Page 71 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

Stephen had known some gentlemen of this sort in his youth—the kind who had a drink too many and became enraged at the world for no reason—but he hadn’t thought Vera the type. He quickly ran through the recipe for a tonic to ease the effects of overindulgence—one that had been very popular during his college years at Eton.

“I think you’ll feel much better about things in the morning,” he finally said.

Stephen was embarrassed for her, but part of adulthood was knowing how much one could imbibe before turning into a blathering imbecile. He’d had to learn that lesson himself, more than once.

“I doubt my opinion on the matter will ever materially change.”

“We’ll just wait and see.”

CHAPTER 20- VERA

Vera woke the next morning feeling sick to her stomach. She blinked up at the canopy for a few moments, praying that the memory of what had transpired the night before would fade, that it had been some sort of nightmare.

But it wasn’t. It had truly happened. Vera groaned.

The dinner party had started well enough. Vera thought she looked nice in her blue-grey gown. She’d taken extra care with her hair, having a maid curl several long pieces to drape against the bare skin at her neck and decolletage.

Of course, her opinion of herself took a direct hit when she glimpsed Dahlia Warrington in that stunning aubergine dress. It had a daringly wide neckline that just exposed the tips of her shoulders and all of her long, alabaster neck. Next to her pale perfection, Vera couldn’t help but notice that she’d grown quite tan—probably from all the time riding in an open cart on the way to medical calls.

Delicate purple beading along Dahlia’s bodice shimmered in the candlelight, drawing every eye toward her. Her shining blonde hair was swept into a complicated arrangement that would have impressed even Hortense, and several dyed feathers were tucked in amongst the golden curls and braids.

Dahlia had dressed as if she were meeting the king in London instead of attending a dinner party among friends in the countryside. Then again, Dahlia always looked as if she were ready to meet royalty. It was almost too unfair, that a lady as naturally beautiful as Dahlia Warrington also possessed such a knack for dressing herself.

Dahlia’s large blue eyes were fringed in thick, dark lashes that contrasted perfectly with her honey-golden hair. Her eyebrows were combed and waxed; her full lips perfectly showcasing her cupid’s bow beneath a delicate, straight nose. She was flawless, the pinnacle of everything a young English lady should be.

Vera stifled the urge to squirm in discomfort. She knew very well that Dahlia outshone every other lady in the room, but why should she care? Vera was used to being on the sidelines of things. She’d spent many a miserable hour pressed against the wall of a ballroom, praying that her drab, bulky gown would disguise her as one of the pillars. Even then, she hadn’t been bothered as much as she was now.

I’ve never been tempted to hate anyone for being beautiful before, Vera thought when Stephen was introduced to the lovely young woman. I certainly shouldn’t start now.

They were seated; the first course served. Vera admired the stunning tablescape. If the marchioness had no hand in it, she should definitely commend her staff for rising to the occasion.

The china was ivory, lined in gold dots. The crystal goblets sparkled in the candlelight thrown by the chandeliers above and the silver candelabras on the table. Low silver bowls held stunning arrangements of flowers that spilled over their edges to kiss the fine lace tablecloth.

The first course was a beautiful amuse-bouche, as had become the fashion adopted from the French. Vera examined the layers carefully—a delicate shaving of roast beef atop a slice of roasted beet and some cream-based sauce. Pickled onions dusted the top.

Interesting, she thought, before carefully cutting the tiny square in two.

Though amuse-bouche was supposed to be a single bite, it wasn’t proper for a lady to ever have a full mouth. Vera refrained from rolling her eyes when she glimpsed Stephen spear the entire thing with his fork and eat it in one go.

On his other side, Miss Warrington was being her typical charming self. Vera ignored the sad little flip of her stomach and did her best to contribute to the other conversation at the table. She tried not to notice how very interested Dahlia sounded when speaking to Stephen. He chatted with her, and why wouldn’t he be interested right back?

Why, at one point, Stephen had been so overcome with Miss Warrington’s beauty that he’d completely lost the thread of conversation! He’d been struck dumb by the loveliness of her face paired with those charming feathers she’d pinned in her hair.

Had she been alone, Vera would have put her face into her hands and groaned.

But then Vera’s suspicions were confirmed when Dahlia all but outright asked him to accompany her—alone—to the garden folly, which the lady had already seen. There was only one reason a lady like that would ask for male company—she was interested.

Vera felt a sharp pinch somewhere in the vicinity of her chest, though she did her best to convince herself that it was her stomach, nothing more. She frowned. Perhaps beets didn’t agree with her.

But then—calamity. Vera pressed her hand to her head, remembering that terrible conversation.

Stephen wasn’t at all who he thought he was. He was a degenerate knave with no honor at all! Vera remembered all the times she’d been alone with him and wondered that he hadn’t attempted anything untoward. If he were trying to put Dahlia Warrington into his “rotation,” as he called it, why hadn’t he been improper with Vera? She was far less protected than Dahlia was; far less desired, too. The only explanation for it was that Stephen wasn’t interested in Vera at all—not even as a matter of convenience.

Vera flopped her covers back and shoved her feet into quilted slippers, then grabbed her velvet dressing gown and threw it on. Winter was creeping ever closer, there was no doubt of it. The chill of the mornings afflicted the large house, only chased away by the fires the maids woke early to light. Thankfully, there was one already burning in her fireplace. Vera sat close to it, staring into the flames.

Even now, even though Stephen himself had said such things directly to her, she didn’t quite believe it could be true. She’d never been so wrong about someone, not ever.

Vera had thought he was a good man. Brusque sometimes, but that was perhaps to be expected, given his profession. He treated his mother with affectionate respect, his brother with care and kindness. Even though Vera and Stephen had certainly started off on the wrong side of things, relationally speaking, there had been a marked shift as of late.