Undone By The Duke

by Willingham Michelle

  Please, dear God, let him be a gentleman of means. She didn’t care whether he was English or a Scot, so long as he could take care of Victoria. Her daughter deserved a husband, like her sisters.

  “I shall leave, first thing in the morning,” Beatrice pronounced.

  At her declaration, Margaret frowned. “But what about us?”

  “I think it would be better if you remained with Aunt Charlotte through the holidays,” Beatrice said. “I will find out what has happened to Victoria, and you may join us, after you’ve had the opportunity to meet all of the gentlemen my sister has arranged.” She squeezed her daughter’s hand in silent reassurance.

  Margaret flushed. “I’m certain that there will be one who is suitable.” She ventured a smile and took Beatrice’s arm. “I shouldn’t be too fastidious about possible matches.”

  “Of course you should. Marriage is not a choice to make lightly,” Beatrice argued. “Just because a man may seem suitable does not make him the right husband for you.” Although her marriage to Henry had grown into mutual respect and love, it was rare among arranged marriages. She didn’t want Margaret to settle for less than she wanted.

  When it was time for supper, Beatrice saw that her sister had paired Margaret up with the melancholy Earl of Castledon as her dinner guest. Although Amelia could have dined with them, Beatrice did not want her youngest daughter to entertain ideas of marriage since she’d only just turned sixteen. Better to wait a year or two, until she could mature and become a polished lady, instead of revealing her enthusiastic nature too soon. No doubt Amelia would be upset about having to take her meal upstairs, but then, she’d been fortunate to attend the party for a short interval.

  Beatrice joined the procession of guests and found that Charlotte had given her Sir Alfred as her partner.

  “Lady Lanfordshire,” he greeted her. “I am so pleased that we will have the chance to talk further.” His genuine smile was warm, and he offered her his arm.

  She took it, but her thoughts were thoroughly distracted about Victoria and the wounded man. Beside Sir Alfred, she felt awkward and out of sorts. He guided her to her chair and pulled it out for her, making small conversation about the greenery and candles Charlotte had chosen for the dining room.

  As the first course was served, Sir Alfred offered, “Forgive me, Lady Lanfordshire, but have I offended you in some way?”

  She forced her attention back to him. “No, no. It’s not you. I’ve received some worrisome news about my eldest daughter, and I fear I’ll have to leave in the morning with all haste.” With an apologetic smile, she said, “My mind is elsewhere at the moment while I must make unexpected travel arrangements back to Scotland. We hired a coach to bring us here.”

  “Then allow me to be of service to you. I would be glad to have my coachman bring you back home again.”

  “Truly, you are most kind, but I will find my own conveyance.”

  “So close to Christmas?” he pointed out. “It will be nearly impossible to find someone, and my coachman is a man with no family. He would appreciate the extra funds, and it would be my pleasure to be of service.”

  Her heart sank, for she couldn’t accept his proposition. It was entirely improper. “Sir Alfred, I’m afraid I could not repay you.”

  His smile turned sad. “Lady Lanfordshire, I have a comfortable income and no family to spend it upon. Granting you this favor allows me to use my title of knight.” He raised his glass of wine in a silent salute. “I have no expectation of anything in return. Except, perhaps, one dance from a lovely lady.”

  “One of my daughters, perhaps…” she suggested.

  “From you,” he corrected. “Allow a lonely, not-so-young gentleman a chance to enjoy the evening.”

  Although her conscience warned against it, Beatrice found herself nodding in agreement. “Very well. But only one dance.”

  “Are you all right?” Mr. Nottoway entered the parlor, leaning heavily on the walking stick. He paused a short distance away, his green eyes discerning.

  Victoria had known her effort to walk outside would fail from the start. She supposed he’d thought to distract her with the kiss, hoping she wouldn’t notice when he’d opened the door. Though she understood his methods, he didn’t know what she had suffered. It wasn’t a fear she could overcome in a matter of minutes.

  Her fear had come from a moment of terror when there had been no one to help her. She’d faced her own death, and it had been like falling through the black sky into an endless void. No kiss could change that.

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he said.

  “You didn’t. It’s just that I was angry with myself. When I felt the snow, I—” She broke off and settled her hands in her lap. “I couldn’t breathe. I had to go.”

  At the moment, she wished she could fade away into the wall so she wouldn’t have to see annoyance on his face. A dark fist of anger gathered within her that she couldn’t find the strength to overcome this.

  He’ll want nothing to do with you, now that he knows the truth. Exhausted tears welled up, but she refused to let them fall.

  He moved to sit beside her, propping the crutches against the settee. “Was it because I kissed you again?”

  “No,” she whispered. “I know what you were trying to do.” And though it had taken her by surprise, the distraction had made her feel desirable. She’d savored his mouth upon hers, wanting to cast off the brittle shell of cowardice that imprisoned her. Swallowing back the tears, she added, “I wasn’t strong enough.”

  “We’ll try again in the morning,” he said.

  Instead of making her feel better, his calm acceptance only spurred her temper. “Why?” she demanded. “What makes you believe we can change five years in a matter of days?”

  “Because you said yourself, you don’t want to live like this.”

  Her hands tightened into fists. “There are days when I loathe myself. If there was anything I could do to change it, believe me, I would.” She lowered her head, caught between anger and frustration.

  His hand came to touch her shoulder. The silent reassurance seemed to burn through the layers of her clothing, until she could almost sense his palm against her bare skin. Awareness made her want to lean against him, to drink in his touch.

  “Why would you bother with a woman like me?” she whispered. She didn’t want his pity, or his sympathy. When she turned to him, his hand moved from her shoulder to her throat. His green eyes were serious, staring at her with an unnamed emotion.

  “I don’t like to see a woman hurting. Not when it’s in my power to change it.” His hand dropped away, and she caught a trace of bitterness in his tone. “But if you want my help, you can’t give up so easily.”

  “I’m not giving up. But I am well aware of my reality.” She moved over to the window, where the snow was falling steadily. The crystalline fragments drifted upon the wind, mocking her against the glass pane that shielded her.

  When he said nothing, she continued, “You’re right that I don’t want to remain imprisoned in this house. But we both know you aren’t staying much longer. This problem of mine won’t be solved in that time.”

  Using the walking stick, he came to stand behind her. She stiffened, sensing the heat of his body and the masculine scent of shaving soap. Gooseflesh broke over her, though he hadn’t touched her at all.

  “No, I won’t be staying for long,” he agreed. “I have other responsibilities I’m neglecting.”

  Casting a glance at the window, he added, “But it wouldn’t surprise me if Sinclair informs your mother about us. He doesn’t strike me as the most trustworthy of men.”

  “We need his help to sell our garments. And though you may be right about him telling my mother, it doesn’t matter. Nothing’s changed.” She turned around, only to be startled when his hands moved to the glass, trapping her in place.

  “Hasn’t it?”

  The dark look in his eyes reminded her of the demanding kiss and the way he’d br
oken through the fragile web of her loneliness. She couldn’t take her eyes from his, and he watched her with an interest she didn’t understand. There was sensuality in him, and Heaven help her, she wanted to touch the man before her. She wanted to feel his arms around her, pressing her body against his.

  And she sensed her last and only chance for a different life slipping away.

  “It won’t be long before your family returns for you,” he murmured, his voice tempting her with the promise of a forbidden attraction. “We’ll have to make the most of the time we have left.”

  Her pulse beat like a hummingbird’s wings, wondering what he meant by that. His strength was mesmerizing, drawing her so close, she didn’t understand why such a man would fascinate her.

  “I can’t think when you’re so near to me, Mr. Nottoway,” she admitted. But he didn’t move away. Instead, his hands moved into her hair, loosening it as he framed her face.

  “Jonathan,” he corrected, though it was entirely improper for her to use his first name. She wouldn’t even consider it.

  “I don’t want you to concentrate on fear,” he continued. “I want your attention elsewhere.”

  Oh, it was elsewhere all right. And that wasn’t good at all. “It won’t work,” she protested.

  “I have other methods.” He leaned against the wall, letting his hand fall away. “I’ve already put Mrs. Larson to work.”

  “On what?” She couldn’t imagine what he’d done, but she doubted it would be useful.

  “An indoor picnic.” He crossed his arms, a satisfied expression on his face. “Trust me.”

  She didn’t. Not when he’d practically tossed her outside into the snow during a kiss. Victoria tried to bring order to her stormy thoughts, as he pulled a sheet from his bed.

  “Bring this,” he ordered, using his walking stick to move back into the hallway. When he spied the footman, he instructed, “Help me to spread this beside the door, if you would.”

  Mr. MacKinloch obeyed, but Victoria had no intention of eating so close to the entrance. “Why would you think I’d want to eat in front of the door?”

  “Small steps, remember?”

  It was ridiculous to even consider it. But Mrs. Larson seemed to approve and had begun setting out plates for both of them, along with roasted chicken, creamed spinach, bread, and a tureen of soup.

  Victoria stood against the stairs in disbelief. Mr. Nottoway leaned against the walking stick as he eased himself down the wall into a seated position. His face tightened with pain as he positioned his leg, but he gave no word of complaint. “Will you join me for luncheon?”

  “I’m not having a picnic in front of the door,” she argued. “Someone could come in.”

  “Oh, I’ve locked it. You don’t have to worry about getting knocked in the head if someone arrives.” He patted the place across from him. “Come and eat.”

  “I’ll eat in the dining room.”

  “Mrs. Larson is under strict orders not to serve luncheon anywhere but on the floor.”

  “Now why would she obey you? She doesn’t even like you,” Victoria protested, after the servants were gone.

  “No, but she agrees with me that this needs to be done. If I could walk better, I’d simply drag you outside and let you cry or faint as it pleases you.”

  His lack of sympathy annoyed her. “You make it sound as if I can control my responses.”

  “You can. While you cannot stop yourself from being afraid, you can choose the way you want to respond to it.” He beckoned to her with a finger. “Come and sit down, Victoria.”

  The personal use of her name was too intimate, and she didn’t want to leave the safety of the stairs.

  He never took his eyes from her, and she shrank against the banister, unwilling to go any nearer. “This isn’t going to work.”

  He beckoned again. “I won’t open that door. I give you my word.” When she hesitated, he added, “Don’t make me try to get up again. It was difficult enough to sit on the floor.” Holding up a silver fork, he waved it at her. “Come and join me.”

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked, feeling as if the entire household were watching them.

  He leaned back against the wall. “You remind me of someone. Someone I wanted to help once.”

  “And what if I can’t be helped? What if I’m never able to change?” She folded her arms and regarded him. The rush of frustration filled her up as her worst fears stripped away her courage.

  “Then your life will go on, as it has for these past five years. Is that what you want?”

  “No,” she whispered. “I want this… but it’s so hard.”

  “You really are going to make me get up, aren’t you?” With a sigh, he leaned hard against his walking stick, easing back to his feet. Slowly, he walked past the food and stood in the middle of the room. “Meet me halfway.”

  There was no anger or frustration in his voice, only a calm command. Victoria took a step forward, then another. Slowly, she continued toward him and took his outstretched hand. His palm was warm, enveloping her freezing hand in the comfort of heat. “I’ll stand at your side, until you’re ready to take a step.”

  “You needn’t hold my hand.”

  “It will keep you from running away,” he countered. “And I like holding your hand. It’s an interesting hand.” His thumb rubbed the center of her palm, and a shiver broke over her. “It’s soft here, at the heart.” Then he moved his fingers higher, to touch the edges of her fingertips. “But these have known work. A needle has pricked these fingers over the years. I imagine that now, you feel nothing when something sharp pierces you.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “And yet, you’re soft beneath it all.” His hand clasped hers. “You can be as afraid as you like, underneath the surface. But we must strengthen your exterior, so that no one knows your fear.”

  He eased her forward to take another step, and she found it wasn’t as difficult. The edge of the sheet lay only a short distance away.

  “Can you manage to sit down?” he asked. “Or is that too much to ask?”

  She raised her eyes to look at the front door. It stood tall, like a sentry guarding her. And although it bothered her to do so, she took one last step forward and sat down on the outer perimeter of the sheet. Jonathan smiled and took his place on the opposite side. “Now see? That wasn’t too terrible.” He passed her a plate of chicken with creamed spinach and a slice of bread. In turn, she poured him a cup of tea, breaking off three lumps of sugar with the tongs.

  They ate for a time, and although she remained tense, it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be. She sat across from him, and when they had finished, he asked, “How are you?”

  “Still nervous,” she admitted. “But I made it this far.”

  He lifted his cup of tea in a silent salute. “So you have.” Their conversation was interrupted by a knocking at the door. Jonathan tried to rise up from his place on the floor but lost his balance. The walking stick clattered to the floor, and Victoria went to his side. She took his hands, helping him up.

  Once he was standing, he held her there a brief moment longer. “Look at where you are.” His arms held her captive, and she realized she was touching the front door. “Do you want to open it?”

  “N-not with these dishes.” She scrambled away from him and Mrs. Larson came forward, helping her to pull their picnic aside. Mr. MacKinloch opened the door, while the housekeeper removed the evidence of their food.

  Victoria’s heart was racing, but even as she retreated, she felt a slight sense of triumph. She’d touched the door without fear, while helping Jonathan. It hadn’t occurred to her to be afraid.

  It wasn’t the greatest achievement—but it was a beginning. And she couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

  Mr. MacKinloch opened the door wider to reveal dozens of women standing beyond the doorway. All were looking at her anxiously.

  Mr. Nottoway sent her a knowing look. “It seems, Miss Andrews,
that your army of seamstresses has arrived.”

  While the women gathered in the dining room, Jonathan retreated to the parlor. He didn’t know if Victoria would want him to remain at her side, but what did he know about sewing? Nothing at all. It was better to stay out of her way.

  His gaze settled upon the chessboard, the white and black figures neatly lined up. It was so easy to move the pieces in a precise, logical manner. Winning the game was a matter of strategy. When he lost, it was usually because of his opponent’s skill.

  But the wager he’d made with Victoria had nothing at all to do with skill or strategy. And though they had made good progress this morning, he didn’t know if the success could continue. She’d barely managed to get close to the front door. How much longer would it take for her to move beyond that?

  Or would she? Any day now, he expected Franklin to arrive with his staff. Given the harsh winter and the conditions here, Jonathan didn’t intend to stay much longer. Victoria Andrews wasn’t his responsibility, after all.

  Yet, every time he saw the hurt in her gray eyes, he thought of his mother. He’d been unable to save the duchess from his monster of a father. It forever haunted him that he’d obeyed her, leaving her behind, after she’d asked him to go.

  If only he’d stayed…

  He reached for a white pawn, fingering the curves. He couldn’t go back and undo the mistakes he’d made. Neither could he bring back his mother.

  He set down the chess piece and saw the open letter that Victoria had been reading the other day. Though he knew it was wrong to sneak a glimpse, the words Aphrodite’s Unmentionables caught his eye. Now why would Victoria’s sister mention something so improper in a letter? He read the note, startled when he came across a list of requested garments. Silk-lined corsets with padding, gowns to be worn upon a woman’s wedding night. Scandalous colors of fabric, all luxurious, meant to caress a woman’s skin.

  And Victoria—quiet, reclusive Victoria was meant to sew all of this?

  He stood up, leaning against the walking stick as he approached the hallway. Keeping out of sight, he watched as Victoria spoke quietly to the women, explaining what she needed. The bundle of fabric lay upon the dining room table, and he saw her holding up what appeared to be whalebone.