Page 72 of Duke with a Deception
“There are many in London who could offer more,” she pointed out tartly, thinking of the wealthy aristocrats and merchants who had turned away from the plight of the orphans, carrying on with their lives as if nothing of significance had happened. “Sybil and I were thinking of suggesting a ball to raise funds. I’m not sure if she and Everett can bear to host one at the moment, however, given that Sybil is expecting and Everett despises balls. Then there isMaman, who sinks her claws into such fêtes and refuses to let go. She dearly loves to orchestrate every detail…”
She allowed her words to trail away, sighing as she reached for her glass of wine.
“We could host a ball,” King suggested, surprising her.
She hadn’t presumed to suggest it, hadn’t even thought that he would be agreeable to such an undertaking. Their marriage was still new, and they hadn’t managed to go on their honeymoon just yet.
They had spent the passing days further settling into a routine. They breakfasted together in the morning, spent as much of their time together as their separate duties and obligations allowed, and then reconvened for dinner. Afterward, they spent the night in each other’s arms.
She was most thankful for the stool he’d had commissioned for her ease to enter and exit his ridiculously high bed.
And she was happy. Happier than she had ever hoped to be.
But Verity was also painfully aware their marriage had begun with some unexpected challenges. There had been her amnesia to overcome, then young Emma and King’s own painful revelation about his daughter.
Beyond that, she and King were still learning all there was to know about each other. They were adjusting to having Emma in the household. The child was an impish delight, but she had also faced a great deal of suffering in her young life. She had lost her parents, was sent to an orphanage, and then had nearly perished in a fire and had been left without a home. To say nothing of her misadventure when she had run away from Everett’s town house. Emma was indeed a handful, even if Grace had seamlessly taken to the role of being the girl’s nursemaid.
“You wish to host a ball?” Verity asked hesitantly.
“Why not? I have no doubt that you would put any hostess in London to shame.” He raised his wineglass to her in salute. “Besides, it is a worthy cause, and if we are able to raise funds for the Children’s Foundling Hospital whilst I get to crow to polite society that I have the most glorious wife in England, all the better.”
She smiled at his teasing air. “You are incorrigible.”
He grinned back at her, unrepentant. “So I have been told on many occasions. I am inclined to believe it. Alas, I am yours, wretch that I may be.”
“I am glad you are mine,” she told him softly. “You are a wonderful man, King. Kind and generous and caring and everything that a gentleman should be.”
“You mustn’t offer me too much praise, angel. I am already dangerously conceited about my looks and the cut of my coat.”
She chuckled. “Youarea notorious arbiter of fashion.”
Verity had a sudden, distinct memory of King nettling Everett over his choice of waistcoat. But for some reason, the recollection felt…wrong, somehow. She had been wearing mourning black. When had that happened? She hadn’t been in mourning in years, not since her father’s death, when Everett had inherited the title.
“Is something amiss?”
Her husband’s soft query broke through the fragmented memory, chasing it and the lingering confusion. Perhaps it had been a dream.
“Of course not,” she said, forcing cheer into her voice.
It was nothing, Verity was sure of it.
“You looked suddenly bereft,” King pressed.
“I had a memory of myself in mourning,” she blurted. “But that makes no sense, does it? I haven’t worn mourning since my father died.”
Even as she said the words, they felt wrong. There it was again, something trapped deep in her mind, the sensation that there was more to what she was saying and remembering but that she simply could not recall it all. It was as if she had been given half a picture, with the other portion removed, and she was left to guess at what had been in the original, whole version.
But then, she’d had an inordinate number of black gowns in her wardrobe from when she’d mourned her father. She had not bothered to bring them with her when she had married King. Instead, Verity had donated them.
“Do you recall anything else?” King asked, his voice tense.
He was worried for her, she realized.
“That is all, I’m afraid. Perhaps it was a dream and not a memory.”
“Yes,” he said tightly, “perhaps that was all. You are certain you don’t remember anything else?”
She searched her mind, but, just as she had on so many other occasions, Verity failed to remember anything else. It was frustrating, receiving small pieces that only left her more confused than before.
