His Lady Mistress. Elizabeth Rolls
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she turned to go. If Godfrey didn’t mention Lord Blakehurst’s presence, then she was safe. Relatively.
‘A moment.’
Slowly she looked back. Almost against her will, her eyes lifted to his face. All hard planes and angles, it held the promise of strength and purpose. Something inside her exulted, rioted, even as she stood motionless, trapped in his gaze. ‘My lord?’
‘You puzzle me, girl.’
Swallowing hard, she didn’t say anything, just tried to look vaguely subservient as she fought the attraction of those eyes.
‘Are you a servant?’
Five years ago, three even, Verity would have denied the suggestion without hesitation. Now…now when she knew how easily she could be kicked out, that there was nowhere else to go, now that she understood exactly what her fate would be if they did throw her out, she hesitated.
‘You don’t talk like it,’ he went on.
‘Nursery governess,’ she muttered. It wasn’t quite a lie. She did try to teach the younger girls between paid governesses. The gaps between paid governesses had gradually become longer and longer.
‘Oh.’ He seemed to accept that. ‘I’ll mention this to your mistress and—’
‘For God’s sake, no!’ Shaking, she forced her voice to calm. ‘My—’ She’s your mistress, not your aunt ‘—Lady Faringdon would blame me, not Godf—not him. I’d be sacked. Please, don’t!’
‘What is your name?’
It nearly choked her, but somehow she got the hated name out. ‘Selina Dering, my lord.’ And bobbed a curtsy.
Another voice broke in. ‘And what, may I ask, is going on here?’
Chapter Two
Verity wished she could turn to stone at the sound of Aunt Faringdon’s voice. Or at least to ice so that she wouldn’t feel anything. The soft voice bit deep.
‘You, Selina! Take yourself off. Presumptuous girl! Go to your room!’
Lady Faringdon turned to Lord Blakehurst, all honeyed smiles. ‘I must beg your pardon, Lord Blakehurst. That sort never know their place. I hope you were not too inconvenienced.’ She bore Lord Blakehurst away, casting a look over her shoulder at Verity that promised dire retribution on the morrow.
Verity retreated to the stairs and raced up to her dark, chilly little room. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it, shaking in the cold blackness. Eyes tight shut, she saw again the face of her rescuer. Familiar eyes stared back haughtily. Eyes that comforted her dreams, that she’d never expected to see again in the waking world. The moonlight had never revealed their colour. Burning amber. He hadn’t recognised her.
Don’t think of him.
Verity prepared quickly for bed in the dark. Shivering, she lit her tallow candle, took her father’s journal from under her pillow and got into bed.
She couldn’t hide from the truth.
Lord Blakehurst, Celia’s supposed suitor, was her Max.
Dazed, she let the book fall open where it would. The start of the Waterloo campaign and her father’s first reference to ‘…my new Brevet Major, Max B. I shall not call him anything else here. His family name and degree have not the least significance in what lies before us. He is, however, a gallant lad, and one I shall be happy to rely on when we finally face Bonaparte. I have good reports of his intelligence and courage from his previous commanders…’
That was the first of many references. Apparently Colonel Scott had become very much attached to the younger officer. Almost like a son. She shut her eyes, remembering that tiny, dead baby sharing her mother’s grave…no, she mustn’t think of it, mustn’t remember her father’s return the next day…
‘I think Mary would approve him and Verity would like him. He has a gentle way with women and children.’
A few of the things William Scott had written about Max’s way with women should have brought a blush to his daughter’s cheeks, but Verity had come to the conclusion that young men were young men the world over. And apparently all the women Max had entertained in Brussels had been more than willing. It did not appear that her father had thought the worse of Max for his youthful sins.
Hungrily she read on through her father’s account of the weeks leading up to Waterloo. Max was mentioned regularly. In the five years since she had first read this journal, he had come alive for Verity in a way she could not quite understand. She knew his expertise with horses and his fondness for dogs. She knew he hated tea and how he liked his coffee. She even knew how he liked his eggs and bacon. And that he was perfectly capable of cooking it himself.
Above all his kindness and thought for an orphaned child glowed in her memory…a gentle way with women and children…
He was as real and precious to her as life itself. And the Max she had found in her father’s journal reassured her that the man who had planted bluebells on a suicide’s grave, guarded her sleep and left her a decent breakfast, was not a figment of her imagination. In the past five years he had been her only friend, his very existence her only comfort as she cried herself to sleep. And now he was here, in the house, supposedly courting her cousin.
Shivering, she replaced the journal and snuffed the candle. She had never thought that he might be of such high degree. She wished she could forget.
An hour later she still lay in the dark, wishing Lord Blakehurst had never come to the house. Then she could at least have held on to her vision of Max. Max who, at least in her dreams, might be able to care for the disgraced daughter of a suicide.
Now the image she had held all these years was overlaid with the disturbing reality. An aristocrat who would never give her a second thought. Bitterly she remembered asking if she would ever see him again.
Better not, little one. I can offer you nothing.
No. Earl Blakehurst could offer nothing to Verity Scott. And, if she possessed the least vestige of common sense, she would stay out of his way.
Extricating himself from Lady Faringdon’s effusions, Max made his way to the billiard room where he found the gentlemen, except Godfrey. He only hoped he had convinced Lady Faringdon that his meeting with the unfortunate Selina had been entirely his fault. Somehow he doubted it.
The girl’s eyes haunted him. Dark, shadowy grey. Trusting. They struck a strange chord in him. Another girl had looked at him like that. He’d failed to help Verity Scott. He was damned if he’d fail to help this girl. A few quietly voiced threats might do the trick.
At the end of a game he said, ‘A word with you, please, Faringdon.’
Faringdon turned slowly, setting his cue down with great care. ‘If it’s about that business you mentioned earlier…’
Max took a careful breath. ‘Not exactly, sir. Merely that you might have a word with your son. I found him forcing his attentions on…one of your maids this evening.’
Faringdon started. ‘A…a maid? Which one?’
Remembering Selina’s eyes, wide with fear of dismissal, Max said, ‘How should I know?
Faringdon shrugged and picked up his cue. ‘Oh, well. Just a housemaid. Young men need to have their fun. You know how it is, my lord.’ He looked knowingly at Max. ‘Just a bit of sport. Dare say the wench was not really unwilling—’
Ice flooded Max’s veins. ‘I assure you, she was most distressed,’ he stated. ‘And I would have no hesitation in stating that to anyone who asked me.’ For all the use it would be. Faringdon didn’t give a damn. He added, ‘After all, you wouldn’t want anyone asking questions about Miss Scott’s tragedy, would you?’
To his utter amazement the other man went absolutely white.