Despite her vehemence, it was not long before Verity forgot Richard had ever even made his vow. She was too involved in her advancing pregnancy and the decoration of her new cottage to spare more than the odd, unpleasant thought for the Armiger clan. Neil remained close to her thoughts, and not a day went by when she did not feel the blunt needle of grief still pressing in her heart. However, in her complete disregard for his family, she almost managed to forget that they even existed. If she had remembered Richard's promise, she likely would have doubted he ever meant to keep it.
Richard, however, did not forget. He could not. His inability to help Verity in any meaningful way weighed upon his exorbitant and fragile pride. His conscience, never a particularly active beast, refused to return to its usual complacent slumber, no matter how many days passed, or how cunningly he rationalized his part in the annulment that had led to her downfall. He not only felt useless: he felt vile.
In the very darkest hours of the night, lying awake in his bed, he could bring himself to admit that he was violently, impossibly, pathetically in love with his dead brother's woman. He had been in love with her since almost the moment he had met her. He loved her so much it was like poison. For he knew that she hated him, and knowing that, he hated himself, and would tear and kick at the strangling sheets as though he could tear apart his own soul. In the mornings, when his own reflection in the mirror seemed to cast a loathing gaze upon him, he would deny it. He was not in love with her. He despised her. She was little more than an upstart-- but he could never finish the sentence, even in his mind. No. It was nothing more than his gentleman's honour that compelled him, if ever there was a chance of helping her, to do so.
And then, in March, out of the blue, that chance came.
He went back to Houglen as soon as he was able, on the excuse of business with Neil's steward, who was still in charge of the unlet house. He attended the business with a haste bordering on rudeness, which confirmed in the steward's mind that of the young Armigers, Neil was undoubtedly more the gentleman. Then he took one of the horses and rode towards Greater Hough to find Miss Baker, in a deepening twilight.
Her cottage was smaller than he expected -- a shabby little thing on the edge of the town, surrounded by other shabby things, with shabby gardens, and shabby inhabitants. He tied his horse to the gatepost and limped to the front door, where he had to wait a moment to steel his nerve before ringing the bell.
Mrs Roper answered it, and looked him up and down suspiciously. She always took Neil's side, even when we were children, thought Richard bitterly. Always.
"Good evening, Mrs Roper," he said, hiding his anger in a transparent veneer of pleasantry â a veneer so transparent that it easily explained why Mrs Roper had always preferred Neil to Richard, if Richard had so thought to look.
"Good evening." Her tone suggested she felt otherwise. "I guess I ought let you off the doorstep, where everyone can see. Come in."
Inside, the cottage was less shabby, even somewhat cosy. Every nook and shelf held a vase of flowers, or a picture frame, or some feminine, homely knick knack. Mrs Roper took him through the hallway to a back parlour, giving him the chance to examine them. They all struck him as being remarkably cheap, but somehow the overall effect was charming.
"Lord Landon has called," Mrs Roper said in front of him, as he passed over the threshold into a warm, fire-lit room.
Verity rose from an arm chair by the fire, and nodded her head at him. "Good evening, Sir." There was the usual challenging expression on her face, the slightly set jaw, the narrowed eyes.
"Good evening." Richard stumbled over the words slightly. He had not been prepared for two things: the first the thumping of his heart on seeing her, and the second how visible her pregnancy had become in the two months since he had seen her last. Her belly swelled out round and low in her waist, deforming the elegant lines of her dress, and forcing her movements into an unnatural sort of clumsiness as she lowered herself back into the chair.
"The entire village must know you're pregnant by now." He did not mean for it to sound so crude. From her own chair, beginning to work on a bit of muslin scrapcloth, Mrs Roper cleared her throat warningly. Richard flushed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to... remark. It's just that I had somehow assumed you might be trying to hide it..."
"I am not."
Richard moved closer into the room, looked for another chair, saw there was none, and resigned himself to stand. Closer, he could see that Verity had gained weight elsewhere too. Gone were the hollows of her cheeks and the shadows beneath her eyes. She looked, he found with relief, very well.
"The usual deception, I understand," Verity continued, "Is to run away to a town where nobody has heard of you, and call yourself a widow. I have no desire to succeed at such a deception. I shall stay here, and as such, there is no point trying to hide anything."
"I don't know whether to admire your candour or despair of it."
"It has nothing to do with candour." A flash of anger passed her face. "I have done nothing dishonourable by any sensible person's notion of honour, and anybody who believes I have is not somebody whose opinion I care to alter my actions to appease."
Richard saw, then, that there were many people whose opinions had been weighing on her. He restrained himself from touching her hand, lying on the arm of her chair.
"You are well, though."
"I am well. Did you visit just to ascertain it?"
"No." He licked his lips. Having come so far, and seen her face, he found he could not merely say what he had come to say. He had to know â first. He had to let her know. "Please, Miss Baker, may I speak to you alone for a little while?"
"I-" For one moment, she seemed about to refuse him. Then, frowning, she nodded. "Shall it take long?"
"Not more than a few minutes."
"Then we shall go to the dining room."
Mrs Roper sniffed as they passed her. Richard had a moment of savage hatred for the old woman who had cared for him as a child.
Verity led the way to a room at the front of the cottage. There was no fire or lamplight in here, and it was cold and dark â darker still when he shut the door behind him. He could just make out the shadow of the table and chairs.
"Mrs Roper is entirely within my confidence. You must know that."
"But not mine." Richard gave her a smile that in her dark he knew she could not see. "I â I felt I had to explain something to you."
"Explain away." She was circling the table, one hand trailing the backs of the chairs. The motion wafted the faint scent of her perfume over to him whenever she came near. Jasmine. Elusive and enchanting, like a will-o-the-wisp. He forced his back to the door.
"It is the matter of why my family has historically been so poorly disposed to you."
Still, she circled the table: a slow, dizzying dance. "I seek no explanation for this."
"Why we thought it so necessary to break apart your marriage to my brother."
The motion slowed slightly, but did not stop. "I seek no explanation." Her voice was cold.
"Why I would ask you to marry me despite that."
The motion finally stopped. She was at the far end of the table, away from him.
"I shall not repeat the offer. Do not fear me."
"I have never feared you." Finally, she looked up at him. The reflected moonlight through the window cast a silver glow on one side of her face. "It did seem odd. It was very inappropriate."
"I can see it must have seemed so."
"It was so."
But he had her attention, even as he found he had lost his own. He had had some number of pretty words to say. He had arranged them in his mind before coming. But they were gone now. He found it hard to keep his head around her. And his legs were tired, and his stick was in the other room. He pulled out a chair and dropped into it. Bluntly, he got to the heart of the matter:
"I can't have children."
A hand rose to her lips. "Oh." And after a moment of silence. "But- surely-"
"It is as I said. When I was a boy, I was ill with fever. I recovered, but it impaired me in that regard." He could feel his cheeks burning in the darkness. It was not right to talk to a lady of this. But what else could he do? She had to understand. "It is quite certain. I shall never have a son, nor even a daughter. I don't think Neil knew. He always assumed that I would marry, despite my deformity, and that my son would inherit the title. But since I was nineteen, I knew that it would be his title after me, and then his sons. So the matter of who he married was always more important than he knew."
Slowly, Verity drew out a chair at her own end of the table, and sunk down into it. He could not quite see in the dark, but he thought her hands were clutched around her belly.
"The child you carry... if it is a boy... that's why I asked you. It is our only hope to keep the title and the property. When I die, it will return to the crown. There are no other heirs in the male line."
"It may be a girl."
"Yes. But any hope was better than none. It is moot, regardless. I shall not repeat the offer." Part of him had hoped she would give him some sign that she would be welcome to it, but her antipathy on that matter was all too obvious to him. "But I wanted you to understand some of the pressures upon us. It was very important that Neil should marry well, for the security of our family line."
"I understand." She was quiet for a moment. "It's you that doesn't. Your title and your property are utterly insignificant. When you and your father are dead, nobody shall have any need of them at all. And Neil never cared. I don't see how you could have failed to see that."
"Then... knowing that... does not change your mind at all?"
"About what? About loving Neil, or not marrying you, or not caring for your title? Certainly not."
"Then, knowing that if you so much as lifted a single finger, you would be an earl's wife, and an earl's mother, or at least... you... don't care."
"It is utterly insignificant." And then after a moment, she added, "It's not that I'm above earthly desires. I used to dream of being utterly wealthy and titled when I was a child. I wanted to live in a palace. But in fairy tales, you know, it's always a Prince Charming that comes with them, not a Prince..."
"Richard." He gave a wheeze of laughter, despite the ache in his heart. "I certainly am not offering again. I shall not. I just wanted you to know why I offered, after all we had done â and why we had done it."
Though she didn't know all of it, he realized. He hadn't been able to tell her that he was in love with her. He knew that that was one thing she most certainly would not want to hear. And he did not want to tell her. That she might intuit it made him cold with shame. It would show his honourable motives for nothing more than petty, selfish adoration.
He pushed himself back to his feet. His leg was cramping in the chill room. He began to pace, not going near her end of the room. "It is not my only business here today to tell you that. When we last met, I made a promise that if I ever could help you, I would. Well, I can help you now."
"I need no help."
"Please." He went to the window and looked out onto the shabby street. Two residents were making their way down the dark road, arm in arm, drunk. It made him shudder inside. "Tomorrow I return to Albroke. I would have you follow behind me the day after, in a carriage of your own. The manservant George will drive you. Stay at the Barrow and Pig in the village. I will call on you there. It is a secret from my father."
"What cannot be done or said here?"
"I cannot say. I can only insist that my intentions towards you are for your own good. Not mine. You once said you trusted me. If you do, you will come. And I have given you reasons to trust. I have kept your secret. And I have told you mine."
She was rising, and moving for the door. He followed her back to the drawing room. Mrs Roper was still sewing away. He could see now that it was a baby's cap she embroidered. She looked questioningly at Verity, who sunk back in her chair by the fireplace.
"I should leave," Richard said quietly. "You may send word before ten tomorrow, to let me know if you shall come." He went to gather his stick. A panicked thought occurred to him: "You can still travel, in your condition?"
"For a little while longer."
"Come where?" asked Mrs Roper.
"The village of Albroke."
"No! It is certainly too far â and your father-"
"My father shall not know she is there." Richard bowed his head stiffly. "You have the night to decide. Good night, Miss Baker, Mrs Roper."
"Wait."
He stopped at the door.
"We will come."
Relief washed over him, followed by uncertainty. It was a risk he was taking.
But he dared not show it to her. He bowed stiffly.
"Thank you. You shall not regret it."
~~~~~
A/N: Well. Wonder what Richard's up to this time.