Chapter 10
Yet even amid laughter and speculation, there lingered certain pauses. Moments when conversation faltered without obvious cause, when glances drifted toward the darkened windows, and no man cared to articulate precisely what had unsettled him.
The door hung open like an accusation.
Verity stared at it in horror, the cool draft from the corridor raising gooseflesh across her thoroughly exposed skin.
Lucien’s footsteps had already faded, swallowed by the vastness of Blackfen Castle, and she stood in the center of his study, utterly and scandalously naked, with nothing between her and discovery but the whims of fate and whatever servants might be passing by.
Move, you fool!
She lunged for the door, her bare feet slapping against the polished floorboards as she scrambled across the room.
The motion sent a twinge through muscles she had never known she possessed, a reminder of the extraordinary activities that had occurred on the hearthrug moments earlier.
Her hand closed around the edge of the heavy oak panel, and she eased it shut as quietly as she could manage, wincing at the soft click of the latch. She turned the key.
For a long moment, she simply stood there, forehead pressed against the cool wood, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her heart hammered against her ribs with such violence that she fancied the sound might carry through the door and alert the entire household to her presence.
What have I done?
The question reverberated through her mind, but it was not, she realized with some surprise, accompanied by the crushing weight of shame she might have expected.
There was confusion, certainly. Bewilderment at her own behavior.
A lingering warmth in her limbs that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the grate.
But shame? True, bone-deep shame?
She searched for it and found only a strange, unsettling absence where it ought to have been.
Did Lucien truly … offer me marriage?
Verity turned and surveyed the study with new eyes. The room looked precisely as it had when she had entered. Books lining the walls, papers scattered across the massive desk, the settee arranged before the hearth. Only the rumpled state of the hearthrug betrayed what had transpired there.
That and her clothing, strewn about the floor like the aftermath of some natural disaster.
She pushed away from the door and began gathering her garments, her movements jerky and uncoordinated.
Her shift had somehow ended up beneath one of the chairs, her stays tangled with her gown near the desk.
Her stockings, dear heaven, her stockings, were draped across the arm of Lucien’s leather chair as if they belonged there.
Heat flooded her cheeks at the memory of how they had come to be removed.
His hands, so large and warm, slid up her calves with deliberate slowness.
He had watched her face as he peeled away each layer, his golden eyes darkening with desire.
She had not known a man’s gaze could feel like a physical touch, but Lucien’s certainly had.
She struggled into her shift first, the fine linen catching on skin still damp with exertion. Her fingers fumbled with the fabric, and she cursed softly under her breath, an oath her father would have been appalled to hear from his daughter’s lips.
But then, her father would have been appalled by rather a lot of what had occurred in this room today.
I have lain with a man. Not just any man … an earl. On his study floor. Like some common …
She could not complete the thought. The words that came to mind were too crude, too harsh for what had passed between them. What she and Lucien had shared had not felt common. It had felt?—
Inevitable.
The word rose unbidden, echoing Lady Blackfen’s strange pronouncements about wolves, mates, animal spirits, and the nature of men.
Verity shook her head, dismissing the notion as she reached for her stays.
This was not some fated union. This was a catastrophic lapse in judgment brought about by gratitude, proximity, and the undeniable physical appeal of a man who had shown her more kindness in a couple of days than she had received in the past three months.
She had never been tempted to such impropriety before.
Not once in all her three and twenty years had she come close to surrendering her virtue.
She had weathered Robert Fynn’s assault, had endured the whispered accusations of the parish knowing full well that she was innocent of any actual transgression.
And now she had given herself to a man she had known for a mere two days, with no promise of marriage, no understanding of what their coupling might mean.
What is it about him that makes me lose my head so completely?
She could not answer the question, and so she focused instead on the practical matter of making herself presentable.
Her trembling fingers fumbled with the stays, a task she had performed a thousand times, yet tonight her hands refused to cooperate.
She was forced to lace them more loosely than propriety demanded.
Her gown was easier, a simple afternoon dress that fastened in the front, but her hair was beyond redemption.
Pins had scattered across the floor during their exertions, and several strands had come loose from their moorings to hang in wild disarray about her face.
And why did he leave in such a hurry?
She would be offended if she had not seen the sheer panic that had crossed his face. A panic that seemed to have nothing to do with her, but something to do with the time, staring at the position of the sun as if he had recollected that he had something urgent to attend to.
Moving to the window, she attempted to use its reflection in the fading light to assess the damage.
The glass was old and warped, offering only a wavering impression of her features, but it was enough to confirm her fears.
She looked precisely like a woman who had recently been tumbled senseless on a hearthrug.
Her skin was flushed, her lips swollen from Lucien’s kisses, and there was a brightness in her eyes that spoke of pleasure recently experienced. No amount of finger-combing or hasty pinning would disguise the truth written upon her person.
She did her best regardless, twisting the wayward strands into a loose knot at the base of her neck and smoothing her palms over her rumpled skirts.
It was far from elegant, but it would have to suffice.
She could only hope the dimness of the corridors would hide the evidence of her fall from grace.
Fall from grace.
The phrase ought to have stung. Instead, she found herself smiling, a small private smile that she quickly suppressed.
Yet she could not find it in her to regret what had happened. It had felt right somehow. Natural. As if their bodies had recognized something their minds had not yet fully grasped.
But what would happen now?
Lucien had promised they would talk in the morning. Marriage was the traditional resolution to such a situation, but she could not quite bring herself to expect it.
She was a paid companion living under a false name, with forged references and a scandal trailing her like a faithful hound. Lucien was an earl, with ancient lineage and vast estates and duties to his family name. The gulf between them was immense, unbridgeable by any conventional means.
And yet he spoke of obtaining a license.
Thankfully, he had withdrawn at the crucial moment, spilling his seed upon her belly rather than within her womb.
She was unlikely to be with child, a small mercy given the chaos of her circumstances.
She had no immediate prospects for marriage, considering she was living under a false name.
A bastard child would only compound her difficulties.
Would it be so terrible if I became his mistress?
The thought crept in before she could stop it.
Other women had done far worse, after all.
She had read of kept women who lived in comfortable townhouses, wore fine jewels, attended the theater and the opera.
It was not the life her parents had envisioned for her, but then, nothing about her current circumstances aligned with her parents’ hopes.
She pushed the notion aside with something approaching violence. She would not be a kept woman, tucked away to be visited when it pleased her protector. She had more pride than that. More self-respect.
But perhaps … perhaps they could find another way. She would remain as companion to Lady Blackfen, fulfilling her duties by day. And by night, she and Lucien could simply be lovers. Equals in the darkness, if not in the light of day. He had no other woman, after all, and she?—
You are not thinking clearly.
It was true. Her thoughts were muddled, colored by the lingering warmth in her limbs and the memory of Lucien’s large hands upon her skin. She needed time to consider the situation rationally, away from the intoxicating influence of his presence.
Verity moved to the door and pressed her ear against the wood, listening for footsteps or voices in the corridor beyond. Silence greeted her, blessed and merciful silence. She turned the key in the lock, eased the door open a crack, and peered through the narrow gap.
The corridor was empty.
She slipped through the opening and pulled the door closed behind her, her heart pounding anew as she navigated the dim corridor.
The light had shifted dramatically during her time in the study, the afternoon brightness giving way to the purple shadows of approaching dusk.
How long had she been in there? It felt like hours, though, surely, it could not have been more than one or two.
The walk back to Lady Blackfen’s chambers seemed interminable, each creak of the floorboards beneath her feet causing her heart to leap into her throat. She passed no servants along the way, but the ancient portraits lining the walls seemed to watch her progress with disapproving eyes.