A heavy section of the tree, split off by the lightning, thudded to the ground near where they’d been standing. Branches speared through on either side of the statue above their heads. He held her. She was trembling. He expected he was, too. It was difficult to tell over the beating of his heart.
The skies let loose then, a deluge, pounding on their hats and shoulders, soaking them instantly. Randolph bent his head and held on. Verity clung to him. The fallen half-tree hissed and sputtered.
“I’ve n-never been so close to a lightning strike,” Verity said, her lips inches from his ear.
“Nor I.” Water streamed down his coat, her cloak. It dripped off his hat brim onto her neck. “What a fool I was. I knew it was going to rain.”
Verity laughed.
When he peered down at her, she laughed harder. He could feel her body shaking with mirth now.
“A nervous reaction,” she gasped. “An excess of—” She dissolved in laughter.
Randolph couldn’t help smiling. And then laughing as well. Rain was a massive understatement. This was a fluid barrage. A pummeling to follow the volley by tree. It was like standing under a waterfall. His hat was slowly drooping down over his skull. Her bonnet was disintegrating over her bright hair. But they were all right—pressed deliciously together, laughing like lunatics.
Then Verity said, “I suppose we should go on before we catch a chill.”
The phrase froze Randolph’s blood. The laugher died in his throat. “Come. I must get you home.” He guided her back to the path. “I’ll find a cab.”
Verity picked up her sodden skirts. He kept his arm around her. They rushed together through the rain to the park gate.
Randolph had to step into the street to stop a hansom cab. “Ye’ll soak the seats,” the driver objected, hunched under a hooded cloak. “No one else’ll want to ride.”
“You have a blanket,” Randolph said. He could see it from where he stood. “We’ll spread it out and sit on it.” He’d rather have put it over Verity, but getting the ride was more important.
“Well—”
“And I’ll give you a guinea extra.”
This won the driver over. Randolph hastily unfolded the blanket and helped Verity into the vehicle. He gave the man the address and joined her. She nestled against him. “You’re cold,” he said.
“So are you.” She slipped her arms around him and rested her head on his chest.
Randolph forgot the chill. Indeed, he was much warmer. He had a sudden flash of the two of them, in this cozy position, over and over down the years to come, right into old age. The idea touched him to the heart.
In a few minutes, the cab pulled up before the door of Verity’s lodgings, and Randolph handed her down. “You must go home,” she said when the maid opened the door and began exclaiming over their bedraggled state. “And get out of those clothes.”
If only they could do so together, Randolph thought. He’d be more than happy to help her out of that wet gown and set of stays, and untie her laces as he had at Quinn’s cottage. He could almost feel the cloth under his fingers. But that was impossible. For now. Soon, soon. He bowed and climbed back into the cab.
Twenty
At Langford House, Randolph squelched up to his bedchamber and changed into dry clothes. He went out again immediately, into the abating rain, and paid a visit to Angelo’s. Wrentham wasn’t at the fencing academy. Randolph hadn’t really expected him to be. But there were rumors of a duel floating about the place, as Randolph had anticipated. Here and at the clubs, that sort of gossip would be rife. No one seemed to have specifics, at least. Not yet. He was able to procure Charles Wrentham’s London address, but no word of Carrick. Going on to White’s, he discovered that the latter had lodgings in Duke Street.
Randolph went directly there, impatient with the obstacles being thrown up before him. He wanted to marry; Verity wanted the same. Why must things be so complicated?
Lord Carrick was not at home. Nor was Mr. Wrentham when Randolph tried at his rooms a little later. It was vastly frustrating. Fierce in his desire to have Verity, Randolph wanted to shake sense into both of them until this idiotic idea of a duel rattled out their ears. And then do the same to the ram-obsessed Archbishop of Canterbury.
Which would be conduct unbecoming to his profession, Randolph thought as he turned for home. Of