
Former friend, he inwardly amended. For Riverdale had been abundantly clear on where he stood.
Which was a whole lot of rot, in King’s opinion.
Their chum, Richford, had damned well seduced fellow friend Whitby’s innocent sister, and after coming to blows, Whit had forgiven him.
Meanwhile, King had been a consummate gentleman toward Verity—until yesterday, of course—and Riverdale refused to cry pax.
Hutchens inclined his head, taking up his razor once more. “I am aware, Your Grace.”
“The day after my wedding.”
The word felt like a barb on King’s tongue. Wedding. Wrong, somehow. He hadn’t thought he would ever marry, and now here he was, a staid husband who bedded his wife on their wedding night like a proper lord ought to do.
Except nothing about last night had felt like duty.
No.
Last night had been shattering in the very best possible way, nothing short of splendid. Utterly terrifying too. He was no innocent lad. His reputation had been earned. But he had never, in all his years as a shameless rake, experienced the kind of passion he’d known with Verity.
And this morning? It had been miraculous. Not only was she perfectly matched to him in bed, her sensual nature a delightful surprise, but they also possessed a rare ease between them.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Hutchens said.
And King remembered, belatedly, that they had been speaking of Riverdale’s uninvited and unexpected arrival at his town house.
“I hope someone told him to go back home and return at a more polite hour,” King grumbled, trying to hold still so that his valet didn’t nick his skin as he shaved his jaw. “No one is better at browbeating someone into submission than Pierpont.”
“I do believe Pierpont tried,” Hutchens allowed. “However, His Grace refused to leave. Pierpont was most displeased, as you can imagine.”
“The cheek. Did Riverdale say why he has called?”
“To see to the welfare of Her Grace.” Hutchens ran the razor over King’s cheek in a fluid stroke. “Something about wanting to pay a call to his sister prior to the departure to Wingfield Hall for the honeymoon.”
Blast Riverdale. Yes, Verity was his sister, but she was now King’s wife. Who did he think he was to intrude upon King’s household and refuse to leave?
“Are you certain we cannot be rid of him by any means, fair or foul?” he growled, irritated by the intrusion.
King wanted to enjoy his new bride, damn it.
He didn’t want the reminder of what he’d had to lose to gain her, or the carefully orchestrated deceptions he’d had to engage in.
He didn’t want Riverdale meddling or otherwise trying to sow discontent.
Because surely that was his reason for calling, was it not? What could he hope to gain?
“Perhaps it would be best for you to meet with His Grace,” Hutchens suggested.
“A timely release of kitchen mice in the drawing room,” King considered. “Or perhaps a visit from Mrs. Sendall’s old flatulent dog would do. Feed the mongrel a joint of beef first and then set him free.”
It still rather stung that the housekeeper’s deaf old mongrel had outlived King’s own beloved Spy, who had seemingly been in impeccable shape until he’d grown ill.
King blinked furiously to dismiss the burning in his eyes at the reminder of his canine companion, gone too soon.
The dog was buried in the gardens beneath a statue King had commissioned for just such a purpose after Spy’s death.
Yes, Riverdale having to attend to Dash’s stinking clouds would be most amusing.
“Perhaps both the mice and the hound,” he mused, quite liking the notion.
“I’m not certain Her Grace would approve,” Hutchens observed politely, finishing his task.
“No, I don’t suppose she would.” Verity would likely be most displeased if he set kitchen mice and a windy dog upon her brother.
Hutchens laid a cool, scented compress on King’s jaw, soothing the freshly shaved skin.
“It is good of you to consider Her Grace’s feelings on the matter,” he added wryly. “It would seem I am not possessed of sufficient wits to do so myself. Perhaps it was my delight over the notion of Riverdale beset with rodents and farts.”
If Hutchens thought King’s commentary amusing, he gave no indication. His countenance was as serious as ever.
“Matrimony is yet a new state to you, Your Grace,” he said. “In time, undoubtedly you shall consider Her Grace first in all matters.”
King closed his eyes, trying to relax and savor the compress’s medicinal qualities. “I don’t know about that. I’m rather a selfish bastard, Hutchens. That’s why I married her in the first place.”
Not that his valet knew the full truth surrounding the circumstances of his marriage to Verity.
No one did, save King himself. And Verity, if she were to remember.
His eyes flew open at the thought, his resolve to face Riverdale in the drawing room returning.
He couldn’t very well hide away in his chamber all day like a frightened lad.
He didn’t fear Riverdale. He would seize the opportunity to distract from his inconvenient conscience, which had apparently chosen to reemerge from the ethers at the most inopportune moment.
“You are not selfish, Your Grace,” his valet countered politely.
“You are required to defend me, Hutchens,” he drawled. “I am aware of that. Spare me the requisite words of praise. I shan’t give you the sack.”
Because he was an exceedingly wise man, Hutchens removed the compresses and continued cleaning the razor without a word. King finished the rest of his morning rituals and dressed, determined to send Riverdale on his way.
Verity was feeling quite happy with her life and indeed all the world as she descended the elaborately curved staircase to the drawing room at Castelyn House.
She was wildly in love with her husband.
Life with King thus far had exceeded all expectations.
And good, sweet heavens—the pleasures he had shown her.
She had believed herself reasonably well-versed in what happened between a man and a woman. How very wrong she had been. Indeed, it was her good fortune that she had been so mistaken, for otherwise she wouldn’t have endured the two months before they had wed.
With a secret smile, she reached for the locket that was never far from her throat, only to realize she must have left it in her husband’s bedchamber. She would have to fetch it before they left later for their honeymoon. The thought of being without her beloved locket did not sit well with Verity.
But she continued on anyway, because she had a far more pressing concern at the moment. Much to her delight, her brother had paid her an unexpected call.
Likely, Everett wished to see her off before her honeymoon, she decided as she made her way to the chamber where he awaited her. How kind of him.