She deserved better than to become his mistress.
He needed a wife, but not one who secluded herself from the rest of the world. He required a woman who understood the intricacies of London society, who could fulfill her duties as a hostess and provide the requisite heir and the spare. There were dozens of ladies who could easily assume that role.
And yet, when Victoria’s hand moved to touch his heart, he wished that wife could somehow be her.
Chapter Eleven
LATER THAT NIGHT, Victoria lay in her nightgown within her own bed. Though Jonathan had kissed her once more, bidding her goodnight, her thoughts lay in chaos. She didn’t know what had possessed her to let him touch her so intimately. What he must think of her now.
She buried her head in the pillow, her cheeks burning. Every part of her body felt alive, as if his touch had transformed her.
But even more, she now understood what he meant about the unmentionables. The early designs were flawed, suited to a maiden—not a lover. Her mind was caught up in transforming the designs, while her heart bemoaned the liberties she’d allowed him to take.
Though she tried to console herself with the fact that no one would know what she’d done, she couldn’t avoid her own shame. She’d behaved like a wanton, surrendering to the tremulous feelings and reveling in the pleasure he’d given.
The guilt plagued her, as she worried over how this had changed their friendship. She doubted if they could go back to what it was. If it had ever been anything at all.
Closing her eyes, she clenched her legs together, almost wishing she could erase the moment they’d shared. And yet, she didn’t regret it. He’d given her a gift, a glimpse of carnal knowledge that she never would have had otherwise.
Inside, the bleak truth remained. He was leaving. These moments with Jonathan would become memories, stolen fragments of a dream.
Unable to sleep, she pushed back the covers and lit one of the lamps. Her room was freezing cold, but she needed to occupy her hands. Anything to escape the tumultuous thoughts racing through her mind.
Victoria reached for the purple corset she’d been constructing earlier. The color was a rich amethyst, and the matching chemise had a drawstring to adjust for a woman’s bust. Staring at it now, she realized it was entirely too prim.
She seized a pair of scissors and began tearing out the seams, changing the construction while her mind drifted back to the moment Jonathan had touched her. Her hands reshaped the fabric, as she envisioned his hands upon her nipples, how he’d taken her into his mouth.
She worked through the night, sewing up the seams until her eyes blurred. When at last the first rays of dawn slipped across the horizon, she set the sewing aside. It was, by far, the most scandalous garment she’d ever created. Likely, it wouldn’t sell.
But she’d poured her own desires and needs into every stitch, remembering the swift pleasure that had consumed her. There were pieces of herself in this corset, dreams of another life.
She packed it away in brown paper, her feelings bruised and hurting. When it was done, she stared outside at the sunlight as it pierced through her window.
It would be today, she vowed. No matter how long it took, she would take her first step outside.
It shouldn’t be this difficult to brew a cup of tea. Jonathan had searched everywhere for Mrs. Larson’s hidden container of tea leaves but had come up with nothing at all. A cup of boiling water wasn’t precisely what he’d wanted to bring to Victoria.
The tea was a distraction, a means of speaking with her. He didn’t doubt she would be embarrassed by what had happened between them. But he held no regrets. Instead, her passionate response had flared up the desire to touch her again. To sheathe himself within her body and pleasure her until she grew pliant in his arms.
One night would never be enough. And he didn’t know what to do or say now.
Quiet footsteps intruded, and he looked up to see Victoria standing before him. She wore a light blue morning dress with gloves and a bonnet.
“I want to try again to go outside,” she said. Not a word did she say about their intimacy last night, but he saw the restlessness in her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept well.
“Are you ready?” he asked. Thus far, she’d been nowhere near venturing beyond the door.
When he studied her, he caught a glimpse of iron resolve. As if she were somehow trying to punish herself for the way she’d allowed him to touch her. He set down the kettle and saw that her face was pale, her gloved hands clenched together.
“Why now?”
“Because you’re leaving soon.” She revealed nothing of her feelings, merely stated the fact. “After you’re gone, I might not have the courage again.”
She spoke as if he were leaving tomorrow. As if there would not be another chance for her.
“Do you want me to go, after what happened between us last night?” He couldn’t read whether it was her anger speaking or shame.
Vulnerability passed over her face, and she lowered her gaze. “I don’t fault you for it. I could have told you to stop.”
Jonathan closed the distance, until she was backed against the kitchen table. “There’s no shame in what we did, Victoria.” He didn’t want her believing that there was any reason to feel guilt. He rested both hands on either side of her. “Unless I hurt you.”
She shook her head slowly, admitting, “You made me forget everything else. And I believe… with your help, I can forget about my fear.”
“All right.” He offered her his arm, and she took it, looking as if she were walking toward her own beheading instead of the front door. They went up the stairs, toward the main floor. Her steps grew slower, until she stood an arm’s length from the door. For a moment, she stared at it, as if gathering her courage.
“It can wait until tomorrow,” Jonathan offered.
“No, it can’t.” She closed her eyes. “Go on and open it.”
Her face had gone white, the terror locked inside. Jonathan moved to her side, his own gait unsteady without the walking stick. With his arm around her, he felt her frigid skin. “Are you certain?”
She nodded, still keeping her eyes tightly screwed shut. Jonathan opened the door slowly and felt the instant transformation in her posture. She started to bolt, but he used his strength to hold her in place.
“Don’t,” he warned. With both arms around her, he held her trapped. “Open your eyes.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You don’t have to move at all, but you must look around you.”
Her arms came around him in a tight embrace, clinging to him as if he were the ledge above a precipice. Jonathan leaned in, kissing the side of her face and moving down to her throat. Against his mouth he felt the tremor of her rapid pulse, but she didn’t let go of him.
“You’re with me, Victoria. I won’t let any harm come to you.”
He stood motionless, heedless of the wind blowing powdery snow toward them. “Look at me,” he commanded.
Her eyes fluttered open, her panicked gray eyes staring into his. “I’m here,” he reminded her. “And I won’t let go.”
Her arms locked around his neck, but she nodded.
“Would you care for that dance now?” he teased.
A faint crease touched her mouth, but she shook her head. “It’s freezing out here.”
“I could warm you afterward.”
Her cheeks flushed at his wickedness, and he adjusted his grip around her waist, moving her slightly to the right. “What are you doing, Jonathan?”
“We’re going to take one step beyond the threshold. Nothing more,” he promised. “If you think you can manage it.”
Her eyes never left his. In them, he saw her growing doubts and the fear that shadowed all else. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Will you try?”
Victoria tightened her grip around his neck and gave a single nod. Her eyes closed again, and he held her against him as he took one step beyond the
door. The snow had drifted up to their knees, and she gave a slight shiver when they were within it.
“Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea. Our feet are getting wet,” he noted. “Shall we go back inside?”
She shook her head. “No, not yet.” A minute crept onward while she stood still, the snow blowing against her bonnet. Snowflakes caught on her lashes, her mouth slowly relaxing from its tightness.
And then she opened her eyes to look around her. The fear was still there, but beneath it, a note of triumph. Though she never let go of him, a soft smile spread over her face.
The trip from London to Scotland had taken far longer than Beatrice had ever imagined. After the snow had grown too deep to continue by coach, she’d hired a driver to take her the remaining distance by sleigh. She huddled within the conveyance, hot bricks at her feet, while she shivered. With every mile homeward, she worried over the revelation that Victoria was stranded alone with a stranger.
She’d wanted to confront Mr. Sinclair, to demand what he knew about the wounded man. But he’d left a day earlier, and might be there already.
Her mind turned over the conundrum, not knowing what to do. Why had Mr. Sinclair left? Did he believe Victoria was safe, so long as the man was unable to harm her? Troubled thoughts brewed inside, for she didn’t know what to do. She wished Henry were here to help her through this mess.
But then, he hadn’t been here for several years. She’d had to solve every muddle on her own. If this man had indeed ruined Victoria, he must be made to wed her.
Her gaze slipped down to the handkerchief Sir Alfred had left behind in the coach. It had contained half a dozen sugar biscuits with the note: For your journey.
She’d eaten them over the course of several days, unable to stop the flutter that arose in her heart at the gesture. When was the last time her husband had done anything like this?
Or when had she done the same for him? The truth sank within her, for she was just as guilty for being thoughtless. She’d stopped bothering with her appearance, giving all of her attention to the girls.
She reached for the handkerchief and shook out the crumbs, folding it neatly. Though Sir Alfred claimed he wanted only friendship, she suspected that he was only waiting for a hint of returned interest.
Beatrice twisted her wedding band. Henry had given her garnets for faithfulness. And although she had been faithful to him all these years, perhaps it was time to put more effort into their marriage. To try and resurrect what they’d lost.
He was a baron now, with the responsibilities that accompanied the title. Most men sold their commissions and ended their military service. Why, then, had he returned to the battlefield? Was he avoiding them? Sobering at the thought, she promised herself that she would write a proper letter, one that would remind him that he had a wife and family waiting at home for him. Perhaps he might return if she asked him to come.
The coach followed the jarring road north, while all around her the green Highlands rose. Trees nestled against the hills, their branches coated with snow, while a silvery loch gleamed in the distance.
When she saw the gathering of tents, her heart sank a little. The Scottish refugees were still here, camped upon their land. A few of them came out to stare at the coach, and when she saw a mother holding the hand of a young girl, it reminded her that only a few thousand pounds separated their fates.
She’d met with the solicitor and learned that their situation was dire indeed. Perhaps it was a blessing that she’d been forced to leave London immediately. At least she hadn’t had to see her daughters’ faces at the meager Christmas presents she’d left with Charlotte. After sending most of the dress money they’d earned to the land steward at Norfolk, she had nothing but stockings and a pair of gloves for each of them.
The coach pulled up to the driveway, and she stopped short at the sight before her. Victoria stood embracing a man Beatrice had never seen before. The two of them were leaning in to each other, the man watching her daughter with the eyes of someone who desired her.
But more than that, Victoria was standing outside, for the first time in years. It was nothing short of a miracle. Her daughter wasn’t pushing the man away, either. Her arms were wrapped around the man’s waist, and there was a light in her expression, as if she were… happy.
Beatrice didn’t know what to think of that.
When the driver opened the door, she took his hand and stood in the middle of the snowdrifts, staring.
“Lady Lanfordshire, shall I bring in your bags?” he was asking.
She shook her head, hurrying forward. The only thing that concerned her at this moment was finding out precisely who this man was and what his intentions toward Victoria were.
“Victoria!” came her mother’s voice.
Jerking backward, Victoria was shocked to see Beatrice hurrying through the snow. She tried to go back inside the house, but Jonathan tightened his grip on her hand. “Don’t run,” he warned. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”
Oh, yes, they had, but she didn’t want her mother to find out about any of it.
“We’ll stand and you can introduce me to her,” he said.
When her mother reached the steps, her gaze shot from Jonathan and back to her. There were a thousand questions bubbling within Beatrice, Victoria had no doubt, but her mother voiced only one.
“Are you all right, my dear?”
Victoria managed a nod. “This is Mr. Jonathan Nottoway, Mother.”
She introduced Beatrice in turn, and Jonathan gave a respectful bow. “Lady Lanfordshire.”
At a loss on how to explain herself, Victoria offered, “We should go inside and I-I’ll make some tea.”
“Where is Mrs. Larson?” Beatrice asked, in a voice lined with steel. There was no mistaking her disapproval, but there was nothing she could say to make this any easier.
“She went to visit her family for the holiday,” Victoria managed, as her mother came inside the house. “Where are my sisters?”
“Still in London.” Beatrice removed her bonnet, shaking the snow from her skirts. To the driver she called out instructions to bring her belongings inside.
She moved inside and turned to Jonathan. “Wait for me inside the parlor. I know you’ll understand that I must speak with my daughter alone.”
There was no mistaking the reproach in her tone. There was no way to know what her mother was plotting, but Victoria gave a nod to Jonathan.
“You did well,” he said, in parting. The compliment slid past her defenses, warming her. Despite the tongue-lashing she knew her mother was about to impart, she had overcome her fears and taken that first step. Jonathan had given her that, and she was eternally grateful for it. It offered hope that she might take a second step soon, and then a third. By the summer, she might be able to visit the crofters.
Before she could entertain that daydream any further, Beatrice took her hand and half-dragged her toward the kitchen. When they were alone, she stared at her, as if not knowing where to begin.
Truthfully, Victoria didn’t know either. “Mr. Nottoway was shot by one of the crofters,” she said at last. “I saved his life with Dr. Fraser’s help. He’s been convalescing here.”
“I’d say he’s been doing a sight more than that,” her mother retorted. “He had his arms around you, Victoria. Or were my eyes deceiving me?”
“No.” Color blazed in her cheeks as she recalled what else she’d allowed Jonathan to do. The intimacies she’d shared with him went far beyond the boundaries of proper behavior.
“Are you in love with him?” her mother asked, softening her voice. “Has he… been kind to you?”
In love? Bewildered at the thought, she faced her mother, uncertain of what to say. She’d grown accustomed to having Jonathan around, and in his arms, he’d made her feel safe. Because of him, she’d managed to take the first step outside.
“I’ve only known him for a fortnight,” she said, avoiding a direct answer, “but he has been kind to me.”
“Marry!” She gaped at her mother, already shaking her head. “But I cannot marry him. I couldn’t leave—”
—this house, she’d been about to say. But he’d changed that. If he held her, guiding her outdoors, it was possible that she could leave. She tried to imagine herself as Jonathan’s wife, but could not envision herself as mistress of a household. The very thought terrified her.
Although he’d said little of his wealth, she was well aware of it. The cut of his clothing, the breeding in his voice… everything spoke of money. Whereas their family was struggling to survive their debts.
She simply couldn’t imagine him offering for someone like her.
“He has compromised your name,” Beatrice argued. “You were with him for weeks, alone and unchaperoned.” She frowned, adding, “And what happened to Cousin Pauline and her husband? Surely they would have come by now.”
“The letter you sent must have been lost,” Victoria said absently. “They never arrived.”
Her mother’s mouth tightened and the darkness in her gaze held suspicion. Even so, Victoria wasn’t about to reveal the truth.
“And why would Mrs. Larson leave you here? I shall speak to her about this. Such irresponsibility.”
“I sent her away,” Victoria said. “She wanted to visit with her family members for Boxing Day, as did Mr. MacKinloch. It was only right.”
“You are an unmarried lady,” her mother emphasized. “I cannot agree with you. You should never have been alone with this man.”
“He’s returning home as soon as his staff arrives,” she felt compelled to point out. “And I see no reason to force an unwanted marriage on him. He was shot, and I took care of him. That’s all.”
She kept her tone firm, hoping her mother wouldn’t see through her. Turning toward the large oak kitchen table, she rested her palms upon the wood, shielding her feelings.
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