Love and Marriage

by Alexandra Ivy

  “Even though it was all nothing more than a rather unfortunate misunderstanding?” he charged.

  Misunderstanding? Victoria blinked in shock, wondering if Humbly had forgotten the precise events leading to her scandalous marriage.

  “Rather more than a misunderstanding,” she felt compelled to point out. “He bribed a maid to unlock my door and slipped into my bed.”

  “Not precisely your bed,” he corrected in firm tones.

  Victoria could not help but be rather shocked at his seeming nonchalance toward her husband’s rakish habits. “He should not have entered any lady’s bedchamber.”

  “True enough,” he conceded with a faint smile. ”But in his defense, he did believe he would be welcomed. Had you not attempted to hide your own identity, he never would have troubled you.”

  It was a realization that Victoria preferred to forget. After all, she had meant no harm by her small deceit. And if not for Claredon, no one would have ever discovered the truth.

  “I hardly could have used my own name,” she said defensively.

  His gaze was speculative. “No, I do not suppose you could have.”

  Discomforted by that gaze, she gave a small shrug. “Besides, I could not have suspected that pretending to be Lady Westfield would create such a disaster.”

  “I have often discovered the simplest deceits can lead to disaster.”

  Victoria stiffened in disbelief. She had thought this gentleman her friend. Should he not be offering her comfort rather than condemnation? “Do you mean to imply that you consider me at fault for what occurred?”

  He gave a helpless lift of his hand. “I just wonder if perhaps both of you possess a measure of blame.”

  The urge to deny any share of the blame was halted upon her lips. As difficult as it might be to face, she did know deep within her that if she had not set aside her common sense and decided to elope with Thomas, she never would have been at that particular inn, nor would she have used her cousin’s name.

  Just as importantly, she was belatedly aware she had forgotten her determination to assure Mr. Humbly that she was quite satisfied with her marriage. Her wits were clearly more rattled than she had suspected by the appearance of the stranger and Claredon’s determination to capture him. “It does not matter now. It is over and done with,” she said in determinedly offhand tones.

  His sherry eyes narrowed. “Not if you harbor a lingering resentment toward your own husband.”

  With an awkward motion, Victoria turned to pace back toward the fireplace, effectively hiding her expression. His words were far too close for comfort. “Of course I do not. I have told you, it is all in the past. We have reconciled ourselves to the marriage.”

  There was a short pause before Humbly cleared his throat. “That is for the best. God often works in mysterious ways and the paths he leads us to are not always of our own choosing. But in the end, I believe it is usually for the best.”

  Victoria’s lips twisted. She did not believe God had any hand in the less than honorable reasons she and Claredon had ended up in the same posting inn. Still, if it comforted Humbly to believe her marriage was God’s will, who was she to disillusion him? “Yes,” she murmured.

  “And Lord Claredon will make you a fine husband, Victoria,” he continued, unaware of her unease. “Although I have only spoken with him briefly, I am convinced he is determined to be a good and faithful husband to you.”

  His words closely echoed Claredon’s, sending a poignant ache through her.

  Her body was already far too vulnerable to the maddening magic her husband could weave. Did she desire her heart and soul to be vulnerable as well? A shiver shook her body as she shied from the dangerous question.

  Now was not the time to be considering such bothersome emotions, she told herself as she turned back to face the vicar. Her thoughts should be firmly focused on ensuring Claredon returned home safely.

  After that . . . well, it was a worry for another day.

  “I believe Claredon is more determined to get himself killed than to be a good husband,” she said in impatient tones. “Where are they? It is well past midnight.”

  Offering a sympathetic smile, Humbly gave a lift of his hands.

  “It could be that the mysterious gentleman has not yet arrived.”

  Victoria gnawed her bottom lip, unable to halt herself from considering all the numerous disasters that might have occurred. “Or that he did not come alone and Claredon is in danger.”

  “We must not think the worst,” Humbly chastised gently.

  “Perhaps we should go and ascertain that nothing has gone amiss,” she abruptly suggested.

  Not surprisingly, Humbly gave a firm shake of his head. “Good heavens, Lord Claredon would have my head upon a platter if I so much as allowed you to step foot outside this house. Have mercy upon me, my dear.”

  She twisted her hands together, detesting the feeling of being utterly helpless. She was a woman accustomed to taking command, not waiting about like some vaporish miss. “But if he is in trouble . . .”

  “He has two grooms and Johnson with him,” Humbly interrupted in tones that defied argument. “If there has been trouble, one of them would have returned to warn us.”

  “If they were able,” she said in pointed tones.

  “You are allowing your imagination to overrule your common sense, Victoria.”

  Her features hardened with determination. “I still maintain we should go and ascertain that nothing has occurred.”

  “Absolutely not,” the vicar retorted, rising to his feet as if he would physically restrain her if necessary.

  “Mr. Humbly,” she began, placing her hands upon her hips. Her commanding words, however, were abruptly interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the foyer. Sharp relief raced through her. “They have returned.”

  Not bothering to wait for Mr. Humbly, Victoria raced from the room and down the stairs. From there it was only a short distance to the foyer, where she was brought to a startled halt at the sight of her husband being held upright by the two burly grooms. Her heart stuttered to a halt as her horrified gaze took in his disheveled appearance and the unmistakable darkness of blood staining the shoulder of his coat. “Dear God, Claredon, you are injured,” she breathed.

  Abruptly turning his head to discover her standing in the shadows, Claredon forced a rueful smile to his lips. “Just a trifling scratch, I assure you.”

  “Trifling?” she stepped into the pool of light offered by the gilded chandelier. “You are bleeding.”

  “The demon took a shot at us, my lady,” one of the grooms explained. “I told his lordship to stay down, but he would have to charge after him.”

  Victoria felt a flood of fury rush through her at the knowledge Claredon had so ridiculously endangered his life. Blast it all, did the man not possess the smallest grain of sense? “You charged after an armed criminal?” she demanded, her eyes smoldering with a dangerous fire.

  “Did you wish him to slip away so he could remain a danger to you?” he countered in grim tones.

  She was furiously unimpressed with his attempt at logic. “I did not desire you to take such foolish chances. You could have been killed.”

  “Highly unlikely,” he denied. “The scoundrel was too busy attempting to flee to take proper aim. It was only the devil’s own luck he managed to clip me.”

  Her stomach twisted in pain at his careless words. A few more inches and the bullet would have been in his heart. The thought was unbearable. He had no right to take such absurd risks with his life.

  No right at all.

  Glancing toward the door, where the coachman cowardly attempted to avoid her restrained anger, she stabbed him with a steely frown. “Johnson, go for the doctor,” she commanded in clipped tones. “You two take Lord Claredon up to his bed. I shall be up in a moment.”

  “Victoria, there is no need for a doctor,” Claredon protested. “It is nothing more than a flesh wound.”

  The near pat
ronizing tone in his voice abruptly snapped her composure.

  First being forced to wait at home while he played cat and mouse with the dangerous villain and now being treated like an overanxious nitwit was enough to infuriate the most patient of women. “You listen to me,” she gritted, pointing a finger directly in his face. “I am furious and not at all in humor to listen to your vain displays of ridiculous courage. A doctor will be fetched, you will go to bed, and I will be up to clean the wound in a moment. Is that clear?”

  There was a shocked silence before Claredon’s lips suddenly twitched with suppressed amusement. “Astonishingly clear, my dove,” he murmured in meek tones.

  Victoria gave a satisfied sniff. “Good.”

  * * *

  Claredon was accustomed to being fussed over. With a mother and seven older sisters, he had not been able to skin his knee without a clutch of women tending to him with tender concern.

  But he discovered it startlingly delightful to have his wife hovering over him as the doctor stitched together the crease made by the errant bullet. Almost as delightful as her tucking the blankets about him as the older gentleman packed his belongings and left the room.

  Despite her grim expression, she could not entirely hide the concern smoldering deep in her eyes. The knowledge stirred an odd tenderness in his heart. However cold she pretended to be, she did care in some small measure.

  He breathed in her warm, sweet scent as she arranged the pillows behind him. Ah yes, this was indeed more pleasant than the fussing of his mother and sisters, he acknowledged with a new stirring that had nothing to do with his heart.

  With a small tug, he could have her on the bed beside him, he thought with a flare of anticipation. And he could forget all about the aggravating hours he had spent crouching in the dark, only to have the scoundrel sense the waiting trap and slip away.

  She slowly straightened, bringing an end to any hope she might accidentally topple forward into his arms, and Claredon heaved a faint sigh.

  It seemed he would have yet another night alone in his wide, empty bed.

  Settling against the pillows, he regarded her with a faint smile. “I did tell you that it was no more than a flesh wound.”

  Her lips thinned with a simmering disapproval. “The most simple wound can kill if it is not properly attended to.”

  “Yes, my dear,” he murmured, his lips twitching. “Are you determined to remain angry forever?”

  “You took a ridiculous risk.”

  “I do not want this villain running about the neighborhood,” he said in stern tones.

  “It is the duty of the magistrate to capture him.”

  “It is my duty to keep you safe.” He reached out to grasp her hand, his thumb gently rubbing her cold fingers. “I will not rest until the madman is locked away or dead.”

  “I . . .” She appeared lost for words as a delightful blush warmed her cheeks.

  The hint of vulnerability in his staunchly independent wife was rather wonderful, Claredon decided. It gave him hope that she might have need of him, even if she was not yet prepared to admit it. “Does it surprise you to know that I am determined to protect my wife?” he asked softly.

  She gave a flustered shrug. “I am unaccustomed to having anyone concern themselves with my protection.”

  “Then it is high time someone did so.” Keeping her gaze locked with his own, he lifted her hand to press a kiss upon her palm. He felt a satisfying tremor race through her. “And in truth, it is a pleasure to be your champion.”

  Just for a moment there was a glimpse of deep longing in her beautiful eyes, a poignant ache to love and be loved. But just as he touched his lips to the frantic pulse of her inner wrist, she abruptly pulled away and resumed her role as the chastising wife.

  “You will not be my champion for long if you continue to take ridiculous risks with your life.”

  Claredon squashed his flare of impatience with her instinctive retreat. The one thing he had discovered in the past few months was that Victoria could not be rushed. To try and demand more than she was willing to give would only push her further away.

  “How fierce you sound, my dear,” he said in deliberately light tones.

  She placed her hands upon her hips. “I am attempting to make you be reasonable.”

  His gaze slowly lowered over her slender body, which was temptingly outlined by the soft muslin gown.

  “Ah, but a husband is not meant to be reasonable when defending his wife. He is meant to be fearless.”

  She gave a click of her tongue. “Will you please be serious?”

  “I am serious.” His gaze lifted to lock within her own, his expression hardening with determination. The knowledge that some strange man had dared to halt his wife’s carriage and to point a gun at her burned like a fever in the pit of his stomach. He would make the man pay for his audacity, no matter what it took. “Deadly serious. The villain escaped tonight, but he will not be so fortunate on the next occasion.”

  Clearly sensing the cold intent in his voice, Victoria frowned in concern. “What do you intend to do?”

  He gave a lift of his uninjured shoulder. “I already have servants watching the grounds, and the innkeep has promised to send word the moment Mr. Smith returns to his room. It will not be long before I have him cornered.”

  She took an impulsive step forward, her hands clenched together. “Promise me you will not approach him again without the magistrate.”

  He gave a slow shake of his head. “I cannot do that, Victoria.”

  Without warning, she seated herself on the edge of the bed and grasped his hands in a tight grip. “I want your promise,” she commanded.

  A flare of pure heat raced through him as her hip pressed against his thigh. He had devoted too many long nights to imagining her laid upon this bed, her fiery curls spread across the pillow and her slender limbs wrapped about him, to remain immune to her proximity.

  All his noble intentions to be patient and undemanding were suddenly strained to the very limit by a rush of fierce desire. “Do you know, I quite like this side of you, dearest,” he murmured softly.

  She dropped his hands as if she had been scalded, her expression suddenly wary. “What?”

  He smiled as he trailed his fingers up the length of her arm. Tracing her shoulder, then the provocative bare skin of her neck, he at last sought the satin fire of her hair and began removing the offending clips that held it in a tidy knot. “All this fussing and concern over my welfare is quite bewitching.”

  Her eyes darkened as the curls spilled about her shoulders. “Claredon,” she breathed.

  “Yes, my dear?” he murmured, running his fingers through her glorious hair.

  “I . . . what are you doing?”

  He smoothed the hair over her shoulder, then daringly allowed his questing fingers to follow the neckline of her gown. “Making you more comfortable,” he said in husky tones, his lower body clenching with need as his fingers lightly brushed the swell of her breast.

  She swallowed heavily, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “You are ill. You should not be moving about.”

  Claredon did not feel ill. In truth, he had never felt more gloriously alive than he did at this moment. Every sense had been heightened until his entire body tingled with awareness of the woman seated so close to him—the warm scent of her skin, the luscious softness of her breast beneath his fingers, and the press of her hip against the hardness of his thigh.

  It was enough to send him up in flames.

  “I have told you it is no more than a scratch,” he assured her, rather surprised when his voice came out in a low rasp.

  “Still, you need your rest.”

  He gave a low chuckle. “I would prefer a kiss.”

  “Claredon,” she breathed, attempting to appear scandalized, but only managing to be endearingly bewildered.

  “I did risk my life for you, Victoria,” he teased. “Surely I deserve some sort of reward?”

  “You deserve
a good hiding for your foolishness,” she retorted, but her voice had lost its sting.

  “Be kind, my wife,” he whispered, desperately willing her to give freely of herself. “I will not rest until I have received a small token from you.”

  There was a long, tense silence before she slowly leaned forward. Claredon’s breath caught as her lips softly brushed over his own.

  Swift, shimmering pleasure flooded through him. He groaned as his hand gently cupped her breast, his skin tingling as her hair caressed the bare skin of his chest. Never, never had he wanted a woman with such a blazing intensity, to bury himself deep within her sweet innocence and forget the world.

  And yet he made no move to halt her as she slowly pulled away.

  Suddenly he realized why he had urged himself to wait, why he did not want to seduce his wife against her will and against her heart: He wanted her to give of herself unconditionally.

  Perhaps baffled at his restraint, Victoria rose to her feet and nervously ran her hands over the folds of her skirt. “I will leave you now. If you have need of anything, you have only to call.”

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  “Yes, well . . . good night.”

  He folded his hands over his stomach as she edged toward the door. Soon, he assured his renegade body. Soon she would belong to him heart, soul and body.

  He could accept no less.

  Eight

  The sketch was not going particularly well.

  The arrangement of flowers that the gardener had gathered for her upon the wrought iron table in the conservatory was certainly lovely enough. Roses, daffodils, and rare Holland tulips offered a vivid splash of color in the slanting morning sunlight, but at last Victoria had to concede that her heart simply was not upon her drawing this fine morning.

  As was becoming all too familiar, her thoughts seemed determined to dwell upon the gentleman who was responsible for yet another sleepless night.

  She was still furious that he had dared to behave in such a reckless fashion. To even think of him charging through the dark in pursuit of an armed lunatic made her blood run cold. And the knowledge that he could so easily dismiss a bullet wound that might have been fatal—but for the grace of God—left a knot of unease in the pit of her stomach.