Victoria continued to walk, circling the fountain. The exercise kept the chilly night air at bay, but she also wanted to keep her distance from Taviston right now. The smoldering looks and electrical touches that had passed between them earlier in the night had a strong tendency to beguile her. Though she had enjoyed playing her charade inside, the entire scene had left her oddly unsettled.
She looked over at him. “I haven’t visited your garden. Why do you ask?”
“I only wondered how you knew it contains a gazebo.”
“It does? Excellent.” She snapped her fingers. “I made that up, hoping against hope you did have one. Truly, the gazebo was the only part of the whole story that might not have been true. It slipped out of my mouth before I even thought about whether it existed or not.”
Leaning back, he crossed his legs at the ankles then shook his head slowly. “You are a menace,” he said with a grin. “They are a gullible bunch, aren’t they? Ours, a love match?” He laughed again but this time the hearty sound grated on her.
“Why did you have to do something?” he asked, all seriousness now.
She stopped pacing. “I beg your pardon?”
“You said you had to do something about the gossip. Why?”
She began strolling again, mostly so she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. “You aren’t overly fond of scandal. This seemed like a way to make it disappear.”
Victoria stopped again, about ten feet in front of Taviston. “Something puzzles me. You have no trouble flouting some of Society’s conventions, such as walking to social affairs and wearing brightly colored waistcoats with your evening kit,” she nodded towards his outlandish orange waistcoat, “and yet you loathe scandal. I must say I find it disconcerting that it matters to you what Society thinks.”
Taviston shifted uncomfortably on the stone, but he didn’t hesitate in answering.
“Those first things you mentioned are trivial matters. I don’t let Society dictate to me on matters of personal preference.” He looked down at the ground. “I am concerned with upholding the distinguished name and reputation of my family, but I do not think that is anything out of the ordinary. In truth, Society’s opinion of me is inconsequential. If there is a scandal, however, it means I have—” He abruptly stopped speaking but didn’t look up from the trampled grass he stared at.
Victoria felt as if a garden rock had landed in her stomach. The duke’s thoughts were so clear to her she might as well have been reading his mind.
“It means you have made a mistake, doesn’t it? If you are involved in a scandal, then you have obviously erred.” She surprised herself by saying those words calmly. It was disheartening—no devastating—to learn she was just a huge mistake to him.
Taviston still refused to look up. He could probably see the tips of her slippers, but nothing else. “We all make mistakes,” he said defensively.
True enough, but it was obvious his mistakes, especially that night with her, ate at his soul. She stared at the top of his head, remembering how drawn he had looked on the day she demanded marriage. The urge to run again overwhelmed her but she kept her feet rooted to the grass. A swell of raw emotion built up inside her. Why did this revelation hurt so much? She had recognized his proper and upright behavior from the beginning.
She ignored the unknown feeling clogging her chest and addressed the black hair on the top of his head, “Yet you are also very concerned your brother might cause a scandal. How could his actions be a mistake on your part?”
Not a sound came from Taviston, but he stabbed his fingers through his hair and raised his head to look at her with apprehension in his eyes.
Then it came to her. Again. She pinned him with her eyes, hoping he couldn’t see the wreckage his words, and her enlightenment, had wrought.
“If Peyton caused a scandal then it would indicate you are not in control.” Victoria closed her eyes briefly. “Am I right?”
She didn’t trust herself to say anything more. She understood Charles Danforth, the Duke of Taviston perfectly now. He wished to control every aspect of his life. Would that include her, once they were married? She did not think she could submit to such a way of life, no matter how much she loved him.
She loved him.
Every rigid, uncompromising inch of him.
Taviston abruptly stood up and said in that proper voice he hadn’t used with her in some time, “I find this analysis of my character tiresome. We should return.”
She hadn’t moved a muscle in minutes and suddenly realized she was shivering. Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.
His hand settled lightly on her back as they started down the path leading back toward the terrace. About halfway along, they became aware of other voices.
Taviston suddenly stopped and, wrapping his arm around her waist, pulled her off to the side of the path and turned his back to it. As she opened her mouth to question him, he sealed his lips to hers.
The kiss, infused with a mysterious emotion, shocked her. His emotion, not hers. This kiss wasn’t about passion, or even desire. His lips feasted hungrily on hers as his hands cupped her face. She sensed that he searched for an answer. That he wished to steal some response from her very breath. But to what question she did not know.
Her own emotions were too exposed, too fragile at the moment for her to even think about responding in kind. Who knew what she might reveal to him if she opened up and shared herself?
As soon as someone passed them on the path, Taviston released her, confusion and disappointment shining in his eyes.
He stiffened and cleared his throat. “I apologize. I was attempting to continue our charade from earlier.”
Now he offered an apology for a kiss?
Arm and arm they walked back to the house, but for all the tension present they might have been separated by ten feet. For someone who could lie to others rather well, Taviston was horrible at lying to her.
TAVISTON STRODE THROUGH his front door after the rout and said, without looking at Halston, “I wish to be alone. See that I am not disturbed.”
Bloody hell. How he needed to be alone. He rightfully should have been angry with Victoria for her fanciful playacting at the rout. But when they had reached the garden, she had looked so pleased with herself, he hadn’t had it in him to feed the fires of his ire. So they had laughed, leaving him feeling much better about the whole scandalous incident. He had even been briefly gratified to learn that she had invented their “love story” in order to redirect attention from the gossip, just for him.
Despite that, the evening had changed completely when she had correctly figured out how his mind worked. That left him chilled to the bone. Neither Peyton nor Northfield, the two people who knew him best, had ever been able to understand his actions so well. It was singularly unnerving to have someone point out the motivation for one’s actions when one had never even thought about the reason for doing something. But Victoria had been spot on. Taviston knew it as soon as she said it. He feared scandal because he despised making mistakes and could not bear losing control of any given situation.
As he made his way towards his study, he stripped off his coat and then unbuttoned his waistcoat. Victoria’s perception had spawned numerous unknown emotions and he had had trouble sorting them out. Thinking the answer to his confusion might lie within her, he had kissed her. Her blue eyes had been unreadable, however, and her kiss devoid of feeling altogether, which had left him even more unsettled than he had been earlier. If nothing else, he had thought they would always have passion.
Throwing open the door to his study, he tossed his coat across the chair in front of his desk while he undid the uncomplicated knot in his cravat and removed that as well.
“Do you always feel the need to strip off your clothes in this room?”
Taviston started at the sound of his brother’s voice. He turned around to see Peyton sitting before the fire with a glass of brandy in his hand and the customary twinkle in his eye.
&nb
sp; “Peyton,” he greeted his brother while giving up his hope for solitude. Maybe he didn’t need to be alone right now; perhaps talking to Peyton could help him clear his mind.
He ignored the comment about his clothing and finished taking off his waistcoat, then walked to the corner of the room where a high table held a decanter of brandy and glasses. He poured himself a good measure.
“So, how was your first social event as a betrothed couple?” Peyton asked.
“Disastrous.”
Peyton’s eyebrows lifted but he didn’t speak. Taviston sank into the chair across from him. As he gazed into the fire he elaborated, “Not long after we arrived, the gossip spread that we were forced to wed because we had been caught in a compromising position.”
“God above, Taviston. Tell me you didn’t display that dejected look to your bride. Tell me you didn’t let her know you only agreed to marry her in order to stem the gossip.”
It was an odd feeling to have his younger brother be disappointed in him, but there was no mistaking Peyton’s tone.
“It is the truth, is it not? I am doing what I must. Victoria Forster is not my ideal. She’s entirely unsuitable for the position of my wife.”
Peyton swiped his hands over his face and through his hair. “Have you no sensibility? You have stated your opinion about Miss Forster’s suitability often. Pray tell, explain to me why she is so unworthy of marrying the great Duke of Taviston. The man who, by the way, debauched her.”
Taviston tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. Did Peyton understand anything? “She was raised in the country, without a mother or father. She doesn’t know anyone in Society. I highly doubt she knows how to run a household of this size and I can say with conviction that she surely wouldn’t know where to begin to host a ball, a soiree, or even a simple dinner party. She’s not at all the kind of woman I was hoping to marry, Peyton.”
His brother snorted. “I had no idea you were only looking for a wife to perform such services for you. I can only assume since you left out providing you with an heir, you believe Miss Forster capable of performing that duty.”
“Peyton,” cautioned Taviston.
“Have you always felt this way about marriage? Have you never wanted to marry for love?”
Peyton had leaned forward in his chair and Taviston felt as if he were being interrogated. Solitude would have been so much better.
“I suppose you do want to marry for love?” He turned the question back on Peyton, hoping to avoid answering himself. He couldn’t conjure an image of Peyton married. It boggled the mind.
“Of course,” Peyton said matter-of-factly. “Who wouldn’t, after witnessing the marriage of our mother and father? Frankly, I would have to be in love in order to shackle myself to one woman for the rest of my life.”
Taviston could only shake his head. The vast differences between a firstborn and a second-born, in outlook and attitude toward life, reared before him anew. No wonder Peyton never understood Taviston’s actions or his reasoning.
Taking a swallow of the brandy he had so far ignored, he eyed his brother. “The only reason any female member of Society wants to marry me is because of my title. Oh, and I mustn’t forget my wealth. I could place an advertisement for a wife in the newspaper tomorrow morning and I would no doubt have fifty women on my doorstep by mid-morning. I would most likely be acquainted with at least forty of them, but I guarantee you they would not know a thing about me personally.”
Peyton wore an expression of exasperation that Taviston had grown used to. “But Taviston, you never let them know you.”
“Because they do not care. All fifty of them would agree to marry me nonetheless, without knowing a damn thing about me. So tell me why I shouldn’t choose someone who could capably serve as my duchess?”
As he realized that point was even now moot, Taviston finished off the rest of his brandy in one gulp.
“But surely Victoria—”
Taviston cut Peyton off. “She is only marrying me because she doesn’t want to live with her cousin any longer and because I am, after all, a duke.”
Peyton’s eyes grew wider. “She told you that?”
“Yes,” he replied tersely.
“Unbelievable,” Peyton mumbled. He looked uncertain but met Taviston’s eyes nevertheless. “I am sorry about the scandal. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Taviston couldn’t help chuckling. Despite all, it was still an amusing story. “Victoria has taken care of it.”
Peyton eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
“The ton is, at this very moment, speaking of nothing else but the love match between the Duke of Taviston and Miss Victoria Forster. I love the irony, don’t you?” He shrugged with a casualness he certainly did not feel.
Peyton looked as if he were afraid to ask, so Taviston launched into the story of the evening’s drama.
Clearly dumbfounded at first, by the time Taviston finished Peyton held his side, laughing. But he managed to ask, “I must hear this proposal, Taviston. I can’t imagine such spontaneous words of love and longing coming out of your mouth.”
So Taviston obliged him and repeated his fake proposal, as best he could remember it, and Peyton laughed all the harder.
Finally, he offered Peyton his hand and hauled him to his feet. His brother could barely speak around the laughter still coursing through him. “I have never, ever wished myself present at a respectable social function until now. Damn my low standards!” He sobered up and draped his arm around Taviston’s shoulder as they made their way toward the door. “Brother, I am sorry things have not turned out the way you had anticipated. Victoria does seem to make your life interesting though. I have no doubt that Mother will be able to teach her all she needs to know. All you can do now is move forward and embrace the fact that she will be your duchess.”
He nodded at Taviston and then left.
His duchess. What a sobering thought. Heaven help him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A light rain fell against the window of the yellow sitting room. Each little drop that hit the pane, though hardly louder than a whisper, boomed like a drumbeat inside Victoria’s head. She had not slept much the last two nights. After the rout, she’d stayed up late working on a special sketch for Mr. Ripley, an endeavor that had sapped her emotionally. Yesterday morning Timothy delivered a note to the printer, asking him to meet Victoria in the park, even though it wasn’t Monday. She’d delivered the sketch to a delighted Mr. Ripley, who had paid her another pound.
Then last night her mind had been consumed by her heart’s traitorous affection for the duke who married her merely for honor’s sake. Though she had thought she surely deserved to shed a few tears, none had come. Such maudlin behavior did nothing to change things anyway.
Molly entered the room after a light knock on the door and announced, “Lady Northfield has arrived, miss.”
Jane sailed into the room, full of goodwill and cheer, obviously more than ready to help Victoria find a wedding dress. Victoria nodded her thanks. She had stationed the maid in the front hall so that Molly, instead of the intolerably rude Morgan, might escort Jane upstairs.
“What is the matter? You don’t look at all well.” Jane quickly sat on the sofa beside her.
Victoria mustered a smile because she was delighted to see Jane and because she had had enough drama last night. Being weepy and dispirited would not help her cope with the knowledge she had discovered two nights before. “I will be fine, Jane,” she prevaricated. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You don’t look fine, especially for someone who is the subject of all the latest scandal broth, in a decidedly good way. Have you seen the new issue of Hither and Yon?” Jane produced the newsletter from her reticule. “Can you believe this sketch of you and Taviston?”
Well, of course she could. She’d poured hours into drawing herself and her future husband gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. What better way to sell the story of their l
ove match and keep the scandalmongers at bay? A coyly placed fan hid her face so that Mr. Ripley wouldn’t recognize her.
“I have a headache,” Victoria admitted, deciding to ignore the sketch, “but only because I was awake the last two nights, realizing a dreadful truth.”
“That you should have made a wonderful actress?” Jane teased.
Despite her misery, a soft laugh escaped Victoria’s lips. “No, even worse.” She quickly sobered though and couldn’t stop herself from admitting the truth to Jane. She had to confide in someone other than Arthur. “I truly am in love with Taviston.”
No wonder it had been so easy to pretend.
Not a trace of surprise shone in Jane’s blue eyes. “I see,” she said while picking at some invisible thread on her green muslin skirt. “Most women who find themselves in love are a little more... how shall I say it? Happy. Joyful. Exuberant. Blissful. Choose which one describes your emotions best.”
Victoria rose and walked over to the chair on which Arthur sat. He had deigned to return from his adventures today. She picked him up and took his spot in the chair, settling the large ball of fur on her lap.
“I am feeling none of those things,” she said as she stroked Arthur’s head and back.
“Please enlighten me as to how it could be dreadful to marry a man you love.” Jane kept her voice level and her tone sympathetic, but Victoria couldn’t help but think a bit of amusement lurked somewhere in her friend’s attitude. “Is he not worthy of your love? Is that it?”
“That’s not it. He is very worthy of my love. I don’t believe many people realize what a wonderful man he is. He’s intelligent, thoughtful, responsible and passionate. He also has a brilliant sense of humor he tries to hide. In addition, he is annoying, irritating, and frustratingly complex.”
A broad smile swept over Jane’s face. “You are in love.” Then her smile faded. “I still don’t see why this is so horrible. You know how impatient I am, so please explain.”
Arthur jumped down from her lap and Victoria stood. The feline strolled over to the window seat and hopped up. Using his large front paw, he tried to trap a rain drop sliding down the outside of the glass. Without realizing he had been unsuccessful, he tried again when another cascading drop caught his attention. Victoria watched him futilely repeat this pattern again and again and shared Arthur’s torment of wanting something beyond reach.
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