* * *
Victoria tossed and turned in her bed, too exhausted to sleep and unable to still her churning thoughts. At daybreak she gave up trying and sat up in bed, watching the sky change from dark gray to pale gray, her thoughts as dismal and bleak as the morning promised to be. Propped up against the pillows, she plucked idly at the satin coverlet, while her life seemed to stretch before her like a dark, lonely, frightening tunnel. She thought about Andrew, who was married to another and lost to her now; she thought about the villagers she had loved from childhood and who had loved her in return. Now there was no one. Except Uncle Charles, of course, but even his affection couldn’t still her restlessness or fill the aching void inside her.
She had always felt needed and useful; now her life was an endless round of frenzied frivolity with Jason paying all the expenses. She felt so—so unnecessary, so useless and burdensome.
She’d tried to take Jason’s callous advice and choose another man to marry. She’d tried, but she simply couldn’t imagine herself married to any of the shallow London blades who were trying so hard to win her. They didn’t need her as a wife; she would merely be an ornament, a decoration in their lives. With the exception of the Collingwoods and a few others, ton marriages were superficial conveniences, nothing more. Couples rarely appeared together at the same function and, if they did, it was unfashionable for them to remain in each other’s company once there. The children born of these marriages were promptly dumped into the hands of nannies and tutors. How different the meaning of “marriage” was here, Victoria thought.
Wistfully she recalled the husbands and wives she’d known in Portage. She remembered old Mr. Prowther sitting on the porch in the summers, determinedly reading to his palsied wife, who scarcely knew where she was. She remembered the look on Mr. and Mrs. Makepeace’s faces when Victoria’s father informed them that, after twenty years of childless marriage, Mrs. Makepeace had conceived. She remembered the way the middle-aged couple had clung to each other and wept with unashamed joy. Those were marriages as marriage was surely meant to be—two people working together and helping each other through good times and bad; two people laughing together, raising children together, and even crying together.
Victoria thought of her own mother and father. Although Katherine Seaton hadn’t loved her husband, she had still made a cozy home for him and been his helpmate. They did things together too, like playing chess before the fire in the winter and taking walks in the summer twilight.
In London, Victoria was desired for the simple, silly reason that she was “in fashion” at the moment. As a wife she would have no use, no purpose, except as a decoration at the foot of the dining table when guests were expected for supper. Victoria knew she could never be content if that was her life. She wanted to share herself with someone who needed her, to make him happy and be important to him. She wanted to be useful, to have a purpose other than an ornamental one.
The Marquis de Salle truly cared for her, she could sense that—but he didn’t love her, regardless of what he said.
Victoria bit her lip against the pain as she recalled Andrew’s tender avowals of love. He hadn’t really loved her. The Marquis de Salle didn’t love her either. Perhaps wealthy men, including Andrew, were incapable of feeling real love. Perhaps—
Victoria sat bolt upright as heavy, dragging footsteps sounded in the hall. It was too early for the servants to be about, and besides, they practically ran through the house in their haste to satisfy their employer. Something thudded against a wall and a man moaned. Uncle Charles must be ill, she thought, and flung back the covers, hurtling out of bed. Racing to the door, she jerked it open. “Jason!” she said, her heart leaping into her throat as he sagged against the wall, his left arm in a makeshift sling. “What happened?” she whispered, then quickly amended, “Never mind. Don’t try to talk. I’ll get a servant to help you.” She whirled around, but he caught her arm in an amazingly strong grip and hauled her back, a crooked grin on his face.
“I want you to help me,” he said, and threw his right arm over her shoulders, nearly sending her to her knees beneath his weight. “Take me to my room, Victoria,” he ordered in a thick, cajoling voice.
“Where is it?” Victoria whispered as they started awkwardly down the hall.
“Don’t you know?” he chided thickly in a hurt tone. “I know where your room is.”
“What difference does that make?” Victoria demanded a little frantically as she tried to shift his weight.
“None,” he said agreeably, and stopped before the next door on the right. Victoria opened it and helped him inside.
Across the hall, another bedroom door opened and Charles Fielding stood in the doorway, his face anxious and worried as he pulled on a satin dressing robe. He stopped with only one arm in its sleeve as Jason said expansively to Victoria, “Now, li’l countess, escort me to my bed.”
Victoria caught the odd way Jason was slurring his words; she even thought there was a flirtatious tone in his voice, but she blamed his queer speech on either pain or possibly loss of blood.
When they reached his big four-poster bed, he pulled his arm away and waited docilely while Victoria swept the covers back; then he sat down and looked at her with a foolish grin. Victoria looked back at him, hiding her anxiety. Using her father’s gentle, matter-of-fact tone, she said, “Can you tell me what happened to you?”
“Certainly!” he said, looking affronted. “I’m not an imbecile, you know.”
“Well, what happened?” Victoria repeated when he made no attempt to tell her.
“Help me take off my boots.”
Victoria hesitated. “I think I ought to get Northrup.”
“Never mind about the boots then,” he said magnanimously, and with that, he lay down and carelessly crossed his booted feet upon the maroon coverlet. “Sit down beside me and hold my hand.”
“Don’t be silly.”
He gave her a hurt look. “You ought to be nicer to me, Victoria. After all, I have been wounded in a duel over your honor.” He reached out and captured her hand.
Horrified at the mention of a duel, Victoria obeyed the increasing pressure of his hand and sat down beside his prone body. “Oh, my God—a duel! Jason, why?” She searched his pale features, saw his brave, lopsided smile, and her heart melted with contrition and guilt. For some reason, he had actually fought for her. “Please tell me why you dueled,” she implored.
He grinned. “Because Wiltshire called you an English bumpkin.”
“A what? Jason,” she asked anxiously, “how much blood have you lost?”
“All of it,” he averred outrageously. “How sorry do you feel for me?”
“Very,” she answered automatically. “Now, will you please try to make sense? Wiltshire shot you because—”
He rolled his eyes in disgust. “Wiltshire din’t shoot me—he couldn’t hit a stone wall at two paces. A tree shot me.” Reaching up, he cradled her shocked face between his two hands, drawing her closer to him, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he said hoarsely, and this time pungent whiskey fumes blasted her in the face.
“You’re foxed!” Victoria accused, lurching back.
“Yer right,” he agreed genially. “Got drunk with yer friend de Salle.”
“Dear God!” Victoria gasped. “Was he there too?”
Jason nodded but said nothing as his fascinated gaze moved over her. Her shining hair tumbled over her shoulders in a gloriously untidy mass of molten gold, framing a face of heartbreaking beauty. Her skin was as smooth as alabaster, her brows delicately arched, her lashes thick and curly. Her eyes were like large luminous sapphires as they worriedly searched his face, trying to assess his condition. Pride and courage showed in every feature of her face, from her high cheekbones and stubborn little nose to her small chin with its tiny, enchanting cleft at the center. And yet her mouth was vulnerable and soft—as soft as the breasts that swelled at his eye level above the bodice
of her lace-edged cream satin nightdress, practically begging for his touch. But it was her mouth Jason wanted to taste first. . . . He tightened his hand on her upper arm, drawing her closer.
“Lord Fielding!” she warned darkly, trying to pull back.
“A moment ago, you called me Jason. I heard you, don’t deny it.”
“That was a mistake,” Victoria said desperately.
His lips quirked in a faint smile. “Then let’s make another one.” As he spoke his hand went to the nape of her neck, curving around it and inexorably pulling her face down to his.
“Please don’t,” Victoria begged, her face only inches from his. “Don’t make me fight you—it will hurt your wound.” The pressure on her nape eased very slightly, not enough to let her up, but not forcing her closer either as Jason studied her in thoughtful silence.
Victoria waited patiently for him to let her go, knowing his senses were confused by loss of blood, pain, and a goodly quantity of liquor. Not for a moment did she believe he felt the slightest genuine desire for her, and she gazed down at him with something akin to amusement.
“Have you ever been kissed, really kissed, by anyone besides old Arnold?” he asked hazily.
“Andrew,” Victoria corrected, her lips twitching with laughter.
“Not all men kiss alike, did you know that?”
A giggle escaped before Victoria could stop it. “Really? How many men have you kissed?”
An answering smile tugged at his sensuous lips, but he ignored her quip. “Lean down to me,” he ordered huskily, subtly increasing the pressure of his hand on her nape again, “and put your lips on mine. We’ll do it my way.”
Victoria’s complaisance vanished and she began to panic. “Jason, stop this,” she pleaded. “You don’t want to kiss me. You don’t even like me more than a little when you aren’t foxed.”
A harsh laugh escaped him. “I like you too damned much!” he whispered bitterly, then pulled her head down and captured her lips in a demanding, scalding kiss that took everything and gave nothing in return. Victoria struggled in appalled, frightened earnest, bracing her hands on either side of him and shoving hard, trying to free her mouth from his. Jason swiftly plunged his fingers into the thick hair at her nape and twisted hard. “Don’t struggle!” he said through clenched teeth, “you’re hurting me.”
“You’re hurting me,” Victoria choked, her lips less than an inch from his. “Let me go.”
“I can’t,” he said hoarsely, but his grip on her hair loosened and his long fingers slid downward, curving around her nape while his mesmerizing green eyes gazed deeply into hers. As if the confession were being tortured out of him, he said raggedly, “I’ve tried a hundred times to let you go, Victoria, but I can’t.” And while Victoria was still reeling from that incredible statement, Jason pulled her head down and took her mouth in an endless, drugging kiss that stole her breath and stunned her into immobility. His lips moved against hers with tender, hungry yearning, tasting and shaping them, fitting them to his own, then sliding back and forth as if he wanted more of her. Something deep within her sensed his lonely desperation and, helplessly, Victoria responded to it. Her lips softened and melted against his. Instantly, the demanding heat of Jason’s kiss increased. His tongue slid over her lips, urging them to part, and the moment they yielded to the sensual pressure, his tongue plunged gently between them.
Jolt after jolt of wild sensation rocketed through Victoria as his tongue explored her mouth, until, in a fever of dazed yearning, she touched her own tongue timidly to his lips. Jason’s response was immediate; he groaned and wrapped his uninjured arm around her, crushing her breasts against his chest, his tongue plunging deeply into her mouth, then retreating to plunge again and again in a wildly exciting, forbidden rhythm.
An eternity later, he pulled his mouth from hers and slid his lips along her hot cheek, kissing her jaw and temple. And then, without warning, he stopped.
Sanity slowly came back to Victoria, bringing with it an awful realization of her shameless behavior. Her cheek was pressed to his hard chest and she was half-lying atop him like a—a shameless wanton! Shaking inside, she forced herself to raise her head, fully expecting to see Jason regarding her with either triumph or contempt—which was nothing more than she deserved. Reluctantly she opened her eyes and forced herself to meet his gaze.
“My God,” he whispered hoarsely, his green eyes smoldering. Victoria flinched instinctively as he lifted his hand, but instead of shoving her away, he laid his palm against her flushed cheek, his fingertips softly tracing the delicate bones of her face. Confused by his inexplicable mood, she stared searchingly into his sultry eyes.
“Your name doesn’t suit you,” he whispered thoughtfully. “ ‘Victoria’ is too long and icy for such a small, fiery creature.”
Completely captivated by the intimate look in his eyes and the compelling gentleness in his voice, Victoria swallowed and said, “My parents called me Tory.”
“Tory,” he repeated, smiling. “I like that—it suits you perfectly.” His hypnotic gaze held hers as his hand continued its seductive stroking, sliding over her shoulder and up and down her arm. “I also like the way the sun shines on your hair when you drive off in the carriage with Caroline Collingwood,” he continued. “And I like the sound of your laughter. I like the way your eyes flash when you’re angry. . . . Do you know what else I like?” he asked as his eyes drifted closed.
Victoria shook her head, mesmerized by his voice and the sweetness of his words.
With his eyes closed and a smile on his lips, he murmured, “Most of all . . . I like the way you fill out that nightdress you’re wearing. . . .”
Victoria lurched back in offended modesty and his hand fell away, landing limply beside his head on the pillow. He was fast asleep.
With wide, disbelieving eyes, she stared at him, not knowing what to think or how to feel. He really was the most arrogant, bold—The outrage she was trying to summon absolutely refused to come forth, and a reluctant smile touched her lips as she gazed at him. The hard planes of his face were softer in sleep and, without a cynical twist to his mouth, he looked vulnerable and incredibly boyish.
Her smile deepened as she noticed how outrageously thick his eyelashes were—long, spiky lashes that any girl would yearn to have. Watching him, she began to wonder what he had been like as a little boy. Surely he hadn’t been cynical and detached and unapproachable as a child. “Andrew ruined all my childhood dreams,” she thought aloud. “I wonder who ruined yours.” He turned his head on the pillow and a stray lock of crisp, dark hair fell across his forehead. Feeling strangely maternal and slightly wicked, Victoria reached out and smoothed it away with her fingertips. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she confessed, knowing he wouldn’t hear her. “I like you, too, Jason.”
Across the hall a door clicked shut and Victoria jumped up guiltily, straightening her nightdress and smoothing her hair. But when she peeked into the hall, no one was there.
Chapter Eighteen
WHEN VICTORIA WENT DOWN TO breakfast, she was amazed to find Uncle Charles already seated at the table, long before he normally arose, and seeming absolutely overjoyed about something.
“You’re looking as lovely as usual,” Charles said, beaming, as he stood up and pulled out her chair for her.
“And you’re looking even better than usual, Uncle Charles,” Victoria returned, smiling as she poured her tea and measured in some milk.
“I’ve never felt better,” he declared expansively. “Tell me, how is Jason feeling?”
Victoria dropped her spoon.
“What I mean is,” he explained smoothly, “I heard him moving about in the hall early this morning and I heard your voice too. Jason sounded,” he paused delicately, “a trifle disguised. Was he?”
Victoria nodded cheerfully. “Drunk as a wheelbarrow!”
Instead of commenting on that, Charles said, “Northrup informed me your friend Wiltshire was here an hour ago, inquiring ra
ther desperately about Jason’s health.” He gave her an amused, speculative look. “Wiltshire seemed to believe Jason had fought a duel this morning and been injured.”
Victoria realized it was useless to try to keep the matter from him. She nodded, laughing. “According to what Jason told me, he fought a duel with Lord Wiltshire because Lord Wiltshire called me ‘an English bumpkin.’ ”
“Wiltshire’s been plaguing me to distraction for permission to formally pay his addresses to you. I can’t believe he called you that.”
“I’m certain he did not. For one thing, it doesn’t make the least bit of sense.”
“None at all,” Charles agreed cheerfully. “But whatever the provocation for the duel was, Wiltshire apparently shot Jason?”
Merriment sparkled in Victoria’s eyes. “According to Lord Fielding, he was shot in the arm by a tree.”
“Oddly enough,” said Uncle Charles, amused, “that is exactly the story that Northrup had from young Wiltshire!” After a moment, he added, “No matter. I understand Dr. Worthing attended to Jason. He is a friend of Jason’s and mine, and an excellent physician. If Jason’s health was in any real danger, he would be here right now, caring for him. Moreover, Worthing can be depended upon to keep the matter quiet—dueling is illegal, you know.”
Victoria paled, and Uncle Charles reached across and covered her hand with his own, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “There’s nothing whatever to worry about.” An inexplicable tenderness shook his voice as he added, “I can’t tell you how—how profoundly happy I am to have you with us, my child. There is so much I want to tell you about Ja—about everything,” he amended lamely. “The time will soon come when I can.”
Victoria took the opportunity to again urge him to tell her about the days when he knew her mother, but Uncle Charles only shook his head, his expression turning solemn. “Someday soon,” he promised as he always did. “But not yet.”