Page 17 of When He Was Wicked
He lowered his hand and was about to move away when she stepped closer. There was both delicacy and strength in the face that peered up at him.Meet me halfway, her eyes seemed to beseech him, and sensing he would regret giving into the temptation, James reached out and took her hands within his.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Verity froze. A man was touching her. And not just any man—James, the earl of Maschelly. For so long she had avoided having any gentleman too close to her, even dancing had become uncomfortable, but she had tolerated it to the best of her abilities. She waited for that awful feeling to cramp her stomach, and for the sweat to coat her skin, even though it was such a simple touch, palm to palm, and they both wore evening gloves. None of the usual reaction came, and unaccountably Verity wished they had been skin to skin. Even with the gloves separating a more intimate touch she felt the heat of him, and something even more bewildering, simply because she had not felt so in years—comfort, warmth, protected.
“I can see that I’ve shocked you,” he murmured.
No, my yearning to feel your skin upon mine did. She licked her lips and the eyes which had followed the moment darkened with undefinable emotions.
The earl guided her away from the entrance of the club, and toward the line of parked carriages. Instead of heading for his coach, he tugged her to the side of the building, encasing them in partial shadows. The glow of the gas lamp and the hovering fogshed only a small amount of light, but it was as if his glittering eyes were a beacon onto themselves. Truly, Verity had never seen eyes so wickedly splendid.
“Did you not realize we would be required to touch? When we fight…when you teach me to dance?” he murmured gently.
No…she hadn’t thought that far ahead, and she felt ridiculous. “I…”
“Do you fear me touching you?”
Yes…no…. Everything about him was large, and she was all too aware of the breadth of his shoulders, his height, and his large hands. This man could crush her so easily. Even more so than the marquess, because Lord Maschelly was unquestionably more virile, powerful, and dangerous.
“I wouldneverhurt you,” he said gruffly. “Never, my lady. I swear it on my honor.”
Verity closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. She was suddenly acutely conscious of scents and noises drifting to her through the night—the murkiness of the Thames, rotting fruits, but something fresh and clean beneath it all, the warm male fragrance of the man himself. A few carriages rumbled by, yet neither moved. His hand fell away from hers, and upon opening her eyes, she watched in dazed bemusement as he tugged off his gloves and stuffed them in his pockets.
Her heart raced uncontrollably like a runaway carriage. Then he placed two of his warm fingers beneath her chin and nudged. Clearly, he wanted her to meet his eyes once more, and she was afraid to, for Verity felt as if she was falling into something she did not understand. Nothing felt familiar, nothing felt safe. No…the earl felt safe.
A fierce, painful longing surged through her, and oddly the need was to step into his arms. A quiver of uncertainty went through Verity. Why did she feel so with him? A man like the earl was not for her. Even before her attack, she’d had it all planned—the type of fair gentleman she would marry, where they would honeymoon, the kind of wondrous fun they would have. The earl did not fit that old musing, but she felt helpless to stop the curious hunger awakening in her heart.
The tip of her chin tingled. Her skin seemed to burn beneath his fingers, yet she didn’t want to move.
“Are you afraid of me, Lady Verity?” he asked again, and she suspected the answer was of immense importance to him. How fascinating that his awkward touch could be both rough and infinitely gentle. The calluses Lady Susanna had cried prettily about were comforting, real.
The weird sensation jerking in her belly did not feel like fear, but she could not identify it for she had never felt anything like this before.
“I am not afraid of you,” she whispered.
A look of wonder, possibly admiration settled on his face, before smoothing into a bland mask. “Good,” he said and lowered his arm. “Let’s get you home.”
Her thoughts muddled for a few moments. “Are we not starting our lessons tonight?”
“It is late. Almost eleven. And you have learned enough today. I will take you home now.” There was an undercurrent in his tone she was unable to decipher.
“In these clothes?”
“My home first, then off you go. I will send my coach for you on Thursday. Never come to me without your veil.”
She nodded and they made their way to the parked carriage in silence. They sat on opposite seats and the carriage lantern burned low, creating a too intimate atmosphere. Yet neither made the effort to introduce conversation as the coach pulled away. His brief smile hinted at a discomfort. A heart-pounding awareness burned through her. Then a shocking surge of heat quivered through her and Verity desperately tried to force hersilly heart to beat to its normal rhythm. She leaned back against the squabs, that single truth rattling her—Lord Maschelly was unsettled by her,likedher perhaps, and he had wisely retreated.
And I must do the same.
Yet at this moment she could not recall precisely why a man like the earl was unsuitable for a lady like her. Verity fiercely reminded herself that their connection was for only one purpose—learn enough so that when she closed her eyes, she wouldn’t ever see the face of her nightmare. That was the only reason she had aligned with a man like Lord Maschelly. And she needed to remember it always lest she deceive her heart to pain.
Dear Aunt Imogen,
I do hope my letter finds you in splendid health. I am trying to enjoy the season as you commanded. Last week I went to the theater and had a few outings in Hyde Park with Lady Caroline and the Duchess Carlyle. They are the best of ladies and we have become dear friends. The weather has been pleasant, and I am sorry to hear of the constant rains in Bedfordshire. I know you love and miss your gardens and I promise you shall be tending them soon. Mamma is well, and she received your last letter with pleasure. Arthur is the same boorish man that you’d last seen. He has decreed that I marry one Lord Aldridge, but I am adamant to forge my own path. I want what you had, Aunt Imogen, a rare and beautiful love with a man of my choosing. I promise to visit in a few weeks when I tire of the frivolities of the season.
Your loving niece, Verity.
Verity carefully foldedthe single sheet of paper and added a wafer. She happily wrote to her aunt weekly, for her aunt had vowed never to return to the foul London air which she blamed for her prolonged illness. The doctors had diagnosed melancholia and overwrought nerves, but Verity believed it had been a broken heart which had ailed Aunt Imogen who had lost her husband a few years before. They hadn’t been blessed with any children in their five and twenty years of marriage, and she hadn’t been the same since his passing.
