Page 8 of Duke with a Deception
She understood why he had done it. His anguished explanation that he believed he had witnessed his wife embracing another man on their wedding day had done much to elucidate why he had kept his marriage from Verity. The pain had been too much for him, given his past heartache at the hands of a woman he’d believed himself in love with, onlyto discover her treachery. But none of that entirely ameliorated Verity’s hurt feelings, especially now that her brother had spent the last two months attempting to interfere in her decisions at every turn.
“That was different,” he said, frowning. “I’m your elder brother, the head of the family.”
“You are older than I am, but not wiser, to be sure. Because you may be the head of the family, as you say, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t made quite a mess of things with Sybil, at least initially.”
He inclined his head and raised his glass in mock toast. “I do not argue the point, sister.”
Whilst some of her memories remained murky or absent, she did recall her brother’s grievous blunders where his sweet wife was concerned. She remembered all.
“Good,” she told him cheekily. “Because you would be wrong.”
He gave an indelicate snort. “You are fortunate indeed that I dote upon you as I do.”
She grinned. “And you are equally lucky that I do the same with you.”
“I am, dearest sister.” He sighed again. “Come and have a seat by the fire, won’t you? My feet are beginning to ache.”
“Perhaps you’re developing gout at your tender age,” she suggested pointedly as they crossed the library and settled into the pair of wingback chairs positioned at the hearth.
“How amusing you are, sister dearest,” Everett drawled, folding himself into his seat with graceful ease.
She cast a grin in his direction, relieved that the closeness between them—so recently strained—had returned. “I consider myself so. Thank you for noticing.”
He laughed, looking as if he couldn’t help himself. “You are too good for him, Verity.”
“I am nothing of the sort.”
“You know his reputation.”
“I know he is a fine man,” she countered.
Yes, it was true that Kingham was a rake. That he had been one for as long as he had been friends with her brother. But she had no doubt that her love had changed him. For the last two months, he had been the perfect suitor. Not even Everett had found a proper complaint. King was nothing short of a paragon.
“He is a jaded sybarite,” her brother said, a bitter edge to his voice. “I still cannot countenance the two of you. It makes no sense.”
“We are in love,” she said simply, not wanting to have a row with Everett on her last evening in his home.
“Truly?” Her brother raised an imperious brow. “Has he spoken of love to you?”
“Of course he has.” She was sure of it.
True, King had not professed his love to her since she had arisen after the fire. But he was taking care with her, ever the gentleman. Too much the gentleman for her liking, in fact. He had yet to kiss her, an omission she intended to rectify on their wedding day. It had been too long since she’d last had his lips on hers.
“Kingham has told you he loves you?” Everett pressed, disbelief coloring his words.
As had become habit in the weeks following her injury, Verity scoured her mind for a hint of memory. A scent, a sound, anything that would jolt free the hidden recollections that had been locked away. A brief image of forget-me-nots by a stream rose. Hands holding hers. Words.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Those words had been recited to her from a poem, she thought. But who had written the poem? And who had spoken the words to her? Something about the hands holding hers in the memory was different. Had she walked along a stream with King? His capable hands seemed so much larger than the hands from her memory, so much stronger.
“Verity?” Everett prodded gently.
