The Skilled Seduction

by Tracy Goodwin

  Was he trying to give the appearance that he didn’t have a mistress? Perhaps he didn’t. For the first time, Victoria allowed herself to consider the possibility. She knew of numerous husbands who kept mistresses and she had never witnessed any of them display such public affection for their wives.

  Regardless, though, it mattered not, for the ton could say what they would about her – as long as it didn’t hurt either of her brothers, their families, or Sophie.

  Now, in the solitude of the powder room, Victoria allowed herself a deep, fortifying breath as she placed her hand on her abdomen, aware that she must amass the strength to get through the rest of the evening. Victoria then exhaled, slowly repeating the pattern.

  “Oh, my dears,” a muffled female voice reverberated through the door behind Victoria. “I cannot believe that they made an appearance this evening. Scandalous, I dare say.”

  “Now, Harriet, be reasonable, it isn’t as if they’ve done anything improper – tonight.” Another voice, this one mousier, chimed in with a meek giggle.

  Tori heard the faint click of the doorknob and did the first thing she could think of. She hid behind the screen separating the powder room from the changing room so she could spy on them.

  “His illegitimate child is residing with them,” the wicked soprano said. “Of course they shouldn’t have attended this evening.”

  “Honestly, you are both being cruel,” a third female, this one with a lower voice, chimed in. “They could be lovely people.”

  Smart woman, Victoria thought. In desperate need of better company, but bright all the same.

  “Please, Calliope! If that were my husband, I’d ship the brat off somewhere far away.”

  “Margaret—”

  “I dare say the child would have been better off dying in childbirth than to be saddled with a whore for a mother and a debauched father.”

  Rage pulsated through Victoria’s veins as she primped the peacock feathers around her neck before stepping out from behind the screen, her posture poised, as if she had every right to appear out of nowhere after eavesdropping on their conversation. She glared at the women through narrowed eyes, her expression so menacing that one of them actually gasped.

  “Perhaps you should inspect the room before you begin gossiping about people and subjects you remain ignorant of,” she suggested, her tone fortified with a steely edge. Victoria was confident that she was a sight to behold, regally feigning strength and dignity while confronting the gossips about her husband’s illegitimate child.

  “Our apologies, Lady MacAlistair,” one said, bowing her head as if shamed. Victoria recognized her voice to be that of the woman who had admonished the other two earlier.

  Crossing the room through a fog of thick silence that hung like gray skies foreshadowing an ominous storm, Victoria stepped in front of the instigator.

  “Never say such a horrendous thing about that little girl.” Her tone was lethal, a combination of tigress and gunpowder. “Better yet, never again speak of my daughter.”

  “D-Daughter?” the woman sputtered.

  “Yes, she is mine now and I will be damned if a vapid, selfish woman such as yourself ever again speaks of her so. That little girl is named Sophie, and you will show her respect.”

  The woman laughed, “For heaven’s sake, you must be stark raving mad. That child is no more yours than she is mine.”

  “I pity any child of yours,” Victoria hissed, glaring at the witch. The woman showed no sign of humility, instead smoothing her forehead with her hand, seemingly engrossed by her reflection in the mirror.

  “Rest assured, Sophie is my child now, under my husband’s roof and under our protection. You will not utter another word about her.”

  “Or what?” the nasty woman with the pursed lips asked, turning at last to face Victoria.

  It was at this precise moment that Victoria noticed the powder, lifting the jar off the vanity without hesitation and with one fell swoop, tossing the contents directly in the woman’s face. Based upon how enamored the vile creature had been by her own reflection mere moments before, Victoria suspected that marring her features would inflict the most embarrassment upon her.

  She then stepped back, surveying her efforts, failing to suppress a grin at the sight before her – powder rendered the viper’s face, hair, and neck white, as a fine cloud lingered amidst the emotionally charged air.

  One of the women coughed while the other sneezed.

  “Consider that a warning,” Victoria wiped powder from her hands with a handkerchief that she removed from her reticule. “The next time you disparage my child, I shall slap that smug smirk off of your face.”

  This struck a chord, for the woman stumbled backwards. She then transferred her attention from Victoria to her two companions. The other women averted their eyes, choosing instead to study the marble floor beneath their feet.

  Victoria did not budge, standing tall and proud.

  What the bully saw reflected in Victoria’s eyes must have been tangible, for she turned on her heel and quickly exited through the door, a sight to behold covered in white powder.

  Victoria was close on her heels, her stride effortless, when Tristan caught sight of her, his eyes widening at the vision of the other woman covered in power. Without hesitation, he bridged the distance that separated him and his wife.

  “That is your handiwork I presume, darling?”

  “I’m not done yet,” Victoria said, her tone lethal.

  He reached for her arm, “Victoria, kindly resist doing bodily harm to the town gossip, at least whilst in front of so many witnesses. I may possess a brilliant legal mind, but even I may have difficulty winning that case.”

  “Do you trust me, Tristan?”

  His wife’s question caught him off guard as did her tone, which brooked no argument.

  “You see, we are at a stalemate. Either you trust me or you don’t,” Victoria pressed onward, her eyes ablaze with passion and determination. “So I repeat my question one last time, do you trust me?”

  His expression softened, his rich baritone rough with emotion, as he answered her. “I trust you with my life.”

  “Then please release me,” her gaze locked with his.

  “That I will not do,” he inched his fingertips down to her hand. The gesture was unexpected. He could tell by the spark of surprise in her brilliant blue eyes.

  So he further clarified his position as his fingers entwined with hers. “I have no doubt that you can take the old bat single-handedly, however you and I are in this together. It is imperative that they know it,” he added with a conspiratorial wink.

  He squeezed her hand in an attempt to reassure her. It seemed to work. His wife’s expression softened and, for the first time since she heard about the child, she actually smiled.

  A group had already gathered, anxious to hear the sordid details, Tristan suspected. He scanned the room, noting that similar clusters were scattered throughout the great hall, all pointing at Victoria and whispering.

  Tristan was prepared to tell each and every one of them to go straight to hell, but Victoria had a different strategy. She led him to the center of the room, her head held high.

  Haughty, like royalty. Poised and strong, Victoria stole his very breath.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced in a manner rich with grace and tight-knit composure. “May I have your attention, please?”

  Lord Crowley approached her from behind. “Are you all right, Lady MacAlistair?” he asked, glancing around the room.

  “My Lord, who is that woman?” she pointed to the one wearing the powder. A gentleman offered her his handkerchief but instead of helping to alleviate the mess, it seemed to be smudging the powder instead. The woman looked a fright.

  “That is Mrs. Margaret Meriwether.”

  “So she possesses no title?” Victoria asked.

  Lord Crowley shook his head in response.

  “I see.” A satisfied smiled swept across Victoria’s f
eatures, her dimples deeply etched as she surveyed the crowd that had formed around her. Though she had released his hand, Tristan stood next to her, remaining close enough to offer support yet giving her the space she had requested.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, her tone clear and confident. “I understand from Mrs. Meriwether that my husband and I have been a popular topic of conversation this evening.”

  The whispers began again, quickly rising to a crescendo. Victoria raised her hand. In response, the noise decreased upon her command, as if she were leading an orchestra. “I understand completely. Truly I do. As does Lord Abbott,” Victoria motioned to the stuffy old man to her right. “He remembers the gossip that surrounded his wife’s affair all too well, do you not, Lord Abbott?”

  It was all Tristan could do not to laugh. Instead, he cleared his throat in an attempt to suppress his amusement. He was so damn proud of her he thought his heart would burst.

  There she was, in the lion’s den as she called it, radiant in her custom sapphire gown accentuated with spectacular feathers, defying all who dared to gossip about them.

  Independent, courageous, magnificent … and she was his.

  “Then there is Lady Dutton. Did gossip not spread about you when your son married your maid? Not to mention Lord Spencer, London was buzzing when you returned from abroad with malaria. Poor dear, I am relieved that you have recovered.”

  “What is your point?” a man called out from the back of the room.

  Victoria smiled. “My point is that many of us have experienced some sort of scandal, have been the subjects of some form of gossip. Those who have not must beware, for you may be next.” She winked at an elderly man in the front row before adding, “We are adults. It is absolutely reprehensible, as Mrs. Meriwether just discovered, to disparage an innocent child.”

  Now Tristan understood. He stared at the vile woman, relishing in the fact that her cheeks were now a bright crimson from embarrassment, visible even through the thick layer of powder she was still attempting to wipe away.

  Victoria took several steps closer to her. “As I explained to Mrs. Meriwether, the child that resides with me and my husband, our daughter, is under our protection. Anyone who speaks ill of her risks our wrath as Mrs. Meriwether discovered firsthand this evening.”

  Some in the crowd nodded, a few whispered feverishly, while others remained silent. “I understand that my speech here tonight is unconventional but, seeing how Mrs. Meriwether and so many of you defied propriety by speaking ill of an innocent child this evening, I didn’t think you would mind my candor. I did want to mention one more note of importance. In addition to being under our protection, our daughter is under the protection of my brother, the Duke of Davenport, and my husband’s grandfather, the Viscount of Cavendish.”

  Victoria walked over towards Tristan, her smile contagious. “There is quite a bit of noble blood in our families, is there not?”

  “Yes, darling, there is,” he drawled.

  Victoria again scanned the crowd. “I trust that each of you understands the ramifications and will refrain from gossiping about our daughter henceforth?”

  Several people muttered, “Yes,” while others studied the floor or gaped at Mrs. Meriwether.

  Victoria adjusted her skirts as if she were about to take her leave from the crowd, then stopped and instead surveyed them. “I would be remiss if I failed to note your fascination with ladies’ powder rooms. Between all of the wealth and titles in this room, the haut ton can undoubtedly come up with a more secluded place to spread rumors and revel in others’ misfortunes?”

  Though she had just trounced each and every member of polite society attending this gala, a gentleman actually rapped his walking stick against the marble floor and called out, “Here, here.” Tristan thought the voice resembled Lord Archer though he was too enamored with his wife to investigate.

  Instead, he watched as Victoria returned to his side, the personification of grace and composure, her feathers gently swaying in unison with the gold earrings dangling from her earlobes.

  “You are magnificent,” Tristan smiled as he reached for her hand only to discover that Victoria was shaking.

  “Please, take me home,” she entreated in a hushed whisper.

  It was the first time that Victoria had referred to his townhouse as home, he noted with a palpable surge of delight.

  Placing his free hand on the small of her back, Tristan guided her away from the crowd, concern laced with an urgent desire to comfort her, pulsating through his veins. He released her only briefly, to drape her cape over her shoulders.

  As soon as they exited the stuffy confines of the party, Victoria leaned against the cool brick and limestone structure, deeply inhaling the crisp night air. “I wish I could apologize for embarrassing you, Tristan, but I’m glad I did so.” She paused for a moment before adding, “No offense.”

  “None taken … I think,” he quipped, leading her by the hand to their carriage.

  Victoria paused mid-step. “I’d like to walk for a little while, if you don’t mind.”

  Tristan instructed his driver before he and Victoria set off.

  Caring not for propriety, he took his wife’s hand as they sauntered down the cobblestoned avenue towards their home.

  Home.

  Without warning, Tristan’s appreciation of that one simple word surged within his soul. Who knew that four little letters could mean so much? Like love … such a tiny word for such a vast and all-encompassing emotion.

  “My God, Tristan! That foul weather woman said such horrendous things about Sophie,” Victoria ranted, her expression animated. She was more vibrant than he had seen her in a long while. “I assure you that the powder was the nicest course of action I could have taken. I wanted to rip her hair out by the roots.”

  “I’m glad you controlled that particular impulse,” he teased.

  “How dare she attack a child,” Victoria’s tirade continued, “any child, but especially that innocent little girl – it was utterly reprehensible.”

  Tristan’s smile widened. “I dare say she will never again make such a monumental error in judgment.”

  Halting in mid-step, Victoria turned towards him, her fingers still entwined with his. “You do realize that I made an absolute fool of myself this evening.”

  “You did no such thing. In fact, you were brave and fierce and completely justified.” Tristan studied his wife, pride swelling within his chest as he caressed her silken cheek with his thumb. “Sophie is fortunate to have such a formidable champion.”

  Yes, Sophie was fortunate. As was he, Tristan knew, and vowed to never again disappoint his wife. “I am incredibly proud of you,” he added with a grin.

  “Who knew all it would take would be an altercation with a vain woman beneath my station?” she asked with mock severity, arching her brow.

  Her pulse quickened under his touch and Victoria could feel her heart thawing towards him. How could it not? The man supported her, buffered her from the gossips, offered her protection both prior to and after she made a public spectacle of herself.

  How could this man be capable of forsaking his own child?

  Victoria knew the answer in her heart. Now, she needed to hear her husband admit the truth. She leaned into him, a thrill of excitement prickling beneath her flesh as she noted his sharp intake of breath.

  That one simple response changed everything.

  It reminded Victoria that she held the power and she was going to use her hard fought control for the sole purpose of learning the truth about Sophie’s parentage tonight.

  “I’m tired of fighting you, Tristan,” she admitted, tracing the cleft of his chin with her gloved thumb.

  Tristan was, too. Exhausted in fact, but words never seemed sufficient. Words always came between them. No, he didn’t want to break the spell she was weaving, one of hooded desire and heartfelt declarations. Instead, he kissed her. Right there, on the street, for all to see. It wa
s a gentle kiss, one filled with emotion. He hoped it would convey his unspoken love, his passion, his pride.

  It was Victoria who lessened the kiss. “Did you really send our driver away?”

  He pressed his forehead against hers. “No, he’s waiting for us around the corner.”

  “I’ll race you,” she issued the challenge.

  It didn’t take long to reach their carriage. No sooner did Tristan ascend the steps and hear the door close than Victoria pulled him against her chest.

  She kissed him with an urgent hunger that thrilled him. The carriage lurched forward, the familiar sound of the horses’ hooves matching his rapid heartbeat as she slid his jacket off his shoulders. She’d already removed her gloves, he noted as Victoria then untied his cravat, tracing a path with her fingertips down to his crisp white shirt, unfastening each of the tiny pearl buttons with dexterity.

  His skin prickled under her soft fingertips as she explored his chest, her mouth devouring his. A barrage of passionate kisses followed.

  Her touch was intoxicating, her kisses sweet as sin.

  Burying his hands in her hair, he reveled in her sweet scent. Her hand then slid to his waist, tracing his waistband as his manhood throbbed for her. Victoria’s fingers inched lower, to the buttons of his trousers. Slowly, she unfastened each then trailed her soft fingertips down his length.

  The sensation sent a shock through his body. His desire building to a crescendo, Tristan slid his hands down her back then fumbled for her skirts, lifting them before sliding her onto his lap. He found the folds of her petticoats, peeling them apart, seeking her womanhood then lifting her up over his length. He sought release as the carriage swayed gently underneath them.

  “Do you want me?” she asked breathlessly, straddling him.

  “Yes,” it was a guttural response and more primal than he anticipated.

  She began to rock back and forth in tempo with the gentle sway of the carriage. Slowly, methodically, she heightened his desire until he thought he would combust.

  “Tell me,” she prompted.

  Tristan thrust into her. “I want you.”