Jason picked up the report he had been reading earlier, his expression glacial. “Make out another list during the next week and bring it to me.”
Chapter Sixteen
THE TASK OF SELECTING THE best prospects from amongst the increasing number of Victoria’s suitors, in order to prepare that list, became far more difficult for Charles than the last time. By the end of the following week, the house on Upper Brook Street was overflowing with bouquets of flowers brought there by a parade of eager gentlemen all hopeful of gaining the distinction of winning her favor.
Even the elegant Frenchman the Marquis de Salle fell under her spell, not despite the language barrier, but because of it. He appeared at the house one day in the company of his friend, Baron Arnoff, and another friend who had stopped to pay a morning call on Victoria.
“Your French is excellent,” the marquis lied with suave, meaningless gallantry as he wisely switched to English and sat down in the appointed chair.
Victoria looked at him in laughing disbelief. “It is dismal,” she declared ruefully. “I find the nasal tones one uses in French almost as difficult to imitate as the guttural ones used in Apache.”
“Apache?” he inquired politely. “What is that?”
“It is the language spoken by a tribe of American Indians.”
“American savages?” echoed the Russian baron, a legendary horseman in the Russian army. His expression of boredom changed to one of rapt interest. “I have heard that these savages are superb horsemen. Are they?”
“I’ve only known one Indian, Baron Arnoff, and he was quite old and very polite, rather than savage. My father came upon him in the woods and brought him home to nurse him back to health. His name was Rushing River, and he stayed on as a sort of helper to my father. However, to answer your question, although he was only half Apache, he was indeed a superb horseman. I was twelve when I first saw him do tricks, and I was speechless with wonder. He used no saddle and—”
“No saddle!” the baron exclaimed.
Victoria shook her head. “Apaches don’t use them.”
“What sort of tricks could he do?” asked the marquis, far more interested in her intoxicating face than her words.
“Once Rushing River had me place a handkerchief in the middle of a field; then he rode toward it, his horse running full-out. When he was nearly there, he let go of the rope bridle completely, leaned way down and to the side, and scooped up the handkerchief while his horse was still running. He taught me how to do it, too,” she admitted, laughing.
Impressed despite himself, the baron said, “I would have to see this before I believed it. I don’t suppose you could show me how it is done?”
“No, I’m sorry. The horse must be trained in the Apache style first.”
“Perhaps you could teach me a word or two of Apache,” the marquis teased with a coaxing smile, “and I could tutor you on your French?”
“Your offer is very kind,” Victoria replied, “but it would not be at all fair, for I have much to learn and little to teach. I remember very few of the words Rushing River taught me.”
“Surely you could teach me one phrase?” he prodded, smiling into her sparkling eyes.
“No, really—”
“I insist.”
“Very well,” Victoria capitulated with a sigh, “if you insist.” She spoke a phrase in guttural accents and looked at the marquis. “Now, try to repeat it.”
The marquis got it perfect on the second try and smiled with pleasure. “What does it mean?” he asked. “What did I say?”
“You said,” Victoria replied with an apologetic look, “ ‘That man is treading upon my eagle.’ ”
“Treading upon my—” The marquis, the baron, and everyone else gathered in the gold salon dissolved into laughter.
The following day, the Russian baron and the French marquis returned to join the ranks of Victoria’s beaux, adding immensely to her prestige and increasing her popularity.
Wherever Victoria was in the house, there was laughter and the sound of animated gaiety. Throughout the rest of the house, however, there was a vibrating, ominous tension that sprang from Lord Fielding and stretched its tentacles around everyone else. As week drifted into week and the number of Victoria’s suitors doubled and redoubled, Jason’s mood went from menacing to murderous. Wherever he went, he saw something that displeased him. He berated the cook for preparing his favorite meal too often; he chastised a housemaid for a speck of dust he found under the banister; he threatened to dismiss a footman who had a loose button on his jacket.
In the past, Lord Fielding had been a demanding, exacting employer, but he had also been reasonable. Now, nothing seemed to satisfy him, and any servant who crossed his path was likely to feel the lash of his caustic tongue. Unfortunately, the more impossible he became, the faster and more furiously they worked, and the more nervous and clumsy it made them.
Once his households had run as efficiently as well-oiled machines. Now servants scurried about, colliding with one another in their desperate haste to complete their tasks and avoid their employer’s smoldering wrath. As a result of their nervous frenzy, a priceless Chinese vase was dropped, a bucket of wash water was spilled onto the Aubusson carpet in the dining room, and general chaos reigned throughout the house.
Victoria was aware of the tension among the staff, but when she cautiously tried to broach the subject with Jason he accused her of “trying to incite insurrection,” then launched into a scathing tirade about the noise her visitors were making while he was trying to work and the nauseating smell of the flowers they brought her.
Twice Charles tried to discuss the second list of suitors with him, only to be rudely told to get out of his study and stay out.
When Northrup himself received a stinging reprimand from Jason, the entire household began to crackle with terrified tension. It ended abruptly late one afternoon, five weeks after Victoria had made her come-out. Jason was working in his study and called for Northrup, who was about to place a newly arrived bouquet of Victoria’s flowers in a vase.
Rather than keep his ill-tempered master waiting, Northrup rushed into the study, the bouquet in his hand. “Yes, my lord?” he inquired apprehensively.
“How nice,” Jason sneered sarcastically. “More flowers? For me?” Before Northrup could answer, Jason said bitingly, “The whole damned house stinks of flowers! Get rid of that bouquet, then tell Victoria I want to see her, and bring me that damned invitation to the Frigleys’ affair tonight. I can’t remember what time it begins. Then tell my valet to lay out formal clothes for it, whenever it is. Well?” he snapped. “What are you waiting for? Get moving!”
“Yes, my lord. At once.” Northrup rushed into the hall and slammed into O’Malley, whom Jason had just chastised for not having a proper shine on his boots.
“I’ve never seen him like this,” O’Malley gasped to Northrup, who was plunging the bouquet into a vase before going to summon Lady Victoria. “His lordship sent me for tea, and then he shouted at me because I should have brought him coffee.”
“His lordship,” Northrup remarked haughtily, “does not drink tea.”
“I told him that when he asked for it,” O’Malley replied bitterly, “and he said I was insolent.”
“You are,” Northrup replied, furthering the animosity that had been thriving between himself and the Irish footman for twenty years. With a smirk at O’Malley, Northrup strode off.
In the small salon, Victoria stared blindly at the letter she had just received from Mrs. Bainbridge, the words blurring before her burning eyes.
. . . I cannot find any gentle way to tell you that Andrew married his cousin in Switzerland. I tried to warn you of this likely event before you left for England, but you chose not to believe it. Now that you must accept it, I suggest you look about for a more suitable husband for a girl of your station.
“No! Please!” Victoria whispered as her hopes and dreams crumbled and fell at her feet, along with her faith in
all men. In her mind she saw Andrew’s handsome, laughing face as she raced beside him on horseback: “No one rides like you, Tory . . . She remembered his first light kiss on her sixteenth birthday: “If you were older,” he whispered huskily, “I’d be giving you a ring, instead of a bracelet . . .
“Liar!” Victoria whispered brokenly. “Liar!” Hot tears stung her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, dripping slowly onto the paper.
Northrup entered the salon and intoned, “Lord Fielding would like to see you in his study, my lady, and Lord Crowley has just arrived. He asked if you could spare him a . . .” Northrup’s voice trailed off into shocked silence as Victoria raised haunted, tear-drenched blue eyes to his; then she shot to her feet, covering her face with her hands, and rushed past him. A low, anguished sob escaped her as she fled into the hall and up the stairs.
Northrup’s alarmed gaze followed her up the long staircase, and then he automatically bent down and picked up the letter that had fallen from her lap. Unlike the other servants, who only heard bits and pieces of family talk, Northrup was privy to much more of it, and he had never believed, as the rest of the staff did, that Lady Victoria was going to wed Lord Fielding. Moreover, he had heard her say several times that she intended to marry a gentleman in America.
Spurred by a sense of alarm, not curiosity, he glanced at the letter to see what dire news had arrived to bring such heartbreaking distress to her. He read it, and closed his eyes with shared sorrow.
“Northrup!” Lord Fielding thundered from his study down the hall.
Like an automaton, Northrup obeyed the summons.
“Did you tell Victoria I want to see her?” Jason demanded. “What have you there—is that Lady Frigley’s note? Here, give it to me.” Jason stretched his hand out, his eyes narrowing impatiently as the stiff-backed butler walked very, very slowly toward his desk. “What the devil is the matter with you?” he said, snatching the letter from the servant’s hand. “What are these spots all over it?”
“Tears,” Northrup clarified, standing rigidly erect, his eyes averted and focused on the wall.
“Tears?” Jason repeated, his gaze narrowing on the blurred words. “This isn’t the invitation, it’s—” Silence fell on the room as Jason finally realized what he was reading, and he sucked in his breath. When he was finished, Jason raised his wrathful gaze to Northrup. “He had his mother tell her he married someone else. That spineless son-of-a-bitch!”
Northrup swallowed. “My sentiments exactly,” he said hoarsely.
For the first time in nearly a month, Jason’s voice was without an angry edge. “I’ll go talk to her,” he said. Pushing back his chair, he went up to Victoria’s bedchamber.
As usual, she didn’t answer his knock, and as usual, Jason took matters into his own hands and went in without her permission. Instead of weeping into her pillow, Victoria was staring out the window, her face deathly pale, her shoulders so stiff and straight that Jason could almost feel her painful effort to hold herself erect. He closed the door behind him and hesitated, hoping she would issue one of her usual tart reprimands about his entering her room uninvited, but when she finally spoke, her voice was alarmingly calm and emotionless. “Please go away.”
Jason ignored that and went to her. “Victoria, I’m sorry—” he began, but he stopped at the blazing anger that leapt into her eyes.
“I’ll bet you are! But don’t worry, my lord, I don’t intend to stay here and continue to be a burden to you.”
He reached for her, trying to draw her into his arms, but she recoiled from his touch and jumped back as if she had been scorched. “Don’t touch me!” she hissed. “Don’t you dare touch me! I don’t want to be touched by any man, especially you.” She drew a long, quivering breath, obviously striving for control, and then continued haltingly. “I’ve been thinking about how I can take care of myself. I—I’m not quite as helpless as you think,” she told him bravely. “I’m an excellent seamstress. Madame Dumosse who made my gowns mentioned more than once how difficult it is to find willing workers with the right skills. She may be able to give me work—”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Jason snapped, angry at himself for having told her she was helpless when she first came to Wakefield, and angry at her for throwing it in his face now, when he wanted to comfort her.
“Oh, but I am ridiculous,” she choked. “I am a countess without a shilling, or a home, or any pride left. I don’t even know if I’m clever enough with a needle to—”
“Stop it!” Jason interrupted tightly. “I won’t permit you to work like a common seamstress, and that's the end of it.” When she started to argue, Jason cut her short. “Would you repay my hospitality by embarrassing Charles and me in front of all London?”
Victoria’s shoulders drooped and she shook her head.
“Good. Then let’s hear no more nonsense about working for Madame Dumosse.”
“Then what am I to do?” she whispered, her pain-filled eyes searching his.
An odd emotion flickered across Jason’s features, and his jaw tightened as if he was holding himself back from saying something. “Do what women always do,” he said harshly after a long pause. “Marry a man who’ll be able to provide for you in the manner to which you want to become accustomed. Charles has already received a half dozen tentative offers for your hand. Marry one of those men.”
“I don’t want to marry someone I don’t care anything about,” Victoria retorted with a brief flare of spirit.
“You’ll change your mind,” Jason said with cold certainty.
“Perhaps I should,” Victoria said brokenly. “Caring for someone hurts too much. B-because then they betray you and—oh, Jason, tell me what’s wrong with me,” she cried, her wounded eyes huge and pleading. “You hate me, and Andrew—”
Jason’s restraint broke. He wrapped his arms around her and gathered her tightly against his chest. “Nothing’s wrong with you,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Andrew is a spineless fool. And I’m a bigger fool than he is.”
“He wanted someone else more than me,” she wept in his arms. “And it hurts so much to know it.”
Jason closed his eyes and swallowed. “I know,” he whispered.
She soaked his shirtfront with her hot tears, and they in turn Anally began to melt the ice that had surrounded Jason’s heart for years. Holding Victoria protectively in his arms, he waited until her weeping finally abated; then he brushed his lips against her temple and whispered, “Do you remember when you asked me at Wakefield if we could be friends?”
She nodded, unthinkingly rubbing her cheek against his chest.
“I would like that very much,” Jason murmured huskily. “Could I have a second chance?”
Lifting her head, Victoria stared dubiously at him. Then she nodded.
“Thank you,” he said with a ghost of a smile.
Chapter Seventeen
IN THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED, Victoria experienced the full impact of Andrew’s defection. At first she was hurt, then she was angry, and finally she felt a dull, aching sense of loss. But with strength and determination, she made herself come to grips with his betrayal and face the painful knowledge that her former life was permanently over. She learned how to cry lonely, private tears for all she had left behind—and then put on her best gown and her brightest smile for her friends and acquaintances.
She managed to keep her emotions well hidden from all but Jason and Caroline Collingwood, who both came to her aid in different ways—Caroline by keeping Victoria busy with a ceaseless round of social activities, and Jason by escorting her to almost all of them.
For the most part, he treated her like a patronizing older brother, escorting her to parties, the theater, the opera, and then, once there, leaving her to enjoy her own friends while he spent the evening with his. He was watchful, though, and protective—ready to swoop down and run off any beau he disapproved of. And he disapproved of several. To Victoria, who was now aware of his reputation as a shocking libertine
, it was rather funny to watch Jason turn the icy blast of his gaze on some overly avid admirer and stare the unfortunate gentleman into mumbled apologies and a hasty retreat.
To the rest of the ton, the Marquess of Wakefield’s behavior was not only amusing, it was odd, and even a trifle suspect. No one believed that the couple intended to marry—not when Jason Fielding continued to welcome Lady Victoria’s beaux into his home and to state repeatedly that their betrothal wasn’t actually finalized. Because of those things, and because their betrothal had been announced before the countess ever set foot in England, it was generally believed the betrothal had been arranged prematurely by the ailing duke (who was openly fond of both of them) and that the couple was merely keeping up the pretense of being betrothed for his sake.
Now, however, that theory was beginning to be supplanted by a less kind one. From the very beginning, there had been a few sticklers who had voiced objections to Victoria’s living arrangement, but because she had seemed such a sweet girl and because Lord Fielding had shown her no real partiality, no one else had listened to their objections. However, as the number of Jason’s public appearances with Victoria increased, so did the gossip that the notorious Lord Fielding had decided to make a conquest of her—if he hadn’t already.
Some of the most vicious gossips even went so far as to intimate that the betrothal was nothing but a convenient disguise for a licentious liaison being carried on right beneath poor Miss Flossie Wilson’s nose. This piece of slander was repeated, but very little credited, for the simple reason that, although Lord Fielding frequently acted as her escort, he did not behave in a proprietary, loverlike way. Moreover, Lady Victoria had acquired a great many staunch defenders, including Countess Collingwood and her influential husband, both of whom took extreme personal offense whenever anyone dared breathe a word of criticism about Countess Langston.