The rest of the day seemed to drag as Victoria waited nervously for Jason to appear, wondering how he would act toward her after last night. Her mind revolved around the possibilities, unable to leave them alone. Perhaps he would despise her for letting him kiss her. Perhaps he would hate himself for admitting he liked her and didn’t want to let her go. Perhaps he hadn’t meant any of the sweet things he said.
She was quite certain that most of his actions last night had been induced by strong spirits, but she wanted very much to believe some sort of closer friendship, rather than their tentative one, would result from letting the barriers down between them last night. In the past weeks, she had come to care very much for him; she liked and admired him. Beyond that, she . . . Beyond that, she refused to think.
As the day crept forward, her hopes began to die and her tension continued to mount—a state that was only worsened by the two dozen callers who appeared at the house, all of them anxious to learn the truth about Jason’s duel. Northrup informed everyone that Lady Victoria was out for the day, and Victoria continued to wait.
At one o’clock in the afternoon, Jason finally came downstairs only to go directly into his study, where he remained closeted in a meeting with Lord Collingwood and two other men who came to discuss some sort of business investment.
At three o’clock, Victoria went to the library. Thoroughly disgusted with herself for worrying herself to distraction, she sat there, trying to concentrate on her book, unable to carry on any sort of intelligent conversation with Uncle Charles, who was seated near the windows across the room from her, thumbing through a periodical.
By the time Jason finally strolled into the library, Victoria was so unstrung she nearly jumped to her feet when she saw him.
“What are you reading?” he inquired casually, stopping in front of her and shoving his hands into the pockets of his tight tan trousers.
“A volume of Shelley’s,” she said after a long, embarrassing moment during which she couldn’t remember the particular poet’s name.
“Victoria,” he began, and for the first time Victoria noticed the tension around his mouth. He hesitated, as if searching for the right words, then said, “Did I do anything last night I should apologize for?”
Victoria’s heart sank; he didn’t recall any of it. “Nothing that I remember,” she said, trying to keep her disappointment from showing.
The ghost of a smile hovered at his mouth. “Usually, the person who can’t remember is the one who overindulged—not the other way round.”
“I see. Well, no, you didn’t.”
“Good. In that case, I’ll see you later when we leave for the theater—” With a glinting grin, he added meaningfully, “—Tory.” Then he turned to leave.
“You said you didn’t remember anything,” Victoria burst out before she could stop herself.
Jason turned back to face her, his grin downright wolfish. “I remember everything, Tory. I merely wanted to know if, in your opinion, I did anything I ought to apologize for.”
Victoria’s breath came out in an embarrassed, choking laugh. “You are the most exasperating man alive!”
“True,” he admitted unrepentantly, “but you like me anyway.”
Hot color raced to her face as she watched him walk away. Never, not in her worst imaginings, had she thought he might have been awake when she said that. She sank back against her chair and closed her eyes, mortified to the very core. And that was before a movement across the room reminded her that Uncle Charles was there. Her eyes snapped open, and she saw him watching her, an expression of joyous triumph on his face.
“Very nicely done, child,” he remarked softly. “I always hoped you would come to care for him, and I can see you do.”
“Yes, but I don’t understand him, Uncle Charles.”
Her admission only seemed to gratify the duke that much more. “If you can care for him now, without understanding him, you will care for him a hundred times more when you finally do, that much I can promise you.” He stood up. “I suppose I’d best be on my way. I’m engaged for the rest of the afternoon and evening with an old friend.”
When Victoria walked into the drawing room that evening, Jason was waiting for her, his tall frame exquisitely attired in a wine-colored coat and trousers, a ruby winking in the folds of his pristine white neckcloth. Two matching rubies glinted in the cuffs of his shirt as he stretched out his arm, reaching for his wineglass.
“You’ve left off the sling!” Victoria said as she realized it was missing.
“You haven’t dressed for the theater,” he countered. “And the Mortrams are giving a ball. We’ll go there afterward.”
“I really don’t wish to go to either place. I’ve already sent a note to the Marquis de Salle, asking him to excuse me from going down to supper with him at the Mortrams’.”
“He’ll be devastated,” Jason predicted with satisfaction. “Particularly when he hears you went down to supper with me, instead.”
“Oh, but I can’t!”
“Yes,” he said dryly, “you can.”
“I wish you would wear the sling,” Victoria evaded.
He gave her a look of exasperated amusement. “If I appear in public wearing a sling, that infant Wiltshire will have everyone in London convinced I was felled by a tree.”
“I doubt he’ll say that,” Victoria said with a twinkle. “He’s very young and therefore more likely to boast of having bested you himself in a duel.”
“Which is more embarrassing than being hit by a tree. Wiltshire,” he explained in disgust, “doesn’t know which end of his pistol to point at the target.”
Victoria swallowed a giggle. “But why must I go out with you if all you need do is appear in public looking uninjured?”
“Because if you aren’t at my side, some woman who longs to be a duchess is bound to hang on my sore arm. Besides, I want to take you.”
Victoria wasn’t proof against his teasing persuasion. “Very well,” she laughed. “I couldn’t live with myself if I was responsible for ruining your reputation as an invincible duelist.” She started to turn, then paused, an impudent smile on her lips. “Have you really killed a dozen men in duels in India?”
“No,” he said bluntly. “Now run along and change your gown.”
It seemed as if everyone in London was at the theater tonight—and every pair of eyes seemed to shift to them as they entered Jason’s box. Heads turned, fans fluttered, and whispers began. At first, Victoria assumed they were surprised to see Jason looking perfectly well, rather than wounded, but she began to change her mind later. As soon as she left the box with Jason between the acts of the play, she realized that something was different. Young ladies and older ones alike, people who had been friendly in the past, were now eyeing her with stiff faces and censorious eyes. And Victoria finally realized why: Jason had reportedly fought a duel for her. Her reputation had just suffered a telling blow.
Not far away, an old woman wearing a white satin turban with an enormous amethyst at the front observed Jason and Victoria with narrowed eyes. “So,” the Duchess of Claremont hissed under her breath to her elderly companion, “Wakefield has fought a duel for her.”
“So I’ve heard, your grace,” Lady Faulklyn agreed.
The Duchess of Claremont leaned upon her ebony cane, watching her great-granddaughter. "She is the image of Katherine.”
“Yes, your grace.”
The duchess’s faded blue eyes moved over Victoria from head to toe, then shifted to Jason Fielding. “Handsome devil, isn’t he?”
Lady Faulklyn paled as if afraid to risk answering in the affirmative.
Ignoring her silence, the duchess tapped her fingertips upon the jeweled handle of her cane and continued to study the Marquess of Wakefield through narrowed eyes. “He looks like Atherton,” she said.
“There is a slight resemblance,” Lady Faulklyn ventured hesitantly.
“Nitwit!” the duchess snapped. “Wakefield looks exactly as Ather
ton did when he was young.”
“Exactly!” declared Lady Faulklyn.
A smile of malicious glee spread across the duchess’s thin face. “Atherton thinks he’s going to pull off a marriage between our two families against my wishes. He’s waited twenty-two years to spite me, and he actually believes he’s going to succeed.” A low cackle grated in her chest as she watched the beautiful couple standing a few yards away. “Atherton’s wrong,” she said.
Victoria nervously averted her gaze from the stern-faced old woman wearing the peculiar turban. Everyone seemed to be watching Jason and her, even elderly women she’d never laid eyes upon before, like that one. She glanced apprehensively at Jason. “My coming here with you was a dreadful mistake,” she told him as he handed her a glass of ratafia.
“Why? You’ve enjoyed watching the play.” He grinned into her worried blue eyes. “And I’ve enjoyed watching you.”
“Well, you mustn’t watch me, and you particularly mustn’t look as if you enjoy doing so,” Victoria said, trying to ignore the surge of pleasure she felt at his casual compliment.
“Why not?”
“Because everyone is watching us.”
“They’ve seen us together before,” Jason said with an indifferent shrug, and ushered her back to his private box.
Things were worse, much worse, when they arrived at the Mortrams’ ball. The moment they walked in together, everyone in the crowded ballroom seemed to turn and stare in a decidedly unfriendly fashion.
“Jason, this is horrid! It’s worse than the theater. There, at least some of the people were watching the stage. Here, everyone is staring at us, and will you please,” she implored, switching topics, “stop smiling at me in that charming way—everyone is watching us!”
“Am I being charming?” he teased, but his gaze made a swift, sweeping appraisal of the faces in the ballroom. “What I see,” he drawled mildly, nodding his head to her right, “is a half dozen of your besotted admirers standing over there, looking as if they would all like to devise a way to slit my throat and dispose of my body.”
Victoria could have stamped her foot in frustration. “You’re deliberately ignoring what’s happened. Caroline Collingwood is privy to all the on dits, and she told me no one believed we had any real interest in each other. Gossip had it that we were merely keeping up the charade of a betrothal for Uncle Charles’s sake. But now you’ve fought a duel because of something someone said about me, which changes everything. They’re thinking about how much time you spend at the house when I’m there—”
“It happens to be my house,” Jason drawled, his brows snapping together over ominous green eyes.
“I know, but it’s the principle of the thing that counts. Now everyone—particularly the ladies—is wondering all sorts of vile things about us. If you were anyone but you, it wouldn’t matter so much,” she said, meaning only that their confused betrothal status only added more fuel for the gossip. “It’s the principle of the—”
Jason’s voice dropped to a low, icy whisper. “You’re mistaken if you think I give a damn what people think—including you. Don’t bother lecturing me on principles, because I don’t have any, and don’t mistake me for a ‘gentleman,’ because I’m not. I’ve lived in places you’ve never heard of and I’ve done things in all of them that would offend all your puritanical sensibilities. You’re an innocent, foolish child. I was never innocent. I was never even a child. However, since you’re so concerned about what people think, the problem is relatively easy to remedy. You can spend the rest of the evening with your simpering beaux, and I’ll find someone to amuse me.”
Victoria was so confused and hurt by Jason’s unprovoked attack that she could scarcely think after he walked away. Nevertheless, she did exactly as he had so rudely suggested, and despite the lessening of the nasty looks cast in her direction, she had a perfectly dreadful time. Her hurt pride compelled her to act as if she enjoyed dancing with her partners and listening to their flattering conversation, but her ears seemed to be tuned to the sound of Jason’s deep voice, and her heart seemed to sense when he was near her.
With growing misery, Victoria realized Jason had coolly surrounded himself with three beautiful blondes who were vying with each other for his attention and turning themselves inside out to win one of his lazy smiles. Not once since last night had she permitted herself to dwell on the pleasure his lips had given her. Now she couldn’t seem to think of anything else, and she longed to have him back at her side, instead of flirting with those other women, and the devil fly with public opinion!
Beside her, a handsome young man of about twenty-five reminded her that she had promised him the next dance. “Yes, of course,” Victoria said, politely but not enthusiastically. “Do you happen to know the time, Mr. Bascomb?” she asked as he led her onto the dance floor.
“Yes, indeed,” he declared proudly. “It is half past eleven.” Victoria stifled a groan. It would be hours yet before the evening’s ordeal would come to an end.
* * *
Charles fitted his key into the lock and opened the door just as Northrup hurried into the entrance hall. “There was no need for you to wait up for me, Northrup,” Charles said kindly, handing him his hat and cane. “What time is it?”
“Half past eleven, your grace.”
“Jason and Victoria won’t be home much before dawn, so don’t try to wait up for them,” he advised. “You know how late these affairs go on.”
Northrup bade him good night and vanished in the direction of his rooms. Charles turned in the opposite direction and started toward the salon, intending to relax with a glass of port and savor at leisure thoughts of the romance between Jason and Victoria that had finally burst into full bloom last night in Jason’s bedroom. He started across the foyer, but a loud, imperative knocking upon the front door made him stop and turn back. Thinking that Jason and Victoria must have forgotten their key and come home early, he opened the door, his smile fading to a look of mild inquiry when he beheld a tall, well-dressed man of about thirty.
“Forgive my intrusion at this late hour, your grace,” the gentleman said. “I am Arthur Winslow, and my firm has been employed by another firm of solicitors in America, with instructions to see that this letter is delivered to you at once. I have another one for Miss Victoria Seaton.”
An uncontrollable premonition of disaster began to thunder in Charles’s brain as he accepted his letter. “Lady Seaton is out for the evening.”
“I know that, your grace.” The young man gestured ruefully over his shoulder at the carriage in the street. “I’ve been waiting there for one or both of you to return since early this evening, when these letters were placed in my hands. “In the event Lady Seaton was not here, our instructions were to deliver her letter into your hands and to ask you to be certain she receives it at once.” He placed the second letter in Charles’s clammy palm and tipped his hat. “Good evening, your grace.”
Icy dread racked his body as Charles closed the door and opened his letter, searching for the identity of the sender. The name “Andrew Bainbridge” leapt out at him. He stared at it, his heart beginning to hammer in painful jerks; then he forced himself to read what was written. As he read, the color drained from his face and the words swam before his blurring eyes.
When he was finished, Charles’s hands fell to his sides and his head dropped forward. His shoulders shook and tears trickled down his face, falling to the floor, as his dreams and hopes collapsed with an explosion that made the blood roar in his ears. Long after his tears stopped, he stood staring blindly at the floor. Finally, very slowly, his shoulders straightened and he lifted his head. “Northrup,” he called as he started walking up the stairs, but his voice was a choked whisper. He cleared his throat and called again, “Northrup!”
Northrup rushed into the foyer, pulling on his jacket. “You called, your grace?” he said, his alarmed gaze on the duke, who had stopped halfway up the staircase, his hand gripping the railing for support.
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Charles turned his head and looked down at him. “Summon Dr. Worthing,” he said. “Tell him to come at once. Tell him it’s urgent.”
“Shall I send for Lord Fielding and Lady Victoria?” Northrup asked quickly.
“No, dammit!” Charles ground out, and then he recovered control of his voice. “I’ll let you know, after Dr. Worthing arrives,” he amended, continuing slowly up the staircase.
It was nearly dawn when Jason’s coachman pulled the spirited grays up before the house at #6 Upper Brook Street. Neither Jason nor Victoria had spoken a word since leaving the Mortrams’ ball, but at Jason’s sudden intake of breath, Victoria straightened and looked around. “Whose carriage is that?” she asked.
“Dr. Worthing’s. I recognize the bays.” Jason flung open the door, leapt out of the carriage and unceremoniously hauled her down, then vaulted up the steps toward the house, leaving Victoria to fend for herself. Victoria snatched up her long skirts and ran after him, panic throbbing in her throat as a haggard Northrup opened the front door.
“What’s wrong?” Jason snapped.
“Your uncle, my lord,” Northrup replied grimly. “He’s had an attack—his heart. Dr. Worthing is with him.”
“Dear God!” Victoria said, clutching Jason’s sleeve in a grip of terror.
Together they ran up the staircase, while behind them Northrup called, “Dr. Worthing asked that you not go in until I informed him of your arrival!”
Jason lifted his hand to knock on Charles’s door, but Dr. Worthing was already opening it. He stepped out into the hall, firmly closing the door behind him. “I thought I heard you come in,” he explained, combing his fingers through his white hair in a harassed gesture.
“How is he?” Jason demanded tightly.
Dr. Worthing removed his wire-rimmed spectacles and carefully concentrated on polishing the lenses. After an endless moment, he drew a long breath and raised his eyes. “He’s suffered a very grave setback, Jason.”