and body to, had died. He hadn’t needed to fight in the war, but Richard had been determined to prove that he was more than a second son waiting to come into his inheritance. The memory of how passionate he had been about heading to war brought a lump to her throat. He hadn’t returned with glory and accolades as he’d hoped.
You died, Richard. And since then, she had become so incredibly determined in protecting her heart and her independence.
Entering the yard, she spied her friend, Mary, in the gardens on her knees, uncaring that she dirtied her gown.
“Mary,” Verity said, hurrying over to her. “I got several springs of mistletoe.”
Her former governess was still such a beautiful woman at three and forty. Her dark blue eyes glowed their welcome, and her dark hair without any gray was caught in a loose chignon. Without a hat covering her from the rays of the winter sun, a shine of sweat glistened on her rosy cheeks.
“From Ellesmere Manor?”
Verity nodded with a pleased smile.
“I thought the gate was locked,” Mary said with some exasperation. “Do not tell me you followed through with your plan and climbed it!”
Verity chuckled. “That I did, and I was caught.”
There must have been something in her tone for Mary arched a brow and asked, “Did you meet the new lord of the manor?”
Verity’s silly heart skipped. “I did.”
Mary paused in the act of lowering the small shovel.
“My dear Verity, you are blushing, was he that handsome? His Uncle Frederick was also a fine specimen.”
“Oh, Mary,” she said, lowering the basket to the verdant grass and untying the strings of her bonnet. “It is the sun.”
Mary’s eyes squinted thoughtfully, but she made no reply but resumed her digging underneath some holly bush. “The Vicar came by again earlier,” she said. “You cannot live with me forever, Verity. He is most devoted to you and I believe his sentiments are sincere.”
Verity looked away as a young maid ran on the small lawn with Rufus, tossing him twigs he brought back to her.
“Sometimes I do wish for marriage and children, but the Vicar…I do not think I could accept him; he is so humourless and puritanical. I just do not think we would be a good match.”
Verity had mourned after Richard’s death, knowing she and Richard had come together because of love the night before he had been called away. She was not ashamed of giving herself to her affianced husband, her parents had not known but might have guessed. When she had learned of his death, she had been four months with child, but she had lost the baby as a result of her distress. Her mother and brother had been in London as Verity had insisted on remaining home. Mary had realised what was happening and had sworn the local midwife to secrecy. Verity had recovered but her heart had been shattered with knowing she had lost her little baby girl as well as her much loved Richard, and their plans for a future together.
Enduring such pain had taken months to recover.
Her parents had not mentioned her illness, nor had Richard’s parents.
“And what did you tell the vicar?”
“After he lectured me on the unsuitability of my living alone with only you and servants. I said that it was not his concern since I have not consented to marry him,” she said softly.
Her friend sighed, dropped the trowel, and tugged off her garden gloves to reveal elegantly manicured fingers. “And the Vicar is the kind of man who would expect you to be untouched and assure himself of your grace.”
Verity had been privy to many of the youthful Vicar’s sermons on the dreadful woes of fornicating before marriage. She had listened with amusement because of their ridiculous prudishness.
Since Richard’s death, she had avoided most social events, even those more modest country ones. However, it was expected that she would attend church, and even there, she had attracted male attention. She had received three proposals while she had been in full mourning for her fiancé. She had given up counting how many there had been since.
None of her suitors had been fully up to her mother’s expectations nor had she been interested in marrying any of them. Verity doubted those gentlemen would have been prepared to accept ‘a soiled dove,’ which meant a wedding night with any man was not to be anticipated. It would only bring sorrow and discord, which was no way to start a marriage.
Verity did not believe