Chapter 12
Verity had never been prouder of her husband than when she stood at his side whilst he gifted Emma the doll that had once been meant for Daphne.
Emma’s eyes lit up, her mouth falling open as she saw the doll with its finely sculpted and painted porcelain face and long blonde hair not so very different from her own.
“That’s a lovely doll, Yer Grace,” Emma breathed, reaching out as if she intended to touch the doll and then swiftly retracting her small hand as if she recalled her manners.
“She’s yours now,” King told the girl gently.
He was crouched before her, much as he had been when Verity had found him earlier in the attic, surrounded by carefully packed wooden crates.
When he’d had the tiny lace bonnet his daughter had worn in one hand and tears on his cheeks.
For a moment, she had feared she had overstepped yet again, intruding upon a painful moment that wasn’t meant for her to see.
But she had been worried when Mrs. Sendall shrewdly mentioned that His Grace had gone to the attic.
There had been no reason for him to go there save one.
Dukes did not wander about in attics without cause.
She had feared his grief would once more send him to a dark and lonely place, the same place he had gone the night she had ventured to the nursery.
But this time, instead of pushing her away, he had accepted her comfort. He had not hidden the vulnerable part of himself from her. The decision to gift Emma with the doll could not have been an easy one, Verity knew, and she was proud of him for it.
“The doll is mine?” Emma repeated in disbelief. “No, she can’t be. I’ve never seen a doll wot’s as pretty as ’er.”
“Now you shall see her every day,” King said, smiling. “For she is yours. A gift from Lady Vitty and myself.”
Verity smiled warmly at his words, noting he had used Emma’s incorrect form of address for her. Bringing the child here with them had been the right choice, she thought, for all three of them.
“Oh, thank you,” the girl breathed, reaching out again, this time to gently stroke the doll’s hair.
“What shall you name her?” Verity asked.
“Annabelle,” she said instantly, as if she had been waiting for the moment.
“A lovely name indeed,” King intoned seriously, as if it were every day he held conversations about the names of dolls with six-year-old girls.
He would make a fine father, Verity thought proudly.
His devotion to his daughter was admirable.
It was no secret that most gentlemen who kept mistresses didn’t care about what happened to any illegitimate offspring who arose from their trysts.
But King had cared enough to bring the babe to his home, risking scandal, and he had been so devastated over her death that he had been unable to face the nursery and the belongings of hers left in it for years.
And his gentleness with Emma was nothing short of adorable.
The way he lowered himself to her height, the way he listened to her as if she were his equal instead of a child, meant to be seen and not heard, and how he had welcomed her into his home, all had made their indelible marks upon Verity’s heart.
She hadn’t thought it possible to love him even more than she already did, but here was proof before her.
“You may take her,” King invited Emma when she still seemed too hesitant to accept the doll.
It occurred to Verity that the girl had likely never received a gift before.
Little wonder she didn’t know how to accept one.
The notion broke Verity’s heart. How she wished she could take all the orphans under her wing as she had Emma, impossible though she knew that was.
The most she could do was continue to raise funds for the orphanage and volunteer in any way she could.
Emma reached for the doll with wide eyes, touching her as if she were fashioned of pure gold and the rarest of gems, rather than padding, fabric, and porcelain hands, feet, and a face. Slowly, she took the doll into her arms, holding her to her heart.
“I loves ’er, Yer Grace,” Emma said, awe lacing her voice.
“Perhaps she can wear your Mama’s locket,” he suggested kindly, “and then you shall never again have it lost.”
“Oh yes,” the girl agreed. “Annabelle shall wear Mama’s locket round ’er neck always. She shan’t ever take it off.”
“How lovely that will look,” Verity added. “And an excellent idea too.”
“But I don’t know if she can when I get to the orphanage,” Emma said, frowning. “I reckon I’ll have to leave Annabelle ’ere.”
Verity shared a glance with King, who nodded.
“Emma,” she began slowly, “His Grace and I were wondering if you would like to remain here with us at Castelyn House instead of returning to the orphanage when it’s rebuilt.”
Emma’s golden brows rose. “Ye wants me to stay?”
Verity nodded. “Yes, we do. If you would like to, that is.”
“Can Annabelle stay too?” she asked, her eyes still wide.
“Of course,” King reassured her, smiling fondly. “Both of you shall.”
Emma’s head bobbed up and down. “Yes, then. We’ll stay. We like it ’ere.” She looked down at her new doll. “Don’t we, Annabelle?”
King cocked his head and regarded the child with grave seriousness. “I’m afraid I couldn’t hear what Annabelle said. Does she like it here as well?”
“She’s a quiet one, she is,” Emma replied, nodding. “But she said she does.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Miss Emma,” King said.
The girl curtsied, and he rose to his feet, offering her an elegant bow as if she were a princess before him rather than a six-year-old orphaned girl with an accent that betrayed her East End roots.
Emma giggled happily, a rare, joyous sound Verity hadn’t heard since before the fire.
King grinned back down at her, unbearably handsome.
And that precise moment, as he paid court to a small child and opened his bruised and battered heart to her, was when Verity fell in love with her husband for the second time.
“Where are we going?” Verity asked, all bright enthusiasm and sunshine from the carriage squabs opposite him.
King couldn’t contain his own smile at her eagerness. “You shall see.”
She sighed dramatically. “Why must it be a surprise?”
“Because I like surprises.”
“What if I don’t?”
He chuckled. “You like everything, angel.”
She pouted. “Not everything, if you will recall.”
“Fish,” he remembered. “But I cannot think of a single other thing.”
“I also dislike wet stockings,” she declared.
“I shall add that to my list.”
Her lips curled. “And the scent of horse dung.”
“Blast. I have a habit of carrying it about in my pockets. I reckon I shall have to stop doing so.”
Verity laughed, then bit her lower lip, trying to appear stern. “Yes, you really must halt that at once. I cannot love a man who carries horse dung about.”
He laughed with her. Verity’s effervescence was contagious.
He felt dangerously, alarmingly happy, sharing the carriage with her as it swayed over the wet London streets.
Happier than he deserved to be. Happier than he had ever been.
But with that happiness came the sobering reminder that all it would take to dismantle his world was Verity’s memory returning to her.
Were that to happen, she would never forgive him.
He ruthlessly tamped that down, not wanting to allow it to ruin the surprise he had planned for her.
“Am I permitted to guess where you are taking me?” she asked now, dragging him from his thoughts.
“You may guess, but there is no guarantee that I shall answer.”
“King.”
He grinned. “I like the way my name sounds on your lips. Particularly when you’re coming.”
Her eyes widened. “Sir. That was most shockingly forward of you.”
But despite her words, her voice was breathy. He spied the wickedness in her eyes, and it lit an answering fire within him. Suddenly, his surprise for her was the furthest thing from his mind.
“I could be more forward than that.”
Her brow rose. “Oh? I don’t think you possibly could be.”
He moved swiftly to join her on her side of the carriage, crowding her with his body. King leaned down, his lips grazing her ear as he spoke, the scent of roses and bergamot surrounding him, making molten and thick desire course through his veins.
“Do you dare to doubt me?”
“I think perhaps you shall have to show me how forward you can be.”
His cock went hard. He wanted her so badly. Needed her like he required air. He had never thought he would become lost so helplessly in Verity’s thrall. And yet, here he was. Nary a regret.
A glance through the Venetian blinds on the carriage window told him they wouldn’t arrive at their destination for another few minutes. He had time.
King caught the tip of his glove in his teeth and yanked it off before tossing it on the bench seat he had just left. Then he kissed her ear before tonguing the hollow behind until she shivered.
“If you want me to show you, pull up your skirts, angel.”
Without hesitation, she grasped her silk promenade gown in both hands and lifted it to her lap, revealing her stockinged ankles and shapely calves peeping from below her frilled undergarments.
So many layers kept him from what he wanted.
But he hadn’t the time to undress her anyway.
Thank Christ for the split in her drawers.
He could still have her, just not as fully as he would have preferred.
“What now, Your Grace?” she asked, her voice husky and laden with desire.
“Spread those pretty legs for me.”
Her lips parted and she tipped her head back against the squabs, giving King access to a delectable expanse of her throat. He kissed her there, absorbing the frantic beat of her pulse. God, she smelled good. And her skin was so soft.
“Like this?” she asked, her thighs slowly gliding apart.
The minx.