“Victoria, please. One battle at a time. Right now, we’re tired—bloody tired, some of us—and facing monstrous enemies. Let’s live through this first, and then we’ll worry about eventualities six months in the future.”
Could he be more pompous and infuriating? Angry, Victoria tugged the top sheet off her and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Unaided, a hand out to stop him from helping her, she stood. Steadying herself by holding on to the overstuffed but firm mattress, she faced her husband.
“This cannot wait six months, Spencer. It will not magically correct itself. With only silence and mistrust between us, what do we do from there? Will we know how to proceed together? How will we make a marriage? On what will we base it?”
He cocked his head at a wary angle. “What exactly, are you saying, Victoria?”
The moment was here. But the words absolutely would not come. Some yearning part of her heart would not allow them past her lips. As if possessed of their own volition, her teeth clenched, holding the oh-so-final words in. Victoria swallowed, felt on the verge of tears again.
“Victoria?”
With a supreme effort of will, she blurted: “I want to be the one to make the break. I’m asking you for a divorce.”
At that exact second, with the words still ringing in the air, before Spencer could reply or do anything but stare in shock at her, the door from the hallway opened. He pivoted about, no doubt ready to send flying whoever had dared to interrupt them. Of like mind, and almost shouting with disbelief, Victoria moved away from the bed until she could see around her husband.
There stood the jovial Dr. Hollis with his medical bag. Victoria’s mother was behind him, peering curiously around his shoulder. “Yoo-hoo, you two,” she sang out. “We are in luck. Dr. Hollis was nearby. And here he is, ready to see his patients.”
* * *
It was two hours later, and night had fallen. The rain had stopped, leaving the air fresh and cool. Downstairs, as Victoria was very aware, her family and Dr. Hollis were dining together in the formal dining room. Wonderful aromas floated up the stairs, along with snippets of conversation or a muted laugh. Upstairs, in the elegantly appointed sitting room that formed part of the suite assigned to the Duke and Duchess of Moreland, Hornsby had wheeled in, on a white-cloth-covered cart that could double as a small dining table, the requested private supper for the suite’s occupants.
Hornsby and Rosanna had then worked together—for once and quietly—to arrange a suitable and pleasing setting for their employers. A tiny vase with a single red rose was set in the middle of the cart and between the place settings. Covers were whisked off warmed plates and placed on the cart’s middle shelf, which was hidden from view by the long drape of the tablecloth. Linen napkins were snapped open and readied for use. A bottle of wine was decanted, and the heavy silverware was correctly positioned. Finally, two nicely padded chairs had been pulled from an intimate grouping in the room and placed one at either side of the charming, polished wood cart.
Once these preparations were concluded, Rosanna and Hornsby went downstairs for their evening meal. And that left the Whitfields alone in each other’s presence for the first time since Dr. Hollis had opened the bedroom door earlier. Though they were dining together, one word had yet to pass between them. Monks who had taken vows of silence could probably carry on a far livelier conversation amongst themselves than she and her husband seemed capable of having, Victoria groused but not with too much conviction. Meaning, she wasn’t certain she wished to hear Spencer’s thoughts right now.
And so, the only sounds in the room were those made by a meal in progress. Silver cutlery clattering against a dinner plate. Water or wine being poured into the appropriate glass. Victoria kept her gaze on her plate, which was heaped high with many of her favorites. Annabelle had outdone herself. The cook had prepared a roast of beef, glazed ham, buttered potatoes, squash fried with onions, green beans flavored with strips of bacon, buttermilk biscuits, peach preserves, and apple pie. Wonderful.
However, the dinner cart was hardly big enough to avoid seeing Spencer, even if Victoria did not look directly at her husband. After all, he sat no more than a very few feet away from her, facing her. She could smell the clean scent of him. He’d of course bathed and changed his clothes. Gone was the bloody shirt, replaced by a crisply ironed white one, open at the throat. Earlier he had stalked back into the sitting room wearing the buff riding pants she loved to see him in, his finely honed thigh muscles working with each step he took in his highly polished Hessians. His black hair had still been damp and a lock had fallen provocatively across his forehead.
It wasn’t the only thing that crossed his forehead. As it turned out, she’d been wrong. He had needed stitches, Rosanna had reported. Five of them. And now, a thin white bandage of gauze was wrapped, Indian style, around his head, doing nothing to detract from his dark and dangerous good looks. Victoria was not immune. He was the most handsome and desirable of men.
Certainly, she knew what it was like to have this man kiss her, to have his hands roving over her body and pleasing her. She knew what it was like to have him move down her naked body, kissing and nipping and sampling as he went. She knew the power of his lovemaking and what it meant to lose herself, if not her mind, in the hypnotic rhythm of his thrusts—
A loud clattering sound jolted Victoria back to the moment and had her gasping. Her gaze locked with Spencer’s. His frankly staring black eyes and raised eyebrows told her the offending sound had come from her side of the table. She cast her frantic gaze downward, searching—and saw, to her horror, what had happened. She’d become lost in her sensual reverie and apparently her nerveless fingers had dropped her fork onto the rim of her dinner plate. Certain she was red up to her hairline, she fumbled for the incriminating piece of heavy silverware and finally secured it in her grip.
“Victoria?”
Her gaze locked with his. “I’m fine. Really. Just a momentary thing. Please. Go on with your meal.”
He didn’t look as reassured as she’d tried to make him. “Are you certain?”
She nodded furiously, feeling the heat of her blush deepen. What she wouldn’t give right now for her fan to cool her face. As she had no idea where it was, she plopped her fork on the tablecloth, plucked her napkin off her lap, and folded it into a thick square, which she used to cool her face. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Do you feel ill?”
“Far from it, Your Grace.” When he raised an eyebrow to an impossible height, Victoria instantly realized why and corrected herself. “I mean ‘Spencer.’”
He did not acknowledge her correction but asked: “Why did you drop your fork?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say.” She was sure she wouldn’t say, that much she knew.
When she could no longer sustain eye contact with him, she set about the business of unfurling her napkin and very precisely placing it across her lap. Only now, her clothing felt twisted for some reason. Exasperated, and fumbling under her husband’s watchful eyes, she, as ladylike as possible, twisted and turned in her chair, adjusting the lay of her long and clinging skirts. She wished now she’d fussed more with Rosanna when she’d insisted Victoria dress comfortably in her nightclothes—a white linen lawn gown and wrapper, both frilled and laced. Light and heavenly, yes, but not very formidable covering. What she needed was a full suit of armor.
“What are you doing, Victoria? What is the matter?”
She sat suddenly still and met his dark eyes. “I am making myself more comfortable.”
“And are you now?”
Clearly, he was perturbed. His voice was that of a reproving parent forced to dine with an especially irritating child. How dare he? Victoria snatched up her water glass, downed the contents, and thumped the glass back down on the dinner cart. Forcing herself to meet his steady gaze, she raised her napkin to delicately wipe at her lips. For some reason, this amused her husband, if one could judge by the grin—smirk?—toying with his lips. �
��I beg your pardon, sir, but what is so funny?”
He grinned outright now. “I do apologize, madam, but I have just never before seen a lady wipe her mouth with the corner of a tablecloth.”
“The—?” She snapped her gaze down to her lap. Sure enough, she had crumpled in her fisted hands not her blasted napkin but the tag end of the table covering. Completely vexed, but not about to be bested, Victoria primly straightened the rumpled cloth and smoothed it over her knees until it hung free between her and the cart as it was supposed to do. As she did, she explained, straight-faced: “It’s quite the usual thing in America, you know. I’m surprised you have not observed this custom before in your travels to this continent.”
“Apparently, and before now, I have moved in the wrong circles to see such … table customs.”
Pompous man. Curse the luck, now she could not find her napkin. As nonchalantly as possible, and tucking her hair behind her ears as she did, Victoria looked to either side of her chair. No napkin. Not on the floor. Not stuck between the chair and herself. Where had it gone?
“I believe you will find it behind you,” Spencer said, pointing to her left.
Victoria sat rigidly still. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. Your napkin. Somehow, in all your twisting about, it’s got behind you. Would you like for me to retrieve it for you?”
“No.”
“As you wish.” He picked up the water pitcher and, his expression innocent, said: “As you’ve downed yours, would you care for more water?”
“No, thank you.” Damnable man. Victoria feared she would have to literally kill her husband to get him to go back to eating and ignoring her as he had been doing for the past ten minutes since they’d convened for supper.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Spencer replaced the water pitcher without comment and continued with his meal. Victoria subtly exhaled her relief and picked up her fork. Stabbing a bite of ham with more force than was necessary … a sudden memory assailed her: When she’d been a little girl and angry and had done this same thing, her father had always told her such force wasn’t required as the animal was already dead … she poked the polite-sized tidbit into her mouth and chewed defiantly as she glared at her remaining meal.
“Because the child you carry could be my heir,” Spencer said without warning, “there’s not going to be a divorce. Or even a separation.”
Victoria had to choke down the ham she’d been in the process of swallowing. Her heart thumping and knocking about in her chest, she watched her husband calmly pouring himself a second serving of wine. His black-eyed devil’s gaze briefly met hers and then returned to his task.
“May I have more water, please?”
“Of course.” So very accommodating, Spencer set the wine bottle down, grasped the water pitcher by its handle, and refilled her glass. Done with his task, he picked up his fork and continued eating.
Taken aback, Victoria stared, without the least bit of sympathy, at his gauze-wrapped head. That was it? Really? He could simply say there was not going to be a divorce or a separation? After being the one who had first brought it up back in England all those weeks ago and allowing it to hang, like a guillotine blade, over her head? How many nights had she cried herself to sleep worrying about this? Well, he just did not get his way all the time, now did he? Or the last word, either.
“Oh, yes, there most certainly is going to be a divorce,” she announced boldly into the quiet between them.
Spencer abruptly raised his head and watched her as he chewed his mouthful, swallowed and reached a hand down to his lap, ostensibly for his napkin—but came up, apparently unknown to him, with the other end of the tablecloth, which he used to wipe his mouth. Only a momentary flaring of her eyes escaped Victoria’s rigid control. She absolutely had her back teeth clamped together to keep from laughing out loud. But, alas, a strangled guffaw got away. She quickly raised her fist to her mouth and coughed to cover the laugh.
“Is something wrong, Victoria?” Spencer said, so coolly British and civilly. “Your face is red.”
His would be, too, if she told him what he’d just done. But she simply could not do it to the man. He’d already taken three blows to the head, two nearly coma-inducing and one requiring stitches, on her behalf in less than a week. Why add outright embarrassment to the awful list of punishments he would be made to endure? Finally, Victoria was able to open her mouth without shrieking with glee and, exhaling sharply, said: “No. Nothing is wrong.”
“Good.” Still oblivious, he smoothed the tablecloth back down onto his lap and again went back to his meal.
Victoria sat there, stunned. Had he already forgot her challenge to what he’d said? No, she suspected, he hadn’t forgot. He’d simply chosen to ignore it and her. But wait … hadn’t she had the last word on the subject, as it stood now? Yes, she believed she had. Good. Now she could spend her time thinking about more pleasant things. Like the buttered potatoes on her plate and this entire meal. It was, along with every other one she’d had since she’d been home, wonderful. She vowed that before she left for England—to live on her own, mind you—she would hire, at an exorbitant rate if necessary, a Southern cook. Perhaps that Sven fellow from the house in Savannah. Would her mother be furious if she stole him from her?
Good Lord, a Swedish cook in the South. She frowned, thinking: Maybe he’s from southern Sweden—
“No, Victoria. There is not going to be a divorce.”
That did it. Angry now, this time she purposely clattered her fork onto her nearly empty plate. Bracing her wrists against the table’s edge and to either side of her dinner plate, she leaned toward her husband and said: “Why ever not?”
“I have already said. The child you bear could be my heir.”
“And I have already said that makes no difference to how I feel. But even so, a divorce would not change the child’s status, would it?”
“No. But there will be no divorce. And I do not have to give further reasons, madam.”
“Maybe not in England you don’t, sir. But right outside that very window over there is an ancient oak tree dripping with Spanish moss that says you are in my country now and yes, you do have to give a reason.”
He shrugged. “Very well. Because it is too costly and would require an act of Parliament to make it so.”
“You’re in Parliament. See that it gets done. It should be easy enough for you.”
“Not so easy as you’d think, madam. I have political enemies who would take great glee in holding my feet to the fire—”
“They’re not the only ones who would—”
“—over just such an issue as this. And I will not give them the satisfaction or subject my family to such a scandal—”
“What family? Do you mean Edward’s esteemed mother? Or Edward himself? If Edward is your concern, sir, put that fear to rest. In fact, I think he’d be glad if you were to divorce me—”
“You will have to explain your remark, Victoria, because I don’t—”
“Gladly. Edward has already told me he would be happy to whisk me and my baby off to his castle, should you be so unwise as to set me aside—”
“He what?” Spencer’s outburst seemed to have the power to lift him bodily to his feet, where he stood rigidly at attention. “The devil, you say! Edward said that?” Spencer’s face was very red and his voice had gone up considerably higher than his normal pitch.
Horrified at what she had revealed, horrified at Spencer’s reaction, and terrified she would not be able to calm him, Victoria hurriedly scooted her chair back and stood. “He didn’t mean it, Spencer. Surely you know him—”
“Oh, yes, madam, I do know him—and much better than you do. I will take the backstabbing little womanizing jackanapes apart limb by limb—”
A knocking on the door to the hallway and its opening with a squeak had cut off Spencer’s harangue. “Hallo, in the sitting room! We’re coming in!”
That voice.
That British voice. Victoria’s heart plunged to her feet. But Spencer, triumphant, arched an eyebrow. Though she really didn’t have to look to know who was there, she turned with her husband to see Edward, with perfectly horrible timing, standing blithely unaware in the doorway and grinning. With him was Neville, who sat unconcernedly down and panted gently and watched without comment.
“Ah, there you are,” Edward trilled. “The two lovebirds—Good heavens, Spencer! You’re bandaged like a perfect savage. What in the world has happened to you now?”
“Not nearly as much as is about to happen to you, my dear cousin.” Spencer stalked toward a clearly startled Edward … with Victoria now hanging, ineffectually, on to his arm and crying out sharply for him to stop.
CHAPTER 16
“Stop, Spencer! I mean it, or I’ll sic Neville on you! I will. I’ll do it.”
Spencer sighted on the loose-jointed, rawboned dog. The animal had come to his feet and looked on, though not as benignly as Spencer would have liked. Cutting through his anger at Edward were Isaac Redmond’s words earlier about how the dog liked Victoria best of all. And already the hunter had heard its name and his and sic in the same sentence.
Halfway to the door and Edward, who had not exhibited the sense to flee but who still stood in the doorway, Spencer stopped. Gently but firmly, he disengaged his wife’s sharp fingernails from his arm and held her by her comely shoulders. As he stared down into her face, in one instant he shed his anger at Edward, though he’d not let that one know it. Replacing it was Spencer’s concern for Victoria’s well-being. After all, she’d experienced the same awful and eventful day, with a few exceptions, that he’d lived through. This constant upheaval could not be good for her in such a delicate condition. But, beyond that, he just did not like to see her upset.
So, when he spoke to her, his voice was more cajoling and reassuring than probably it was good for her to hear. “Shh, before you upset yourself and bring your entire overwrought family up here. I am not really going to kill Edward.”
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