The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(21)

“When Mortimer came to court me … I thought the Countess Southbourne the handsomest-sounding title one could desire,” Veronica recalled. “And now…”

Now Veronica Weatherstoke, her brother’s young bride, once thought the loveliest woman in the county, had the solemn, wary eyes of a war refugee.

Lorelai took her dear sister’s hand, and they clung to each other for a while. “Perhaps if Mr. Gooch is pleased with me, he’ll allow you and Mortimer back to Southbourne Grove after a time.”

“I shall miss you.” Veronica’s own tears brightened her gaze from emerald to jade. She pressed her gloves to her eyelids, not allowing the tears to fall. Lorelai suspected she didn’t want smudges in the powder she applied to hide the still-healing bruise on her cheek.

Veronica’s wealth of carefully arranged dark curls danced in the sunlight streaming in through the tall windows of her chamber. The grand manse had been her home for four years, and now she’d be forced to leave it, penniless and ashamed.

“Southend-On-Sea is not so very far away, and since our husbands’ business interests are now aligned, I’m certain we shall see much of each other.” Lorelai ascertained instantly her attempt at cheering the younger woman was an utter failure.

“Mortimer made it clear that I cannot visit until I conceive an heir.” Veronica put a hand to her empty womb.

“Mortimer can suck rotten eggs,” Lorelai spat, causing Tamerlane to change his mind about being held, and leap out of her arms, his tail held high with distaste.

Veronica had conceived a child and had lost it because of Mortimer’s heavy fists less than a year ago.

Still pale with grief, Veronica never dared smile, but her porcelain cheek dimpled on the rare occasion she was pleased. “At least you’ll get to stay with your animals. The estuary can remain your sanctuary.”

“I only hope my new husband allows me to keep all of them.”

“Do your best to give him a son,” Veronica advised. “Perhaps an heir will entice him toward indulgence.”

The thought of lying beneath her corpulent fiancé, who smelled of machine engines and bacon grease, was enough to incite a fit of vapors. Allowing him to touch her. There. To put his troutlike lips on her. A shudder oozed down her spine, fanning spikes of revulsion to lift goosepimples on her skin.

“Lorelai,” Veronica ventured cautiously. “Have you ever … that is … has anyone ever discussed … your wedding night with you? What to expect? What to do?”

As much as she adored Veronica, Lorelai very much did not desire to have a woman eight years her junior explain marital relations to her. As if today could be any more demeaning.

“I’ve not doctored so many creatures for so long without obtaining a basic understanding of mammalian mating habits.” Lorelai did her best to keep her mortification from coloring her voice. “I don’t suppose a man of Mr. Gooch’s age and … dimensions can manage such a physical undertaking well or often. It shan’t last long, I’m sure.”

Veronica turned away, but not quickly enough to hide her disconsolate expression. “If you’re lucky, it won’t. But surely you’ve more experience than the observation of beasts.”

“I have been kissed,” she huffed. Once.

“And was it a pleasant kiss?”

“It was like a dream. But better.” Twenty years. Twenty years and she could still taste his warmth. Could still conjure the fullness of his lower lip, the intensity beneath his restraint. The sweeps and drags of his smooth mouth against hers. The utter, heartbreaking need.

He’d been a dark creature with fathomless eyes. A specter of some other time. Some other fantasy. A loss too devastating to be evoked.

Especially today.

Ash.

That hope had died a thousand painful deaths. And she’d cried enough tears to overflow the marshes before she’d accepted the soul-crushing truth.

He’d remembered who he was. And whatever he’d left in his past had been enough to make him forget the promise he’d made to her.

There are only two indisputable facts in this world. One, that the sun will set in the west. And two, that I’ll come for you. Always.

“I’m glad you’ve had one pleasant kiss,” Veronica was saying. “Perhaps you can remember it tonight whilst … you know. Also, there are … things you can do … to help hurry along—”

“Lady Southbourne, Lady Lorelai, the carriage is come to fetch you to the church.”

Steeling herself, Lorelai turned to the footman. “Thank you—er—” Strange. She didn’t at all recognize him, and she considered herself familiar with everyone employed at Southbourne Grove. Had Mr. Gooch already begun installing his own staff? The nerve of the man, really! And who was this footman, anyhow, who could step so lightly they’d not mark his entrance? “I’m sorry, remind me of your name.”

“Moncrieff, my lady.” He glanced from Veronica to her, and back to Veronica again.

Not someone Mortimer would hire, certainly. Her brother wasn’t fond of men taller or more handsome than he. With hair rich and lambent as brandy tied into a queue, Moncrieff possessed the depraved sort of good looks one would attribute to a libertine like Casanova or Byron rather than your workaday footman.

“Thank you, Moncrieff, we’ll be down presently.” Lorelai dismissed him.