future. Which he found that he was. And as long as he didn’t say something stupid and muck it up.
Randolph slipped off the daybed and sank to one knee on the sewing room floor. He took Verity’s hand. This time, the words flowed. “I was swept away when we first sang together,” he said, realizing the truth of it as he spoke. “I’d never felt anything like that in my life. And since then I’ve thought of you constantly. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
Verity gazed into his fathomless blue eyes. As Lord…but surely they were beyond titles now? As Randolph had sat with his back turned, silent, her fairy-tale world had crumbled to dust. How, a dry inner voice had inquired, had she come out tonight to save Olivia from ruin and then tumbled straight into it herself? Gradually, she thought. Step by tantalizing step. And she’d enjoyed it thoroughly, right up to that sobering moment.
She knew that inner voice of old; it was a font of sensible, sometimes irritatingly sensible, advice. Now it added that there was a crucial difference between her case and Olivia’s—besides the fact that Olivia hadn’t stepped off the edge of propriety into uncharted waters, as she had. Randolph was no Thomas Rochford, as was manifest in his gaze.
From their first duet—that astonishing dive into harmony—she’d known the depths of him. She looked, and saw reflected in his blue eyes the soulful bond she’d felt then. They had deep instincts, impulses in common. She believed that. And down at the base of their kinship lay a sturdy moral code. One did the right thing. This was not a burden, but a privilege. A belief they shared. And because of all this, he hadn’t spoken like a man forced to an offer. And she didn’t feel like a victim, not the least little bit. He hadn’t said he loved her, of course. But he’d touched her as if he… Randolph was waiting. “Yes,” she said.
His breath sighed out on a word. “Splendid.” He squeezed her hand and let it go. Rising from the floor, he sat beside her. He didn’t look at her though, and Verity wondered why. “I’ll call at your lodgings tomorrow and speak to your mother,” he added. “Make it official.”
“Yes,” said Verity again. She sat up. Mama would never know that she’d been duped. Was this a poor start to a marriage?
Randolph rose. “I’ll go to see that Quinn is still sleeping.”
Everything had descended to the mundane. “I’ll sew up my dress.”
She sounded forlorn, and Randolph risked a glance. Sitting on the daybed with her underclothes in disarray, her hair in wild tendrils, she looked utterly delectable. And sad—was that right? Or was she simply thoughtful? He hated the idea that she might have regrets, but he wasn’t certain. He wanted to sweep her into his arms, but he didn’t trust himself. It was best to keep his eyes off her. He turned and went out.
Verity found a needle and thread among the sewing supplies. Conscious of the cold now, she pulled her torn cloak around her as she quickly stitched up her gown. Hooking up the back, she managed to slither into the garment, with a series of wriggles and contortions that she wouldn’t have wanted to exhibit before anyone else. The dress felt twisted and crooked when she was done, but she simply pulled the ripped cloak back over it and went in search of Randolph.
He was sitting in the front parlor. Quinn snored softly in her chair. Randolph stood. “Ready?”
Verity nodded. Her fund of conversation seemed to be exhausted.
“I’ll have to wake Quinn to bolt the door behind us,” he said. “If you stay quiet, she probably won’t even remember you were here.”
Verity nodded again. She went to the front door and slipped out, leaving it open a crack. As she lurked in the dark street, some of the thrill of the clandestine returned.
“Quinn,” she heard Randolph say.
There was a snort, and a cough. Then, as if picking up a conversation in the middle, the old woman said, “I don’t sleep much these days. I often sit up here. It’s more interesting than lying in the bed, isn’t it?”
“I must go,” Randolph replied. “Come and bolt the door behind me.”
“Late, is it?”
“Very late. Let me help you up.”
Shuffling footsteps approached. Verity moved into deeper darkness. The door opened. Randolph stepped through and turned. “I shall stay until I hear you shoot the bolt,” he