To Philip Vanderbogart Nash, a handsome devil and a most beloved uncle…
Victoria Givan would rather be alone and plump with coin in a London rookery than walking beside the colorful profusion of flowers here in the dales of Northampton. Indeed, the end would come all the quicker in the former scenario.
Lord, how she loathed the countryside. A casual observer would never guess that the turmoil of worries tumbling through her mind this fine spring day rivaled the stories to be found in the sole possession Victoria carried—a book of Canterbury Tales.
This was her last thought before the shrill blast of a carriage horn interrupted all. “Take heed. Make way!” A driver’s voice rang out from one of the three regal coaches barreling down the turnpike.
For the fifth time that hour, Victoria hurried her three young charges to the edge of the road to avoid being trampled. Spirited horses shook their heads, and polished brass and metal traces jangled in the air as the lead team jigged closer at a spanking pace. At the last moment, the first carriage swerved toward them, and Victoria spied the silhouette of a masculine profile beyond the gilt-edged window. The rear wheel passed perilously close to her boots, and a flag of wind whipped over her as she stumbled back.
The trio of adolescent boys reached to steady her and murmured words of concern. She coughed and sputtered amid the clouds of dust kicked up by the departing entourage. What sort of uncaring person had the audacity to nearly run them down without even a—
There was a shout, and the impressive set of equipages came to a dead halt a hundred yards away, before she could catch her breath and quell her frustration.
A stylishly liveried driver from the lead carriage jumped down and opened the highly lacquered door.
“Wait here,” she admonished the boys. She strode forward a few paces, then stopped—her legs shaky, her composure even more so.
A tall, daunting gentleman unfolded his frame from the polished carriage, his gloves and hat fisted in one large hand. It was obvious even at this distance that he was as dashing in his elegant clothes as she was uncommonly shabby in her faded gray gown. His long, loose strides ate up the distance between them, and suddenly, he was right in front of her, his gold quizzing glass gleaming as it lay amid the starched shirt linen between the lapels of an austere dark blue superfine coat.
He ran his fingers through his dark hair and replaced his lustrous brushed-beaver hat before he finally glanced down at her. His brows drew together.
Victoria’s breath caught in her throat. Good Lord. His eyes were the most arresting shade of pure blue—deep and devastating. They spoke of seduction even in this overly sunny florist’s fantasy of countryside buzzing with all manner of perverse insects.
Not that she knew the smallest particle about seduction. The closest thing to temptation unleashed had been her introduction to chocolate several months ago courtesy of her benefactor, the Countess of Sheffield.
He perused her form in a slow, unsettling fashion, appraising her from the top of her sensible and very old chipped straw hat down to the toes of her very new and very fashionable calfskin half boots, courtesy of another good friend.
“Well?” she asked, collecting her wits in the face of such magnificent masculinity. From the expression decorating his extraordinary face, it occurred to her that most likely he had rarely been brought to heel for anything in his life.
“I should like to apologize for the ill example of driving my heretofore excellent coachman just exhibited, madam.”
“I’ve seen drunken sailors after a decade out to sea show more care behind a team.”
He pursed his lips for the barest moment, and Victoria was uncertain if it was in annoyance or in humor. “You’ve the right of it, madam. Shall I have Mr. Crandall keelhauled at the next port, or shall I have him tied to the nearest tree so you can lash him yourself, straightaway?”
She snorted.
“My thoughts exactly.”
He undoubtedly agreed with her only to deflate her. But she refused to retire her displeasure. The day had been far too awful, and this was the proverbial last straw. “It’s easy to accept guilt when it falls on another’s shoulders and not your own.”
“Quite right. That’s just what I told Crandall when he tried to blame the poor pheasant running across the road just past your party. Shall I dismiss him without reference?”
“Of course not!” She nearly shouted in frustration.
“Or perhaps you’d prefer me to go after the bird?”
She ground her teeth together.
“Well, then, since you clearly possess the heart of a saint”—she would swear the corner of his lips twitched just the barest bit—“the matter is settled. I’m so glad you escaped injury, madam. Good day to you. I do apologize again for any inconvenience.” He bowed and began to turn away.
It was her muttering that probably stopped him in his tracks. “Did you have something further to say?”
That habit had always got her into trouble in her youth. There was no excuse for it really. “Nothing, nothing whatsoever.”
“Are you in need of aid? Perhaps a bit of compensation is in order for all the trouble?” She could sense rather than see the wariness in his eyes as he fished in his darkly patterned waistcoat and produced a gold guinea.
She gripped her beloved book to stop herself from taking the much-needed coin. “Absolutely not.” Her voice sounded tense and high-pitched to her own ears. “I don’t need money, and I certainly would never accept it from you if I did.”
“Are you sure? You would be doing me a favor, really—easing my conscience.” His blue eyes appeared even more vivid as he finally displayed a dazzling smile, which only served to irritate her further since it caused the most annoying fluttering in her stomach. It must be hunger.
She tried to shrug off the importance of his offer—and wavered. Pride lanced need. “No, thank you.”
He raised the handsome quizzing glass to his eye and stared at her.
She felt rather like a moth under a magnifying glass. A dusty one. She had never been good at hiding her emotions. And today was obviously no different.
“Here, take it,” he said quietly as he advanced the coin and lowered his eyepiece.
The man hadn’t even condescended to ask her name.
Only her tacit forgiveness had been required, and a guinea offered to enable him to forget her all the faster. But then, on the playing fields of the rich and titled, mere mortals of the working class did not require names. She should know that much by now. She turned on her heel to see to the boys. “Good day to you, sir,” she tossed over her shoulder.
Christ, the dark auburn-haired siren had robbed him of his ironlike grip on his wits. Who would have guessed snapping, green-eyed beauties could be found scampering about the back of beyond in intriguing, fashionable little boots and a hideous gown barely fit for the ragman? This species of female did not exist in town. It bore further inspection.
He easily caught up to her as she reached the trio of boys, who silently gazed at her with complete adoration in their eyes. Apparently, her charms worked equally well on the younger members of his sex.
She turned around again, her vivacious eyes spearing him. They were the color of spring. Of life. They were the eyes of some mysterious stubborn female tribe—one he’d heard tell of but never encountered. All the ladies he met were well-mannered, exceedingly accommodating, and possessed of a certain fondness for riches. His riches. But facing him now was an outspoken hellcat, bent on countering his every word despite her station. She was also the worst liar he had ever seen. She was altogether quite refreshing in an exceptionally impolite fashion.
“Madam, my manners have gone completely begging. Would you be so kind as to favor me with your name?”
“Another favor? I rather think you’ve used up your allotment today, sir. Everyone knows too many favors breeds complacency, which only leads to dissolute behavior. I won’t have the ruination of your character on my conscience.”
John Varick, the newly minted ninth Duke of Beaufort, nearly shouted with laughter. He couldn’t stop himself from going after her again when she herded the boys past him. They followed her despite their evident desire to gawk further at his carriages. The smallest boy was lagging and looking parched.
He said to her back, “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot, but it’s apparent one of your party is ailing. May I offer all of you some refreshment? Water at the very least? You know, it wouldn’t be any trouble a’tall to escort you to your home.”
She stopped in her tracks, and her shoulders slumped forward for the briefest instant before she arched her back again. Only the crickets could be heard, and a horse pawing the ground. Without turning to face him, she said softly, “All right.”
He took a deep breath and came ’round the little group. He bowed properly. “John Varick—your servant. May I ask who I will have the pleasure of escorting?”
She lifted her chin. “May I present Gabriel, Matthew, and Peter? Masters Towland, Smithson, and Linley.” Each boy ducked his head at the mention of his name. The last and littlest looked at him reverently.
“And the name of the,” he paused, “lady escorting this troop of apostles?”
“Victoria Givan.” Her voice was lyrical and soft when she allowed her ire to cool.
He waved to the driver near the horses. “Crandall, please arrange space for Masters Towland and Smithson in the other carriages. I shall take up Master Linley and Mrs. Givan.”
“Miss Givan,” she corrected.
John Varick knew well how to hide from the world the humor he felt tickling his mind. He stole another glimpse of her pretty boots.
Soon enough the boys were settled, and he offered his arm to hand Miss Givan into the carriage. “And where shall I direct Crandall? To the Pickworth estate down the road, or perhaps somewhere else in the neighborhood?” Surely she was a governess out taking the air with her charges, although that did not explain the impractical elegant footwear.
She settled on the bench beside the young boy he had carefully chosen as their chaperon and rested the large book on her knees. As he ducked inside to join them, she lowered her mossy eyes. “It’s a bit farther down the road, Mr. Varick. We’re on our way to Derbyshire actually. Wallace Abbey to be precise.”
He nearly missed the last step. The forward motion propelled him into the seat across from her and the boy. “Wallace Abbey? Why, that’s sixty miles from here.” He should have known better than to have been lured by an unusual face.
His amused driver of the last decade and a half cracked a rare smile upon hearing her direction and shut the carriage door, leaving no escape. There had been quite a dry spell since Crandall had last won a round in their association.
“Really? Sixty miles?” she said, lifting her small pointed chin, “I hadn’t known it was quite so far.”
“Miss Givan, were you planning on walking the entire way?”
“Of course not.” Her mien, voice, and eyes violated all ten rules of honesty.
The carriage moved forward, picking up the pace a few moments later. A long silence ensued, during which John poured a glass of water for the boy, who downed it eagerly. Her hand wavered a bit as she accepted another glass from him. “Miss Givan, dare I mention that Wallace Abbey burnt to the ground over two decades ago? You weren’t planning on spending the night there on your, ahem, pilgrimage?”
“I’m well aware of that. I’m escorting the boys to Derbyshire to take up their new positions there as apprentices to the architect Mr. John Nash. Perhaps you know of him? He’s quite famous.”
“Certainly.”
“Wallace Abbey is to be rebuilt and will serve as an extension of the foundling home where I’m employed in town. I’ve promised to settle the boys in a refurbished cottage near the abbey and to hire several servants for Mr. Nash’s colleagues, who will oversee the boys and the rebuilding.”
“I see.” He removed his hat, turned it upside down, and slipped it between the parallel leather straps running the length of the carriage’s high ceiling. He debated how far he would be willing to accompany the pretty woman and her charges. It would be simpler, nay, more prudent, to arrange passage for them on the next mail coach. “Are you ever going to tell me how you came to be walking on this road—so far from London?”
Victoria Givan, orphan, teacher, and all-’round manager of dozens of little-men-in-training, concentrated on steadying her breathing. All it had taken was a glance at the golden B above the famous royal crest on the carriage’s outside door to confirm her suspicions. How on earth was she to think properly with the freshly anointed Duke of Beaufort sitting across from her?
Good God.
Every morning and afternoon his sobriquet blazed from all of the newspapers—The Catch of the Century. Sometimes every letter was capitalized if the columnist was especially overawed. His story was oft repeated; as a young man he had taken his modest maternal inheritance and formed a seemingly never-ending string of brilliant foreign schemes and investments leading to a fortune that rivaled the royal families of Europe. And all this before it became apparent that he would, indeed, succeed to the illustrious title since the former duke, his uncle, had never sired a son.
And he was ridiculously handsome—a man in his prime. His mesmerizing blue eyes were said to have caused a multitude of ladies to swoon dead away in his presence. Silly schoolgirls composed poems about his awe-inspiring smile and his even more dazzling riches. Victoria sighed.
His ability to withstand the onslaught of ambitious ladies flung at him by their determined relations over the last decade or more was one of the most popular topics under the swagged edges of the Fashionable World columns. Why, his every movement and his every word were recorded in biblical proportions. And the gossip had reached its zenith this past month, when the former Duke of Beaufort had died unexpectedly, investing the man before her with the title he wore with such ease.
He began to tap the side of his well-muscled thigh in exasperation while waiting for her answer. What had he asked her? More importantly, how was she to cajole this gentleman into taking them all the way to Derbyshire? There was nothing except common decency to prevent him from leaving them at the next signpost. His Grace did not look the sort who suffered fools lightly. And Victoria felt little more than a fool after today’s events.
She stopped biting her bottom lip when he raised his quizzing glass to his eye again, evidently to intimidate her into an answer.
“Do you need spectacles, Mr. Varick? Peter would be happy to lend you his, won’t you dearest?” The boy nodded and produced his small pair straightaway.
He lowered his quizzing glass. “I do not require spectacles.”
“It’s entirely understandable, you know. Failing sight is a common ailment among many gentlemen of your advanced years, and—”
“Advanced years?” he said, one corner of his mouth curling the merest bit.
“Why, yes. Ah, please forgive me, I should never have suggested you are…”
“What, Miss Givan?”
“Well, I do have the greatest respect for the wisdom one acquires with gray hair and all.”
“Gray hair? I do not”—he sat up straighter and blinked—“Miss Givan, I’m not in the habit of enduring people who evade questions. Now, will you favor me with your certain-to-be-woeful tale instead of these tedious observations of yours, or not?”
Young Peter Linley’s head had been swiveling back and forth in an effort to keep up with the conversation. “I’ll tell you, sir.”
The duke fastened his penetrating gaze on the boy. “I knew I could count on you, Peter. Men must stick together. Spill it.”
“Well, it was like this. Me and Gabe and Matthew—”
“Gabriel, Matthew, and I,” Victoria instinctively corrected. “Really, this is the most tiresome story.”
He ignored her. “Go on, Peter.”
“Right,” the boy said. “We were at the last inn. The one in Quesbury. Do you know it, sir?”
“Yes.”
“You see, Miss Givan was haggling with the innkeeper because he was askin’ too much for the bread and cheese, then the mail coachman’s horn sounded and, well…”
“Yes?”
“That’s when it got really interesting.”
“Peter…” she tried her best ‘I shall make you rue the day’ voice. Lord, make this day end, please.
“Go on.”
“Well, another gentleman, actually he didn’t quite look like a gentleman—more like a laborer really since he had lots of dirt on his clothes—anyway, he took up for Miss Givan when the innkeeper winked at her and said she could pay off the debt in another fashion since he fancied red hair. He even pinched her”—Peter darted a glance at her and hurried on—“and the laborer darkened the daylights out of the innkeeper. For some reason that made the rest of the men there join the brawl. We had to crawl out on our hands and knees and had a jolly time of it…until we saw that the mail coach was gone without us and we had to walk.”
“And all your belongings?”
“Oh, all of Miss Givan’s coins were lost in the brawl, and our belongings are still on the coach, sir. But that’s for the best, Miss Givan said. Easier to walk without havin’ to carry much.” The boy grinned, and the duke ruffled his hair.
Victoria tried to laugh. Tried to appear good-humored. In fact, she was an ugly combination of mortified and anxious. She knew she had only one way to get all the boys to Derbyshire safely, and that would involve engaging the bemused interest of the richest man in England for the next sixty miles or so. It was all that separated the boys and her from spending a hungry night or three under the stars, blanketed by a hedge-row, and all manner of insects and wild animals prowling this jungle.
For the first time in her life, she felt very much beyond her depth. If she could just make his blue eyes a plain shade of brown, and eliminate, oh, say a few hundred thousand pounds from his staggering wealth, then she would feel much more capable of making this paragon of bachelor-hood come around to her way of thinking.
She also wished for one day and one night of quiet reflection so she could make a bargain with her maker: to get her out of this detestable countryside in exchange for an end to her ridiculously romantic dreams. It was too bad the angel charged with guarding over her took such delight in sabotaging her wishes at every opportunity.
John glanced up from the large stack of documents he had been perusing for the last fifteen miles only to find the boy fast asleep in Miss Givan’s luscious little lap. Each time he had allowed his concentration to waver, he had studied her lovely, even profile while she gazed out the carriage window at the day’s gloaming. Worry emanated from every stiff inch of her. And he inwardly cursed.
Didn’t he dole out enough tithes and coin each year to an endless string of venerable institutions to discharge his conscience? He didn’t want to have to take a personal interest in any one person in need. There were too many people who suffered, and he could not be responsible for all. He tightened his jaw. It was much more productive to remain apart from others and concern himself with his endless correspondence, investments and speculations that could ultimately benefit many.
Despite the fact that she was a fascinating creature, he didn’t have time for this. He had but a week or so to sort out an impossible dilemma in his newest venture if he was going to be ready to take on autumn’s cornucopia at the proposed mill. He couldn’t spare a moment on an unusual-looking, sharp-tongued teacher wearing mysteriously fashionable half boots. Who on earth had given them to her? A cast-off lover, perhaps? He glanced up from her footwear to find her exotic green eyes flashing at him.
He suddenly realized his carriage had lurched to a stop more than a minute ago. Christ. What was taking Crandall so long? “Wait here, Miss Givan.” John wrenched the door open and jumped from his carriage without waiting for the steps to be moved into place.
One of his outriders, who was waiting in the Gray Fox Inn’s yard, leapt to attention. “The owner said the roof gave way after the rain two nights ago, Your Grace. The next inn is twenty-five miles from here.”
“And?”
“And the innkeeper said he and his wife would be willing to give you the only habitable room—their own—for a pretty penny. Mr. Crandall is having a look.”
“Of course there is no second room.” There was not a hint of a question in his voice, only barely restrained annoyance.
“Correct, Your Grace. Although there is plenty of room in the excellent stables.”
“Have Crandall pay the man for the room if it is suitable and get everyone settled.”
The man cleared his throat. “Shall I have Your Grace’s affairs brought to the innkeeper’s room—or is the lady to occupy—”
“Bring my portmanteau inside. And order whatever dinner can be served for everyone as soon as humanly possible.”
His outrider darted a glance beyond him and dipped his head.
John turned to find Miss Givan standing there, silent.
“I thought you were to remain in the carriage, madam. Do you ever do what you are told?”
“Rarely. I’m more used to doing the managing. Of the children, of course.” She looked pensive and slightly unnerved. “Look, I want to thank you for taking us this far. The boys and I will continue on our way from here. I’m certain it’s not that much farther.”
“Miss Givan, if you think I will allow you to go trotting off down this obscure country lane, into the darkness, you can discard that idea straightaway.” He brushed an invisible piece of lint from his sleeve. “You have never ever been out of London, have you? Do you not know how many bears, mad dogs, boars, and wicked men are lurking about at night?” He hoped she was as ignorant as he thought she might be of the benign nature of the countryside. Why, there hadn’t been a wild bear lumbering in England’s woods the last century or more.
There was a symphony of skittish doubt in her expression. “We shall sleep in the stable, then.”
“Glad to hear it. Can’t abide straw ticking myself,” he drawled. “Come along now, Peter. Madam, I shall leave it to you to gather the rest of your charges. Dinner awaits.” He captured Peter’s smaller hand in his own and took a chance by walking away from her.
An hour later, John stared in wonder at the adolescent boys seated around the hastily arranged table in the only chamber untouched by the calamity aside from the kitchen. “Impressive. Who knew dwarfs were capable of consuming an entire side of beef at one sitting?”
“They’re of a growing age and not used to such abundance,” Miss Givan said defensively, as the boys giggled.
It had not escaped his notice that she’d eaten very little. “Come now, Miss Givan,” he said, nodding almost imperceptibly to the manservant. “You can do better than that crust of bread. We must keep up your strength if you’re to have a prayer of keeping this next generation in line.” The servant transferred a juicy slice of meat to her plate at the same moment Crandall entered. His loyal driver produced a bottle of the finest brandy one could buy from seasoned French smugglers. John never went any great distance in his carriage without a case of it well-cushioned in fine English wool. A crystal glass appeared.
Silence reigned as Crandall carefully poured the nectar of the gods. It was the only thing John had looked forward to this entire problematic day. If he couldn’t have a taste of the auburn-haired siren, and his conscience and good sense suggested he couldn’t, then he would at least let the amber waves of balm claim a portion of his monumental concerns.
He suddenly realized everyone’s eyes were upon him for some odd reason.
“Boys, Mr. Crandall, would you please give me a moment with Mr. Varick?” Miss Givan rose and urged the boys from their chairs.
“Varick?” his driver said, righteously. “Why, he’s the—”
“That will be all, Crandall,” John cut him off curtly. As the servants and boys exited the room, John lifted the ambrosia to his lips and savored the intoxicating scent.
“Sir,” the spitfire said with hauteur, “I would ask you to refrain from consuming spirits in front of the boys. They’re of an awkward age, and easily impressed by gentlemen they might admire.”
“So they’re of a growing age and an awkward age?” he asked dryly. “How inconvenient.”
“It would not do to give them the idea that they should spend any monies they might one day find in their pockets—on…on gin or any form of the devil’s brew.”
“Gin? Why, this is the farthest thing from that vile poison.”
She stared at him silently, mutinously.
“Miss Givan, are you truly asking the gentleman who has taken you up in his carriage to forgo the one and only bit of heaven to be found in this godforsaken excuse of an inn?”
“Well, I’d thought—”
“And here I was considering taking you and the boys miles out of my way tomorrow to deliver you safely to Wallace Abbey.” He lowered his voice. “And I was also considering how best to share the one and only room available here.” He said the last to provoke her. Her eyes were flashing again. It was definitely how he liked them best.
“Why, I wouldn’t share this room if it were the only one in all of England. And furthermore, Mr. Varick, I want you to understand that I intend to repay every last farthing for this meal, the carriage ride, and for all the trouble you have so generously taken on today.”
“Really?” He enjoyed the animated play of her delicate brows and relaxed in his chair to savor another long taste of his excellent brandy. He wondered if she had truly deduced who he was. “And how do you plan to accomplish that, Miss Givan?”
“I shall write to my benefactor, who will forward any and all monies due you straightaway.” She pushed back her shoulders. “With or without your further aid.”
“You have a benefactor, do you?” He glanced at her elegantly tooled footwear.
“Of course,” she said, the tiniest blush finally cresting her cheeks. “And you shall be happy to learn that I have already asked the innkeeper, who I have found to be considerably more civilized than most men I’ve encountered since leaving town, to provide a pallet for me in the kitchen, which he has graciously consented to do. I would never dream of asking for the use of this room. I shall be perfectly comfortable with the innkeeper’s wife in the kitchen.”
“And the boys?”
“Will be in the stable.”
He looked at her shrewdly for a long moment.
“It’s very rude to stare,” she muttered.
“I’m debating the wisdom of informing you that there will be ten times as much drinking going on in that stable than in this room—what with the number of ostlers, drivers, and servants occupying the outer building.”
She strode over to the table and retrieved the brandy bottle by pinching the neck with two fingers as if it were three parts distilled poison to one part pure evil. “Well, Mr. Varick, I must thank you for setting a better example.”
“Miss Givan, has anyone ever told you ‘no’?”
She hid the bottle of brandy he had spent a small fortune on, along with the nearly empty glass, in a rude armoire in the corner. “I’ve never put myself in a position to have to hear it.”
“Who gave you those boots you’re wearing?”
Miss Givan whipped around. The smallest crease of a wrinkle appeared between her brows. “A good friend.”
A very good friend, indeed, John thought as he ground his molars together.
John stared down at the sleeping form of Miss Victoria Givan on a pallet far from the innkeeper’s wife in the kitchen. She had obviously been placed in his path to bewitch him.
The frayed hem of her simple shift had risen above her knees; the thin blanket discarded completely in the balmy night air. He could not drag his gaze from the moonlit sight of her slender thighs and calves, and her pretty, feminine feet. No wonder her lover had given her those damned boots. The better to ogle her elegant ankles.
Christ, he had always prided himself on his ability to keep his baser instincts in check. He obviously needed to engage a mistress, just as Crandall was hinting. Of course, his driver probably suggested it to keep him in a better frame of mind. John had taken for granted the convenient arrangement he had had for so many years with Colleen, the beautiful Duchess of Trenton, possessor of three yapping dogs, two indolent children, and one husband old enough to be her grandfather. But she had become melodramatic of late, insisting they should marry when poor Trenton cocked his toes. He had had to end it.
Miss Victoria Givan rolled onto her back in sleep, and his mouth became dry as chaff. The scrap of her shift eased off her shoulder, exposing one creamy breast to taunt him.
He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Surely he deserved a place beside the saints for not acting on the impulse. Heaven wasn’t worth it, the devil on his shoulder shouted.
Damn it all to hell. He leaned down and gathered the woman in his arms to carry her to the room. If he couldn’t sleep, he might as well give her the bed. Without the brandy to fortify him, his manners had become far too accommodating, and he had invited the three boys to sleep in makeshift beds the innkeeper had placed in the tiny sitting room beyond. Unfortunately, he hadn’t known boys made such a ruckus in slumber.
She was so soft in his arms. So different from the harsh angles she seemed to possess when she was wide-awake. She slept like a bear in hibernation. Must be a result of sleeping near a gaggle of snoring infants for decades in the foundling home.
His own life had been spent in the reverse manner. All alone for the most part. No brothers or sisters, no mother. Merely a father, who, while very kind, had not been much in evidence in their country home due to the demands on his time in London. But John had learned to enjoy the peace of solitude.
She muttered something when he placed her in the middle of the innkeeper’s soft bed. He leaned close as he tucked the bed linens around her form, only to hear two blasted words. Well, only one was a true word…a name.
“Oh, John…” she whispered on a sigh as she settled.
He straightened awkwardly, resolutely. No. He would not be gulled like some rich, wet-behind-the-ears buck first come to town. He knew better than to put himself in such a situation with an unmarried miss in an almost public place. He’d had enough brushes with the altar of late.
Why, in the last three months alone, an impoverished marquis had tried to sneak his daughter into John’s sleeping quarters, and he had been forced to ferret out the truth behind a very determined widowed countess, who had deliberately planted scandalous rumors linking herself to him. She had made the mistake of thinking he would leg shackle himself to a pretty lady he had never even met—all in the name of honor. The last event had caused a new fever pitch in the gossip columns.
John studied the luscious morsel bathed in moonlight before him. She was all soft curves, rosy flesh, and tangled locks of shadowy plum hair. He couldn’t resist touching those dark loose curls of a shade he’d never seen. Surely they would be silken. His palm stroked the glossy locks, bringing him closer to those irresistible lips of hers.
He closed his eyes against the sight, but his mind refused to be denied the remembrance of that full bottom lip below the lovely bow of her lush upper lip. And suddenly he noticed her scent of warm crushed roses. He couldn’t have stopped himself from dipping lower to follow the trail of sweetness if his life had depended on it.
And then, he didn’t want to be blind from the potency of the moment. He opened his eyes, only to encounter her sleepy, half-closed expression. She said not a word to stop him, and he inched forward at her silent encouragement. It would really be just a promise…of a hint…of a taste…of a kiss. Very innocent, of course. There were boys snoring in the closet-sized room beyond after all. And the innkeeper’s wife in the kitchen.
He swept his lips across hers, side to side, feather soft. And then he molded his upper lip in the crevice where her lips met and teased the softness he found there. A soft moan came from her, and it was all he could do not to gather her again into his arms. Every part of him—well, the key parts of him—of any man, really—came awake at the sensuous sound.
And then she whispered it again…“Oh, John—”
“Darling,” he returned quietly as he trailed kisses to the sensitive spot near her temple.
And then without another sound and with the swiftness of a pickpocket in London, she grabbed his ear and sent him to his knees. “What are you doing?” she hissed.
“Let…go…of…my—” he rasped out.
“I should have known better than to trust you,” she interrupted in a harsh whisper. “All men are perfect scoundrels. My good friend always warned me, and I should have listened.”
He wrenched away from her and stood stiffly, his body trying and failing to take in the reversal of intentions. “And all women are incomprehensible.”
“Well, that’s not very nice of you to say given that I just woke up to find myself in your bed. You were trying to press your attentions on me.”
“No. I was offering what you seemed to request,” he gritted out. “When ladies whisper my name in the middle of the night, certain assumptions are made.”
“I did not do any such thing. I was sound asleep.”
He looked at her shrewdly. “I suppose you are now going to suggest I do the honorable thing?”
“Why, yes I am.” She shook that magnificent mane of hair back. “Get out of here. Or perhaps it would serve better for you to wait here while I cut a switch and tan your—shush…are you laughing?”
“So you’re not going to ring a peal and demand a proposal of marriage before the innkeeper and his wife?”
“Why on earth would I want to marry you, Mr. Varick?” she hissed. “And I would ask you to lower your voice if you don’t care to awaken anyone.”
“So, you’re not attracted to me?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Really? And what sort do you favor? Poor sods who grovel at your pretty feet?”
“No. Agreeable sods with better manners.”
He rubbed his sore ear. “I beg your pardon. I’ve been told I’m actually something of a catch, so to speak.”
“Is that what silly females say to get the coins in your pockets?”
“No,” he said with a low wolfish growl. “That’s what they say to get beyond my pockets.”
She did not miss a beat. “Vanity is not an attractive trait in a man.”
He choked on his pent-up laughter. She was impossible. Impossibly alluring—in an outrageous, spirited manner. No woman had ever dared to speak to him in such a fashion. He’d always managed to endear himself to the females of his childhood—the housekeeper, the cooks, the house-maids; and he’d been equally up to the task of erecting a polite distance—the size of the Roman Empire—toward the marriage-minded females of his adulthood.
In all his five-and-thirty years, he’d never found a woman who refused to be charmed if he chose it, or at the very least behaved with extraordinary politesse and god-awful fawning. Of course, he was fated to meet the first truly intriguing woman of his life only to find she would have none of him.
That hair of hers was a dark halo in the moonlight, framing her pale, beautiful shoulders. And he knew precisely what lay beyond that ridiculously flimsy shift.
Perfection.
“Madam,” he said quietly, “pardon me. I think I’ll retire for the evening. I find that considerable rest is required in one’s dotage.” He turned on his heel and strode to the door.
As he rounded the corner, he could have sworn he heard her utter something about the benefits of warm milk and honey…for gout. This was followed by the barest ripple of low, throaty laughter.
He decamped as fast as possible. To sleep in the stable. In the damned straw.
John Varick, the ninth Duke of Beaufort and well-documented Catch of the Century, withdrew a square of linen and sneezed. Across from him within the confines of his luxurious ducal carriage, Victoria noted it was about the twentieth time he had done so that day.
And she was perversely glad. Humor was the only thing that kept her from succumbing to an advanced state of anxiety as young Peter Linley, seated beside her, turned another page in her beloved book of Canterbury Tales.
Not as lost in thought as Victoria had surmised, the duke glanced up at her from the intimidating pile of documents and letters on his lap. His impossibly blue eyes met hers, and for a moment, she felt in danger of drowning in their depths. He was so very handsome. He studied her until she felt heat crest her cheeks. Before he returned his attention to his papers, he formed just the smallest hint of a knowing smile. She nearly burst with frustration.
He had kissed her.
It had been her first kiss, and she was fairly certain she had missed at least half of it. Of course, it would happen that way. She had decided recently that she would end up kissing the cheeks of St. Peter at the Pearly Gates before she would ever kiss a living, breathing man. Her station in life forbade it. And she had never really believed the romantic courtly rags-to-riches stories between the covers of the book Peter was reading. And so for many years she had had to be satisfied with her imagination.
His lips had been gentle, so very unlike what she had imagined. Warm and knowing…and lazy almost. She swallowed.
In the blink of an eye, she had woken from dreams of him and immediately deduced what he was about. In the haze of that poignant lime and bay scent of his, she had dragged herself away from the tide of his overwhelming magnetism.
Those same lips, which appeared to have been formed to drive all females to distraction, now tempted her less than three feet away. And with each uneven passage in the road, his long, muscled legs molded in biscuit-colored pantaloons, brushed against hers. She determinedly turned her attention out the window, where rain tapped a steady tattoo.
He had been reading the entire day. Not one word had left his lips, even when they had stopped for a midday meal. She had worried he would leave them behind when he strode into the private dining quarters. She had surely infuriated him to the extreme boundaries last evening. But no. Mr. Crandall had reemerged from His Grace’s private room and said dinner had been arranged for her and the boys in another chamber.
And after, the duke had reappeared and Mr. Crandall had bustled her and the boys back into the carriages.
And then it had started to rain.
For the last three hours she had been calculating to the minute how many more miles to Derbyshire as the drizzle turned into sheets of rain. If she could just get within a few miles of Wallace Abbey, she would relax. She and the boys could walk the rest of the way if need be. It had taken all of her patience to curb Peter’s curiosity and enthusiasm for the new sites beyond the carriage window, and to encourage him to read in complete silence.
Finally, she spied it, the distinctive weathervane of the Cock & Crown Inn at Middleton, which was supposedly very close to Wallace Abbey. It had been described in detail to her by her benefactor, the Countess of Sheffield and by the lady’s fiancé—a man for whom Victoria had carried an unrequited longing in secret for a good portion of her life. She shifted in her seat, determined to put such impossible thoughts from her mind. She had tried to squash those dreams the day she had befriended the lovely countess. And she had irrevocably buried those same dreams in a grave six feet closer to China the day the countess and Michael Ranier de Peyster had formally announced their engagement. There was not a person alive who could not love the extraordinarily compassionate Countess of Sheffield. They had never discussed Victoria’s sensibilities toward Michael, but somehow she was certain the countess knew. And yet, that had not stopped the beautiful lady from assisting the foundling home.
Victoria felt the duke’s gaze upon her once more, and she could not resist the challenge he unconsciously presented. She turned her face away from the sodden scenery. Even rain appeared more dreary in the country as opposed to the liveliness of town.
“And precisely where is this cottage?” he asked quietly.
“I believe it’s less than a mile from here, according to the directions given to me.” It was time to end this cat-versus-dog game. She had amused him to some degree for dozens of miles yesterday, and for her part, she had had the pleasure of experiencing about five seconds of pure, unadulterated lust last eve.
At least she had managed to retain her innocence—little good it would ever do her—even if she had lost a portion of her sanity. Truth be told, she would have enjoyed just a few more seconds…or perhaps a full minute or three of his kisses. “As I told Mr. Crandall during the last change of horses, it’s the small dower house a mile or less from the abbey’s ruins, Your Grace.”
His expression was impenetrable. “Your attention to protocol certainly makes a late appearance.”
“I beg your pardon if I’ve offended in any way. We are, all of us, most grateful to you for taking us up.”
“And?”
“And, what?”
He withdrew his handkerchief and sneezed.
She continued, forced gratitude edging her words. “Thank you, too, for arranging our meals, and…and for our lodging.”
“And?”
She snapped with the tension and ill ease. She had not slept above one half hour after their interlude. “I will not thank you for the use of the bed last night. I was not given the choice of refusing it! And I said I would repay you for all the trouble we’ve caused you.”
Peter’s eyes were round in his face.
“Now you’ve done it,” the duke said, then looked at the boy. “Let this be a lesson to you, Peter. As some of the Canterbury Tales suggest, no good deed goes unpunished.”
The carriage rumbled to a stop, followed by the other two ducal conveyances.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she said with a stab at sincere contriteness. “I truly am very grateful. I—I don’t know what I would have done without your coming to our aid.”
His eyes narrowed, and she had the oddest sensation that he didn’t take any pleasure from her show of solicitous gratitude.
He made a movement to remove the edges of his hat from the straps above them, and she stayed his arm with her hand. “No. It’s dreadful outside, and I’d rather not be the cause of any further inconveniences.” In truth, she wanted to remember him like he was now, ensconced in ducal plushness—or like last night in the moonlight.
He looked at her for a long moment, ignored her request by tugging his hat onto his head, and opened the door to jump out. Apparently chivalry could not be repressed in a duke.
It was pouring like the afternoon deluges of foreign jungles she had read about. Peter and she watched as he grasped the umbrella Mr. Crandall offered, then dodged mud puddles to reach the cottage door. The umbrella offered little protection from the storm.
A man who appeared to be marked with a great many stains on his clothing stood waiting in the already open doorway. Much gesturing and talk emanated from the man. None emanated from the duke.
It seemed an age before the man in the doorway bowed deeply, and the duke returned to Mr. Crandall. The noise of the rain drowned out their conversation, but Victoria used the moments to collect the book from Peter, button his plain coat, and straighten her gown in preparation for their descent.
And then, with a rush, the duke was back inside the carriage, water running in rivulets down every part of him. He was as wet as a school of fish in the River Thames. And he did not appear happy about it.
“Well, madam. It appears you are to move about all of England with an epic portion of ill luck.” He used one of the carriage blankets to ineffectively swipe at his large wet form, which seemed to take up more than half the carriage.
“Whatever do you mean?”
He glanced between Peter and her before picking up a walking stick to rap three times on the carriage roof. Before she could utter another word, the carriage jerked forward, and they reentered the roadway.
“Wait! Please stop the carriage. I assure you we don’t mind getting a little wet. The boys and I—”
“Miss Givan?” he interrupted, his face set.
“Yes?” she replied.
“Do you know the location of the closest structure with four empty beds?”
“Yes. It’s behind us.”
“No. That insult for a cottage features crumbling walls within and certainly not a single bed, cot, or pallet. There’s been a delay. Some sort of illness has forced most of the men from their labors. And those selfsame men lie abed in every last corner of every last inn in the neighborhood.”
She was speechless for the first time in her life.
“The nearest place with four empty beds is Beaulieu Park—my home, Miss Givan, which is miles from here.”
“I see,” she said, her voice low. “Well, we shall just have to make do.” She grabbed the walking stick from the corner where he had placed it and struck the carriage ceiling again three times. She fell forward onto his lap when the carriage came to an abrupt halt. “Please arrange for Mr. Crandall to turn around. We’ll sleep on the ground in the cottage. It’s really not such a hardship. We are not used to feather beds, I assure you.” She did not know why she had such an ungodly urge to provoke this man, who had shown so much kindness to them.
His face now as dark as the storm clouds in the sky, he grabbed the stick from her stiff fingers and rapped the ceiling yet again in rapid succession. The carriage jerked forward, and the duke’s head bumped into hers, causing her to see stars. She bit her lip to keep the tears from her eyes.
When she finally allowed their eyes to meet, she saw for the first time a flash of displeasure there—just the barest flicker before it disappeared. She had to give him credit. He had more command of every inch of himself than Wellington before the French army.
“The cottage has a quarter foot of water lining its floors due to the storm. And the second and third levels require better supports. It seems there are no doors or windows yet in the rear. And it stinks of the gutter inside. Now, Miss Givan, I have just one request.”
“Yes, Your Grace?” she whispered.
For a long moment he was silent. Peter’s fingers crept into hers. “You will not refer to me as ‘Your Grace’ when we are in private. For some insane reason it has the hollow ring of an insult coming from your lips.”
“I assure you it’s unintentional,” she said quietly.
“Now, it’s all arranged. The four of you are to stay at Beaulieu Park for the next fortnight until the cottage is aired and habitable.” He paused and brushed off the inconvenience. “It’s not an imposition of any sort. The number of apartments in Beaulieu rivals the royal pavilion in Brighton. I shall assign two dozen maids to see to you and the boys to maintain a level of unquestionable propriety, since any breaches in decorum could result in actions already deemed unpalatable…to all of us.”
She burst out in a little breath. “Of course.”
“At any rate, I shall be in residence a mere week or so. I’ve only come to resolve a long-standing dispute between the former Duke of Beaufort and our neighbor. Then I must return to London. You shall then have Beaulieu to yourselves.” His eyes had become lazy and half-closed, his amusement returned. “I trust you not to cause too much damage in my absence, ma’am.”
She hated having so little chance to exercise the smallest measure of pride. Poverty did that to a person. “Of course, Your Grace.”
His eyes darkened with displeasure.
“I mean, yes and thank you, Mr. Varick.” When his gaze did not waver from hers, she snapped. “What?”
“I find even ‘Mr. Varick’ sounds like an affront, coming from you.”
“Well, then what on earth am I to use when addressing you?”
“John.” His gaze never wavered, his voice decisive yet cool. “When we are in private, of course.”
“I beg your pardon? I—”
“Think of it this way, your demands will take on an entirely new level of importance with such equality of station.”
“I rather doubt I shall ever rival your rank.”
“Well, you can’t say you weren’t given a rare opportunity last night.”
She looked away, only to encounter Peter’s confused expression—another reason to change the subject. She cleared her throat. “What sort of dispute do you have with your neighbor? Perhaps I could at the very least offer an impartial opinion—if only to erase the smallest dab of our debt to you.”
He studied her for a few moments before he retrieved the thick sheaf of papers, which he had placed in a cubby on the side of the carriage. “My neighbor, the Earl of Wymith, refuses to allow a road to be built at the northernmost minuscule corner of fields he has left fallow.”
“And?”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “And for decades my family and all the tenants of Beaulieu, as well as the nearby village, have had to travel nearly twenty miles to circumvent Wymith’s property to arrive at Cromford Canal, where barges stop to transport goods to market. And I had hoped…”
“Had hoped what precisely?”
“Well, the last time I visited my uncle here—just before he died—I saw that the area has become more and more depressed. Many families have lost their men to the war—and those husbands and sons who have returned have lost their tenancies to others.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” She was instantly contrite about the note of insistence in her voice. Really, she had no sense of reticence when it came to injustice.
He sighed with a great show of tolerance. “I was about to tell you. I had planned to construct a large mill on the edge of Beaulieu. It would be an ambitious project, designed to bring employment and wealth to the people of Derbyshire. But we will need the easement to encourage others to mill their grains here. If we could create the road, the distance to the canal would be negligible.”
She felt a sudden rush of affection for this man before her. He was not like most aristocrats she had known, always after amusements and loath to promote commerce. Victoria had never understood why great men and ladies viewed honest work and industry with such contempt. “Why does your neighbor hate the Beaufort family so much?”
“According to the Earl of Wymith, my uncle almost killed his father two decades ago when the former earl was trying to retrieve wounded game—a duck—he had shot from a blind on his property. According to my uncle, who never failed to repeat this story ad nauseum at every opportunity, the earl was trespassing in search of Beaulieu-raised pheasants, and he had every right to shoot at him. My uncle was, ahem, fanatical about hunting and very particular about poachers. Thank God he was also a very poor shot.”
“So, your uncle wounded the earl?”
“Mostly his pride. According to the apothecary who tended him, the earl sustained a small flesh wound on his arm that did not require stitching.” The duke shook his head. “I recently sent an apology to the new earl, but he would not accept it. And when I tendered an offer to buy the tiny yet critical eighth of an acre to build the road, Wymith said he would sooner give land to a Frenchman than sell it to a Beaufort. I’ve pressed members in the House of Lords to use their influence, but the man won’t see reason.”
“So this entire dispute is over a nicked arm and a lost duck?”
“Or a pheasant.” He shook his head. “Can you imagine what I’ve offered through an army of solicitors to soothe the Wymith feathers?”
“I’m not sure I want to hear this.”
“Fifteen thousand pounds.”
Something caught at the back of her throat, and she could not stop a fit of coughing that overcame her. Peter came to her aid, pounding her back. She could not manage to stop. She wasn’t sure if she was more embarrassed by her coughing or shocked by the outrageous amount he had named. Why, fifteen thousand pounds was nearly thirty years’ worth of food for the foundlings at the home in London.
Through her tears, Victoria saw Peter eyeing the duke. “Do you think you could spare a bit of the, uh, water in that silver flask you keep trying to hide, Your Grace? I think Miss Givan might need it.”
For nearly five days, John Varick avoided Victoria Givan and her merry band of boys. It was the sanest course of action. For some absurd reason, he just didn’t have the heart to find out the truth behind this irritatingly tempting female. She was either a spirited but virtuous young woman with a tenuous hold on a position in a foundling home, or she had a mysterious benefactor who supplied her with fine footwear and a position in the foundling home, no doubt to provide an outlet for her boundless reserves of energy. In the first case, he refused to lead an innocent down the path toward ruin, and in the second case, just the idea of her in the bed of another man made him want to unleash every last one of his bloodthirsty Beaufort character traits and hunt down the bastard.
And so, he had shunned temptation for both their sakes.
It had been easy to do given the acres of paneled, gilded, and richly furnished rooms between them and the mounds of documents in his study. Oh, he had played the perfect host—in absentia. His housekeeper had reported that she had, indeed, given Miss Givan and the boys a daylong tour of Beaulieu. Apparently, her young charges had taken particular delight in the hundreds of fallow deer racks, and the battlefield paintings by masters and demimasters attesting to the family’s vicious feudal beginnings. Only the stuffed, mounted, and framed remnants of the past remained. In overwhelming quantities.
Surprisingly, the bewitching young woman had not made a single effort to engage his notice. Quite the contrary. Safely ensconced in the easternmost wing of Beaulieu, she had taken her meals with the boys and occupied them inside and outside of these walls, keeping out of sight. He should be grateful. But for some perverse reason it only served to irk him. For it proved he had not had the same effect on her as she had had on him—which was a deviaton from the swarms of females in his past. And if there was one thing John Varick detested, it was aberrations of any sort.
Well, she would be gone soon enough, and the memory of the entire episode with the exquisite green-eyed beauty and the less than exquisite words flowing from those lush lips would fade. He had done his duty by retrieving her party’s battered possessions from the inn where the north road mail coach driver had at last seen fit to deliver their bags. And at the appropriate time he would arrange for one of his carriages to transport them to the refurbished cottage at Wallace Abbey.
Closeted in the vast study that was now his alone to prowl, John tried for the third time this morning to bury himself in the mountains of problems he had always relished untangling. If he hadn’t been allowed the honor of serving his country in the war against the French with his body—and his powerful uncle had forbidden it given John’s future station—then he had long ago decided to serve his countrymen with his mind.
A sound drifted from the open window, and he stood abruptly and strode to look outside. She was there…walking from the direction of the stables, her cheeks glowing with exertion, and her well-worn straw hat hanging from its black ribbons down her back. She was even lovelier than he remembered.
Oddly, she was alone, a look of consternation worrying her brow. Shading her face, she stopped and gazed past the rise of the formal gardens.
He hated seeing her ill ease. Despite the clamor in his mind—much like a midnight church bell, warning of disaster, he closed the distance to the ornate door and all the barriers between them to join her outside.
“Miss Givan?”
She whirled around to face him. How could he have forgotten how vibrant and beautiful she was? The force of it nearly knocked the wind from him.
“Oh, Your Grace…I mean, oh, please excuse me. So good to see you.” She tugged her hat back onto her pretty head, her deep plum-colored locks flooding her shoulders and back like a schoolgirl. At a guess, all her pins were lost hodgepodge about the countryside.
“May I be of service? I spied you from my study and you appeared overanxious.”
“Well, you see…well, the thing of it is—I can’t seem to find the boys and—and”—she bit her lip—“Oh, John—I fear they’re lost. They’re quite taken with this first taste of the country. And, I’ll admit I’m not very good at negotiating the hills and vales, and I don’t doubt the boys are very ill at it as well.” She appeared embarrassed. “All the dales look the same—very green, very beautiful, but endless and quite, quite barren of the wonderful signposts in town. Oh, botheration—where could they be?”
“Slow down. Try to catch your breath, Vic.”
“What did you just call me?” She appeared stricken. “Please don’t call me that. You may use Victoria if you like, but not the other.”
What in hell? “Come, I shall help you find them. Do you know where they set out to go?”
“I was trying to find the lake.” The smallest crease of a wrinkle appeared between her brows. “The stable master said he spied them walking there.”
“Come.” He politely offered his arm.
She stared at it. “Really, there’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of walking unaided. I just need your direction.”
“Well, that’s a first. I never thought I’d ever hear you ask for my direction.” His lips curled into a smile as they set off. He dared to glance at her profile discreetly from the corner of his eyes as they walked, a hand’s width of air between, and an acre of tension.
She worried her lower lip and refused to be provoked into conversation with him.
He found he could not stop himself from goading her again. He began to lengthen his loose strides, covering more ground than she. She had to add a kick to her step to stay abreast. Halfway up the second long hill, he noticed she had fallen behind, and he slowed, appalled at his puerile maneuverings to force her to speak. Perhaps she was well and truly terrified for the boys.
And then suddenly, she was running past him—No, racing him up the huge hill.
And he began to laugh—to laugh harder than he had in two decades. But it did not stop him from accepting her silent challenge—and passing her shortly thereafter.
A dozen steps from the top, he slowed to an exaggerated snail’s pace to allow her to win. It was the gentlemanly thing to do.
Without warning, two hands shoved his back hard from behind. He lost his footing and landed face-first on his hands and knees before he rolled onto his seat.
“I’m so sorry, Your Grace. Did you trip? Do you need my help? My goodness, perhaps you would do better to carry your walking stick. Balance suffers and bones become brittle late in life, you know.”
He looked up to see her at the top, her hands on the lovely curve of her slim hips, and her lively green eyes brimming with laughter. “You’re perfectly right. I should take better care.” God, he had missed the sight of her these last five days.
She came toward him, full of life, and he lifted his arm to catch the hand she offered. “Up we go, now.”
She made the mistake of ignoring his superior angle, and he jerked her down into his lap. And found himself face-to-face with the most tempting female in all of Christendom. His body was thirteen steps ahead of his mind, registering the small round bottom pressing against him. And suddenly there was no more laughter between them.
The air seemed to thin, and they stared at each other, time suspended. Her hat lost somewhere down her back, her lovely dark auburn locks framed her heart-shaped face, bringing perfection within far too easy a distance.
He forced himself to break the tension eddying through and all around them, its current pulling at them. “Well, perhaps we should—”
His words were cut off when she swooped in and stole a quick kiss—just the smallest brush of her divine lush lips against his own before she pulled back. She apparently had not only lost her humor, but now also her nerve. She pushed against his chest to rise.
When he tightened his grip on her arms and wouldn’t release her, her eyes widened.
“I’ve never known you to do anything so halfheartedly, Victoria.” He stroked the side of her cheek, and whispered, “For God’s sake, don’t start now.”
And then he took control.
He meant to leave her without a shred of doubt about who was in charge of matters concerning efficient ways to implode every last one of her scruples and his. All the good reasons he had lined up quite orderly to keep her at a distance were effectively forgotten as he held this magnificent, vivacious woman in his arms.
The bow shape of her upper lip had distracted him hour upon hour in his carriage and he lost no time familiarizing himself with the delicacy, as well as its plush mate below. God, she was so sweet—all pliant femininity. Without knowing what he did, his hand found its way behind her head to hold her steady while he teased the seam between those delectable lips of hers. He felt her harsh exhalation of surprise on the hollow of his taut cheek as he delved beyond. And in that moment he learned the truth about Victoria Givan. She was untutored in the art of a kiss; she was without doubt an exuberant, unforgettable, yet very innocent siren. No one else had ever kissed her this intimately, and the male in him growled at the thought of anyone else ever considering it.
With no surprise, Victoria Givan learned the sinful intricacies of a kiss far more quickly than was proper for a lady. Suddenly, it was her hands that were gripping his back, urging him closer. And it was her delicate tongue torturing him…tempting him to madness. John deepened the kiss, for once in his life allowing himself to get lost in the woman he held in his arms. Without thought, he caressed her curves and the pebbled crests of her breasts through the thin, high-necked gray dress she wore. He was losing every inch of his famous control, losing every battle in his—
With the suddenness of a spring shower, and just as drenching, he was left grasping at air.
“Yes, well…It appears”—she straightened her gown—“the resuscitation has worked. Marvelously.”
“The what?” He imagined the feel of her luscious neck squeezed between his hands.
“The re-sus-ci-ta-tion,” she repeated. “You don’t need a hearing horn, do you?”
He would bury her right here. Alive.
“You fell, don’t you remember? Perhaps your memory is failing, too.”
“Victoria,” he growled, “so help me…” Better yet, he would make love to her so long, and so well that she’d be unable to form another ridiculous observation…for at least a full week. Good God. What was he thinking? He shook his head, disgusted. He had to regain rational thought.
“Oh, there it is,” she said, out of breath and on her tiptoes, pointing at the lake on the other side of the hill. At least, her high-pitched voice proved she was not as immune as she wished.
“Yes, I know,” he said, dripping with irritation as he stood up awkwardly. Inwardly, he cursed his breeches, which were not cut to accommodate what they were being forced to accommodate.
She closed the very short distance to the immense body of water. He edged behind her and was at least grateful she didn’t turn around. He wasn’t sure if he still wanted to wrap his hands about her throat to choke her or seduce her within an inch of her bloody virtue. Lord, what had he become?
Just like a female, she pretended not to notice his annoyance, while she searched the distant opposite end of the lake.
“Perhaps they’re in that little hut over there,” she said as cool as you please, indicating a nearby rude structure. “The stable master said that the gamekeeper had offered to show them how to shoot yesterday. That’s his lodging, isn’t it?” Her eyes wouldn’t meet his.
“Yes,” he gritted out, loins still aching.
“I’ll be right back.”
Now was the time for all good men to regain their sanity and strength of will. He casually bent to retrieve a few flat stones. He sent them skimming over the glasslike surface of the lake and cursed again. He’d cursed more in the last week than he had in his entire life.
Victoria had not spent many years among boys without knowing precisely what John Varick was about. And she’d been warned, and echoed the warning to dozens, nay, hundreds of girls. She should know better than this. She sighed.
Lord, it had been exciting—far more exciting than anything she could have ever possibly dreamed. Oh, he had brought to life in her the very thing that was supposed to have remained dormant for a person of her class. He had stirred passion into being deep within her.
Well, this was what happened to females who dallied with desire. She had wanted to experience a man’s kiss, and for once, her wishes had been granted.
She picked up her pace toward the half-hidden structure and prayed for regulation of her thoughts before temptation got the better of her. But really, why was she trying so hard? Her virtue was about as important as the spots on a laying hen. She began to stomp harder as she continued forward. Not one single person would even care what a spinster teacher in a foundling home did with her life. It was all so pointless, really. Except to her. She would know.
But she had always despaired at the idea of going to her grave a virgin spinster. She could bear the truth that she would remain a spinster her entire life. But did she have to add insult to injury by remaining a virgin, too? Was she never to know intimately what it was like to be a woman?
She had dutifully said her prayers every morning, every evening, and over every dreary meal she had ever endured. And ever since she had turned thirty years old last year, she had prayed for one opportunity—just one—to understand what it would be like to be held, to be cherished—well, to do a bit of holding and cherishing in return to a man who entranced her.
The very thing she had wished for was before her, and she was struggling mightily to resist it. And for what reason? He, the Catch of the Century, would be the last person to reveal her wicked weakness of character. Oh, what was wrong with her?
The tiniest sting stabbed at the tender skin above her ankle as she strode along. She reached down to jerk her gown away from the bramble she was sure she would find. “Oh!” As she jumped back, the end of a large snake slithered under the woods’ decaying leaves of winter. Edging many feet away from the ghastly creature, she investigated her flesh. Her thin stocking was down about her half boot—the binding thigh ribbon had apparently lost the fight against gravity during the race with him or more likely when she had lost the fight to keep herself away from him.
Two punctures marred the skin just above the half boot and wayward stocking. That vile reptile had bitten her. Of course.
“Hey…Are you all right?”
She looked up to find him there. Immediately lowering her shift and gown, she had the oddest dizzy sensation as she stood up.
“Is it a thorn? Here now, let me have a look.” He sat on his heels and reached for her boot.
She was so stunned, she let him. “I…I think it was a snake. Actually, I know it was a snake.”
In the blink of an eye he was carrying her into the gamekeeper’s hut, and she felt like some sort of foolish, improbable damsel in distress straight from the pages of her book of Canterbury Tales. It didn’t feel nearly as exciting as she had always dreamed, especially when he abruptly dropped her onto a rustic bed and yanked aside her skirting to examine her calf.
He bit out, “Stay still,” very unlike any of those heroes she sighed over. “What did it look like?”
The room spun, her vision blurring before the reality of the blood on her leg. “I didn’t see it very clearly.” Botheration, her flesh blazed with pain. Now there was no question about it. She truly, positively, absolutely detested everything about nature. “It was sort of tawny. Very, very long…And there was a darker pattern on it.”
His face became ashen. “A pattern? What sort?”
Her stomach roiled, and the most awful queasy sensation gripped her. “I think it was speckled…Or perhaps there were little dark diamond shapes? I don’t know, really. It disappeared quickly.” She shivered, involuntarily.
He was staring at her, his expression stark, his eyes hard. She had never seen him so serious. Only now, he was fishing about in his pockets.
“I’ve only heard of one instance of a harmless snake biting anyone,” he muttered. “They would have to be truly provoked.”
“I think I stepped on it. Is that enough provocation?” She was doing a wretched job of camouflaging the ball of fear growing in the pit of her stomach. “What are you doing?”
He extracted a small pocketknife and unfolded the tiny lethal-looking blade.
She backed away on her bottom to the end of the cot.
“I told you to stay still. Victoria, do as I say. Look, I promise I’ll never force you to do another blasted thing in your life ever again,” he said quietly, in complete opposition to the ironlike authority she saw in his face. Whatever he had in mind, it was going to happen with or without her permission. She thought the former might hurt less, and so she lowered her leg for his inspection.
When she saw the glint of the knife, she squeezed her eyes shut.
Two slashes of raw pain sliced through her, and she yelped a vile oath but remained very still.
“Good girl,” he bit out.
A warm pressure replaced the vicious blade, and she reopened her eyes to see his dark head covering her leg. Lord, he was kissing her leg. My God…she thought she might faint.
And then she felt him sucking the raw wound with a vengeance. “Oh please, stop…” she moaned, her leg throbbing.
He turned his head away and she heard him spit upon the earthen floor. “Hush,” he said breathlessly, before he reapplied himself to the task.
It wasn’t so awful after all, she thought, her head spinning on some unseen axis. Once the throbbing stopped, and the numbness settled on her flesh like a warm blanket, her mind rationalized the horridness of the situation. He efficiently drew the venom from her until she became worried he would be ill from it.
Finally, he lifted his mouth from her, but shaded the area from her view. Withdrawing a handkerchief, he wrapped it about her ankle and tucked the ends in place. “There now.”
He stared at her, his expression blank, his eyes glassy. “Here.” He reached into his coat and withdrew his ornate flask with a royal crest etched into its silver side.
And then she saw it. His hand shook, just the slightest bit as he extended it to her.
God. She was going to die, and he knew it. She was going to die from tromping about the so-called benign countryside. After all those years walking near the so-called lethal dangers outside of Mayfair in town.
She’d never drunk so much as a single drop of spirits in all her life. She grabbed the flask he offered and, without a pang of remorse, drank long and deep—which wasn’t nearly as long or as deep as she would have liked. A clog of fire engulfed her throat, and she coughed through the fires of hell. And drank a lot more.
“Victoria,” he whispered, despair lacing his words. “That’s enough.”
“Then you drink,” she said, summoning up false bravado.
“Now you want me to drink?”
“This is a wake, correct? It’s why you offered me your brandy, isn’t it?”
He didn’t laugh, which only served to make her even more scared. He put the flask on a table just out of her reach and surreptitiously glanced at her bound leg. Her ankle and calf throbbed with the sensation of hundreds of pins and needles poking at her.
“There, now. You’re just overcome. And no, I’ve given up spirits. Did you not say it’s bad for my gout?” With this forced amusement from his lips, which contrasted with the grave concern in his expression, she knew then, without a single doubt, that she was through with life.
“Oh…John,” she whispered again, her mind softening from the brandy. And then she couldn’t stop the words guaranteed to make her a fool. “I wasn’t supposed to die yet.”
“Victoria—”
“This is not the way it was to happen. I was supposed to live a long, dreary life, and become a gray old maid after raising hundreds of foundlings. And they would have put a plaque in the chapel in my honor.” She felt very light-headed as she rushed on. “Oh, I regret so many things. Worst of all, I’ll never experience…” She stopped abruptly, her mortification complete.
“Never experience what?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” If she could blush any deeper, fire would erupt from her veins.
“Tell me.”
“I’ll die a—a…Well, you know…”
He blinked.
“Darling,” he said, “don’t be ridiculous…”
“Ridiculous? I think I have the right to say or act any way I like when I’m dying. Was that or was that not a poisonous serpent that just bit me?”
“There are no serpents in England—only snakes—mostly grass snakes.”
“Don’t you dare change the subject, John. Was I or was I not just bitten by a deadly poisonous snake?”
“Perhaps.” It was better she didn’t know the conclusions he’d drawn. If the snake was a mature viper, which it most likely was, he would never reveal how painful and how very fatal it could be.
“Did you or did you not just extract venom?”
“Possibly,” he said reluctantly.
“Which snakes in England have venom?”
“The one that prefers shaded woody areas—the V. berus.”
She appeared near shock, her face and hands white and clammy. “Just because I spent my life within a foundling home doesn’t mean I can’t decipher Latin. Oh God, it’s V. as in vipera,” she moaned.
“Now, don’t leap to conclusions. The grass snake is speckled.”
“And, let me guess,” she said, her pupils dilated unnaturally. “The viper has dark diamond shapes.”
“Look, there’s a possibility you could become ill for a while, but there’s every reason to believe you will recover. You are young, and very strong and—” His words were bringing naught but more worry to her expression, and so he gathered her in his arms, and she finally gave in to the tears that had been slowly gathering in her glassy eyes. He prayed the last words he had spoken were well and true. And he also hoped his throat ached from tension and not venom.
He leaned over her and kissed her temple, then her wet cheeks, then her…God, he wanted to chase away those tears with every fiber of his being. He would do anything to wipe away the horror of the moment. He wanted to comfort her, assure her that she was cherished for once in her life.
“Oh, please, John…” she whispered, trembling. “Lie beside me. Kiss me. Hold me.”
He knew exactly what she asked and exactly what he could not do. He might want to offer her raw physical comfort more than he’d wished for anything in his entire structured, ordered, carefully constructed existence meant to distance himself from every last bloody conniving, marriageable female in England, but she knew naught of what she asked.
God. She might very well be dying. Or not. Either way, this tiny hut in the middle of the wood was the last place he would deflower the woman he wanted as the future Duchess of Beaufort—if she lived through the next day and night.
He shook his head to clear it. What had he just thought? Christ, who was he trying to fool? Right here, right now, whether she was dying or not, he was going to stop avoiding one primary fact.
He adored her. Could not stay away from her no matter how hard he tried. She might just be the most impertinent female in all of creation, but hell, there was a certain charm to that, for there wasn’t a man or woman alive who had even dared to think he or she could manage him.
Still kneeling beside her, he rested his forehead against hers. Sometime within the next two hours to two weeks he was either going to bury her or marry her. Either option seemed better than keeping himself from this ball of fiery woman and even her battalion of boys who had entered his refined domain.
John repressed a groan. God, he was going to give her everything she had never asked for…and more. So much more. He would give her his name, something he’d thought he would never do before years of careful reflection, and even more painstaking negotiation with a score of solicitors.
But what he dared not give her was what she asked for now. However, he could give her a taste of what was to come if she lived through this wretched afternoon. The idea held five parts despair to one part passion. He prayed his body would obey his mind.
He cradled her head with one hand and dipped down to drag a trail of kisses on her feverish cheeks. Victoria’s ragged breath caught in her throat as he valiantly tried to chase away her fears with a kiss designed to enchant. A slow kiss, and a slow stroke along the inside of her arm, down the side of her rounded, perfectly shaped breast.
She was so damned responsive. After long minutes, her obvious panic receded slightly, and he wrestled with the first spark of desire igniting between them . She was gripping his arms, urging him closer. “Oh, John, do hurry. I feel faint—so hot, so cold. Shivery…”
She must be near delirium. “It’s best not to rush on so,” he murmured.
“But if we don’t rush,” she said breathlessly, “I might never experience it.”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he tucked kisses under her high collar as he worked the buttons free down the bodice. He would shower her with just the smallest bit more pleasure, before a long retreat. Settling his mouth over the coral-fleshed peak that had plagued his thoughts day and night, she immediately moaned. Her excitement drove him to the brink of madness, and he unconsciously bunched the skirting of her gown high above her slender thighs.
Surely she was dying. Victoria’s head was spinning, and dimly she thought it was from the venom or from the brandy she had consumed—probably both. And all she could think with dark humor was that this was a perfectly lovely way to die even if it wasn’t honorable. It was probably going to weigh heavily against a lifetime of pious living.
But it was worth it.
She could barely breathe when she looked past half-closed eyes to find his lips encircling the sensitive tip of her breast. His mouth tugged at her, and her body arched toward him. A well of longing…and something else spiraled within her as she stroked the dark locks on his head. She would have liked to have had a child with those long, black lashes, and that raven hair of his. And those eyes that were so deeply blue they reminded her of the candied violets in the forbidden bakeries of her childhood.
And suddenly, he was moving his lips back to her neck, his deft fingers covering her bared breast with the edge of her gown. He whispered all manner of lovely words meant to soothe her. Lord, he was retreating.
“John, I swear that if you stop now, I shall never, ever forgive you,” she whispered.
“Victoria,” he groaned, grasping her face. “You don’t understand.” He stilled her lips with his fingers as she tried to argue. “I don’t want to hurt you further. And certain things must be said. I would insist we—”
“Don’t you dare say another word.” She pulled on his neckcloth until he was forced to lie atop her on the small bed. The feel of his overly starched shirt and coat against her breast was unbearably erotic. And then she suddenly noticed that, just as she asked, he had stopped speaking. His expression had grown primal, and stark—all raw man. A man whose last ounce of control staggered on a stone precipice that broke away as he leaned down to possess her lips once again with his own.
The haze of passion ebbed but a moment, when she realized he had risen slightly, and the rustling was the sound of him unfastening his breeches. All thoughts of flowers, and lashes, and the children she would never see flew from her. He moved above her, and she instinctively opened her legs to accommodate his body. Oh, this should be beyond embarrassing, if it were not so shockingly elemental, and right…as nature intended. It was as if fate had ordained that she would bind her body and soul to his on this very day.
Her body ached for him to press closer to her. But just as she thought she might die from craving his touch, from wanting the mystery of him, he stopped. Again.
She opened her eyes to find a guilt-stricken look in those now dark eyes of his. She spoke before she could even think. “Would it help if I told you I forgive you in advance? Or perhaps a touch of anger would spur you. Just think of the headlines…Catch of the Century—CAUGHT!”
“Victoria…” he rasped. “You are the most confounding…plaguing…irresistible woman.”
“Such flattery. The words a lady longs to hear—”
He interrupted by lowering his mouth to hers. And then his kiss became so all-consuming, her thoughts tangled, and she lost her grip on the moment.
It all came crashing down, as he nudged more snugly into the cradle of her legs, the fabric of his breeches slightly abrading the tender skin of the inside of her thighs.
And then, he flexed his hips slowly. It was the oddest, most intimate sensation—as if his entire body was kissing hers, molding to hers—filling her in a place he alone was meant to forge.
And before she could take in the magnitude of what was happening, he was rocking gently, and she was turning to molten liquid. “Hold on to me, darling,” he whispered into her ear. “Tighter.” And for once, she obeyed him, followed his wishes to the letter.
Pain suddenly lanced her and left her flesh throbbing.
He went stock-still. “Give it a moment,” he groaned. He was deep inside of her, that part of him thrumming to the beat of her heart.
She registered his hand stroking her head, and slowly a nearly primal desire to move even closer to him—to advance, and retreat—enveloped her. Her fingers tightened again on the bunched muscles of his broad back.
At her signal, he proceeded, in gentle, then increasingly powerful, thrusts to fulfill all her dark-as-the-night flights of fancy. And then all thought was lost as she splintered into a thousand stars like those of a spring night. He plunged deeper than she thought possible, then gasped and became still, his heart racing inches above her own.
The heat of the afternoon, the brandy, and the poison wound ’round her senses. The inevitable guilt from what she had just forced upon him soon followed, and she surrendered to the magnitude of it all.
As he carefully rolled to her side and gathered her in his arms, John desperately hoped he had given her a measure of pleasure and chased away her darkest fears for at least a few moments. God, he had sworn he would not do this. So much for his famous discipline. His last vestige of self-control had vanished in the face of her sweetly ardent desire. She had, with her poignant show of puffed-up bravery and innocence, uncovered a desperate need he hadn’t known he’d possessed. She was as vital as the air he breathed to sustain him.
He looked down to find her unconscious now, her face pale and still. Her breath caught ominously, and an ache of the acutest kind dragged over the part of him he hadn’t ever known could register pain—his heart. Ah…it was surely being torn asunder.
She exhaled roughly and worked to drag another lungful inside of her. She was clinging to life as courageously as she had lived her life.
God…He felt as wretched and ancient as she had repeatedly jested.
The smallest sigh drifted from her. And then another that seemed to gurgle and shudder endlessly. A death rattle…
A loud snore rended the air.
He bit his lip and looked up at the roughened timber crisscrossing the ceiling. For Christsakes. When had he turned into such a melodramatic idiot? Oh, he knew the answer…It was the precise minute he had met the impossible yet perfect creature before him now snoring as deeply as a two-ton longshoreman after an encounter with a barrel or two of poorly distilled whiskey.
V ictoria had never, ever, ever been so mortified. Why, she had for all practical purposes begged the Duke of Beaufort to make love to her. And so she did what any rational woman would have done. She refused to see him for three days.
At first he had come to her bedchamber door at Beaulieu in person—every three hours, like clockwork. One solid knock followed by ten seconds of silence. Then his voice would call out, at first filled with anxiety, then with frustration, and still later with cool resignation.
The kindly maid had explained it all to her. The boys and the duke had escorted her from the lake after they had found her there. Did she not remember tripping over the fallen tree limb? Hitting her head and falling unconscious? Her dreadful headache?
Oh, she remembered the last part, all right. Actually, she remembered every single last embarrassing detail of their encounter until she had slipped into the comforting arms of drunken oblivion.
So that was how he had hidden the truth. He had obviously concocted the main story, then found the boys to provide a side helping of decorum while he carried her back.
At this point, her dignity was so far removed from her that she rather doubted it could ever be recovered, in even the smallest quantity. That stung almost as much as her loss of virtue to the man from whom she most longed to hide the tangle of tender feelings curling around her heart.
It would take a century before she could face him. She, who had recently prided herself on her ability to play the nonchalant heroine.
And so it went for three days. She’d secretly hoped he would break down the door in the middle of the night despite the fact that two footmen and one maid were stationed outside her door per her request.
After the first day, notes, versus his person, arrived with each meal tray. She returned them unopened.
She spent her time brooding, and sometimes lurking behind the silk drapery framing the tall windows in her chambers. Often, she saw him playing games with the boys outside. First he taught them nine pins, perfecting their aim and showing them how to address the pins with the heavy ball. Then it was on to rounders. He was very adept at swinging the odd-shaped, heavy wooden bat. Of course, he did it within sight of her window. He would turn his head toward her apartments every so often, and she would scurry back like the pathetic mouse she had become.
Yet all along, she had known it would not last. During the gloomy afternoon, when she tried for the fifth time to bury her nose in the Canterbury Tales, the one book that had never failed to enthrall her until now, she heard the sound of several pairs of footsteps scurrying away and the click of the lock echoing from the door. She held her breath.
He strode forward several feet, and all the air immediately seemed to desert the chamber. He seemed to have forgotten that for once, it was up to him to close the door since he had obviously dismissed the army of servants. He returned to shut the door, then closed the distance between them. Three feet from her bedside, he came to a halt and stared down at her. “How are you?” The faintest grooves appeared on his forehead.
“Much improved,” she murmured, then glanced at her hands, which she forced still.
“Victoria—” he began.
“No,” she said, “Don’t say it.”
“What do you suppose I was going to say?”
“What you hinted at while we were in that vile little hut, and I was pretending to die. You remember, the same place I became foxed to the gills and forced you to…to have your way with me.” The vision of her tightly entwined fingers became blurry.
“Actually, I think it was you who was having your way with me, Vic,” he said, dry humor itching his words.
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Very well, Victoria. The physician privately reported to me that you are fully recovered in body if not in spirits.” He was standing very stiffly. “I’m sorry, more sorry than I can say, that you suffered through that scare with the snake, which, in hindsight was quite obviously a grass snake and—”
“And what?”
“And I’m sorry I hurt you.” He seemed hardly able to get out the last words. “I’m sorry that I offered you the brandy. Sorry I—”
“What? Followed my directions?”
“No. You have absolutely no share of the blame for what happened. But now we must be sensible. I don’t want to argue with you. You see…we must marry. I want to marry you straightaway. I’ve already arranged a carriage to leave today to take us back to town—with the maid you’ve come to like—Mrs. Conlan.”
Oh, this was worse than she had envisioned. He was dissembling. He was also rambling, quite obviously stricken with the knowledge of what his honor, as a gentleman, demanded.
“You know,” she interrupted, “I should let you do it, if only to teach you a lesson.”
He stood stock-still. “What on earth are you implying?”
“I mean, really, why ruin one life when two can be ruined so easily?”
Anger flooded his normally impassive expression. “Is this your response?”
She continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “But I find I can’t do it. Yes, I find I’d rather spend the rest of my life teaching orphans than tending to your failing health.”
“Victoria…” His tone was menacing, low. “So help me God—”
“He won’t help you, I assure you. I find He deserts me at every critical hour. I suppose it’s my complete and utter lack of principles in the face of temptation—oh, what is the use? Look, I’m sorry I seduced you against your will.”
He quickened his speech. “Tell me now, straightaway. Are you uttering all these ridiculous things to warn me off? Victoria…does your heart belong to another?”
She answered without pause. “Yes.” She could not stop her eyes darting away from his.
“Have I ever told you that you are the absolute worst liar plaguing Christendom? Now who in bloody hell gave you those ridiculous boots? Is he the one who calls you ‘Vic’?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Your Grace. I’m a commoner. I could be the product of a Covent Garden light-skirt and a pandering drunk for all you know.”
“Actually, I’m guessing your father was an army captain, and your mother a prim but luscious schoolteacher, what with those charmingly dictatorial ways of yours.”
She started. Why, she knew precisely who her parents were and he was halfway closer to the truth than he would ever know. When she’d become a teacher and gotten access to the foundling home’s private records, the first thing she had done was search for clues.
Her father had, apparently, been one of a vast wave of men in the Royal Navy—a Captain Givan. In her dreams, she envisioned him as a formidable officer spitting at his archrival’s feet as he died an honorable death.
She’d forced the details about her mother from the older matron at the foundling home. Mrs. Kane had still remembered the day a scared young maid had tried to deposit Victoria in the front hall with an almost illegible petition signed by a Mrs. Givan. The matron had explained to the maid that infants could not just be left without a formal review and acceptance by the governors. The girl had silently left, but within minutes, the matron had found nine-month-old Victoria propped against the gates of the home along with the petition. No trace of the young maid or Mrs. Givan had ever been found, and so Victoria had been absorbed into the sprawling foundling home’s system.
The petition, written on nearly translucent paper, suggested Mrs. Givan was the only daughter and relation of a dead vicar. Dying of consumption, Victoria’s mother had left her child and the petition along with a brass button token from Victoria’s father, who had just died at sea in service to His Majesty. The records she had found at the Royal Naval offices had snuffed out her last hope of ever finding relations. Captain Charles Givan had lived and died without a single relation listed in his records.
“What is going on in that head of yours?” His voice was low, his expression eerily calm, but he refused to wait for an answer. “Victoria, gather your affairs. We leave this afternoon. If the weather holds, we can be in London tomorrow—can secure a Special License by—”
“You are perfectly right. And after we marry, could we hold a ball in the Beaufort London town house? I’m certain all your friends in the House of Lords would enjoy the honor of bowing and scraping before me. And the gossips will be positively panting to hear all the details of how THE CATCH OF THE CENTURY was netted by a bloody NOBODY you found on the side of a country road!” The last she shouted at him.
“You are perfectly right,” he returned, unmoved. “It will be a beastly business.”
He withstood her blast of outrage with the same calculating tactics he’d used when she had first met him. The only difference was that she now knew how to retaliate.
“The boys have informed me that the cottage at Wallace Abbey is fully repaired,” she said stiffly. “We will leave your protection this afternoon. I was going to wait until tomorrow, but I find it might be better—”
“Coward,” he whispered.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me.”
“Look, I release you from whatever bonds of gentlemanly code you’ve forced upon yourself. I assure you I find none of your ideas acceptable.” She sniffed.
“Victoria, listen to me. You are making a grave mistake. You could very well find yourself with child. Surely, you’ve considered the consequences. I hadn’t thought I’d have to remind you.”
“I’ve spent decades looking into the forlorn eyes of what some people—of your rank—call the physical evidence of sin. I assure you, I know precisely what might happen. If I do find myself in a condition, I shall find an obscure corner of England, and you shall pay for our care, which shall be but a pittance. There are plenty of war widows, and I shall play the part. The child and I shall be perfectly happy. Either way, you shall rejoin your family—your world, and I shall rejoin mine—eventually—at the foundling home or, if fate insists, somewhere far from anyone who would know the truth. What I will not do is accede to your wishes, which would only serve to subject us to the slow, daily torture of remembering the foolishness of a moment.”
She had wounded him as effectively as she had dared. She could see it in his eyes. But really, what had he expected?
“Victoria…if you think for a moment that I would allow you to cower off to some godforsaken corner if you found yourself with my child, you do not know me. And while I had wished to keep this from you, I can see I must tell you the full truth of it. Do you know that you talk in your sleep?”
A chill of worry wound down her spine.
“Well, I’m sorry to inform that you do, and there was idle talk among the servants before I put an end to it. Your reputation will be in tatters if we do not marry.” He paused and gentled his voice. “Now look, I’m sorry the idea of this marriage is so repugnant to you, but it will occur. God, woman! I should never have let you stew so long. Now, I shan’t force you to leave today, but I do expect you to reconcile yourself to the grim facts of our upcoming nuptials by the time we leave at first light. Tomorrow. I will not delay this again.” He turned on his heel and strode through the door without a backward glance.
Victoria bounded to the door after it shut, only to hear him bark for the servants to resume their posts. Only now they felt more like guards to keep her inside versus guards to keep him outside. She could have sworn he said something about “bread and broth, only,” but then it could very well have been “break her bones, slowly.”
Well, that had gone superbly well.
He had gone about it all wrong, he decided several hours later as he stood brooding and unseeing the beauty of the vista from his library window. He had the wealth of two nations, and yet he had not succeeded in the one thing that mattered. The one thing he wanted. Needed.
And yet, she was also correct. In marrying her, he might very well ruin her innate happiness. He could not easily envision her rubbing along with the members of the aristocracy. With their sharpened claws and ingrained instinct to winnow out anyone who smelled of the shop or worse, she would be ripped to ribbons in one evening. And they would do it with graciousness dripping from ear to ear. She didn’t stand a chance, even if half the gentlemen in the House of Lords owed him favors or money or both.
Nothing in his life was in balance. The idea he held dear, to rejuvenate the area with a mill, was fading. His meetings, or rather his attempts to meet with his stubborn neighbor, the Earl of Wymith, had utterly failed. On his second attempt to enter the sanctified chambers of his neighbor’s manor, the Wymith butler had informed His Grace that his lordship was giving him fair warning. He was lacing gun-traps on the edges of his property to ward off trespassers just as his former nemesis had done.
In the distance, a large carriage that rivaled his own inched along under the arch of tulip trees bordering the avenue leading toward the high tower of Beaulieu. Within a quarter hour, he watched two gentlemen descend from the carriage, who in turn helped two ladies find their footing. The first was a diminutive gray-haired lady, wearing an outrageously colorful gown. She carried a long-snouted, short-legged canine. Why, if he was not mistaken, it was the Dowager Duchess of Helston, followed by the fire-breathing Duke of Helston, the beautiful, blond Countess of Sheffield, and an oversized brute of a man, dressed as a gentleman. What in hell?
The library door was ajar, and he could hear the familiar demanding baritone of Helston acidly informing a footman that—Yes, he would very much like to see His Grace, if His Grace would have time for His Grace.
John stilled the corner of his mouth from rising as the footman gave up any pretence of maintaining the correct forms of precedence. Through the sound of footsteps mounting the marble stair, John heard the echo of the party’s conversation.
“Well, at least we know the way, at this point,” Helston said, dryly. “Second bloody time in less than five months. Perhaps I should scour the area for a suitable residence if this is the way it shall go from now on.”
“Friendship has its costs,” the other man said with a chuckle.
“The problem as I see it is that so far it’s been bloody one-sided in your case, Friend.”
“Luc! Shhh. Is this not the most magnificent…Oh—”
And then after a knock, which further opened the door, Helston, the dowager with her tiny brown dog tucked under her arm, and the stranger were ushered into the library. A red-faced footman hurriedly preceded them. The countess was missing from the party.
“Pardon me, Your Grace,” the footman said. “His Grace, the Duke of Helston, and Her Grace, the—”
Helston cut through the trivialities with seasoned hauteur. “He knows who we are. How the bloody are you, Beaufort? Good of you to see us.” Amusement laced the words of the black-haired and famously black-humored Duke of Helston as he strode forward to grip John’s shoulder on one side and to shake his hand with the other. “Like the new name. May I say it fits you better than the others? Although I must admit to a certain fondness for your epithet in the Post.”
The dog barked. “Hush,” Ata admonished her pet. “Antlers are our friends here, Attila. Oh, Beaufort, please pardon us,” she shot a dark look toward her grandson. “May we offer our very deepest sympathies on the death of your uncle? He was a generous man—a gentleman who did not shirk from helping us in our great hour of need last winter. I fear we come on an equally important mission today.”
“How may I be of service to you, madam?” John bowed deeply before her. He’d always liked the little, dark-eyed, plain-speaking dowager.
John tilted his head to glance at the towering, rugged stranger behind the two Helstons. They had forgotten to introduce the man in their obvious haste.
The dowager produced a letter from her reticule and offered it to him. “I received this letter three days ago. It was dispatched from the inn in Quesbury. I’m sorry to say it is from a woman who is very dear to us all. She had the great misfortune to become stranded with several others when the mail coach departed without them. Oh, I told her to accept the use of our carriage before she left town, but she is so very stubborn.”
“A clear case of the pot calling the kettle black,” Helston drawled.
“Luc! Do be serious. I am terri—”
“I keep telling you that I have not the slightest doubt that the intrepid, flame-haired woman I know is perfectly fine. This is a fool’s errand. Now then, Beaufort, have you seen or heard news of a Miss Victoria Givan? She was traveling with—”
“Three boys,” John finished, looking up from the letter. Her handwriting was as bold and arrogant as a queen’s.
The dowager placed her hand over her heart. “Oh, thank heavens. You’ve news of them?”
The hulking gentleman behind them moved with the speed and lethal silence of a jungle cat. “Where is she?”
“And who are you, sir?” John perused the form of the giant with all the hauteur his station permitted.
“Where is she?” he demanded again.
“You must be Miss Givan’s very good friend. No thanks to you, she is comfortably ensconced in one of the chambers above. The boys are here, too.”
The man exhaled roughly, his hand rubbing his brow. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Beaufort. But I am that grateful to you, I don’t really care.” The man eased back a step when John stepped forward. “I must say though, I can’t like your tone, but, yes, I am her very good friend. That’s why I’m here. Her welfare is my responsibility.”
John couldn’t keep the edge of anger from his bark. “You are her benefactor, you blackguard .”
The Duke of Helston and the diminutive dowager were looking at him as if he’d lost his wits.
“Uh, no, actually. Vic’s benefactor is the Countess of Sheffield, soon to be—”
At the sound of the nickname Victoria refused to allow him to use, he erupted. “You’re the one who knows her as Vic? By God, I shall wash the floor with—”
“Much as I would enjoy watching some other fool take on my friend here,” Helston interrupted abruptly, “I feel dukes should stand by one another. It’s the natural order of things. I’m sorry Wallace, but I must—”
“Wallace?” John interrupted, incredulous. “You’re Wallace?”
The dowager piped up. “Yes, so sorry. Thought you’d been introduced. He’s the long-lost earl you’ve probably recently heard tell about—that is if you follow the gossip columns, which you should since they particularly like to report about you often enough.” The dowager smiled, a pert little V of a smile. “Monstrously tall, isn’t he? Don’t know how the countess manages to bully him as well as she does.”
Wallace smiled. “Ata, you know Grace has never bullied a fly in her entire life. She shames us all into doing the proper thing with her impeccable manners, her unsurpassed charm, her—”
“Wallace,” Helston cut in with obvious boredom. “It’s not at all the thing to be so obviously in love with your fiancée.”
The dowager turned on her grandson. “A clear case of the pot calling the kettle—”
“Ata…” Helston growled. “Oh, do let’s get on with it. It’s almost full dark, and we should see Miss Givan, then get out of Beaufort’s little hovel here. I’m famished.”
John nodded almost imperceptibly to the footman hovering in the doorway, and the man undertook his bidding to arrange for the needs of their new guests without a word. And then suddenly, the ethereal beauty of the Countess of Sheffield glimmered from the hall. She walked quickly inside, forwent the courtesy of a curtsy, and went to Wallace’s side. The man’s attention was exclusively drawn to her, and he urged, “What is it, sweetheart?”
Her blue eyes darted to John, a worried question lurking there. “She’s left.”
John started. “Left?”
She searched his face, a hint of distrust in evidence. “One of your maids directed me to the ladies withdrawing, and when I asked, she explained that Victoria was indeed here. I took the liberty of going to her chamber, and I found…”
“What did you find, sweetheart?” Wallace asked softly.
“Knotted sheets from the window.”
John could not make his feet move. “Knotted sheets? Why, the little…”
Wallace’s eyes narrowed. “Little what, Beaufort? What have you done to her? I shall strangle you with those sheets until you cough up an offer if you’ve compromised her. This is the most gothic story I’ve ever heard. Straight from the pages of—”
“The Canterbury Tales,” John finished. “Yes, I do believe I’m going to burn that book, if I find her. But never fear, Wallace, I’m marrying her. Even if I have to cuff and drag her every inch of the way to Gretna Green.”
Wallace noticeably relaxed and continued gruffly. “You may use my smithy’s twitch if you like. It’s far superior to cuffs or rope ties.”
The Countess of Sheffield’s eyes softened. “Now dearest, do not give him any ideas.”
“I suppose you’re right, my love. But he has just voluntarily committed himself to a lifetime with Victoria. And while I adore her with every inch of my heart, she is, well, even you must admit, Grace—Victoria can be a challenge, at times. A wonderful, infuriating—”
“I would suggest you stop while you’re ahead, Wallace,” John said stiffly. “You are speaking of the soon-to-be Duchess of Beaufort. And while I may refer to my future wife as I see fit, you, on the other hand—”
Helston’s brows had almost reached his hairline. He recovered and quickly stepped between them. “Enough. Enough. Is there no brandy to be had in this hut of yours, Beaufort?”
“Oh, this is the perfect reason to write again to dear Mr. Brown in Scotland.” The dowager Duchess of Helston laughed. “Luc, do you think this might roust him from his ill will toward me?”
“For God sakes, Ata, allow Brownie the peace he has earned.”
“But he loves weddings. Adores them. He’ll never be able to withstand the temptation of attending now both Wallace’s and Beaufort’s weddings to two ladies from my secret circle.”
“Funny,” the duke replied dryly. “Brownie’s never mentioned a particular fondness for such folly in the past. And since when did Miss Givan become part of your ridiculous club? She’s not even a widow.”
Ata blinked. “I’ve grown accustomed to your infernal Devil’s rules. If I say Victoria doesn’t need to be bereaved to be in my widows club, then so be it.” The tiny dowager tilted up her nose and sniffed. “Well, I’m off to write to Mr. Brown, and you can’t stop me.”
The Countess of Sheffield bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“Christ. My appetite is ruined,” the Duke of Helston said darkly. “There is far too much talk of weddings and happiness swirling about to my liking. When, I ask you, is tragedy to come back in style?”
John had decided he would, indeed, borrow Wallace’s twitch, if he ever found her.
They had searched every last mile of land separating them from the cottage near the abbey. Every dale, every hollow, every lane. She was not to be found, nor were the boys. She wasn’t a fool. She’d somehow charmed one of the younger grooms into providing his services as a driver, along with two of John’s best carriage horses and a simple four-wheeled dog cart. Yet none of them had returned.
He swore violently as he paced the ridge above his massive stable—the best vantage point, and sufficiently removed from the great house to allow him to mouth every obscenity he could think of. He and the other two gentlemen had ridden all afternoon, all night, looking for her and the trio of boys. Helston and the earl didn’t take her disappearance nearly as seriously as he did. And if he had had to endure their jibes another minute longer, he had thought he very well might give in to his desire to smash the dark humor from both of them. He had galloped away from them as dawn first streaked its tawny pink fingers across the horizon, their laughter floating behind him.
The sound of crickets whirred all ’round him, the sound deafening with the heat of day increasing.
Where was she?
A horse and rider appeared at the crest of the hill in front of him, and his heart pumped with renewed hope. But it was not she. The rider wore a top hat and breeches.
The man drew up and dismounted, his mare’s shoulders showing a hint of lather.
Could his day grow any worse? Apparently.
The earl swept an exaggerated bow. “Your Grace.”
“Wymith,” John gritted out. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” The imposing gentleman in his prime before him resembled his forebearer about as much as John did his own—that is, not one whit.
The earl retrieved something from a saddlebag flung across his horse’s flanks and dropped two feathered shapes before him.
“What on earth?”
“I think she pilfered them from one of your great rooms. Miss Givan is a very, ahem, enterprising young lady, if I do say so.”
John reached to clench his hands around the stuffed forms of a preserved wood duck and pheasant. “Careful, Wymith, she is my fiancée.”
“Really,” he drawled. “She didn’t mention that.”
“And what, pray tell, did she say to you?”
The other man studied him for a moment. “That we are both hardheaded beasts who refuse to see reason.”
“Hmmm.”
“She insisted I see past my objections to your very obvious desire to fatten your purses by way of this proposed easement. Said we should both think to the betterment of the many people of this county who depend on us.”
“Did she now?” he muttered.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And she said we should compromise and build the road and the mill half on my property and half on yours, and arrange for the majority of the profits to go to the men who work there and to the ill and infirm of Derbyshire.” The earl examined his fingernails. “She also said that you had finally seen the error of your ways and those of your uncle before you—after she had fully explained in detail all of your faults—some of which, I am sorry to say, had little to do with hunting and trespassing but much to do with locks and keys.”
He itched to strangle the managing little philanthropist with pockets to let.
The earl continued. “These two motheaten bits of fluff were the peace offering she insisted I accept from you. More importantly, she said I was invited to hunt in Beaulieu Park anytime I wished.”
“Really?”
“She also insisted I was to condescend to wait upon you, here, as you wished to invite me to dine so we could discuss the building of the mill.”
“I see.”
He shrewdly stroked his jaw. “A most interesting choice, Beaufort. She has more pluck than most men.”
“I know.”
“Surprising how well you’ve done for yourself,” he said. “Not much of a conversationalist, are you?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s fine by me. Hate chatter. Now, are you going to invite me to breakfast or not?”
“Of course.” John continued without a hint of irony. “I’m delighted you’ve come.”
“Well,” the earl said discomfited, “I don’t know about you, but I’m not inclined to have to face her again without a signed agreement. Oh, and by the by, she said to tell you that she has removed to the cottage near the abbey, and…”
“Yes?”
Wymith licked his lips. “She said to give you this by way of a token of her appreciation and a formal good-bye.” He tendered her battered volume of the Canterbury Tales.
John gripped the book, his eyes challenging the earl to say another blasted word. After a decade of silence, John bowed, his eyes so tired it felt as if an ocean’s worth of salt and sand resided under his lids, “I’m honored by your visit, Wymith. Do you know the Duke and Dowager Duchess of Helston? Or the Countess of Sheffield and her fiancé, the Earl of Wallace? No? Gentle folk…You shall enjoy their company. This way, now. Fancy kippers?”
Would she always know how to work on him? A part of him melted at what she had so brazenly accomplished. All that bad luck, all those horrid words…erased with such heaven-sent goodness and devil-made assurance.
He had tried to go without them, but that blasted herd of Victoria’s acquaintances would not be put off. The tension in the first of two carriages was as tight as the noose on a dead man. And they would not leave off of the subject of the snakebite once the physician had let it slip when he had come to call.
The Earl of Wallace’s baritone rumbled within the close confines of the barouche. “British vipers are very rarely fatal, especially if you administer snakeroot or clivers. You didn’t try to suck the poison out, did you? Only a fool would employ that barbaric practice.”
John nearly lunged at the earl. The only thing that kept him in his seat was the fact that the cottage was around the next bend in the road.
“Your lips were on her ankle, Your Grace?” Ata’s eyebrows lifted. “How very…intimate of you.”
“I’ve already told you, Victoria and I are to be married.”
Her Grace harrumphed. “Yes, well, it’s obvious she refused you.” She smiled knowingly. “Perhaps you didn’t ask her in the correct fashion. Did you tell her she was the most beautiful creature alive? Did you tell her you couldn’t live without her? Did you tell her you lo—”
“Ata,” Helston said with a sigh. “Leave the poor sod be. I agreed to prop up his spirits and bear witness to his future responsib—ahem, happiness,” he continued dryly, “but I did not agree to listen to more romantic folderol.”
“Well, so few men know how to go about proposals properly. ’Tis the reason there are so many spinsters. Everyone knows unmarried ladies have a superior life over married females. Gentlemen have to use every last ounce of false charm to lull a lady’s senses into acceptance.”
“Ata,” Luc growled louder.
“Not that we ever thought that in your case, dearest. I’ve always suspected you blackmailed or tricked Rosamunde into having you. You probably locked her in a room with naught but bread and broth until she promised to have you. Beaufort, on the other hand, would never…” She batted her eyelashes.
John groaned at the same moment the carriage lurched to a full stop.
Victoria rubbed at a spot on the large table in the refurbished kitchen of the cottage, grateful she finally had a moment to herself. She really only had to find two last servants for this house of men and boys. A man and his wife had arrived without notice this morning, both in search of employment. Their letters of recommendation were exemplary, and Victoria had engaged them as manservant and housekeeper. There was only the cook to find, and a maid-of-all-work. The boys were now off with the architect’s men, to the abbey.
Lost in her never-ending stream of thoughts regarding a certain not-to-be-borne duke, she looked up only to find the man who occupied her every thought standing before her.
She cleared her throat awkwardly. “You’ve come.”
“Did you doubt I would?”
She tried to adopt an air of indifference to hide her ill ease. “What took you so long?”
“Your friends. And benefactor.”
She frowned. “Did they come in person? Oh, I’m sorry I caused them such trouble.”
“Well, at least you are capable of feeling regret for something, Victoria.”
She glanced away. “I have no regrets, Your Grace.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Yes, but you’ve ordered me to do so many things that I cannot be blamed for not always remembering all your wishes.”
He advanced toward her. “No? Well then I shall have to remind you of my wishes.”
She bit her lip.
“But, first, I must thank you.”
“For what?”
“For coercing the Earl of Wymith into an agreement.”
“Phifft. That was child’s play. I assure you it’s far harder to get two hungry boys to share a slice of bread. You two were stuffed full of—”
“Victoria.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’ve known you long enough to see through your methods. I will not be put off. Now, you are not to say another word until you accept my compliments and more. If not, beware. The Earl of Wallace possesses an interesting device, which he has invited me to use if you will not hear me through.”
She felt nearly ill at the thought that the duke could so easily see through her.
“Do you love him so very much?” he asked gruffly. “So much you cannot see your way to one day caring for someone else?”
Her gaze wavered the merest bit before she replied. “Yes.”
He broke into a grin. “I adore that about you.”
“Adore what?” she replied, irritated beyond measure.
“The fact that you lie about as well as a poacher plump with partridge in his pockets.”
“Yes, well, it worked well enough on you at key moments.”
His deep blue eyes scrutinized her, fraying her nerves. “Why did you run away? It’s not like you.”
A scratching sound came from the direction of the pantry. Victoria ignored it. “I did not run away. If I’d meant to run away I wouldn’t be here now, would I?”
He took a step toward her. “Victoria, we must marry. You’ve never been afraid of anything in your life.”
“This only proves you do not know me at all. I’ve been afraid my entire life.”
In a moment, he had trapped her in his embrace, forcing her to accept the protection and comfort of his arms. “You were probably only afraid of being denied important things—food, shelter. Do not try and tell me you’re afraid of facing down a ballroom full of puffed-up aristocrats bent on mischievous gossip. Having endured a lifetime of it, I assure you it’s all meaningless chatter. Just think how you’ll relish forcing them to feel guilty about their excesses and how you shall also coerce them into helping the less fortunate, just as you did the Earl of Wymith.”
“And you.”
He chuckled. “Yes, and me. And you shall have the pleasure of reminding me daily that I was too thickheaded to think of the solution first.”
“I won’t marry you no matter how hard you try to charm me,” she said abruptly, and pushed against his broad, warm chest.
He shook his head. “You know, I finally find the most beautiful lady on earth—the one woman I cannot live without—the lady I was destined to—”
“Ata has been working on you, hasn’t she?”
“Blast it, Victoria.” He rocked his forehead in his hands. “Do not say another word, or Lord help me, I will—”
“What?” she interrupted.
“I will love you. Love you for the rest of my life without pause. Love you until you forget to be afraid.” He paused and continued quietly, “I shall love you enough for the both of us.”
She felt the burn of tears behind her eyes, the ache of holding back in her throat.
“Now do you think you could possibly accept my offer? Accept me?”
Her heart soared. “Yes. Actually it’s quite convenient because—”
He rushed to gather her back into his arms. “Oh, darling…promise you will never, ever cause me as much worry as you did yesterday when you disappeared.”
“Your know, John, you’re going to have to stop asking for so many favors and promises. I already warned you how those sorts of things spoil a person. And as I recall, you said I would never have to do anything else you ever asked again…when the snake bit me.”
“Yes, well, that was when I was sure it was a viper, and I thought you’d be dead within a day.”
“That is the poorest excuse I’ve ever heard.” Another scratching sound came from the pantry, and Victoria looked about her for the broom with a jot of fear. “What is that?”
He appeared completely unconcerned by the odd noise. “Darling, there are two things we must do before your dear friends descend upon us. They’re waiting outside.”
“Yes?” He was nuzzling her neck, making it very hard to concentrate.
“I must kiss you, and you must answer one last question.”
His lips nibbled the edge of her jaw, leaving her unable to form a coherent sentence. “Hmmm…”
He whispered, “Who gave you those delectable little boots of yours? The Countess of Sheffield?”
“No,” she murmured.
His lips were closing fast. “Don’t you dare tell me it was that heathen Wallace.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Well?” He brushed his firm lips across the top of her nose and paused. Waiting…
“It was the Dowager Duchess of Helston. Said they would drive men to distraction…And she was absolutely spot o—”
He growled and swooped in to claim his kiss…To claim her, as she had always hoped. It was the way of all the best Canterbury Tales after all, was it not?
When she felt her knees weaken, she forced her lips from his and rested her forehead against the snowy folds of his neckcloth. He towered a good six inches above her, making a very comfortable, rock-solid support. “You know, this was much easier than I thought,” she murmured.
“What was much easier?”
“Snaring the Catch of the Century.”
He chuckled. “Really?”
“Yes. Everyone knows the way to engage a man’s interest is to insist you’ll have none of him.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s not the way of it a’tall. I fell in love with you when I somehow found myself taking you sixty miles instead of sixty yards.”
“No. That’s the reason I fell in love with you, John.”
It was as if she had struck him, he went so still. Christ, he hadn’t dared to hope until now. He then crushed her to him, his arms like two iron bands about her. Until…
The faintest flapping or scratching noise pierced their dream. “John…Have I mentioned how little I like the countryside? And all the dangers one finds in nature?” Victoria revealed, haltingly.
“Come closer. I’ll protect you.” He kissed her worried brow gently. “It’s probably just a little, harmless mouse.”
She reluctantly pushed away from his arms. “You should know better given my history. The carpenter warned there were bats here when they came to rebuild.”
“Well, Victoria, I sucked the snakebite. Escort the bat outside, if you please.” He grasped the broom and extended it to her. “If you face down your fear, my love, I shall reward you with a very long honeymoon in Beaufort House in Mayfair.”
She strode over to a window and threw open the sash.
“Inviting more in are you?” He smiled that impossibly irresistible smile at her.
“Do you have a better idea?”
He went to the table, efficiently lit a candle, and gathered an empty jar from the washboard.
“I didn’t know that bats dislike candlelight.”
“Everyone knows bats are night creatures.”
“Is this sort of like how you knew vipers prefer wooded, shady areas?”
“No, this is sort of like how I knew you might come to love me as I love you.”
She looked at him, and his eyes softened. He put down the articles he had collected and pulled her back into his arms. “Actually, I have a much better idea. The Duke of Helston and the Earl of Wallace are just the sort who relish offering a friendly hand.”
A commotion of voices drifted from the front of the cottage, and John winked, grasped her hand, and pulled her outside, through the kitchen door. Rounding the side of the house, he urged her on. “Come, darling, it’s only a little farther.”
“Said the devil to the innocent.”
He led them to the now-empty carriage and helped her inside. “Now kiss me again,” he insisted. “You know we’ll not have another chance of being alone as soon as they run us to the ground. And there is plenty of room in the second carriage…if they don’t breathe.”
“Ah, finally—your finesse—your infamous skills of diplomacy and negotiation—makes an appearance.” She grasped his neckcloth and urged him closer.
John tapped three times on the ceiling of the carriage, and the barouche moved forward. “Precisely. You have your methods, and I have mine. We shall do very well together, darling.” He encircled her with his arms and lowered his lips to hers, until she finally, blessedly, allowed herself to grasp the happiness she had always deserved. Victoria kissed the man she loved with all her heart and soul and allowed the anxiety of a lifetime to flow from her breast into his, only to learn the extraordinary joy of shared dreams realized.
She whispered such words of love in his ear combined with that throaty low laughter of hers designed to melt butter and all lesser men. Holding her, kissing her, John suddenly envisioned it all. The gaggle of Helstons and Wallaces, and all the other mysterious members of the dowager duchess’s secret club, regularly invading their residences for the rest of his life. Above all, he envisioned Victoria…and children. So very many children—some his, many not. They were crowding the empty halls of his childhood, of his past. In front of him, crowds of happiness beckoned, and he answered their call by opening his heart to the woman before him and caressing her beautiful face until she fell back into his warm embrace.
My dear Mr. Brown,This is an amendment of sorts to my last letter to you—of which I have not received the pleasure of a reply. Everyone here says holding a grudge for so long is not attractive in a gentleman, but if this idea irritates you further, let it be known that I did not necessarily agree with them.
It now appears there are to be two weddings in the near future. In addition to the marriage of the Countess of Sheffield and the Earl of Wallace, Miss Victoria Givan is to be the new Duke of Beaufort’s bride shortly. Very shortly, if the duke has his way. And as we well know, dukes always have their way. It is amazing how hard, and how fast these great men are falling as of late. Very unlike, ahem, resentful Scots.
I am happy to report that the new Duke of Beaufort does not possess the vile, bloodthirsty nature of his predecessors. Nor does my dear new friend, the Earl of Wymith, a man I plan to introduce to the last two widows in my club. My grandson is lukewarm on the idea. Indeed, he says he would rather settle my Elizabeth and Sarah with a small fortune instead of enduring the travails of friendship and love again.
Oh, John…please hurry back to town. The center aisle of St. George’s is a very long one, and I shall twice require your arm to lean against. You know how frail I am these days. I do hope you are not laughing. I should not have to warn you that Attila the Dog does not take kindly to gentlemen who are unkind to me.
Do come. I shall be forced to desperate measures if you do not, and I promise you will like it even less than all that has come before—if that is possible.
Your devoted, Ata
Want to read more about the characters in this novella and the entire secret widows club? RITA® Award-winning author SOPHIA NASH’s latest series for Avon Books is on shelves now! Meet Rosamunde Baird, the lady capable of taking on the austere Duke of Helston in A Dangerous Beauty, named Best Regency-set Historical of the Year by Romantic Times BOOK reviews magazine. The Chicago Tribune called Georgiana Wilde’s and the Marquis of Ellesmere’s love story in The Kiss “a dazzling combination of subtly complex charact ers, simmering sensuality, and writing that gleams with sharp wit.” Or fall in love with the Countess of Sheffield and a rugged stranger in Sophia’s latest story, Love with the Perfect Scoundrel. To learn more about the author and her books, visit www.SophiaNash.com.
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