Page 58 of The Dragoneers of Longbourn and Pemberley
“I know you are the worst kind of man: the kind of hypocrite that pretends to have moral superiority. You write of the horrors of racing, hiding behind the guise of a scandalized woman, and yet you are one of those horrible racers. You are just as bad as the others, wounding and even killing your opponents in the case of poor Mr. Allencourt. No — you are worse than all the other riders, because you do not stop at ruining their bodies, you continue in ruining the reputations of those who challenge you.”
Pemberley had no defense for himself, no rejoinder to this. What defense could he offer, now that he knew how thoroughly she had him in her clutches?
“I will not tell anyone you are Scaleheart,” Valeraine finished, “so long as you don’t tell anyone of my racing. Your blackmail over me ends now. If you break this pact, I will ruin you far more thoroughly than you could ever ruin me. As you have pointed out, your status has so much farther to fall than mine does.”
With that, she turned and left the gazebo. Her hand grazed a column as she passed it, a small benediction to her patron.
Once she was a fair distance away from the gazebo, Pemberley found his voice again. “Valeraine!” he called, voice flowing over with an anguish, rougher than the anger he had shown.
She did not turn around. He did not chase after her.
But her name on his lips echoed. She thought of it, in the night, and every day after.
Chapter forty-one
The walk back to Longbourn was the longest it had ever been. The fields went by slowly, nothing about them catching her eye. Valeraine’s mind was too busy replaying every part of the conversation.
Her heart echoed, “Valeraine!”
It began to snow, and the wind picked up. It bit at her skin, antagonistic. She wished she had a scarf. A scarf! As if she had been considering any of those mortal concerns when she ran off to confront her nemesis.
By the time she made it back to Longbourn house, her boots were wet and cold. Her toes were numb. She went to her bedroom, and asked a servant to build a fire. She laid on her bed, slowly warming up.
Pemberley.
“This is fully unsuitable to my station. Your family is so lowly, not a proper house.”
Valeraine clenched her fists. She should have slapped him for that. Or challenged him to a duel. Or she’d get Kesley to challenge him to a duel, in January.
“I first tried to reason with Nethenabbi on the unsuitability of the match.”
He had seen his friend in love and decided to put a stop to it, underhanded and heartless.
Should she tell Alyce? She had been healing away from Nethenabbi, the wound of his leaving closing, and perhaps bringing it up again would be cruel. But if Nethenabbi came calling again, Alyce would have to confront the man soon.
Alyce deserved the truth. Valeraine would tell her everything.
What did Valeraine deserve?
Pemberley. He had been absolutely ill-mannered in his proposal. The gall! And to think she would ever accept him after such a display. And yet, he hadn’t even considered that she would reject him. He had assumed his victory from the first.
She deserved better than Pemberley. Valeraine deserved, at an absolute minimum, a husband who would consider her opinions worth worrying about.
But Pemberley hadn’t been untruthful in his assessments. Her house was lowly. She would be a wholly unsuitable wife. If society learned of her derby racing, whatever house she was attached to would be ruined in the scandal.
But he had been abominably wrong and rude in saying that Longbourn wasn’t a dragon house. They were, and she would ensure they continued.
She was of a lower status. She had been rude to him. She was a wily, insubordinate thing.
She didn’t regret any of it.
If Mamma found out, she would be furious with Valeraine. She could imagine her mother now, “Thirty-one dragons, Val! You mistress of all of them. And the connections for your sisters!”
Pemberley hadn’t even asked for a dowry. He might have just taken her, with no loss to Longbourn.
“I have toiled for months now, against my feelings.”
Those were the words of a desperate man. If anything, she could have negotiated with him to pay Longbourn for her hand.
