Chapter 18
The ballroom was quiet, the servants all long since abed for the night, and the guests returned to their homes.
The evening had been a resounding success.
Thousands of pounds had been raised for the rebuilding of the Children’s Foundling Hospital.
The thin strains of dawn were beginning to creep across the windowpanes and steal across the floor.
Verity was exhausted, but she couldn’t go to sleep.
Now that her memory had returned, her mind was churning with so many thoughts, just as her heart was storm-tossed by so many confusing emotions. And so, she sat on a chair at the periphery of the room that had been abounding with revelers.
Alone.
If anyone had taken note of the absence of her diamond parure upon her return to the ball, they had wisely kept the observation to themselves.
Not even Sybil had asked why Verity had disappeared for so long, only to return wearing the golden locket at her throat, the sole gift she had ever received from Leo.
She hadn’t told her sister-in-law about the resurgence of her memory. Only she and King knew. Verity was still reeling with the effects herself; she hadn’t been ready to face anyone else, to answer questions. Especially not with her duty of playing hostess weighing so heavily upon her shoulders.
She hoped that she had played her role well. She had forced a smile and pretended as if her entire world as she had come to know it over the past few months hadn’t just fallen to pieces around her.
Likely, she ought to go to her bed. To get out of this blasted uncomfortable corset and these wretched slippers. But her bedroom was the last place she wanted to be just now. It was too near King, and she wasn’t sure she trusted herself enough to speak with him again just yet.
He had been the consummate gentleman, elegant perfection personified as they finished out the ball.
He had escorted her to supper, and she had promptly ignored him.
The dance she owed him had been forgotten.
Being in his arms had been more than she could bear, especially before an audience.
After the last of their guests departed, she had remained with the servants under the guise of overseeing their various clean-up tasks.
King had lingered, sending her searching looks she had also avoided, until finally retiring alone.
And now, hours later, here she was in the shadows, every bit as bewildered and miserable as she had been on the floor of her bedroom, surrounded by Leo’s love letters.
“You’re still dressed.”
She started at the voice, so familiar and once beloved.
Still beloved?
Verity hardly knew what she felt for the man she had married. So many things.
She turned to find King hovering at the threshold, yet wearing his evening attire. “As are you.”
“I was waiting for you.”
“You should not have,” she said, her voice cool.
He had been lying to her, she reminded herself. All this time.
King sauntered forward. “I hoped we might speak.”
She rose from her chair, on edge. “What else do we have to say to one another?”
“A great deal, I should think. We are husband and wife after all. Unless you have forgotten?”
Her chin went up at his jab. “Of course I have not forgotten. I know all too well that you deceived me into marrying you.”
Nor could she forget all the intimacies they had known together.
The unspeakable pleasures he had shown her.
King stopped close enough to touch, so near that his intoxicating scent wrapped around her.
Although her heart was bruised and battered, not daring to trust him, her body had other ideas.
He still had the ability to make her want him more than she wanted her next breath.
He frowned at her. “If I asked you to marry me now, in this moment, what would your answer be?”
“No,” she bit out hastily, even though she wasn’t sure.
Their marriage had been a happy one, just as she had reassured her family, who had been tiptoeing about her memory loss and subsequent confusion.
He flinched as if she had struck him. “These last weeks we have spent together have meant nothing to you, then, angel?”
Now it was her turn to flinch. “Don’t call me that.”
It felt too painful, too personal.
She didn’t want him to call her by a pet name. She didn’t even want to face him now. She wanted… Oh, she didn’t know what she wanted. She had never been more confused.
“Fine, then,” he said, his jaw tense. “Has the time we have spent together as husband and wife meant nothing to you, Verity? All the nights you’ve spent in my bed, in my arms, the passion we’ve shared, has it been meaningless?”
“Of course it hasn’t,” she admitted, hating herself for her weakness. “But it was all founded in lies, and nothing you say or do can change that.”
“Do you hate me?”
The question took her by surprise. She wanted to hate him. It would be easier if she did. Easier if he hadn’t told her he loved her. She wasn’t sure if she trusted his word. He had already deceived her into marrying him. She didn’t know what manner of man he truly was.
That is a lie, said a voice within her. You know just what manner of man King is.
She thought of his open, easy affection for Emma. His patience. Thought of the love he’d had for his daughter. He was a good man. But why did he manipulate her into this untenable marriage?
“Answer me,” he said harshly. “Do you hate me?”
“No,” she forced out. “I wish that I did, but I don’t.”
He gave her a self-deprecating smirk. “Well, there is that at least.”
“If you wanted to marry me, why not wait until I regained my memory? Why not court me?” she asked, needing to know.
So many questions had whirled in her mind as she sat here alone, compounding among those that had sprung forth during the ball. All of them unanswered.
“I saw the way you loved him.” His gaze was dark and glittering in the shadows, his handsome mien impossibly grave as he studied her.
“And suddenly, that love was all being directed at me, and I found that I wanted it very much. It seemed a pity for someone as kindhearted and lovely and clever as you to wither away pining for a dead man.”
It was almost impossible for Verity to fathom that a man as sought-after as the Duke of Kingham would be envious of the love she’d had for Leo. That he would want to take it for himself.
“But you and I were friends and nothing more. You…you handed me a handkerchief at a ball and took me on a few drives. We were never in love. None of it makes sense.”
“It didn’t matter to me if we were in love or not at that point. I had taken his place in your thoughts and heart, and I liked it there.”
He was deadly earnest.
“You don’t regret what you did,” she said, trying to understand yet again.
“My sole regret is hurting you. I never wanted to do that.” He reached for her as he had before in her bedroom, and this time, she didn’t shrink away from his touch.
Because she wanted it, heaven help her.
He cupped her face, trailing his thumb in a gentle caress over her cheekbone.
She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the connection, her body alive and yearning for him.
How she wished she could forget anew, erase from her mind the memories that had restored themselves.
For then she wouldn’t feel this wretched sense of betrayal twice over—the betrayal she had dealt to Leo’s memory and the way King had betrayed her.
She forced her eyes open, hating the stark anguish she saw reflected on his face now that his guard was down. He wore a mask for everyone else. But for her, he was vulnerable. He had been open with her, raw and honest in every way, save the one that now counted the most.
“You didn’t think that keeping the truth from me would hurt me?” she forced herself to ask him, her voice breaking.
Verity was a woman torn. Torn between two lifetimes, two different men. One naught but a cherished memory and the other blood, flesh, and bone, sinfully handsome and tempting before her.
“I knew it would,” King conceded, “and I knew I would have to tell you, but I am a selfish, greedy fool for you, Verity. I wanted every last second I could have of you looking at me as if I’m a man who deserves you and your love.”
His confession shattered the dam inside her, the one she had promised herself she would not allow to break again. Tears came, hot and stinging, in a rush she couldn’t contain. They coursed down her cheeks.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you for what you’ve done,” she managed past the sobs welling in her throat.
“Don’t weep, my love. I can’t bear it. I’m not worth your tears. I never was.” He wiped the tears away with his thumb and caught the others with his lips, kissing them away.
But still, more came. Because she didn’t know who she was any longer.
It was as if she had been split into two, the old Verity and the new Verity.
The old Verity couldn’t abide what the new had done, even if she had been confused by the loss of some of her memories.
The new Verity didn’t want to let go of the life she had begun to build with King and Emma. She didn’t want to let go of the love.
Slowly, as if giving her time to resist or shove him away, he took her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as she wept for all she had lost and all she had gained, only to lose it again.
She knew she should resist, but she was weak and weary, and it felt so good to be held, even if it was by a man she didn’t dare trust. A man to whom she was bound inextricably.
Her husband.
“I want to hate you,” she whispered against his chest as he stroked her hair.
“I hate me more than you ever could, angel,” he murmured.
This time, she didn’t bother to correct his sobriquet for her, one that had been beloved to her until she had discovered the truth and her world as she knew it had shattered. They stood there, locked in each other’s arms as the sun continued to rise, bleak and certain over London once again.