Chapter One #2
Following the reading of the will, whereby Verity—and Julian—had learned of her newly acquired property, Sylvester’s solicitor had packed up his briefcase and innocently—a little too-innocently, by Julian’s way of thinking—asked Verity if she didn’t intend to make Brighton her primary residence.
She’d looked momentarily taken aback. Then, she’d blithely replied that, yes, she would move from Penrose Abbey and settle there.
Julian should not have been surprised. And perhaps surprise was the wrong choice of word to describe how her coolly stated decision had affected him.
Gutted, poleaxed, decimated, seemed particularly apt. But surprised? No.
He simply had not considered that she might leave the abbey. In retrospect, of course, she would not choose to stay on. She would find the notion improper.
His lips twitched despite his raw insides. Verity epitomized the well-bred lady. She was elegant and refined, delicate and graceful, pristine in manner and speech—with just a touch of naughty thrown in for good measure.
He recalled the first time he’d laid eyes on her. Fifteen years of age and dragged by his father to the small chapel wedding of the widower Duke of Penrose, to act as two of only a handful of witnesses to the ceremony.
“A family responsibility”, his father called it. Julian called it boring in the extreme—’til he laid eyes on the duke’s bride. Nothing in his young life had prepared him for the sight of her.
Flaxen-blond hair piled high on her crown, heart-shaped face, a creamy complexion and a willowy form.
She looked nothing short of angelic standing up beside the barrel-chested Penrose with his hard, somber face and slate-colored hair.
Everything in Julian had rejected the notion of her being bound to the man—any man, for that matter, that wasn’t him.
It was three years before he saw her again.
After learning that his father intended to pay his cousin, the duke, a call prior to departing England for India, he’d begged to accompany him.
He’d been certain the visit would cure him of his unnatural fixation on his second cousin’s wife.
Obsession would not be putting too fine a point on it.
He’d expected, or perhaps hoped, despite his initial impression of her, he’d find Verity—as he thought of her—and with whom he’d never conversed on that first sighting, dull-witted, or gauche, or snooty, or boasting any number of objectionable characteristics that might scour her from the lauded position she held in his thoughts, seemingly ruining him for any other female.
In that, his hopes were dashed. The duchess was even more captivating at three and twenty than when he’d encountered her fresh from the schoolroom.
He knew better than to pine for another man’s wife, just as he knew he’d never, ever, shame himself or his father, nor disrespect the duke, by word or deed in regard to his devotion to her.
He could honestly say he never had, despite the fact that ten years ago, when the duke made his bid for Julian to apprentice under him, the lure of seeing her on a daily basis had proved too enticing for him to resist.
Ten years he’d made a home here, learning all about managing the ducal estates, undeterred by Verity occasionally urging him to go and sow his oats, and more than occasionally pressing him to go seek a bride.
In all that time, Penrose never acquired a son which left his elderly uncle, Julian’s grandfather, next in line for the dukedom.
The running joke in the family was that the virile, eighty-year-old man would outlive them all.
Late the following year, however, he had died of an apparent heart attack while bedding his mistress.
That put Julian’s father next in line to inherit.
Julian imagined himself assisting his father at some point in the distant future. Both he and Sylvester were hale and boasted hardy constitutions. Unfortunately, a year ago, Julian lost his seemingly indestructible parent to an illness he’d protracted in the East.
“Looks like you’ll wear the mantle, m’boy,” Penrose had told Julian after the funeral, adding with a mutter, “Unless Verity comes up to scratch.”
Julian’s insides had clenched in distaste, both at the thought of his mentor bedding Verity, and because he did not like the implication the problem of the duke’s dying line lie with Verity, when the weak link could as easily be Sylvester himself.
“I’ll just have to renew my efforts, I s’pose,” Penrose had said, eyeing Verity. “At least she’s not hard on the eyes, and she never complains about doing her duty by me.”
“Lucky you,” Julian had quipped for lack of anything better to say.
Penrose had laughed aloud. “We’ll find you a young one, then you’ll understand. I say, Attwell, you’ll attend some of the soirees this coming season, even if I have to drag you there m’self.”
“We could all relocate to the city for a time,” he’d murmured, glancing at Verity, deep in conversation with Julian’s mother, thinking how she might enjoy a stint in London. She would look beautiful under the glittering chandeliers. She would outshine every woman there.
Sylvester had studied him a long moment. “I think not,” he’d said finally.
That had been six months ago. Then, two weeks ago, the duke, a man Julian admired greatly even if he did harbor an unfair resentment of him for marrying Verity, had a freak riding accident whereby he’d broken his neck. He died instantly.
And so Julian had ascended to the title, something to which he’d never aspired.
In truth, he had grown to love the work under Sylvester’s tutelage, had grown to appreciate the challenges and complexity of the ducal role with its many inherent responsibilities. Julian knew what lay ahead for him in that regard, and, however daunting, felt well equipped to wear the mantle.
And then Verity announced her intention to leave and the ground fell from beneath his feet. Fool that he was, he’d somehow imagined her here, with him, as if their lives would go on, basically unchanged.
He supposed he could venture to London. He had parliamentary responsibilities there and could manage his Cornwall estates remotely.
But thanks to Sylvester’s gift, Verity would not be there, either. She would simply be gone, absent from his life in a matter of days.
Brighton. The choice of location was almost enough to make him wonder if Penrose had discerned Julian’s feelings and, with one masterful play, had made certain the two would be separated.
Verity, gone.
The thought was unimaginable. Unbearable. Yet, it was the reality of his situation unless he did something drastic.
He slammed a fist onto the desktop, then dropped his face in his hands.
The delicate sound of a throat clearing sent his heart racing in his chest. Lowering his hands, he surged to his feet.
Verity stood in the open doorway, a frown puckering her brows and her sky-blue eyes fixed on him in concern. “Julian, what is it? What is wrong?”
His mouth curved in a forced smile that felt more like a grimace. “Verity, thank you for joining me. I’m sorry to pull you from your packing. I know you wish to leave as soon as possible.” He could not help finishing on a clipped note. He’d tried. He hoped she was too preoccupied to notice.
Her concerned expression remained in place as she crossed toward him.
“As to my regrettable display, I apologize. An overreaction on my part regarding one of the…er…mines. Nothing that need concern you.”
A look of hurt flashed across her face, making him regret his made-up excuse. He knew she disliked having her opinions dismissed as irrelevant, something her husband had done far too often for Julian’s liking. But he could hardly admit to what troubled him.
“Please, sit.” He gestured to the armchair before the desk and waited as she lowered onto it. “I took the liberty of calling for tea. I know how you enjoy an afternoon cuppa.”
“That is most thoughtful,” she murmured as he strode for the tea cart.
He glanced back to see her smiling with undisguised delight, and felt his own mouth curve in an answering smile. He did so enjoy giving her pleasure.
“Did you wish to speak with me about something?” she asked as he filled two china cups.
He jerked in response, splashing tea haphazardly. Drawing a bolstering breath, he set the teapot aside to wipe up the spill.
“Yes, actually. I…er…” He broke off, delivering her cup before her on the desktop and placing his on the opposite side, then eased a hip onto the desk’s edge to study her. “How is your packing going?” he hedged.
“Thank you for the tea,” she said and sipped before issuing a self-deprecating laugh.
“As to that, I seem to have acquired an overabundance of things. The process of whittling down my belongings may take a bit longer than I anticipated, I’m afraid.
I hope you do not…that is, I do not mean to be a burden. ”
“You may stay as long as you like, Verity. I have no wish for you to leave.”
Her bottomless blue eyes widened a fraction and he realized what he’d said. “That is, I would be happy for you to continue residing here. I have made that plain, I hope?”
She planted her white teeth in her lower lip in a considering manner, then said, “You are too kind. But I cannot possibly take advantage of your generous nature. Especially now.”
He wanted to argue. Wanted to bloody insist she stay.
But their previous conversations on the matter had taught him the futility of trying.
So he straightened, marched around the desk to resume his seat, and eyed the letter on his desk.
Very carefully, he picked it up, folded it, and slid it into the top drawer.
Then, he folded his hands on the desk. “I’ve had a letter from the overseer whom I hired to ready your villa for your arrival.”
“Oh?” She lifted up her cup and saucer to chin height, then drew the delicate painted ceramic to her lips.
Blood pounded in his ears, nearly deafening him. “As it happens…”
“Yes?” The cup tinkled as she set it back in its saucer.
He clenched his jaw, as a war raged inside him. “There’s a problem,” he finally blurted.
She blinked at him. “What sort of problem, Julian?”
He held her ocean-blue gaze. “A fire swept down the entire block. Your villa. It’s uninhabitable, barring repairs. Though they will soon be underway, there is as yet no estimate as to when the dwelling will be inhabitable.”
“I see. I suppose I can return to London, to my parents’ home. Or, perhaps I can rent a flat while—”
“No,” he said, far too sharply by the look she aimed at him. Damn it, why hadn’t he considered she might come up with an alternate solution?
Very well, drastic measures it would be.
“That is, I have considered the matter and, as I believe your rationale for relocating has more to do with your sense of propriety than any true desire to leave what is, essentially, your home, I have a proposition that I believe will sort everything nicely.” He swallowed, and tried to think over the thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump of his blood, rushing through his veins.
She slanted him a wary look. “My imminent departure is not simply about propriety, Julian.”
“I beg your pardon?”
She licked her lips.
God, he loved those lips. The shape of them. The pink color. For so long he’d denied himself more than a glimpse. Now he drank in the sight.
“You’ll wish to wed soon,” she said softly. “Indeed, I had expected you to do so long before now, but Sylvester refused to let you part from his side long enough to attain a suitable bride.”
Not true. Sylvester had urged him to partake of the marriage mart more than once. Julian had refused. But he saw no reason to correct her as her point would be moot, soon enough.
“As to that, what I propose is…” He drew a bracing breath. “That we marry.”