Page 27

Oh, it felt so good to banter with him again!

Mr. Cole, while not a good match pragmatically, brought out a side of her she revealed with no other.

Although, now that she thought on it, Dr. Westbridge had managed to perform similar magic earlier.

Granted, he had a milder form of humor. More…

appropriate. Safer. He had managed to distract her from her insecurities with a gentler wit, one that would not appear unseemly.

Mr. Cole, on the other hand, was a shameless Don Juan.

She would have to be cautious not to give the impression she was encouraging him.

Perhaps she had already erred in this way.

She would need to take greater care. There was little wisdom in denouncing his informal suit before, while welcoming his flirtation now.

That was not the sort of reputation she wanted.

She would rather be known as a strange, quiet sort of character, misunderstood and possibly avoided, than a woman who appeared trivial in her mores.

With her thoughts settled thus into a clearer path forward, she joined Mr. Cole on the dance floor in a rather more subdued fashion than she had done with the good doctor.

Verity noticed far more eyes upon her now than there had been when she’d danced with a more innocuous partner.

Mr. Cole, no doubt, had already made his mark with the ladies of Munro, and they must have been wondering at his connection to Verity.

Was she competition for his attention? Was she the sort to invite it?

“You can feel it, can’t you?” Mr. Cole asked suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“The stares that are hidden behind fans and the whispers cupped behind gloved hands.”

“Yes,” Verity answered truthfully. “It is very discomfiting.”

“As it should be.”

Verity looked at Mr. Cole pointedly. “I would think you were used to it. In many ways, you choose a behavior that provokes it.”

An arched eyebrow was followed by a slow, spreading smile. “Ah, Miss Lockhart, I have missed your candor.”

“Perhaps,” she said, venturing toward the topic she had long hoped to broach with him, “I was too candid at our last meeting.”

His face clouded but less than she’d thought it might have. “I’ll admit,” he replied, “your response to my gift was… surprising. But I have had time to reason further. I understand now where I went wrong. Your letter made it clear.”

Pain shot through Verity’s heart, so strong, it must surely have shown upon her face. “That was not my intention! I was trying to apologize, not attribute blame.”

“And so you did, Miss Lockhart, to my shame. That you should apologize when it is I who hurt you is not something I can be proud of.”

“But you meant well. And I was terribly ungracious in my reaction.” Verity shook her head slowly, her heart pinched with remorse. “You must have been hurt too. I had fully intended to explain myself at your next visit.” She grew quiet. “But… there wasn’t one.”

Mr. Cole’s expression softened. “I am sorry. It was badly done.” He raised his eyes to hers. “Would it help you to know I’ve done a little growing up since then?” He grinned. “Why, I’ve even come of age!”

“Oh, congratulations! And, may I say, further felicitations on your military commission. I know how much the opportunity means to you.” Verity paused, uncertain whether she should utter all her thoughts.

She had so often regretted the loss of Mr. Cole’s company, and the way they might have conversed openly as they had at the pond.

It seemed that now, given the chance to talk to him again, it was better to do so unreservedly.

After all, was he not the one man to whom she had spoken with ease?

Had she not wished for more time spent with him?

Verity pulled up short in her thoughts. She must amend them.

Mr. Cole was the first man with whom she had experienced such comfort.

Dr. Arthur Westbridge had managed an admirable result also.

He might not be as glamorous a specimen as Mr. Cole, but he was nevertheless someone of whom she thought warmly.

Verity tucked this realization away in the back of her mind to ponder again at her leisure.

Mr. Cole, unaware that her thoughts had taken this detour, continued with the conversation they had begun. “Thank you, Miss Lockhart,” he said in reply to her previous good wishes. “You must know that you have played a role in my happy outcome.”

“I did?”

He nodded. “You are a good influence on me. You call me out on my empty talk, the type I fall back onto when I feel I can’t be myself. It was your straightforward manner that gave me the courage to speak to my father more forcefully about what I truly wanted.”

Verity did not know how to respond. She was deeply moved that he thought of her in such a positive light. And yet…

“I do not consider myself a revolutionary, Mr. Cole.”

“But you are , Miss Lockhart,” he insisted.

“Not all revolutions are won with cannon and bloodshed. Some happen so quietly, yet insistently, that change is achieved without fanfare. Think of your visits to the pond. Your mother does not approve of them. Yet you may keep your paints at the ready and are left unguarded, as it were, when she knows you will slip away and seek out your little subjects for study. You have stood up for yourself without so much as a whisper. Only determined action. And you do so every moment of every day because you would rather be true to yourself than enjoy the acceptance of those who would ask you not to be.”

Blood pounded in Verity’s head. This was what she had wanted.

This was the gift he should have given all those months ago.

Not that pinned butterfly. This. He could see her.

See her as she really was—and not turn from her.

Her entire body buzzed with electricity.

If he had spoken to her like this all those months ago, maybe…

It was too late. He would be leaving soon for war and…

“I wish you didn’t have to go!” she blurted out.

She had wanted to say this earlier but had held back.

Now the emotion rushed to the surface, furious in its intensity, wholly unstoppable.

“I should never have encouraged you to choose this path! It’s all very well to promenade in your smart, red coat with its brass buttons, but it’s another thing entirely to wear it into battle.

You could… You might…” The words choked in her throat.

She was very aware of the gangly gentleman beside them staring at them and then glancing away as she caught his eye.

“I’m sorry,” she said to Mr. Cole, her head lowering with her voice. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Mr. Cole matched her more solemn tones. “Don’t apologize, Miss Lockhart.

I am touched that you feel this way. War is, shall we say, the less attractive side of military life.

But many of us live to boast of our exploits.

” He offered a small, wry smile. “You do not think the universe would deny me my little pleasures, do you?”

Verity supposed he’d said this to lighten the mood, but Mr. Cole did so without his usual twinkle. She wanted very much to reply with a light and teasing comment, but she could not bring herself to jest while the thought of Mr. Cole being killed by the French dominated her thoughts.

“You know,” he said, the casual tone still overlaying a serious mood, “you only helped me with one of my difficulties.”

“What do you mean?” Verity was intrigued in spite of herself.

“I am still without a wife.” And there it was. The playful grin. It almost reached his eyes.

“Oh,” replied Verity, at a loss for how to answer.

“Do not look so alarmed, Miss Lockhart,” said Mr. Cole, his eyes creasing at last with mirth. “I shall not burden you with my hapless suit again.”

Disappointment planted its heavy boot on Verity’s heart.

“However,” Mr. Cole continued, “you could assist me in my future endeavor. I trust your judgment implicitly. Do you see anyone here with whom I might make a good match?”

“No.”

Mr. Cole huffed a short laugh. “You didn’t even turn your head!”

Verity tried to shed the sudden sulkiness that had infiltrated her heart. “I don’t know anyone here except your sister and mine. And they are both married.”

“Ah. Perhaps a few introductions are in order. When I spot a promising lass, I shall make sure the two of you meet. Then you shall give your insight as to her character and whether it might be a match for mine.”

Verity loathed the idea out of hand. Why should she, by Mr. Cole’s own admission, have guided him toward change and not benefit from it?

It was decidedly unfair. But what could she do?

Announce that, after all, he might be worthy of her consideration?

That she, who was demanding in her requirements, unorthodox in her expectations, would now be all he wanted?

Verity sighed long. This was what friends did for each other, was it not?

This had been what she’d wanted: his acceptance, his trust, his companionship.

And if, as her friend, Mr. Cole was willing to do better for someone new than he had done for her, should she not be happy that he was willing to change?

Only… if he was going to grow, become a man worthy of another, should she not be given a chance to consider him?

“I see you hesitate, Miss Cole. That is good. It means you take the matter seriously. Perhaps I may sweeten the pot and offer you a similar service in return. I have spent much time in Munro over the years. I know many of the families. We could assist each other. You may gauge the worth of the daughters while I get the measure of the sons. We can be allies, you and I. And they will be our chaperones, while we talk of what really matters, like the qualities of great passion and… er… tansy beetles.”

“Tansy beetles,” Verity corrected him automatically.

“That is what I said.”

“Oh.” Verity stuttered to a halt in her thoughts. “So you did.”

At last, the dance had reached them. Mr. Cole rose up on his toes.

He was naturally elegant, and his dancing no less so.

Verity scrambled to get her thoughts shuffled back in order.

What were the steps again? She moved forward hastily to meet him in the space between the lines, almost stumbling as she returned to her original position.

“To the right,” Mr. Cole called, just loud enough for her to hear.

She circled the gentleman diagonally to her right, the one who had heard her earlier cry of dismay and tried politely to hide having heard it.

Verity blushed as they capered around each other, but the lanky gentleman merely completed the figure and returned to his place.

Back she went to Mr. Cole, hands united briefly, then pulling apart again.

Verity couldn’t help but regard these motions as an echo of her relationship with Mr. Cole, such as it was.

Together, apart, together, apart. And all of it a formal display.

Nothing was real. If it had been real, she would be holding a net instead of a fan.

Her feet would be wet and bare. And Mr. Cole would be holding the reins of his horse, telling her of his dream of being an officer.

There would be no pretty steps upon a ballroom floor, hoping—in one or two dances at a time—to discover the partner with whom you would spend the rest of your life.

What if she had found that partner already, only to have him believe that her previous disinterest was permanent?

Down the line, they skipped. Down and down, until they drew to a halt and faced each other once again, cheeks flushed with exertion.

More couples pranced past them. The line shifted. Together. Apart. Circle the gentleman to the right. Together. Apart.

And when Verity thought she could bear the dance no longer, for the echo of loss would break her heart, the dance ended. And she could touch Mr. Cole’s hand no more.