Chapter Seventeen

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

N ATHAN APPROACHED V ERITY ' S front door with some unease. He had the distinct impression that she would not appreciate his warning off Lord Arden this morning, so he had to be careful not to give that away. And he found it damned difficult to hide anything from Verity. She didn't pry usually. And it wasn't that he was an abysmal liar—after all, he was quite adept at politely denying that a dress was wildly unflattering or agreeing that the excessive padding in a man's jacket looked natural. And he had never given away anything told to him in confidence.

But somehow, he found himself wanting to tell Verity all sorts of things. Memories from his childhood. Things he liked or disliked. Random notions that popped into his head. He was sure that they held no interest for her. And yet somehow he wanted her to know . Almost as much as he wanted to know Verity. Which was another thing he didn't quite understand. He'd always been interested in people, but he'd never been as curious as he'd been about Verity—even from the beginning, when he thought she was Annabeth's peculiarly rude maid.

It was as if she was one of those Russian dolls—when opened, one found another inside and another after that. It was always that way with Verity—another layer, another piece of her to fit into the puzzle, another conundrum to figure out, until he reached the core of her. Although he wasn't quite sure he ever could.

After what had happened last evening between them—the heat that had swept them, the awkwardness as they parted—he wasn't even sure how to act with her. Should he be more formal? Or would she interpret that as aristocratic coldness? He'd vowed not to pursue a romantic relationship, but he had serious doubts about his ability to keep his eyes from drinking her in.

Then he walked into the parlor and saw her, and all his thoughts flew away. She looked a bit subdued in a plain brown carriage dress—well, as plain as anything Verity would wear—and her flaming hair was bound in braids and wrapped around her head in a conservative style. And still the sight of her sent his pulse racing. Clearly he was going to have a problem keeping his vow.

He greeted Verity, pleased that his voice conveyed nothing of the messages his senses were sending him. She was so lovely. She smelled so divine. His fingers itched to caress the satin-smooth skin of her cheeks. He curled his fingers into his palm and said lightly, "I'm eager to hear your news."

"What?" She stared at him, startled. "How—what do mean?"

A little taken aback, Nathan said, "Yesterday you said you had something to tell me. Something you'd learned about the case, I thought."

"Oh!" Verity said. "Yes. Of course. Yesterday when I was visiting Lady Lockwood, she told me—"

"Good Gad, you had to suffer Lady Lockwood yesterday too? Searching the streets of London must have seemed quite peaceful after that."

She grinned, the little dimple beside her mouth making its appearance. Nathan remembered kissing that spot.

"Oh, she's not so bad," Verity said. "You just have to take her as she is. That's where I saw Annabeth. I met your mother and aunt, as well."

"Did you like them?" Nathan asked. Not that it should matter.

"I think it would be difficult not to like your mother," Verity replied. "But the part that pertains to you is that Lady Lockwood told me that marriage records are supposed to be sent to their diocese's office."

"So you think the London diocese would have them?"

"Yes. If they exist. Though I have to warn you that she also told me that some churches were careless in that regard."

Nathan waved that away. "It's a chance. Let's go."

"I already ordered the carriage brought round."

It took a bit of talking to get the clerk at the diocese to search for the records from thirty-five years ago, but finally he turned and went back into the shelves behind him. They waited for him in silence.

Nathan watched Verity as she glanced about, then fiddled with the buttons of her gloves. It occurred to him that it hadn't been merely her plain clothes and hairstyle that had made Verity appear subdued. During their ride over here, she had been unusually quiet, spending most of the time gazing out the window, and he had had to repeat a statement to her a time or two. Then there was that way she had reacted when he asked about her news—overly surprised, almost alarmed—and he was sure that it had been relief he saw in her eyes when he explained his question.

"Verity, is there something wrong?" Nathan asked. "You seem...distracted."

"No, of course not." She looked at him, a tiny frown forming between her eyes, then said, "Nathan, I—this morning—"

The clerk dropped a record book down on the counter in front of them, making them jump and sending up a puff of dust from its worn cover.

Verity whirled and reached eagerly for the book, pulling it closer. Nathan leaned in, excitement welling up in him. Now they would actually have proof that Malcolm Douglas was lying.

Verity flipped through the pages until she found the right date, then ran her finger down the lines. She stopped abruptly, breathing in a little gasp.

"What?" Alarmed, Nathan looked over her shoulder at the words above her fingertip: July 29, 1787—George Dunbridge m. Margaret Douglas.

"My God. He was telling the truth." Nathan stared at the page, stunned. Turning, he walked out the door, moving automatically though he noticed little of the world around him. He felt as if he were in a fog, like nothing was real. Behind him, Verity hastily closed the record book, handed it back to the clerk, and followed Nathan.

Outside, he stopped and turned to Verity. "My entire life has been a lie."

Verity said only, "Come, let's get you home." Linking her arm through Nathan's, she steered him to her carriage.

Verity was uncharacteristically silent as they rode home. Nathan just stared out the window, flooded with thoughts and emotions and not really seeing anything they drove past. It wasn't until they reached her house and Verity reached over him to open the door that he realized that Verity had been holding his hand between both of hers throughout the drive. His hand felt very empty when she let go.

Nathan walked with her into the house, and Verity went to the liquor cabinet in the parlor, saying, "If you aren't in need of a glass of whiskey, I certainly am."

"I need it. Believe me." Nathan took the glass from her and downed it quickly.

"Another?" Verity asked, taking the glass and starting back to the decanter.

"No. I'm in enough of a fog as it is." But his brain was working again now—even if he still felt strangely disconnected—and he was gazing into a heart-wrenching future. "It was all a lie—my whole life. Everything I've thought, everything I believed—none of it was true. I'm not my father's only son and heir. Hell, I'm not even legitimate. The manor, the land—Good Lord, my very name—are not mine."

"I'm sorry, Nathan. I should have been less optimistic, but I was certain Douglas was lying."

Nathan nodded. "I knew in my head that this might be what we found out, that it was possible he was telling the truth. But deep down, I didn't really believe it. I couldn't believe that of my father. I was certain he was too good a man, too honest, to—how could he have done it?" Nathan's stomach churned.

Verity came to him, wrapping her arms around him and leaning her head against his chest. Nathan clutched her to him, as if anchoring himself to the only thing in his world that seemed real at the moment. When he finally released her, he gave her a small crooked smile. "Perhaps I will have another whiskey after all."

Verity poured him another drink, and they sat down. Nathan said, "I don't understand how he could have married my mother, knowing he was already married. Making her his mistress, not his wife. Knowing any child she bore him would be a bastard. He and Mother always seemed so devoted to each other. How could he have lied to her that way?"

"People in love will do extraordinary things. Things opposite to their nature. Perhaps he wanted so much to marry your mother that he was willing to commit bigamy, but he felt he couldn't tell her because she would have rejected him. Maybe he thought that no one would ever find out. That he could get away with it, and your mother would never know."

"He certainly did a good job of that. At least for thirty-three years." Nathan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't know how I can tell her. I don't know what to do about the estate. Or Malcolm." He let out a short, bitter laugh. "Hell, I don't know what I'm going to do about anything. Where we're going to live. How we're going to live."

"You don't have to do anything right now. Give yourself a little time."

"You're being very kind."

"As opposed to my usual cruelty?" Verity teased lightly.

"No, of course not. I didn't mean that—I just..." He sighed. "I know you must think I'm utterly feeble—nattering on about this when you had to overcome more horrible things in your life. You gave up your sister, your home, sacrificed your entire life, and I am whining about finding out my father was a bigamist."

"It isn't a contest, Nathan." She leaned toward him. "And if you think I wasn't complaining the entire time about my troubles, you are sadly mistaken. No one is calm and composed about having their world turned upside down. No one expects you to be a saint."

"I'm far from that. I'm just a man." Nathan stared into the amber liquid in his glass. "What's appalling is I am realizing that I am a useless man. I've lived off an inheritance all my life. I've earned nothing and have no skills that are of any value to anyone. I have to pay for myself and my mother now, and I haven't the slightest notion how."

"You do have skills."

"What? My talents lie in dancing well, carrying on a polite conversation, being charming to the old ladies, and agreeable enough to take the wallflowers out onto the dance floor. I'm a valued guest. That's all."

"That's not nearly all you are, Nathan. You are also loyal and honorable and kind—and I can assure you that those are qualities not possessed by many people. You know how to make people feel at ease. You're smart. You speak well. You're confident."

"I'm not entirely sure I have any reason to be the last."

"Stop that." Verity left her chair and to his surprise, she knelt in front of him, her hands on his knees, and gazed earnestly up into his eyes. "Do not pretend you have no value just because you aren't named Dunbridge any longer. You're still you, and you are all those things I just listed. You think that honor and trust are not valuable? How many people want an untrustworthy banker? Or bookkeeper? Or lawyer?"

"Certainly not me. I learned that lesson." He grimaced at the memory of his former attorney.

"The knowledge of their professions are all things that can be taught," Verity continued. "That's where your intelligence is useful. Your ability to win people over is quite handy. You are resourceful. You can plan. You have courage."

"Perhaps you should hire me," he joked.

"Maybe I will," she tossed back.

Nathan leaned down, cupping Verity's face in his hands, and gazed into her eyes. "You are all of those things and more, yourself." Not to mention beautiful and desirable. "And I very much appreciate all you just said." He kissed her forehead lightly, then couldn't resist brushing his lips against hers, as well. He was filled with the urge to lift her up into his lap and kiss her much more fully. The thought of sinking into her warmth, her comfort turning to desire, tempted him beyond measure.

But no. I cannot do that. Nathan refused to play upon her sympathy and warm heart in order to pull her into something she was uncertain about, something which would now be even more foolish for her. Verity was so much more than just a balm to his pain, a quick way to fill the emptiness that now opened inside him.

He was already indulging himself a great deal by staying here and pouring out all his doubts. They had found the proof. The whole matter was over, and he should simply walk away, even though the thought made his heart clench in his chest.

Nathan's hands fell away and he started to sit back, but Verity reached up and grabbed his lapels, jerking him back. "Oh, no, you don't. You don't get to cry off that easily."

"I wasn't—"

She stopped his words with a kiss. Her kiss was long and deep, leaving no more uncertainty as to what she wanted, and every good intention Nathan had flew away from him. He went down onto the floor with her, his knees on either side of her legs, and pulled her up into him. The momentum threw them off balance, and they toppled over.

Nathan twisted to take the brunt of the short fall, pulling Verity atop him, never breaking their kiss. Verity laughed and sat up. She moved so that she was astride him, his rigid flesh pulsing against her. That was exactly where Nathan wanted to be...only without all the bothersome clothes between them.

He looked up at Verity. Her face was flushed, her eyes glowing, a few stray strands of her hair loose and falling around her face. Nathan knew he had never seen anyone as beautiful. His entire body ached for her. But he struggled for one last shred of sanity and said, "No, we shouldn't—"

"Shh..." Verity said softly, laying her forefinger across his lips for silence. Her smile was pure temptation. "I don't care what we should." She bent and kissed him.

"You don't want—"

She kissed Nathan again, longer this time, then murmured, "What I want is you."