Chapter 6 #2
Her cheeks flamed at the thought of his body. But what manner of man braved the Northumberland winter barely dressed, with no sign of emergency or complaint? And how had she, who prided herself on the armor of her wit, melted so quickly into the kiss he offered?
Demanded?
Lady Blackfen watched her, an amused predator waiting for the mouse to show itself.
“You are flushed enough to toast bread upon, child. You are thinking of something you do not wish to admit. Is it my son’s eyes or his mouth?
Or perhaps his hands. Men with large strong hands are dangerous, Miss Hale.
They are either saints or devils, and you must never trust a man who claims to be both. ”
Verity tried to summon her composure. “Lord Blackfen is very kind, my lady, and I owe him a great deal. But I am here to serve you. I would never presume?—”
“Oh, hush.” The dowager rolled her eyes.
“I am not blind, Miss Hale. I was young once and much worse than you. There was a Christmas, before the war, when half the officers from the garrison descended for a week. I seduced two of them, though I never lost my virtue, mind you. I just had them willing to give up whatever virtue they had left, if any, and then I simply walked off. If I could have managed three, I would have.”
Verity covered her mouth with her hand, shocked into laughter.
“I see you are not as innocent as you sometimes look,” Lady Blackfen said approvingly.
“Good. There is hope for you yet. Now, let me tell you something about wolves. Every wolf, even one without a pack, has a mate somewhere. And when a wolf finds that mate, there is no moral code or human decency strong enough to keep it from the claiming.”
“I am not sure that is a … comfort, my lady,” Verity managed.
“Oh, no. It is a fact of nature. My own late husband, as dull as he was in all things, was a ferocious in the bedchamber. Do you know what it is to be claimed, Miss Hale?”
Verity felt the question inside her. She wanted, with a desperation that shocked her, to be claimed.
She wanted Lucien to claim her. She wanted to feel his mouth again, wanted the press of his body, the bright, wild ache he had conjured in her.
She wanted it so badly she could barely breathe, so badly it scared her.
“I …” She faltered. “I do not.”
The dowager’s eyes softened. “You are afraid,” she said, more gently. “That is good, too. Fear will keep you from making the worst mistakes. But it would be a shame to waste a life hiding from your own appetite. There are worse fates than being wanted, I promise you.”
Verity pressed her hand to the settee, needing to steady herself. She needed to stop thinking about Lucien’s lips, about the way his groan had sounded when he had let her lips go, and then, how his hands had felt upon her.
“I do believe I am afraid,” she managed. “But not of any man, my lady.”
Lady Blackfen studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment, then gave a soft, knowing hum. “No, not of any man,” repeated the dowager. “Of what could happen, perhaps.”
Verity’s breath caught. The older woman’s insight was far too clear.
“Possibility, desire, satisfaction. Each can be a frightening thing when one has been taught to starve, to fear the worst,” Lady Blackfen continued gently. “But it is only hunger, not restraint, that keeps the blood warm, that drives us to feed.”
Lady Blackfen’s smile turned wickedly tender. “Now, if you should ever wish to practice the needle-and-wine trick, come to me after dinner. I will also show you how to hold off a suitor with nothing but a corkscrew and a few words.”
Verity laughed, grateful for the reprieve. The agony and wanting that had been plaguing her had gone away a little.
The dowager resumed her work, humming a bar from a French love song. The air felt lighter, less charged. Verity stitched quietly for a time, her mind a slow whirl of hopes and anxieties and remembered heat.
The morning light had already shifted slightly when a quiet tap at the door sounded out. Mrs. Harrow entered, a folded envelope pinched delicately between her fingers.
“For Miss Hale. The post from the village arrived. This is a letter for you from Somerset.”
A chill scuttled up Verity’s spine. She set aside her work and rose, curtsying to Lady Blackfen, whose sharp eyes watched her. She crossed the rug and met the housekeeper, who handed over the envelope with a brief, unreadable look.
Verity ran her thumb over the script. The address was in Aunt Martha’s neat, arching letters. Before she could break it, dread shivered through her. They had agreed to limit correspondence.
“Thank you, Mrs. Harrow,” Verity managed. Her own voice sounded thin, the paper’s weight enormous in her palm. She mindlessly withdrew to the window-seat instead of the settee, slipped her nail beneath the letter’s seal, and pulled out the single, closely written page.
Lady Blackfen watched her with sly interest. “Bad news, Miss Hale? Or is it a secret love come to claim you?”
Verity tried to laugh, but the effort failed. The world contracted to the piece of paper, the hiss of the fire, and the beating of her own heart. She read one sentence, then another, her blood growing colder.
Lady Blackfen, perceiving the change, spoke softly. “What is it, my dear? You look as if you have seen a ghost.”
Verity said nothing at first. The letter trembled in her hands. She felt the room pressing in on her, everything pressing in on her, the walls, and the heat of the fire, and the enormous weight of the secret she had carried north.
When she finally found her voice, it was a hoarse whisper. “Nothing. Only news from home.”
But Lady Blackfen was not fooled, Verity knew. She knew Lady Blackfen was watching her with both a shrewd intensity and a worried sympathy that bordered on maternal. For a moment, Verity felt she might cry out for help, beg the old woman to shield her from what she feared most.
Instead, she folded the letter with meticulous care, tucking it into her pocket carefully, as though the words might bleed through the fabric and stain her forever.