Hall was a prerequisite for matrimonially inclined Earls.
‘He never accepts invitations to house parties, except from his closest friends,’ explained Celia, in tones of gracious condescension. Or boasting, more like. Verity shut the drawer with a snap on the chemise. Pity it wasn’t Celia in there.
‘Conceive for yourself how pleased Mama was when his lordship indicated that an invitation would be accepted.’ Celia preened in the mirror, all golden-haired, blue-eyed conceit. ‘Naturally he wishes to court me a little more privately than is possible in London.’
Since when did a house party with over twenty guests afford any privacy for a courtship? Verity swallowed the observation. If it made Celia happy, then who was she to cavil?
‘I’m surprised you came up so early, then,’ she remarked.
Celia shrugged. ‘Oh, Blakehurst disappeared to the billiard room with a few of the other gentlemen. And Mama had to invite that tedious Arabella Hollingsworth with her parents, so what was the point? All she does is brag about her betrothal to Sir Bartholomew!’ Celia pouted. ‘So I said I had the headache and came up. Anyway, gentlemen prefer a female to be a little fragile.’
Verity hid a grin. If Celia were as lucky as her erstwhile friend in snaring a husband, namely Lord Blakehurst, then cock-a-hoop wouldn’t begin to describe her. No doubt Celia’s sudden recognition of Miss Hollingsworth’s tediousness had its origins in jealousy. As for fragile—Celia was about as fragile as a viper.
‘You may brush my hair now, Selina.’ Celia gazed at her reflection in satisfaction, patting a bobbing curl.
Verity reminded herself not to rip the curl out and picked up the silver-backed hairbrush.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Celia sadly. ‘Just look at all those disgusting freckles!’
Staring at her cousin’s flawless complexion in the mirror, Verity wondered what maggot had entered her head now.
‘I can’t see any,’ she said unguardedly, ‘but the Denmark lotion is there on your dressing table if you need it.’
The reflection smiled spitefully. ‘I meant your freckles, Selina.’
Verity took a firmer grip on the brush along with her temper and began brushing. Much safer to say it all to her pillow. Unlike Celia, the pillow would not carry tales and earn her further punishment. If nothing else, the Faringdons had taught her the virtue of hiding her feelings under a stolid demeanour.
She shivered. Being Selina made that so much easier. Frighteningly easy. At times it felt as though Verity had retreated into a numbing mist. That one day she might not be able to find the way out again.
Verity wriggled her shoulders pleasurably as the sun poured over them, sinking deep. Not even the basket full of mending daunted her when she had managed to escape from everyone for a couple of hours. No doubt she’d have a few more freckles on her nose to add to the ones Celia had found so disgusting the previous evening. It seemed a small enough price for a morning spent out of doors.
Her mind drifted as her needle flashed over the torn sheet, insensibly soothed by the trickle of the fountain, and the occasional flicker of a goldfish between the lily pads. A contented bee hummed in the lavender behind her. Here she could dream. Pretend that in the house, or somewhere about the estate, was someone who cared for her. She could be Verity, not Selina.
Here in the centre of the maze she was safe for the time being. Except, of course, for her toes. They were in imminent danger of being devoured. She wiggled them gently in the water as she scissored her bare legs and felt the flutter as the startled fish fled.
‘Oh, Lord Blakehurst! What a tarradiddle! You are the most dreadful creature!’
Celia’s most flirtatious simper, followed by a very male rumble, shattered her peace. What on earth was Celia—whom the servants dubbed Mistress Slug-a-bed—doing in the maze at nine o’clock in the morning, let alone with Lord Blakehurst? Not for the first time Verity crashed headfirst into her aunt’s towering hypocrisy—only to a man of massive fortune and noble degree would Lady Faringdon have entrusted her virtuous treasure in such a potential den of iniquity as the garden maze. And in any other damsel such behaviour would be condemned as shameless.
Another giggle reminded Verity of the precarious nature of her situation. She surged to her feet, stuffing mending as well as her stockings and slippers into the basket and suppressing a curse as she pricked her finger on the needle. Which path were they on? She had to pick one that wouldn’t bring her face to face with Celia and her swain. She shivered. If they caught her here, it would be one more hiding place crossed off her diminishing list.
Frowning, she listened. They weren’t far away. She waited, poised for flight. The voices drew nearer. She tensed, then saw a flash of jonquil muslin through a thin patch in the hedge. Realising that she had about five seconds to escape she swept up the basket and fled, bare feet flying across the turf. She reached the opening on the opposite side of the pond and whipped out of sight.
‘Whatever was that?’
Celia’s surprised question froze Verity. Drat. They’d heard her. She fought to steady her breathing.
‘A bird? A rabbit?’ suggested Lord Blakehurst. ‘Didn’t you say your brother would be here?’
Verity just managed to choke back a snort of laughter at the faintly questioning note in his voice, not to mention the suspicion. Heavens! What a slowtop to fall for that trick! That or he didn’t know Godfrey very well. Godfrey Faringdon meet his own sister in the middle of a maze, in order to play gooseberry? Not this side of Judgement Day. Obviously Lord Blakehurst, petted darling of society, the quarry of every mama with a marriageable daughter, had been neatly cozened.
Unable to resist temptation, she peered around the hedge. If Lord Blakehurst didn’t take care, he would find himself leg-shackled to—
Her heart nearly stopped and she jerked herself back, shaking. It couldn’t be. Could it? Unable to believe what she had seen, she dragged in a deep breath and stole another look. Celia, dressed in her prettiest sprig muslin, with the merest suggestion of dainty ankle below the flounce, was pouting up at…Max.
Shock gripped Verity. She couldn’t be mistaken. Every feature of that face was etched on her memory. The hard angles, the square jaw. Her heart pounded as she absorbed every detail. Max. Here.
‘Perhaps we should go back, Miss Faringdon?’
‘Oh, pish!’ Celia disposed herself on the seat with a graceful swish of her skirts. ‘Why should anyone think anything of it? After all, such good friends as we are, Lord Blakehurst…’
Such good friends?
His lordship’s voice dripped indifference. ‘I’ll bid you good morning, Miss Faringdon. Believe me, my friendship with your reputation far outweighs any other consideration!’
Verity nearly choked as Celia’s brow knit, trying to work out if this remark added up to a compliment. Even as she watched, his lordship bowed to Celia and made to leave the maze.
Celia leapt to her feet. ‘Oh, sir! I must guide you, lest you become confused. Our maze is renowned for all the guests who have become hopelessly lost in it!’
Verity slumped against the hedge. She would have to give
