Once and Always

by Judith McNaught

  “It’s my fault,” Charles lied, shooting Victoria a sly wink as he stood up. “Victoria wishes to play a serious game of piquet and I’ve been distracting her with jokes. I can’t seem to be serious tonight. Would you sit in for a game with her?”

  Victoria expected Jason to refuse but, after glancing curiously at Charles, he sat down across from her, and Charles positioned himself behind Jason’s chair. Charles stood there until Victoria glanced at him, then he gave her a laughing, eager look that clearly said, “Beat him soundly—cheat!”

  Victoria was so giddy from their outrageous card tricks, including the new ones Charles had taught her, that she fell into the plan without further urging. “Would you prefer to deal or shall I?” she asked Jason innocently.

  “You, by all means,” he said courteously.

  Taking care to lull him into a false sense of security, Victoria shuffled the cards without any show of deftness, then began dealing them out. Jason glanced over his shoulder at Charles and asked for a glass of brandy, then he lounged back in his chair, indifferent. He lit one of the thin cheroots he occasionally enjoyed and accepted the glass Charles handed him.

  “Aren’t you going to look at your cards?” Victoria asked.

  Jason shoved his hands into his pockets, the cheroot clamped between his even white teeth, and leveled a speculative glance at her. “Normally, I prefer mine dealt from the top of the deck,” he drawled.

  Impaled on his gaze, Victoria stifled a horrified giggle and tried to bluff. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  One dark brow lifted, challenging her. “Do you know what happens to card-cheats?”

  Victoria gave up all pretense of innocence. Propping her elbows on the table, she put her chin in her hands and regarded him with laughing blue eyes. “No, what?”

  “The party who has been cheated issues a challenge to the party who has done the cheating, and frequently a duel is fought to settle the matter.”

  “Would you like to challenge me to a duel?” Victoria ventured daringly, enjoying herself immensely.

  Jason lazed in his chair, studying her laughing face and sparkling eyes while he appeared to consider the matter. “Are you as good a shot as you said you were when you threatened my life this afternoon?”

  “Better,” she declared baldly.

  “How are you with sabers?”

  “I’ve never held one, but perhaps Lady Caroline would stand in for me. She is excellent at that sort of thing.”

  The dazzling charm of Jason’s lazy white smile did odd things to Victoria’s pulse as he remarked, “I wonder what possessed me to think you and Caroline Collingwood would be safe companions.” Then he added what sounded to Victoria like a lovely compliment. “God help the London beaux this season. There isn’t going to be a heart left intact when you’re through with them.”

  Victoria was still trying to recover from her astonishment at his high opinion of her effect on gentlemen when Jason straightened in his chair and became brisk. “Now, shall we have that game you were so eager for?”

  When she nodded, he took the cards from her hand. “I’ll deal, if you don’t mind,” he joked. He had won three hands before Victoria saw him deftly stealing a card he needed from those he’d already discarded and shouldn’t have touched.

  “You wretch!” she burst out with indignant laughter. “I’ve fallen in with a pair of bandits! I saw what you just did—you’ve been cheating while we played this hand.”

  “You’re wrong,” Jason said, grinning as he rose to his feet with that pantherish grace of his. “I’ve been cheating during all three hands.” Without warning, he leaned down and pressed a kiss on the top of her head, affectionately rumpled her long hair, and strolled out of the library.

  Victoria was so stunned by his actions that she didn’t notice the expression of pure joy on Charles’s face as he watched Jason leave.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE GAZETTE AND THE TIMES reported two days later that Lady Victoria Seaton, Countess Langston—whose betrothal to Jason Fielding, Marquess of Wakefield, had been previously announced—would be making her formal bow to society at a ball to be given in a fortnight by her cousin, the Duke of Atherton.

  No sooner had London’s ton digested that exciting news than they witnessed a sudden burst of activity at the Marquess of Wakefield’s palatial London home at #6 Upper Brook Street.

  First came two coaches accommodating, in addition to lesser servants, Northrup, the butler; O’Malley, the head footman; and Mrs. Craddock, the cook. These vehicles were soon followed by a large fourgon, which contained the housekeeper, several housemaids, three kitchen porters, four subordinate footmen, and a mountain of trunks.

  Shortly thereafter another coach arrived bearing Miss Flossie Wilson, the duke’s maiden aunt, a plump elderly lady with a cherubic, pink-cheeked face framed by blond curls. Perched upon her head was a delightful little mulberry-colored bonnet that would have been more appropriate for a much younger lady and that made Miss Flossie look very much like a cuddly, elderly doll. Miss Flossie, who was a well-known figure among the Quality, climbed down from the coach, waved gaily to two of her friends who were passing by, and rushed up the front steps of her great-nephew’s Brook Street mansion.

  All of this activity was duly noted by the elegant ladies and gentlemen who paraded leisurely along Upper Brook Street in their gorgeous finery, but none of it created the wild stir of attention that was generated the next day when witnesses observed Jason Fielding’s sleek burgundy coach, drawn by four prancing grays, pulling up smartly before the house at #6.

  From the sumptuous interior of the crested coach emerged Charles Fielding, Duke of Atherton, followed by a young lady who could only be Jason Fielding’s promised wife. The young lady stepped gracefully down the coach steps, tucked her hand in the crook of the duke’s arm, and paused, gazing in smiling disbelief at the lavish four-story mansion with its wide bow windows.

  “Good God, that’s her!” young Lord Wiltshire exclaimed from his vantage point across the street. “That’s Countess Langston,” he added, enthusiastically digging his elbow into his companion’s chest for emphasis.

  “How d’you know?” Lord Crowley demanded, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from his injured jacket.

  “It’s plain to the humblest intelligence who she is—look at her, she’s a beauty. An Incomparable.”

  “You can’t see her face,” his friend pointed out reasonably.

  “I don’t have to, nodcock. If she weren’t beautiful, she’d never have wrung an offer out of Wakefield. Have you ever seen him with a woman who wasn’t a raving beauty?”

  “No,” Lord Crowley admitted. Raising his quizzing glass, he squinted through it and emitted a low, surprised whistle. “She has red hair. Wouldn’t have expected that in a million years.”

  “It ain’t red, it’s more to the gold than the red.”

  “No, it’s titian,” Lord Crowley argued. After a moment’s additional consideration, he declared, “Titian is an enchanting color. Always preferred it, myself.”

  “Rubbish! You’ve never gone in for titian hair. It’s not at all the rage.”

  “It is now,” Lord Crowley predicted, grinning. Lowering his glass he sent a smug look at his friend. “I believe my Aunt Mersley is acquainted with Atherton—she’ll get an invitation to Countess Langston’s come-out ball. Think I’ll tag along with her to it and—” He stopped speaking and gaped as the young lady under discussion turned back to the coach and called out something. An instant later, a huge silver and gray beast hurtled out and bounded to her heel, whereupon the trio proceeded up the front steps. “Damn my eyes if that wasn’t a wolf!” Lord Crowley breathed in awe.

  “She’s stylish,” the other young man decreed when he recovered his voice. “Never heard of a woman with a wolf for a pet. Very stylish, is the countess. An Original, to be sure.” Eager to spread the word that they had been the first to glimpse the mysterious Lady Victoria Seaton, the two young men separated an
d rushed off to their respective clubs.

  By the next evening, when Jason arrived in London and strolled into White’s for the first time in months, intending to enjoy a few hours of relaxation at cards before attending the theater, it was already a widely known, accepted fact that his betrothed was a dazzling beauty and an acclaimed trendsetter. As a result, instead of being able to gamble in peace, Jason was repeatedly confronted by acquaintances who interrupted his game to compliment him on his excellent taste and good fortune, and to press upon him congratulations and best wishes for his future happiness.

  After enduring two hours of this farce, of having his hand shaken and his shoulder patted, it occurred to him that, despite what Charles seemed to think, it was not wise for the ton to believe that Victoria was betrothed to him. Jason based this conclusion on the simple observation that none of the eligible bachelors who were congratulating him would dare to risk offending him by courting his affianced bride. Therefore, he set about encouraging them to pursue her by thanking them for their good wishes but adding a disclaimer. “The matter is not entirely settled between us yet,” he murmured, or, “Lady Seaton is not completely certain her affections are permanently fixed on me—she doesn’t know me well enough.”

  He said those things because they were necessary, but he was thoroughly disgusted with the entire farce and completely incensed at being forced to play the role of a prospective bridegroom whose fiancée was on the verge of jilting him.

  By nine o’clock, when his carriage drew up in front of the elegant house in Williams Street that he provided for his mistress, Jason was in a black mood. He strode up the steps and rapped impatiently on the door.

  The maid who opened it took one look at his hard features and stepped back in nervous alarm. “M—Miss Sybil instructed me to tell you she doesn’t wish to see you again.”

  “Oh?” Jason said in a silky voice. “Is that right?”

  The little maid, who knew full well her wages were paid by the terrifyingly tall, powerful man looming in front of her, nodded, swallowed, and added apologetically, “Yes, my lord. You—you see, Miss Sybil read about your fiancée’s ball and how you’ll be there attending it, and she took to her bed. She’s there now.”

  “Excellent!” Jason said crudely. In no mood to tolerate a tantrum from Sybil tonight, he stalked past the maid, bounded up the staircase, and flung open the door to Sybil’s bedchamber.

  His eyes narrowed on the ravishingly beautiful woman who was reclining on the bed amid a mountain of satin pillows. “Having an attack of the vapors, my sweet?” he inquired coolly, leaning his shoulder against the closed door.

  Sybil’s green eyes shot sparks of fury at him, but she did not deign to reply.

  Jason’s temper, already sorely strained, was about to explode. “Get out of that bed and get dressed,” he ordered in a dangerously quiet voice. “We're going to a party tonight. I sent you a note.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you! Ever!”

  Casually Jason began unbuttoning his jacket. “In that case, move over. We’ll spend the evening right where you are.”

  “You rutting beast!” the tempestuous beauty exploded, leaping off the bed in a flurry of pale pink chiffon as he came toward her. “How dare you! How dare you think you can come near me after that article in the Times! Get out of my house!”

  Jason regarded her impassively. “Must I remind you that this is my house? I own it.”

  “Then I’ll leave it,” she shot back. Despite her show of defiance her chin trembled and, covering her face, she burst into tears. “Jason, how could you,” she wept, her body shaking with heart-wrenching sobs. “You told me your engagement was a sham and I believed you! I—I’ll never f-forgive you for this. Never. . . .”

  The anger drained from Jason’s face and was replaced by a touch of surprised regret as he listened to what sounded like genuine, heartbroken weeping. “Will this help you forgive me?” he asked quietly. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a flat velvet box, flipped it open with his thumb, and held it toward her.

  Sybil peeked between her fingers and gasped as she beheld the glittering diamond bracelet resting upon a bed of black velvet. Reverently, she lifted it from its velvet nest and hugged it to her cheek. Raising her glowing eyes to his, she said, “Jason, for the matching necklace, I would forgive you for anything!”

  Jason, who had been about to reassure her that he had no intention of marrying Victoria, threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Sybil,” he chuckled, shaking his head as if he was as amused at himself as he was at her, “I think that is your most endearing quality.”

  “What is?” she asked, forgetting about the bracelet as she studied his sardonic features.

  “Your honest, unabashed greed,” he said without a hint of malice. “All women are greedy, but you, at least, are honest about it. Now, come here and show me how pleased you are with your new trinket.”

  Sybil obediently walked into his arms, but her eyes were faintly troubled as she raised her face for his kiss. “You—you don’t have a very high opinion of women, do you, Jason? It isn’t just me you hold in secret contempt—it’s all of us, isn’t it?”

  “I think,” he murmured evasively, untying the satin ribbons at her breasts, “that women are delightful creatures in bed.”

  “And out of bed? What about then?”

  He ignored her question and slid her gown off her shoulders, his fingers expertly teasing her nipples into quick response. Taking her lips in a wildly demanding kiss, he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. Sybil forgot that he had never answered her question.

  Chapter Twelve

  VICTORIA SAT UPON THE SETTEE in her bedchamber, surrounded by stacks of newly arrived boxes from Madame Dumosse containing yet more gowns to add to the stunning variety of walking dresses, riding habits, ball gowns, bonnets, shawls, long French kid gloves, and slippers that already filled every available storage space in her suite. “My lady!” Ruth gasped excitedly as she unwrapped a royal blue satin cloak with a wide hood, lined in ermine. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

  Victoria glanced up from Dorothy’s letter. “It’s lovely,” she agreed weakly. “How many cloaks does that make?”

  “Eleven,” Ruth answered, stroking the soft white fur. “No, twelve. I forgot about the yellow velvet lined with sable. Or is it thirteen? Let me think—there are four velvet cloaks, five satin ones, two furs, and three woolen ones. Fourteen in all!”

  “It’s difficult to believe that I used to manage quite nicely with two,” Victoria sighed, smiling. “And when I go back home, three or four will be more than enough. It seems such a waste for Lord Fielding to squander his money on clothing I won’t be able to use after a few weeks. In Portage, New York, ladies don’t dress in such finery,” she finished, her attention returning to Dorothy’s letter.

  “When you go back home?” Ruth whispered in alarm. “Whatever do you mean? I beg your pardon, my lady, forgive my asking.”

  Victoria didn’t hear her; she was rereading the letter, which had arrived today.

  Dearest Tory,

  I received your letter a week ago and was very excited to learn you were coming to London, for I hoped to see you at once. I told Grandmama I wished to do so, but instead of remaining in London, we left the very next day for Grandmama’s country house, which is little more than an hour’s ride from the place called Wakefield Park. Now I am in the country and you are in the city. Tory, I think Grandmama means to keep us apart, and it makes me very sad and quite angry. We must contrive some way to meet, but I will leave that to you, for you are much better at thinking of schemes than I am.

  Perhaps I am only imagining Grandmama’s intentions. I cannot be certain. She is stern, but she has not been cruel to me. She wishes for me to make what she calls “a brilliant match” and to that end she has in mind a gentleman named Winston. I have dozens of splendid new gowns of every color, although I cannot appear in most of them until I make my c
ome-out, which seems a very odd tradition. And Grandmama said I cannot make my come-out until you are betrothed to someone, which is another tradition. Things were so much simpler at home, were they not?

  I’ve explained to Grandmama innumerable times that you are practically betrothed to Andrew Bainbridge and that I wish to pursue a musical career, but she does not seem to listen.

  She never mentions you, but I speak of you anyway, for I am determined to make her relent and ask you to stay with us. She does not forbid me to speak of you; it is only that she never says anything when I do, which makes me think she prefers to pretend you do not exist. She merely listens to me with an expression on her face that can best be described as blank and says nothing at all.

  Actually, I have quite badgered her to death about you—but discreetly, as I promised you I would. At first I merely spoke of you, injecting your name into the conversation whenever possible. When Grandmama remarked that I had a fine face, I told her you are much prettier; when she commented on my skill at the piano, I told her your talent is greater; when she remarked that my manners were acceptable, I told her yours are exquisite.

  When all of that failed to make her understand how close we are and how much I miss you, I was forced to take more drastic measures, and so I carried the small portrait of you that I cherish down to the drawing room and put it upon the mantel there. Grandmama said nothing, but the next day she sent me off for a tour of London, and when I returned, the portrait was back in my own room.

  A few days later, she was expecting some of her friends to call upon her, so I sneaked into her favorite salon and set up a lovely display of your sketches of the scenes around Portage—the ones you gave me to remind me of home. When the ladies saw them, they all exclaimed over your talent, but Grandmama said nothing. The next day she sent me off to Yorkshire, and when I returned two days later, the sketches were back in my room in a closet.