few days. Such events would provide a host of opportunities to further her plans. There was absolutely no reason to feel as if something was missing from her life. And so she wouldn’t. She refused. Verity walked faster.
Olivia’s tall, apparently always tipsy butler admitted them and took Verity upstairs to the drawing room. The youngest Townsends weren’t present today. Mrs. Townsend lounged in her customary spot, while Olivia and Beatrice faced off in front of the hearth. “I don’t see why you had to stick your nose in,” Beatrice declared.
“You told me about it,” Olivia replied.
“Not so that you could betray me!” was the dramatic reply. Beatrice struck a pose. She stamped on the hearthrug.
“Oh, take a damper,” said her sister.
Their mother’s calm, amused voice intervened. “If you wish to go—and you notice I am not forbidding the outing—Olivia must accompany you,” said Mrs. Townsend.
Verity was interested to see that she did exercise some parental authority.
“And Miss Sinclair, of course,” added Olivia’s mother, as if offering a treat.
“Where are we going?” Olivia’s note had practically demanded her presence. Now Verity was even more curious.
Before anyone could enlighten her, the drawing room door opened and two new guests were inserted by the butler. Lady Hilda Stane marched in with a sullen expression on her pretty face. “My sister made me bring him,” she complained, indicating her escort with an improper jerk of her thumb.
Verity stared at Lord Randolph, only to find he was gazing fixedly at her. She turned away as Beatrice said, “I have to take Olivia.”
The two girls lined up shoulder to shoulder and glowered at their elders.
Lord Randolph ignored the glares, and their impatient seething, as he offered polite greetings and bowed over Mrs. Townsend’s hand when introduced. He did it all perfectly, yet Verity thought he was as conscious of her as she of him. Finally, he turned to Hilda. “Now you’ll tell us what you’re up to,” he said. “We’re not going anywhere else until you do.”
“I’m not up to anything!” Hilda said, crossing her arms and frowning.
“Emma says you are. She claims you’ve been going about with your smug, about-to-commit-mischief look.”
“Emma is a spineless peagoose! And a snitch!”
“Snitch,” echoed Beatrice, seeming delighted by the slang. “So is Olivia. Sisters!” She and Hilda exchanged a disgusted look.
“Beatrice has an appointment with that German head examiner,” said Olivia, biting back a smile.
“Herr Grossmann?” replied Lord Randolph. “The phrenologist?”
“That’s the name.” Olivia nodded. “She wrote him, pretending to be much older than she is, I suspect.”
“I didn’t ‘pretend’ anything,” said Beatrice. But she looked away as she spoke.
“Of course you didn’t,” said Hilda.
“Really? He knows you’re only fourteen years old?”
Lord Randolph had drifted closer to Verity, which she’d noticed, if no one else had. “She seems older,” he murmured. As the lively argument continued, he added, “I’d thought young Hilda unique. But here’s another. It’s like throwing brandy on a fire.” He shook his head. “Or one of my brother Alan’s chemical experiments, where two elements create a bigger effect when mixed together.”
Apparently, he was going to act as if their last conversation hadn’t happened, Verity thought. And the kiss. Splendid. She could do the same. She was relieved. No, annoyed. Or both. It was difficult to judge. With him right there beside her, she couldn’t think of anything but kisses.
“Enough!” declared Mrs. Townsend.
She had the voice that mothers possessed, or learned, Verity observed. It brought silence.
“Do you wish to keep your appointment?” their hostess added. “Or would you prefer to rip at one another right through the time?”
The group dissolved in a flurry of preparations. Hilda went with Beatrice to fetch her bonnet. Olivia didn’t suggest that Verity come with her. She was left with Lord Randolph, under Mrs. Townsend’s tolerant eye. Verity tugged at a glove. Every remark that occurred to her led right back to those dizzying moments in his arms. Well, let him make conversation.
“I suppose…” he began.
Verity waited. The silence lengthened. “You suppose what?”
“There’s no need to snap at me.”
“I didn’t.”
“No, I’m not going to apologize,” he said quietly.
“I haven’t asked—”
“I maintain I was in the right.”
“About?”
“And the…other thing. I didn’t begin it.”
“Thing?” He was calling their kiss a thing. And saying it was all her doing.
“One might argue that—”
“One is an idiot,” Verity snapped. Yes, snapped this time. And welcome. “I offer no opinion, as you seem to be talking to yourself.”
He looked startled.
From her chaise, Mrs. Townsend laughed. It was a lovely, lilting laugh. And it reduced them to stiff silence