He waited for it to end. Prayed for it to end.
Then, suddenly, it did.
“Wake up, Luc.”
It was his brother’s voice. The voice he’d heard countless times in the early dawn, telling him he’d better get up if he wanted to catch any fish. He opened his eyes. He was lying on the bare wooden floor of an empty bedroom at Wyatt House. It was quiet, but for the ticking of his mother’s ormolu clock.
“Are we going fishing?” Lucien asked, relief flooding through him at the thought that it had all been a nightmare. A terrible, awe-inspiring dream. Gregory was not dead. Marissa was not in danger. It was a day like any other. Except that he was lying on the floor. That part was unusual.
He stared up at the white paneled ceiling, studying the ornate moldings along one edge where it met the blue walls of the room. It was blessedly quiet. No booming thunder. No rushing wind. No screaming horses or cries of agony. The ticking clock only served to make the silence thicker. A chill ran through him. Afraid to glance around, knowing he would find the room empty, he focused intently on a shell-shaped plaster flourish, then closed his eyes.
“It is time for me to leave, Lucien.” It was her voice, sweet and sad.
Tears leaked from his eyes, trailing down along his temples. “No,” he whispered. “Please don’t go.”
Finally, although dread weighted his muscles and made his movements stiff, he opened his eyes and looked at her. She was older now, but still wearing white. The red poppy was sodden, dripping crimson on the floor. “I must. It hurts too much to stay,” she replied, her eyes both sorrowful and empty, her skin as white as her dress.
“No,” he said again, repeating the word over and over. As though that would make a difference. As though it would change what happened. But it never did. Even as he said it, he knew. It never did.
~~*
Victoria wasn’t certain what awakened her. It could have been Lucien’s arm brushing her shoulder. Or the shifting of the mattress as he tensed and rolled onto his back. But she suspected it was the whimper. Such an unusual sound coming from her strong, commanding husband. The quiet cry sent ice trilling across her flesh.
“Lucien,” she queried softly, turning onto her side so she might see him better in the early light. Propping herself on one elbow, she shifted beneath the blankets and slowly reached out to stroke his bare shoulder with her fingertips. Damp. His skin was soaked with sweat.
He writhed and turned his head away as though in terrible pain. “No,” he moaned. “No.” His breathing quickened and every muscle tensed. Victoria’s chest squeezed around her heart. She stroked his arm where it lay, seemingly pinned to his side. His muscles were hard as stone. Pulling back the blankets, she saw that his entire torso fairly vibrated with tension.
What on earth? she thought, concern gripping her hard. Victoria debated the wisdom of waking him. Being awakened in the midst of a nightmare could be disorienting and embarrassing, especially if he knew she had seen him in such a vulnerable state. On the other hand, she could not bear to see anyone suffer so, even if it was inside a dream. Abruptly, he sighed, and as though a dam had broken, air surged out of him. His forehead smoothed, and within minutes, his muscles fully relaxed.
She murmured nonsensical reassurances, continuing to stroke his shoulder. Hours earlier, they had arrived home after making love in the carriage, both quiet and pensive. As he had slipped into bed beside her, she had fully expected to feel his arms slide around her waist, to have to explain why, after letting him seduce her in a darkened theater, she would once again deny him in their own bed. But he hadn’t touched her, had only sighed and drifted off to sleep, his breaths deep and long.
She was not so fortunate. As she’d lain next to him in the dark, she could not deceive herself: He was a constant temptation, the finest nine-course supper imaginable offered to a starving woman. Friendship had not eased her desire; but then, neither had holding him at arm’s length. So, what would you like to do now, Victoria? The answer came swiftly: To be his wife in all ways. But that was far too costly. Wasn’t it? The confusion had kept her awake well into the night. Finally, sleep had come, only to be interrupted by the troubled man beside her.
Slowly, she lowered her head back down onto her pillow, but remained watchful, listening for any change. It came minutes later with a whisper she almost missed. Immediately, she sat up, staring closely at his face. His mouth was open, working as though he were speaking, but no sound was coming out. It looked as though he was saying “no” over and over and over. The soundless plea amidst such stillness chilled her to the bone. It spoke of pain so deep, it could not be healed. Instinctively, she scooted closer to him, grabbing his arm and wrapping it around her, then hugging his side with her body. She lay her cheek against his chest, stroked his belly, and spoke his name gently. Again, and again, and again.
She repeated it a dozen times before she sensed him awaken. She knew because that airless whisper stopped. But he did not move, instead lying in perfect stillness.
“Husband?” she murmured. “Are you all right?”
When he didn’t answer, she lifted herself up to sit beside him and searched his face with worried eyes. His arm dropped onto the bed as though he had no strength. He was pale, but perhaps that was the watery gray light coming through the windows.
“Lucien, you were having a nightmare.” Carefully, she reached out and stroked his cheek, needing the contact probably more than he needed her touch. “It’s over now. Please tell me you’re all right.”
Several moments passed, several beats of her sluggish heart, before his dark, troubled eyes met hers. They were unreadable, but gleamed in the weak light. He turned away for a breath, then turned back but refused to meet her gaze, instead reaching up to stroke the small of her back through her night rail.
“I am fine. You should go back to sleep.”
She shook her head. “Your dream, it must have been terrible.”
He pulled away, throwing back the covers and sitting up on the edge of the bed. She watched as his strong, bare back slumped and his head hung forward for a moment before he stood and made his way toward the dressing room. He did not answer her question. He did not say another word. He simply dressed in riding clothes, came back to the bed to lay a gentle kiss on her forehead, then left her alone, wondering what had just happened.
~~*
Chapter Nineteen
“A woman has needs, Charles. Unfortunately for you, the greatest ones are the most expensive.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Lord Wallingham, upon being confronted with the bill from a day of extravagance at Mrs. Bell’s shop on Upper King Street.
“Take a look at this one.” Victoria shoved another fashion plate beneath Jane’s nose and watched her new friend roll her eyes. “Come now, the waistline is perfect. It’s a bit lower than most current styles, but I think for your shape—”
“You mean the shape of a giant strawberry?” came the wry response. “Please. Unless the cloth magically turns a sphere into a cylinder, this dress would prove no more flattering than every other gown in my wardrobe.”
Victoria sniffed. “Rubbish. You are not a sphere. You are simply generously endowed with ample curves.”
Jane turned to face Victoria, who sat beside her on a settee in Mrs. Bowman’s shop. She removed her spectacles and promptly offered them up. “Here,” she said. “I fear you may need these more than I do.”
Chuckling at her friend’s antics, Victoria shook her head and resumed examining sketches of gowns and accessories.
“You really do enjoy this, don’t you?” Jane asked.
Victoria glanced up, seeing genuine puzzlement on the young woman’s face. “It appeals to my love of beauty,” she answered. “Fashion is color, shape, and texture. It is an enhancement of one’s form.” She shrugged. “In some ways, it is like painting.”
On the opposite side of the room, Mrs. Bowman strode through with wide sweeps of her arms, rattling off instructions
in accented English, and leading two assistants behind her like puppies. Abruptly, she stopped mid-sentence, her eyes locking on Jane. Victoria looked over at her friend, who sat frozen in place. Mrs. Bowman walked toward them, a slight frown settling between her dark brows.
“Spaventoso,” the elegant woman muttered, her gaze fixed on Jane’s gown. Victoria could not be certain, as she knew only a smattering of Italian, but she thought the modiste’s comment was something along the lines of “appalling.” Mrs. Bowman reached forward and plucked at Jane’s pale yellow sleeve, which puffed out from her shoulders, then sagged rather sadly. “Hmmph,” the modiste grunted. “Who dresses you?”
Jane’s head jerked back a bit. “I—I beg your pardon?”
Victoria decided to intervene before Jane’s distaste for this outing grew any worse. “Mrs. Bowman, allow me to introduce Lady Jane Huxley, the daughter of Lord and Lady Berne. Lady Jane, this is Mrs. Bowman.”
Jane rose to her feet, her face flushing slightly. She greeted the modiste, who still examined her with a clinical, disapproving eye.
“I thought perhaps a new gown or two might be just the thing—” Victoria began, only to be interrupted by a long string of rapid-fire Italian. “Ah, pardon?”
Looking impatient, Mrs. Bowman turned to snap her fingers at a mousy assistant. “Take her to the back. We must measure first.”
“Oh, but I thought we were just going to look at fashion plates,” Jane protested weakly, her voice fading as Mrs. Bowman grasped her elbow and propelled her toward the curtained doorway to the dressing area.
A half hour later, Jane emerged through the same curtain, her face a study in misery, her hair slightly mussed, her yellow gown wrinkled on one side. She looked as though she had been caught up in a violent whirlwind.
“Oh, dear,” Victoria said, smothering an inappropriate urge to laugh. “Was it terrible, then?”
Jane picked up her shawl from where she had left it on the settee, sniffed, and pushed her glasses further up on her little round nose. “That depends on one’s perspective,” she replied matter-of-factly. “Do you enjoy torture by a thousand tiny pins and abject humiliation whilst unclothed?”
Victoria shook her head.
“Then yes. I believe ‘terrible’ would be accurate.”
Despite Jane’s resistance and numerous protests, over the next hour Mrs. Bowman and her two assistants drew up an order for a dizzying number of gowns, many in darker, more dramatic colors than were typical for a girl in her first or second season. The modiste commanded the effort like a conductor of a grand symphony, her hands waving theatrically, Italian phrases intermingling with English. In the end, the eight-page order was presented to Jane, who took one glance and blanched to approximately the color of chalk. Eyes wide as saucers, Jane shook her head, first slowly, then adamantly. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, but Jane, you must at least consider the bronze gown—” Victoria protested, only to be stopped by her friend’s flat stare.
“There is perhaps a month left in the season,” Jane said. “This kind of extravagance cannot be justified, even for one’s debut. And I am well beyond that.”
It was true. Jane was in her second season, and had yet to acquire a single suitor, much less a proposal. At nineteen, she had time left before she was considered on the shelf, but Victoria had hoped a new wardrobe might revitalize her friend’s prospects and boost her confidence. As it was, Jane was the quintessential wallflower—quiet, colorless, and invisible. And with her refusal of Mrs. Bowman’s efforts, that appeared unlikely to change.
“Bah!” Mrs. Bowman scoffed. “You English. Cold as fish and just as miserly.” The modiste snatched the pages from Jane’s hand and gave her an imperious glare. “Come back when you tire of looking like a dumpling.” She turned on her heel and stalked away, her assistants following like two obsequious shadows.
Nonplussed, Jane looked at Victoria, who shrugged apologetically. “Well,” the spectacled young woman said briskly. “I don’t know about you, but the mention of dumplings has stirred my appetite. Shall we adjourn for luncheon?”
Grinning at her friend’s good humor, Victoria agreed and looped her arm through Jane’s. As they stood outside the shop waiting for the Berne carriage to pull up, Victoria’s neck prickled. It was the oddest sensation, almost as though someone was staring at her without her knowing. She glanced around at the crowded walkways along Bond Street, but did not see anything unusual. It was most peculiar. She had experienced the feeling on two other occasions recently, but had not been able to pin down its source. Turning her head to scan the crowds again, she looked from left to right, only to freeze as she spotted a familiar face.
Mary Thorpe, sister of the Earl of Dunston, walked out of a neighboring shop and ambled toward them, her petite frame and cinnamon-colored hair instantly recognizable among the crowd of blond misses who accompanied her. While Victoria was not especially close with Mary, they were the same age, and their brothers were good friends. She got on rather well with the girl, who had always been perfectly amiable. Victoria had even considered her a possible match for Harrison, if he would only turn his attention to finding a wife.
Preparing to greet the girl, whom she had not seen in weeks, Victoria stood a bit straighter and pivoted in the group’s direction. Several of the blonds met her eyes, instantly stiffened, then whispered to one another. Mary’s eyes remained focused straight ahead, her mouth flat, as the group neared. Then, just before they would have passed Victoria and Jane, the girls halted, crossed to the opposite side of Bond Street, and continued north for a short distance before crossing the street again to resume their original course.
Her stomach cramped. She felt the sickness of embarrassment wash over her, prickling heat settling in her cheeks. What Mary and her friends had just done was as close to the cut direct as one could get without an outright confrontation. Such deliberate avoidance—as though merely breathing the same air as Victoria would somehow taint them—was a clear signal that the scandal raged on, a poison that could not be drained.
“I saw a pigeon do that once,” Jane’s dry voice interjected. “Turns out the poor thing had bashed its head and knocked itself silly only moments before. It’s to be expected, I suppose, when one’s brain is not quite up to snuff.”
Victoria struggled for a smile, swallowing hard. Jane squeezed her arm reassuringly. It was then that it struck her how risky their association was for Jane’s reputation. If their plan failed, being seen with the object of such notoriety could taint the girl and permanently damage her chances at a match.
“Jane, I …” Victoria began, but was interrupted when the coach emerged onto the street from the alley and pulled up in front of them.
“Ah, finally!” Jane sighed, waiting for the footman to open the door. She climbed inside, quickly scooting to make room for Victoria. As Victoria settled onto the seat, Jane reached over and patted her hand. “On our next outing, I shall take you shopping for books. There is this place on Piccadilly you will love. Well, I believe you will, but then I am hardly impartial—”
“Jane,” Victoria interrupted, hating this moment. “I am so grateful to have your friendship, but …” Tears—blasted, unruly tears—sprang into her eyes, choked off her well-intentioned words. She had so few true friends. Most of her female acquaintances were more like Mary Thorpe, polite and pleasant but superficial. In the past two weeks, Jane had become more dear to her than all of them combined, her steady nature and self-effacing humor a balm to Victoria’s spirit. While Lucien and Victoria had settled into a kind of cautious cordiality, they had not resumed their previous friendship, nor had he made any overtures of the amorous variety. It was most disappointing—er, refreshing. Yes, refreshing to be all but ignored by one’s husband.
She took a bracing breath and continued. “Until it happened to me, I never thought much about the people involved in scandals. I felt sorry for them, I suppose. That they had erred so badly. But this is … it is painful, Jane.” She
glanced up from her gloved hands to meet Jane’s warm brown eyes. “To be constantly reminded of your humiliation. To be scorned by everyone around you. I don’t think I could bear it—”
“Nonsense,” Jane replied firmly. “If I can bear Mrs. Bowman’s poking and prodding with her mighty pins, you can endure this. It will get better, you’ll see. Lady Wallingham has said it, and therefore it is so.”
This brought a brief smile to Victoria’s face. “I was going to say I don’t think I could bear it if you suffered in any way because of me. Already this scandal has burdened my brother, the duke, dreadfully.”
Jane went oddly quiet, her expression shuttered. “You still have not heard from him?”
Victoria shook her head. “Lucien has forbidden me to contact him, but there is nothing preventing Harrison from writing or visiting me.”
“Perhaps Lord Atherbourne has warned him away.”
“That may be so. But my brother is hardly one to concede to such a demand. No, after what happened at the theater, I fear Harrison is angry with me. Disappointed, certainly. Concerned about being further linked to such a scandal.” She watched Jane’s lips pucker in staunch disapproval. “It is no small matter, Jane. You could easily be tainted, as well. Perhaps we should not be seen together until matters are more … settled.”
One dark brow rose above the rim of her round spectacles. “You are presuming my many suitors will abandon me, and I will be left to wallow in isolation on the fringes of London’s ballrooms. Unheralded. Unnoticed. Undanced-with. Oh, the horror.”
“Jane …” she whispered, finally chuckling and shaking her head.
“Besides,” Jane said, her tone migrating from sarcasm to determination. “I will not allow a gaggle of narrow-minded know-nothings to dictate with whom I may associate. Really. As though they are so perfect. Adorra Spencer has teeth larger than my slippers. And don’t get me started on Lady Phillipa Martin-Mace.” Jane huffed in disgust at two of the four blonds who had crossed Bond Street to avoid Victoria. “Saw her kick a dog once. Poor thing. I pity the man who marries her. He’ll be black and blue, mark my words.”
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