“Yes,” Jason snapped impatiently, when the butler was before him. “What is it now?”
The butler cleared his throat. “It’s Miss Seaton again, my lord. She . . . er . . . that is, she attempted to assist the head gardener with his planting of the flower beds. He mistook her for a servant, and now he wonders, since I informed him she is not a servant, if you are displeased with his work and sent her there to—”
Jason’s low voice vibrated with annoyance. “Tell the gardener to get back to work, then tell Miss Seaton to stay out of his way. And you,” he added darkly, “stay out of mine. I have work to do.” Jason turned to his thin, bespectacled secretary and snapped, “Now, where were we, Benjamin?”
“The letter to your man in Delhi, my lord.”
Jason had dictated only two lines when there was a commotion outside his door and the cook barged in, followed by Northrup, who was trying to outrun him and block his path. “Either she goes, or I go!” Monsieur André boomed, marching up to Jason’s desk. “I do not permit that red-haired wench in my kitchen!”
With deadly calm, Jason laid down his quill and turned his glittering green gaze on the chef’s glaring face. “What did you say to me?”
“I said I do not permit—”
“Get out,” Jason said in a silky-soft voice.
The cook’s round face paled. “Oui,” he said hastily, as he began backing away, “I will return to the kitch—”
“Out of my house,” Jason clarified ruthlessly, “and off my property. Now!” Surging to his feet, Jason brushed past the perspiring chef and headed for the kitchens.
Everyone in the kitchens jumped and spun around at the sound of his incensed voice. “Can any of you cook?” he demanded, and Victoria assumed that the chef had resigned because of her. Horrified, she started to step forward, but Jason’s ominous gaze impaled her, threatening her with dire consequences if she dared to volunteer. He looked around at the others in angry disgust. “Do you mean to tell me none of you can cook?”
Mrs. Craddock hesitated, then stepped forward. “I can, my lord.”
Jason nodded curtly. “Good. You’re in charge. In future, please dispense with those nauseatingly rich French sauces I’ve been forced to eat.” He turned the icy blast of his gaze on Victoria. “You,” he ordered ominously, “stay out of the barn and leave the gardening to the gardeners and the cooking to the cooks!”
He left, and the servants turned to Victoria, looking at her with a mixture of shock and shy gratitude. Too ashamed of the trouble she’d caused to meet their eyes, Victoria bent her head and began mixing the poultice for Mr. O’Malley.
“Let’s go to work,” Mrs. Craddock said to the others in a brisk, smiling voice. “We have yet to prove to his lordship that we can manage very well without having our ears boxed and our knuckles rapped by André.”
Victoria’s head snapped up, her shocked gaze flying to Mrs. Craddock.
“He is an evil-tempered tyrant,” the woman confirmed. “And we are deeply grateful to be rid of him.”
With the exception of the day her parents died, Victoria couldn’t remember a worse day than this one. She picked up the bowl containing the mixture her father had taught her to make to ease the pain of an afflicted tooth and walked out.
Failing to find O’Malley, she went searching for Northrup, who was just emerging from a book-lined room. Beyond the partially open doors, she glimpsed Jason seated at his desk with a letter in his hand, talking to a bespectacled gentleman who was sitting across from him.
“Mr. Northrup,” she said in a suffocated voice as she handed him the bowl, “would you be kind enough to give this to Mr. O’Malley? Tell him to apply it to his tooth and gum several times a day. It will help take away the pain and swelling.”
Distracted yet again by the sound of voices outside his study, Jason slapped the paper he was reading onto the desk and stalked to the door of his study, jerking it open. Unaware of Victoria, who had started up the staircase, he demanded of Northrup, “Now what the hell has she done?”
“She—she made this for O’Malley’s tooth, my lord,” Northrup said in a queer, strained voice as he raised his puzzled gaze to the dejected figure climbing the stairs.
Jason followed his gaze and his eyes narrowed on the slender, curvaceous form garbed in mourning black. “Victoria,” he called.
Victoria turned, braced for a tongue-lashing, but he spoke in a calm, clipped voice that nevertheless rang with implacable authority. “Do not wear black anymore. I dislike it.”
“I’m very sorry my clothes offend you,” she replied with quiet dignity, “but I am in mourning for my parents.”
Jason’s brows snapped together, but he held his tongue until Victoria was out of hearing. Then he told Northrup, “Send someone to London to get her some decent clothes, and get rid of those black rags.”
When Charles came down for lunch, a subdued Victoria slid into the chair on his left. “Good heavens, child, what’s amiss? You’re as pale as a ghost.”
Victoria confessed her follies of the morning and Charles listened, his lips trembling with amusement. “Excellent, excellent!” he said when she was finished and, to her amazement, started to chuckle. “Go ahead and disrupt Jason’s life, my dear. That is exactly what he needs. On the surface he may appear cold and hard, but that is only a shell—a thick one, I’ll admit, but the right woman could get past that and discover the gentleness inside him. When she does bring out that gentleness, Jason will make her a very happy woman. Among other things, he is an extremely generous man. . . .” He raised his brows, letting the sentence hang, and Victoria stirred uneasily beneath his intent gaze, wondering if Charles could possibly be harboring the hope that she was that woman.
Not for a moment did she believe there was any gentleness inside Jason Fielding and, moreover, she wanted as little to do with him as possible. Rather than tell that to Uncle Charles, she tactfully changed the subject. “I should receive word from Andrew in the next few weeks.”
“Ah, yes—Andrew,” he said, his eyes darkening.
Chapter Seven
CHARLES TOOK HER FOR A carriage ride to the neighboring village the next day, and although the outing filled her with nostalgic homesickness for her former home, she enjoyed herself immensely. Flowers bloomed everywhere—in flower boxes and gardens where loving care was lavished upon them, and wild on the hills and in the meadows, tended only by mother nature. The village with its neat cottages and cobbled streets was utterly charming and Victoria fell in love with it.
Each time they emerged from one of the little shops along the street, the villagers who saw them stopped and stared and doffed their hats. They called Charles “your grace,” and although Victoria could tell that he was usually at a loss for their names, he treated them with unaffected pleasantness, regardless of their station in life.
By the time they returned to Wakefield Park that afternoon, Victoria felt much more optimistic about her new life and was hoping for the opportunity to know the villagers better.
To avoid causing any more trouble for herself, she limited the rest of her day’s activities to reading in her own room and two more forays to the compost pile, where she tried unsuccessfully to coax Willie to come closer to her for his food.
She lay down before supper and fell asleep, lulled by the notion that further dissension between herself and Jason Fielding could be avoided if she simply stayed out of his way, as she had thus far today.
She was wrong. When she awakened, Ruth was placing an armful of pastel frocks in the armoire. “Those aren’t mine, Ruth,” Victoria said sleepily, frowning in the candlelight as she climbed out of bed.
“Yes, miss, they are!” Ruth said enthusiastically. “His lordship sent to London for them.”
“Please inform him that I won’t wear them,” Victoria said with firm politeness.
Ruth’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh, no, miss, I couldn’t do that. Really I couldn’t!”
“Well, I can!” Victoria said,
already heading to the other armoire in search of her own clothes.
“They’re gone,” Ruth said miserably. “I—I carried them out. His lordship’s orders—”
“I understand,” Victoria said gently, but within her she felt a temper she didn’t know she possessed come to a simmering boil.
The little maid wrung her hands, her pale eyes hopeful. “Miss, his lordship said I may have the position of your personal maid, if I’m able to do it properly.”
“I don’t need a maid, Ruth.”
The girl’s shoulders sagged. “It would be so much nicer than what I do now. . . .”
Victoria wasn’t proof against that pleading expression on her face. “Very well, then,” she sighed, trying to force a smile to her lips. “What does a ‘personal maid’ do?”
“Well, I help you dress and make certain-sure your gowns are always clean and pressed. And I fix your hair, too. May I? Fix your hair, I mean? You have such beautiful hair, and my ma always said I have a way with hair—makin’ it look pretty, I mean.”
Victoria agreed, not because she cared for having her hair styled, but because she needed time to calm herself before she confronted Jason Fielding. An hour later, dressed in a flowing peach silk gown with wide, full sleeves that were trimmed with horizontal strips of peach satin ribbon, Victoria silently surveyed herself in the mirror. Her heavy copper hair had been twisted into burnished curls at the crown and entwined with peach satin ribbons, her high cheekbones were tinted with rich, angry color, and her brilliant sapphire eyes were sparkling with resentment and shame.
She had never seen, never imagined, a gown as glorious as the one she wore, with its low-cut, tightly fitted bodice that forced her breasts high and exposed a daring expanse of flesh. And she had never taken less pleasure in her appearance than she did now, when she was being forced to display a frivolous disregard for her dead parents.
“Oh, miss,” Ruth said, clasping her hands in satisfied delight, “you’re so beautiful, his lordship won’t believe his eyes when he sees you.”
Ruth’s prediction was true, but Victoria was too furious to derive the slightest gratification from Jason’s stunned expression when she walked into the dining room.
“Good evening, Uncle Charles,” she said, pressing her cheek to his as Jason came to his feet. Rebelliously she turned and faced him, standing in resentful silence while his gaze slid boldly over her, from the top of her shining red-gold curls to the swelling flesh exposed above her bodice and right down to the toes of the dainty satin slippers he had provided. Victoria was somewhat accustomed to the admiring glances of gentlemen, but there was nothing gentlemanly about Jason’s insolent, lazy perusal of her body. “Are you quite finished?” she asked tersely.
His unhurried gaze lifted to her eyes and a wry smile quirked his stern lips when he heard the antagonism in her voice. He reached forward and Victoria took a quick, automatic step backward, before she realized he simply intended to pull out her chair.
“Have I made another social blunder—like failing to knock?” he inquired in a low, amused voice, his lips offensively close to her cheek as she took her seat. “Is it not the custom in America for a gentleman to seat a lady?”
Victoria jerked her head away. “Are you seating me, or trying to eat my ear?”
His lips twitched. “I may do that,” he replied, “if the new cook provides us with a poor meal.” He glanced at Charles as he returned to his own seat. “I dismissed the fat Frenchman,” he explained.
Victoria felt a momentary pang of guilt for her part in the affair, but she was so angry at Jason’s peremptory disposal of her gowns that not even guilt could take the edge off her anger. Intending to have the matter out with him in private, after dinner, she directed all her conversation to Charles; but as the meal continued, she became uncomfortably aware that Jason Fielding was studying her across the brace of candles in the center of the table.
Jason lifted his wineglass to his lips, watching her. She was furious with him, he knew, for having those shabby black gowns taken away, and she was dying to loose a tirade at his head—he could see it in those flashing eyes of hers.
What a proud, spirited beauty she was, he thought impartially. She had seemed a pretty little thing before, but he hadn’t expected her to blossom into a full-fledged beauty tonight, simply by shedding those unflattering black gowns. Perhaps he hated the dismal mourning color so much that it had tainted his view of her. Either way, he had no doubt Victoria Seaton had led the boys back home a merry chase. No doubt she would dazzle the boys in England, too. Dazzle the boys and men, he corrected himself.
And therein lay his problem: despite her lush, alluring curves and that intoxicating face, he was rapidly becoming convinced she was an inexperienced innocent, exactly as Charles had claimed. An inexperienced innocent who had landed on his doorstep, and for whom he was now unwillingly responsible. The image of himself as her protector—the fierce guardian of a young maiden’s virtue—was so ludicrous that he nearly laughed aloud, yet that was the role he was going to be forced to play. Everyone who knew him would surely find it as preposterous as he did, considering his notorious reputation with women.
O’Malley poured more wine into his glass, and Jason drank it while trying to decide the most expedient way to get her safely off his hands. The more he considered it, the more convinced he became that he ought to provide her with the London season that Charles was so anxious that she have.
With Victoria’s lush beauty, it would be easy enough to launch her successfully into society. And with the added attraction of a small dowry, provided by himself, it would be equally easy to get her safely wed to some suitable London fop. On the other hand, if she really believed her Andrew would come for her, she might insist upon waiting for months, even years, before accepting another man, and that possibility did not suit Jason at all.
In line with his half-formed plan, he waited until there was a break in the talk and said to her in a deceptively casual tone, “Charles tells me that you are practically betrothed to . . . er . . . Anson? Albert?”
Victoria’s head snapped around. “Andrew,” she said.
“What is he like?” Jason prodded.
A fond smile drifted across Victoria’s features as she thought about that. “He is gentle, handsome, intelligent, kind, considerate—”
“I think I have the general idea,” Jason interrupted dryly. “Take my advice and forget about him.”
Suppressing the urge to throw something at him, Victoria said, “Why?”
“He isn’t the man for you. In four days, you’ve turned my household upside down. What possible sport could you have with a staid country bumpkin who will want to lead a peaceful, organized life? You’d be wise to forget him and make the most of your opportunities here.”
“In the first place—” Victoria burst out, but Jason interrupted her, deliberately sowing seeds of discontent. “Of course, there’s every chance that if you don’t forget about Albert, Albert will probably forget about you. Isn’t the saying ‘out of sight, out of mind’?”
Holding onto her temper with a superhuman effort, Victoria clamped her teeth together and said nothing.
“What, no argument?” Jason prodded, admiring the way anger turned her eyes to a smoky midnight blue.
Victoria lifted her chin. “In my country, Mr. Fielding, it is considered ill-bred to argue at the table.”
Her veiled reprimand filled him with amusement. “How very inconvenient for you,” he remarked softly.
Charles leaned back in his chair, a tender smile curving his lips as he watched his son spar with the young beauty who reminded him so much of her mother. They were perfect for each other, he decided. Victoria wasn’t in awe of Jason. Her spirit and warmth would gentle him, and once gentled, he would become the sort of husband young girls dream of having. They would make each other happy, she would give Jason a son.
Filled with contentment and joy, Charles imagined the grandson they would give him once the
y were married. After all these years of emptiness and despair, he and Katherine were actually going to have grandchildren together. True, Jason and Victoria were not getting along so well right now, but that was to be expected. Jason was a hard, experienced, embittered man, with good reason. But Victoria had Katherine’s courage, her gentleness, her fire. And Katherine had changed his own life. She had taught him the meaning of love. And loss. His mind drifted back over the events of the past that had led up to this momentous evening. . . .
By the time he was twenty-two, Charles already had a well-deserved reputation as a libertine, gambler, and rakehell. He had no responsibilities, no restrictions, and absolutely no prospects, for his older brother had already inherited the ducal title and everything that went with it—everything excluding money, that is. Money was ever in short supply, because for 400 years, the Fielding men had all exhibited a strong proclivity toward all manner of expensive vices. In fact, Charles was no worse than his father, or his father’s father before him. Charles’s younger brother was the only Fielding ever to show a desire to fight the devil’s temptations, but he did it with typical Fielding excess by deciding to become a missionary and go off to India.
At approximately that same time, Charles’s French mistress announced she was pregnant. When Charles offered her money, not matrimony, she wept and ranted at him, but to no avail. Finally she left him in a rage. A week after Jason was born, she returned to Charles’s lodgings, unceremoniously dumped their child into his arms, and disappeared. Charles had no desire to be saddled with a baby, yet he could not bring himself to simply abandon the boy to an orphans’ home. In a moment of sheer inspiration, he hit upon the idea of giving Jason to his younger brother and his ugly wife, who were about to leave for India “to convert the heathens.”
Without any hesitation, he gave the baby to these two God-fearing, childless, religious zealots—along with nearly every cent he had, to be used for Jason’s care—and washed his hands of the whole problem.
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