The rest of their honeymoon remained forever in Verity's memory as a sort of hazy, golden dream. Decades later, she could recall the oddest, most insignificant things with crystal clarity: the ornate seashell-patterned tea set that was Mrs Prothero's best; Henry playing with the three broken pieces of tile on the kitchen steps; picking up Neil's vest from the chair one night, to put away properly – he was always leaving his clothes lying about. But for the most part, she was left only with the impression that she had been impossibly, overwhelmingly happy. The concrete details of her memories were obscured in the mists of that emotion, the same way the concrete details of her memories of her childhood were obscured in the mists of misery. She knew she had been miserable as a child, but she could never remember exact reasons why, until some chance event reminded her, like when the fired coach-driver's wife had come to the manor to ply Prothero with excuses for his behaviour and beg for his job back. Too many times, Verity had seen her mother with the exact same expression on her face, the exact same tone to her voice, as she had begged Lady Duvalle to not be so harsh on a poor, weak, gentle man. For Verity, the stain of strong emotions lingered longer than the memories of what had caused them.

It was then in early May that they returned to Great Hough, Verity knowing she had been happy, without knowing why, and faintly nervous at her return to the old surroundings, where so much misery had been felt.

The first week of their arrival was a hurricane of visits from curious neighbours. Verity found that Clair had grown taller, and prettier, and somehow indefinably older. She and her father were the only pleasant visitors that week. It was awkward for Verity to find herself suddenly removed from low society to high. She did not know how to be sociable to the well-dressed ladies and gentleman who had previously scorned her company. Nor did she find it easy to walk under the dirty glares of servants and labourers, who were perhaps jealous of her change of fortune, or perhaps merely resentful of her attitude, which had always been prideful and prickly, and was now marred also by a sort of hesitating and grating condescension towards them. Verity didn't mean to be condescending, but in endeavouring to show some respect to the butcher's daughter or the footman's wife, she only made it seem like she was trying to remind them of their place.

After a week or two, the village came to the consensus that Mr and Mrs Armiger were snobbish and cold and prideful.

"Well-suited to each other," Mrs Stanley sniffed to her two eldest nieces, neither of whom had succeeded in ensnaring the attentions of any gentleman over the past year, and were very disheartened by their prospects. "Them both so proud and above us all! And with nought to be proud of!"

For somehow it had come to the village that Mr Armiger had been virtually exiled from his family and the society he was born to: a black sheep, come to hide far away from the flock. No one knew exactly how true the rumours were, or exactly why he might have been exiled, but the villagers were highly imaginative, and with no truth to dispel any lies a clever fishwife might come up with, the gossip flamed high and wide.

Despite this, the married couple were very content, living up in the manor in their own company and ignorance of all gossip. There were a few blights, their first few weeks back, it was true. They had argued about Neil's distressing habit of leaving his clothes where he dropped them, for one thing. For another, Verity's father had bullied his way through the butler, and refused to leave until he had seen Verity; Neil had sent him away eventually, with a pound in his pocket, and the footman's boot up his backside.

It was at the end of their second week home that Lady Duvalle sent Verity a message asking to receive her, and Verity went, as called.

When she entered the parlour, there were the usual formal and expected greetings, and then the maid was sent away, and Lady Duvalle poured tea.

Verity sipped at it, cautiously. Her grandmother always made it unpleasantly weak and never used sugar. It was too hot yet, and she put it down gratefully, and nibbled at a biscuit.

"You look well," Lady Duvalle remarked. "You've gained weight. Are you pregnant?"

Verity, having picked up her tea again, spilled it sloppily over her fingers and skirt.

"I- I don't think so!"

"Ah," Lady Duvalle said meaningfully. "Then you have consummated the marriage. Good."

Verity flushed red to the roots of her hair. Too late she realized Lady Duvalle had trapped her into revealing that intimate secret. She pressed at her skirts with a handkerchief, to cover her confusion.

"The sooner you do have a child, the better," Lady Duvalle continued. "You will need to supply him with heirs, of course, and a child will tie both our families together nicely."

"Our families?"

"The Armigers, and the Duvalles."

Verity shook her head and tossed the soiled handkerchief on the table. "No."

The flatness of her reply surprised her grandmother. "No?"

"I married Neil. Families have nothing to do with it. I don't care if I never meet Neil's family. I probably won't. I gather that they hate him, and he certainly hates them. And you can't say I'm a Duvalle anyway. I'm not proud of being a Baker, but my mother was a Duvalle and ran away from it, so I don't think there's much to be proud of in that either."

It was the first time Verity had directly contradicted her grandmother like that. She watched the stain of colour rise on her grandmother's cheeks with a mix of exaltation and trepidation, like a schoolboy who has just smashed a window with a really well hit cricket ball, and knows he will soon receive punishment for it.

"I supported you when you needed it most," her grandmother said slowly.

"You abandoned me as a seven year old child with a dead mother and a father who was worse than dead." Verity drank her weak tea. Her new position, as a married woman, gave her a power she was now aware of. She was no longer dependent upon her grandmother – no longer dependent on her grandmother's opinion of her. No. Now she could give her own opinion.

"I don't think you ever hated me, or my father. You always said you hated him, but I don't think that's true. You just didn't give a damn about either of us. It was mother you hated. You hated her for defying you. You planned for her to marry someone important, and she didn't. I can't say I approve her marriage either, but I'm not your next chance to rearrange the social register. I'm going to live quietly and peacefully with my husband, and we're going to ignore all such snobbish nonsense."

Lady Duvalle pursed her lips. "Next time you need my help, I'll make you beg for it on your knees," she said icily.

"Last time I did, you refused me. So where does that leave the both of us?"

It wasn't a pleasant visit, but family is family, and neither Lady Duvalle nor Verity were as eager to burn the bridges as they appeared, only to test them. An hour later, after reluctant, half-made apologies on both sides, Verity left, and went home. When the butler came to answer the front door to her, he pointed to the drawing room.

"A gentleman awaits you."

"His name?"

"He did not give one."

"And you let him in without it?"

The butler pressed a finger to his lips. "He is a gentleman."

That was a mystery that Verity could not solve. She went to the drawing room cautiously, thinking it might be her father again, despite the strict orders for no staff member to allow him in. But it wasn't. It was a stranger. As she entered, he arose, clumsily, leaning heavily on his thick walnut stick, with the copper-head, in the shape of a boar.

She stared at him, taking in first, as everyone did, his stick and his crooked legs, and then, aware she was staring, looked at the ground without noticing his features.

"The butler did not give me your name, Sir," she said shyly. "May I ask it?"

"Look at me, and you'll tell it to me," the stranger demanded rudely. "Look at me, go on."

She looked instead to the door, thinking to call Neil – but he was out – the footman?

"Look at me," the stranger insisted, more softly. "I won't hurt you."

She looked again. He was smaller than her. It was ridiculous to think that he could hurt her. Standing, his right leg bent slightly to accommodate his left. She was sure he could not run. And then, at last, she began to see him and not his deformity, and realization dawned on her face. The dark, curly hair, the fierce black brows, the angular features – he was an Armiger. He was a smaller version of Neil, with less grey in his hair, and fewer lines on his face – but what lines there were, she noticed, were bitterer than those on Neil's.

"You're Neil's... brother."

"And you're his wife." Like Neil, his tone of voice was distant and dry and slightly amused. But he wasn't smiling. His thin lips might occasionally twist upwards, but she was sure his light hazel eyes were incapable of smiling. His eyes were the colour, almost, of yellow diamonds – and just as hard and cold.

"Mr... Lord? Armiger? Please sit down."

"Lord Landon, if you must. I won't stay long. I came when Neil was out, to speak to you alone."

"Even if the butler doesn't tell him you called, I will. So you might as well sit down."

Verity lowered herself into a chair. Hesitating, the man sat down opposite her, awkwardly, shifting his weight from his cane suddenly to the chair, and letting his right leg slide out clumsily in front of him, the drawing room rug bunching up beneath it. He shifted his weight in the chair, and pulled the rug back into place with his foot. His right leg he kept splayed out in front of him, but his left he folded neatly beneath his chair.

He met her eyes, with his cold diamond gaze, and said nothing.

"You look younger than him," Verity said abruptly, to break the heavy silence. "You look years younger. But you're not, are you?"

"I'm thirty-three next month," Lord Landon said testily. "And I don't look young for my age. I'm only short."

"Oh, you misunderstand me," Verity protested, seeing she had insulted him. "His hair turned quite grey, you know, and he has so many lines in his face – he only looks his age when he smiles, and he doesn't do that often."

"He's gone grey?" For a moment the stranger's interest heightened, but then he shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I didn't come here to talk about his looks. I came here to talk about you."

"Me?" Verity watched him closely. "Why me?"

He shrugged hopelessly. "Because you married him."

"Yes." Verity stretched out her hand, with the wedding ring on it. It was not at all grand: a thin golden band, with a small faceted garnet centrepiece, and two tiny white crystals, inset, either side. But it suited her thin, capable hands well. "I take it you're displeased with the matter?"

"Something like it." Lord Landon reached over, and ran a finger lightly over the back of Verity's ring. "They're not diamonds. Well, at least he got that right."

Verity snatched her hand back. Lord Landon looked surprised.

"I don't mean to insult you," he said simply. "But you must be able to see it our way – it's likely that Neil's son will inherit the title, you see. And, well, you're hardly the sort of wife who should be making him an heir. He's really picked very rashly in you – I wish he'd waited a little longer, or asked me for advice."

"Your advice isn't wanted," Verity said coldly. "If that's what you came here for, you can leave." She stood up.

"No. Wait." He reached out, and took her hand. "Stay."

His touch was the same as Neil's – gentle, and warm, and dry. It surprised her enough that she sat back down, and folded her hands tightly in her lap.

Lord Landon breathed out. "I came on my father's behalf, to make an arrangement with you – not with Neil, with you."

"Arrangement?"

"We'll give you twelve thousand pounds to persuade Neil not to contest an annulment of the marriage, on the issue of your father's non-consent."

*      *      *

The girl looked at him in silence a moment. She seemed to be considering the offer. He could see her mind working behind her cat-like green eyes. Richard pressed on:

"Until Neil inherits the title – if he inherits – he's only got mother's money. My father cut him off when he married the Florentine girl. This house might seem grand to you, living in a little country town as you do, but he's only got two and a half thousand pounds a year."

"We used to live on two hundred, before my mother died. And afterwards it wasn't even that." The girl was keeping her steady gaze on him, her mind still working behind the eyes, talking automatically.

"I'll negotiate," he added, sensing it wasn't enough. "My father's given me some leave for it." He was aware, inside of him, of the alien and uncomfortable feeling of guilt. To appease it, he admitted, "We know what an annulment would cost your reputation, and we'll more than make up for it. That's why I've come to you, alone. We don't want to destroy you, only this unsuitable marriage."

For a moment, anger flashed across her features, and then, surprisingly, she threw back her head, exposing her elegant white throat, and laughed.

It was a cold, angry laugh, but there was clearly something that amused her. Uncomfortably, Richard thought it might be him. When she subsided, but still wouldn't answer him, he said gently,

"If it's scandal that holds you back, don't worry. We'll keep it very quiet. We can even find you another husband, or set you up as a widow. We'll figure everything out."

"Oh you'll figure everything out?" His brother's wife stood, and went to the window, to look out over the lawn, towards the woods. He twisted in his chair to watch her, and felt a momentary spasm of jealousy towards his brother, seeing how freely she moved in her dark blue gown, how tall and elegant and young she was. I'd probably enjoy it, if a woman like that tried to entrap me, he thought viciously. I can almost understand Neil – but why'd he have to marry the creature?

The grandfather clock in the hall struck six. Richard shifted in his chair, easing the weight on his legs. Neil would be back soon. He wanted to be gone before then. He wasn't ready to see him again yet. There was too much at stake, too many old wounds, so easily reopened.

When she didn't speak after some minutes, he said gently,

"Your father has already agreed to allow us to sue for annulment on his behalf."

"I know— I know him." She breathed out, misting the window glass. "How much did you pay him?"

Richard was stung. He had not expected her to see through both of them so quickly.

"One hundred pounds settled today, ten thousand settled upon annulment," he admitted.

"You could have had him at ten pence!" She turned back to him, her face suddenly sullen – and prettier, he thought, for the expression. "With ten thousand pounds he'll buy himself a sea of beer, and drown in it!"

"Then you have no choice, you can see. It would be best if you went away somewhere and—"

"No."

"No?"

She walked over to look angrily down upon him, her skirts pressing against his splayed right leg, the faint scent of her perfume descending upon him. He breathed in, and felt again the spasm of jealousy against his younger brother.

"I won't leave Neil," the girl said haughtily. "I'm not saying you can't get our marriage annulled – you probably could, with your money, and callousness, and my father's weakness – but even if you do I won't leave him. I've weathered the scandal of being his mistress before, and I'll weather it again if I have to. And then, when I do turn twenty-one, he'll marry me all over again – I know him, and you know him – and surely you must see he would. So whatever you're planning it won't work."

She had started off composed, but by the end of her speech, her voice was raised, and she was blinking hot tears of anger out of her eyes. One landed on his cheek, and he wiped it off with an incredulous finger. He had been wrong about her. Jane had been wrong about her. No. It would have been best to approach Neil first – but the damage was done now.

He stood, laboriously, and she moved back, to allow him up. Her lips were shaking, but her eyes were burning with righteous fire.

"No. I can see it won't work," Richard said softly. Then, though he never bowed, because it hurt him to try, he put his weight on his cane and bowed to her. "I'm sorry. I must apologize. I didn't realize. I didn't think it possible that you could be in love with him."

Whew. Long update for Valentine's day. This story has been getting a lot of votes and reads lately - thanks SO much to everyone who's been reading and voting. I really appreciate it. <3