Hearts Entwined (Victorian Love Book 3)

by M. A. Nichols

  “And I am thrilled for you to meet his family, Miriam,” added Miss Caswell. “His younger sister, Lily, is quite the dear. Though a little awkward at times, she shares my passion for…”

  Sophie’s thoughts drifted from the conversation as bile churned in her stomach, roiling and raging against those words. It was silly. Silly Little Sophie. They had spent one evening together some five years ago, and of course, he would be courting…marrying. If anything, she ought to be shocked that Mr. Kingsley had not yet made the matrimonial leap. But now? Here? Was she to be subjected to witnessing the only gentleman who had touched her heart engage himself to another?

  Sophie had been wrong: it had taken ten minutes for her to feel completely out of place. And this was only the beginning.

  Chapter 5

  With a tug and a tuck, Victoria Caswell straightened her sleeves and made doubly certain her lace overskirt lay just so. Turning this way and that, she examined her figure in the mirror.

  “You look exquisite,” said Hettie, coming up to stand beside her. “Next time I am in London, you must introduce me to your modiste. She flatters your figure to its fullest.”

  “Certainly,” said Victoria, as she did whenever someone made such a comment. It was easier than admitting the truth, and young ladies promptly forgot such mundane inquiries, so it was of no consequence.

  For her part, Victoria was not well pleased with the gown. With a month’s worth of clothes needed for the house party, she had not been free to leave any behind—even if the shoulder seam puckered no matter how many times she unpicked the stitches. Victoria stared at the ripple and knew no one else would notice, but the imperfection drove her to distraction; her work was better than that.

  She took in a silent breath, allowing its accompanying peace to flow through her, and straightened her spine. Standing next to Hettie Nelson, it was easy to get fixated on surface enticements. The young lady’s dress was a mound of flounces and frills; the fabric alone cost a mint, to say nothing of the extensive labor it took to construct and maintain such a dress. Hettie’s dark blonde tresses were swept up with a veritable garden of flowers that framed her face and highlighted the rosy hue of her complexion. Everything about Hettie spoke of wealth and beauty, both of which came easily to her.

  But Victoria had learned long ago there was more to appearances than such trivial things, and she would not allow them to cast a pall over her mood.

  With sure fingers, Victoria adjusted one of her hairpins and examined her handiwork. There were no adornments for her hair, but a well-styled coiffure needed no additional flowers or ribbons, and Victoria’s was perfection. Though the most fashionable hairstyles demanded curls, her hair refused to see reason, leaving Victoria no other option than to resort to an intricate twist of braids instead. But with enough work, it was quite as fetching as any flowery concoction Hettie’s French maid created.

  “I am certain Mr. Kingsley will be quite pleased to see you,” said Hettie with a coy smile.

  Victoria met Hettie’s eyes in the mirror and matched her grin. “I do hope so.”

  “I am so very happy for you both.” Hettie sighed and took Victoria by the arm.

  Victoria paused just the briefest moment before replying, “It is wonderful, isn’t it?”

  With a great, beaming smile, Hettie began chattering on about wedding dates, dresses, and the like as the pair strode from the bedchamber and towards the parlor. Victoria nodded and gave appropriate responses with little thought as Hettie went on and on about the forthcoming nuptials.

  Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Kingsley.

  Only a fool would consider the deed done before any declarations were made, but Victoria felt the tightness in her chest ease with Hettie’s words. For years, Victoria had thought of and planned for this day, and it was far better than she’d imagined, for Mr. Kingsley was far better a gentleman. Her mind conjured the image of the gentleman presenting her with a ring and asking that all-important question, and her heart beat a rapid pace, sending a wave of joy and relief coursing through her. Engaged to be married to Mr. Oliver Kingsley, future master of Avebury Park.

  But a shadow skittered across the golden images in her mind and settled into her stomach.

  “Are you unwell?” asked Hettie, pulling Victoria to a stop in the hallway.

  “Not at all.” Feigning a smile, Victoria drew her strength about her before her gaze darted behind Hettie and caught sight of a door that led to the formal gardens. “But I am feeling a bit peaked from my journey. Might I have a moment to take the air and compose myself before dinner?”

  “Certainly. I do adore being able to travel so quickly, but trains leave me feeling rattled for hours,” said Hettie, ushering her towards the door. “Would you like me to join you?”

  “My thanks, but no,” said Victoria, giving her friend a squeeze of the hand. “I merely need a moment alone.”

  “Of course.” And with that, Hettie left Victoria to her own devices.

  This portion of the garden was shielded from the setting sun, casting the area in shadows, and Victoria moved to a bench in one corner and dropped onto it with a sigh. Leaning forward, she closed her eyes and rubbed at her forehead as though that might erase the anxious tremors in her heart.

  Mrs. Oliver Kingsley.

  A twinge behind her left eye warned that a headache was waiting to pounce. Victoria took in several deep breaths, forcing the air in and out.

  “Miss Caswell?”

  Victoria’s eyes shot open and her breath caught, but she did not straighten. She could not bring herself to meet his gaze, though she felt it there, warm and inviting. With effort, she forced air into her lungs. Another breath and one more, and she steeled her spine, rising to her feet to meet the gentleman who had intruded on her solitude.

  “Mr. Dixon,” she replied with a curtsy, hardly stumbling over his name. Then she made the mistake of meeting his gaze. Elijah Dixon’s eyes were among the finest she’d ever seen. A light, sparkling blue that stood in stark contrast to his dark mop of hair that curled around his ears. “I hadn’t realized you’d be in attendance.”

  “I go where Mr. Flemming has need of me,” he replied.

  Victoria nodded and wondered why she hadn’t anticipated Mr. Dixon’s presence. But even as she tried to lie to herself, she knew she hadn’t wanted to face that possibility.

  “You look…” Mr. Dixon’s voice trailed into silence, his eyes holding hers as his lips curled into a hint of a smile. “…fetching.”

  Shaking her head, Victoria smiled at the rascal who could turn even a few simple words into something far more. Embracing the levity, she ignored the fluttering in her heart.

  “And you look disheveled,” she replied, giving a pointed look at his cravat, which leaned far too strongly to one side. Lifting her hands, Victoria smoothed the errant fabric into a semblance of decorum. “Really, Mr. Dixon. With your plans to conquer politics, you should be more circumspect in your appearance. Though I will say you chose a stunning color for your waistcoat.”

  Mr. Dixon shifted, leaning a hair’s breadth closer to her, enveloping her in his scent. “An enticing young lady once told me that blue was my color.”

  Victoria paused in her ministrations, her dark eyes connecting with his light ones, and became all too aware of just how little space there was between the pair of them. And of how intimately she was touching him. But it was all too inviting for her to step away, and her treacherous mind conjured images of her closing the distance.

  “Elijah, please do not…” Victoria tumbled over her words, for she knew not how to finish that sentence. Though not prone to fainting, she wished she had a vinaigrette on hand. “I cannot—”

  But before she could finish her thought (though she knew not what words would follow), Phyllis Thompson burst through the door and swept Victoria into her arms.

  “It is so good to see you!” she said, leaning back and taking Victoria’s hands in hers. “I cannot believe Mama and Papa refused to take us to L
ondon this Season. I was positively envious of you and Hettie having all that fun in Town while I was left to languish in the countryside.”

  Victoria’s eyes darted from Phyllis to Mr. Dixon and back again, drawing the other young lady’s attention.

  “Am I interrupting?” asked Phyllis with brows drawn tight together.

  “I was just renewing my acquaintance with Mr. Dixon.” Victoria pulled a hand free from Phyllis’s grasp and motioned towards the gentleman.

  Phyllis’s expression softened, her lids lowering as she gave him a quick perusal. Her brow quirked upwards as she sent Victoria a silent look full of curiosity. Victoria’s insides churned at the gleam in Phyllis’s eye, but there was nothing to be done.

  “Miss Phyllis Thompson, might I introduce Mr. Elijah Dixon.” Victoria was quite proud of herself for not tripping once over her words—especially while Mr. Dixon was watching her with such unblinking focus. “Phyllis’s family lives in the neighborhood and shall be joining us for most of the coming festivities.”

  Mr. Dixon stepped forward to perform all the social niceties, and Phyllis dipped into a curtsy, though the young lady faltered when Victoria added, “Mr. Dixon is Mr. Flemming’s private secretary and is accompanying him to the house party.”

  Victoria’s lips pinched at the shift in Phyllis’s expression. Though her friend hid it well, Victoria did not miss the dimming in her eyes as Phyllis quickly took the measure of Mr. Dixon and dismissed him between one heartbeat and the next.

  Turning back to Victoria, Phyllis said, “I came running to find you. The Kingsley carriage arrived just moments ago.”

  A blush colored Victoria’s cheeks, her eyes drifting to Mr. Dixon for a moment before she forced them back to Phyllis.

  “That is wonderful news,” said Victoria.

  Mr. Dixon cleared his throat, his bright eyes dimming briefly as he held Victoria’s gaze. “It is good to see you again, Miss Caswell, and a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Thompson, but I fear Mr. Flemming is awaiting my return.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Phyllis with a vague wave towards the door as Mr. Dixon bowed and left. When the door shut tight behind him, she added, “What a shame. He is somewhat handsome.”

  “Mr. Kingsley?” Victoria’s brows drew together.

  Phyllis laughed. “Mr. Dixon. His ears are a touch too large, but his coloring is striking.”

  “I think his ears suit him,” said Victoria.

  But she received only another laugh at that. “To each their own, I suppose, but it is of no matter, as he is unlikely to have two guineas to rub together.”

  “But—”

  “Not all young ladies have your good fortune to land such an eligible young man as your Mr. Kingsley,” continued Phyllis, “but I heard the Dosetts’ heir is unattached, and they have a fine estate in Wiltshire. Though his younger brother is said to be the heir of some distant relative, I would not gamble on that. Such inheritances are easily reversed.”

  Phyllis took Victoria by the arm and led her to the door. “I’ve washed my hands of Mr. Farthing, for I shan’t waste more time on tepid beaus. He’s had months to pursue a courtship and still cannot bring himself to be bold enough to ask my father’s permission to court me. Mr. Charles Dosett is from a good family and has a healthy income that will provide nicely for his future, so I will have him.”

  Slanting a look at her friend, Victoria said, “Have you made your intended aware of your decision?”

  Wrinkling her nose, Phyllis gave another laugh. “Don’t be silly. Gentlemen are useless when left to their own devices. I made that mistake with Mr. Farthing, and I shan’t do so again.”

  “You sound like Miriam, who declared she is determined to fall in love at least once before we return home, but I wish you good luck on your endeavors,” said Victoria.

  Phyllis gave her a broad smile that was likely to bespell Mr. Charles Dosett the moment he saw it. “And to you, as well.”

  ***

  Where some houses focus on imposing size, others choose design and ornamentation; of course, there are sprawling buildings that are both prodigiously large and finely decorated, but such grand estates were a rarity in their little corner of England. There was Buxby Hall, which was owned by Sir Albert Lovell and boasted both, but as the baronet did not care for the country and never visited, few other than the servants recalled its existence.

  The Nelsons’ home could not compare to Buxby Hall but was impressive in its own right. The skeleton of Hardington Hall looked like a child’s block dropped on the Essex countryside, but where its shape bespoke simplicity, the architect had compensated with opulent details that called to mind the Baroque French chateaus. This was by no means Oliver’s first visit to his neighbors’ home, but it never failed to instill a sense of awe as one entered the foyer to be greeted by gold leafing and frescoes that felt out of place in their quaint English village.

  However, he preferred his Avebury Park to this, for all the ornamentation brought a heaviness to the house that was far from inviting. Imposing, certainly, but Oliver preferred a home to be welcoming. Give him large rooms with plenty of light and air.

  “Only a few more moments,” whispered his sister as servants divested the Kingsleys of their cloaks and jackets, bonnets and hats.

  “A few moments?” asked Oliver.

  “Until you shall be reunited with our dear Victoria,” replied Lily. “I can hardly wait to see her!”

  “Yes, of course.” And though he’d been trying to distract himself with thoughts of architecture, the reality of his situation rushed back into his thoughts.

  Engaged to be married; there were no objections, no obstacles, nothing to impede the match that everyone thought good and proper. Oliver’s muscles quivered, bringing with them a fluttery energy that refused to leave him be. In quick succession, he pondered over all the opportunities available to pose that all-important question, and though Oliver wished to plan the scene, he knew it was more likely to emerge in the moment; the best proposals were born of the heart, after all.

  “Now, there shall be no more need for you to spend your days pining for her,” said Lily with an overly dramatic sigh.

  “Brat,” mumbled Oliver with a smile, and Lily took his arm with a cheeky flutter of her eyelashes.

  “I am beside myself to see her and show her Avebury Park,” said Lily. “Perhaps we might walk to Bryer’s Pond one afternoon.”

  “Now, you mustn’t monopolize Victoria’s attention, dearest,” said Mother as she took Father’s arm and turned towards the Nelsons’ parlor.

  “Of course, Mama,” said Lily, beaming at her brother. “I am simply thrilled for her to be here. London is always so hectic that I do not get to spend as much time with my dear friends as I would like, and Hettie and Phyllis have been so busy of late that I hardly see them here, either. And now, we shall have a whole month together.”

  Oliver had little to add to Lily’s excitement but felt no compunction to rein it in, for he felt an echo of it thrumming in his heart.

  This was the final step he’d wanted to take before asking that all-important question of Miss Caswell. Avebury Park was important to him, his family, and the community. There were many beyond the Kingsleys who depended on it for their income, and the master and mistress played an important role in guiding and developing the village. His parents had shouldered those roles with dedication and passion, and Oliver could not imagine binding himself to a lady who wished only to live off the estate’s bounty without reciprocity.

  Yes, the next few weeks would give him ample opportunity to steal Miss Caswell away and introduce her to the life he hoped she’d embrace.

  “Don’t be anxious,” said Lily, squeezing his arm as they followed their parents into the parlor. “Miss Caswell is the perfect wife for you.”

  It was such a romantic notion to think a lady was “perfect.” It meant different things to different people, with some focusing on the perfect financial or social partner, but perfection
lived at the heart of every marriage hunt. Oliver only wished he knew what perfect meant for him, though Miss Caswell seemed close to it.

  Their little group stepped into the Nelsons’ parlor, and the space was already filled with other guests. As Oliver searched the room, his eyes landed on Miss Caswell. She met his gaze in a manner few ladies employed. It was not derisive or haughty, demure or timid; it was simply unflinching, meeting his eyes without apology or question. Miss Caswell was one of the most self-possessed ladies of his acquaintance, and Oliver’s smile grew at the sight of her.

  “Mr. Kingsley, how good to see you,” she said before sliding her arm through his as Lily relinquished her place at his side.

  “And you, Miss Caswell,” he replied, resting his free hand atop hers. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

  “It was entertaining to say the least,” she said, a spark of humor brightening her eyes. Leaning forward, she whispered, “Miriam is in fine form, and I fear for the safety of the other gentlemen.”

  Oliver chuckled. “I look forward to hearing all the details.”

  Giving a shake of her head, she laughed. “Oh, there is much to tell, Mr. Kingsley. Far too much.”

  “And where is the whirlwind that is Miss Miriam Caswell?” asked Oliver as he glanced about the parlor.

  “She and Miss Essie Dosett have taken an instant liking to each other and are as thick as thieves,” she replied, nodding back towards one of the corners.

  Oliver cast a look in that direction, his gaze passing over the other guests in search of the young Miss Miriam. Though he thought himself a reasonably intelligent fellow, Oliver’s wits proved quite slow at the moment, for though he recognized the young lady standing to one side of the room, it took another second or two or ten before his lagging thoughts recognized her.