His Lady Mistress

Elizabeth Rolls255that pelisse she had set off in. It must be one of her old ones.No London modiste had fashioned that abomination but, hehad to admit, it was admirable for cricket.Dazed, he watched. A very few minutes served to convincehim that Verity was a prime favourite with the boys and thather popularity extended far beyond her obvious willingnessto field for them. The younger one gave up his bat to herwith great alacrity and corrected her grip with all the aplombof a master.And Max noted with approval that the ball sent down bythe elder lad was nothing like the scorchers faced by hisyounger brother. Which, chivalry aside, might have been aserious error, he admitted, as his hoyden of a wife hooked itfor what would have been a clean six at any public school inEngland.He watched Verity race up and down the wicket, consciousof a queer ache in his heart, an ache that he scarcely daredacknowledge, because to do so would lift the lid on everythinghe had thought buried. His longing for Verity had beenbad enough when he could pretend it was merely lust, a physicaldesire for a lovely woman. It had been worse when herealised he wanted all of her, the laughter he had destroyed,the unconscious pride and dignity he had trampled and thesweet, innocent passion he had shamed.Now it ripped him apart to see her like this and to knowthat but for his own irresponsibility and its consequences, hecould have been looking into the future. His future. And hers.But all he could taste were the ashes of the past.He didn’t realise how long he had been there until a haltwas called to play and they all sat down under a tree to sharea sizeable repast. His mouth practically watered at the sightof what he thought might be plum cake and biscuits, washeddown with what was no doubt lemonade.Champagne and lobster patties never tasted that good.He should go. Verity could not possibly get into trouble inthis company, always excepting the odd stray cricket ball, but