“I don’t love him. You know you cannot doubt that,” she said softly.
“You cannot love me.” He did not look at her as he spoke.
“I have no choice in the matter. You know my parents will never allow us to marry. They would send me away, which would do neither of us any good.” And they would force me to give up our baby. But that was something that went unsaid. If George discovered she was expecting his child, there was no telling what he would do.
He whirled around, nostrils flaring and teeth bared. “You have a bloody choice. You have always had a choice, you just refuse to give up all”—he gestured wildly with one hand, while retaining a hold on the sloshing glass of alcohol in the other—“that you have, to live a life with a man who hasn’t your privilege, your esteemed titles.”
She closed her eyes briefly as pain exploded in a series of prolonged bursts inside of her. He did not understand the kind of sacrifice she would have to make, all she would have to endure. Things to him were simply black and white but their situation encompassed many shades of gray. Far too many.
“It is not that simple, George. I wish it were but it is not.” She dropped her head until her chin brushed the pale blue lace of her neckline. Her fingers curled tightly around the silver handle of her reticule.
“I want you to leave—and make sure you don’t come back.” He suddenly sounded drained of emotion. She lifted her head and gazed at him. He stared back at her with cold empty eyes. As if something inside him had died.
“I do not love him,” she said, as if saying the words again would somehow make things right between them. She could feel the onslaught of tears and was helpless to do anything to staunch their flow.
“He can have you.” He was dispassion and ice. “I do not want you anymore. I hope you will now find your way out.”
Never had she ever heard him speak with such finality. She had lost him pure and simple. She cast one last look back at him and if the longing, heartbreak and despair she felt was reflected in her eyes, it didn’t move him for he turned away.
Tears flowed freely down her face when she exited the flat, her head now shielded by the bonnet she hastily retrieved from George’s valet. She took the gray stone steps hastily. Blind to everything but her scraped raw emotions, it was the solid thud of a male body that jolted her briefly from her grief. Strong hands grasped her forearms to steady her.
“Pardon me, miss—”
She glanced up and experienced a strange cessation of breath. When she had thought things could not possibly get worse, they had. It was Lord Armstrong.
“Lady Victoria?” His brows rose in surprise.
“Lord Armstrong, do forgive me. I fear I was being a trifle absentminded.” She could think of little else to say.
“Lady Victoria, is something wrong?”
“Please pardon me. I am afraid I am already late in meeting my mother. I really must hurry.” She nearly leapt into the waiting coach, bypassing the assistance of the footman, leaving Lord Armstrong standing, his brow knotted, on the cobbled walkway. Fear now surmounted her grief, as a premonition of her world coming unraveled traced an icy finger down the length of her spine.
Chapter Sixteen
“Mama, about Aunt Camille’s invitation—”
The viscountess held up her hand. “Your brother has already spoken to me.” Her mother sat at a small writing desk in the music room, the letter she penned set aside, forgotten, as she focused her attention on her eldest daughter.
“Your brother seems to think it might indeed do you the world of good, but I am not so certain,” the viscountess said.
Missy hurried to her side, taking a seat on the floral chaise next to the desk. “Mama, I thought perhaps Cousin Abigail could act as my chaperone.”
Lady Armstrong’s expression immediately softened. Missy knew the deep affection her mother held for her niece by marriage and the absolute faith she had in her cousin’s judgment and abilities. If she hoped to sway her mother, she had chosen the right person to accompany her.
“Why, by next year I might very well be married and who knows when a trip to America will be possible.” It was sometimes frightening how the lies came so easily.
The viscountess gave her a tender look. “As much as I would love to keep you safe and close to me for as long as possible, I do understand your desire to go.”
She read the sympathy in her mother’s eyes and knew she was speaking of her feelings for James. Missy quickly dropped her gaze to her hands as the heat of a blush stole over her face.
“You have no need to be embarrassed, my dear. I was young once myself, and I know the agony of first love.” Her mother’s voice held the soothing warmth of the sun on bare skin on a beautiful summer day. Missy raised her eyes to hers and allowed her mother’s compassion to soothe her. Her father was lost to her mother forever. James was merely unrequited love.
“So you will permit me to go?”
Lady Armstrong nodded slowly. “Yes, I will permit you to go under two conditions. One, that your Cousin Abigail agrees to accompany you, and the second is that I receive personal assurances from Mr. Wendel of your safety on his ship. Being part owner in a shipping company must afford your brother some sort of privileges.”
Missy launched herself into her mother’s surprised arms, which swiftly encompassed her in a tight squeeze.
“Thank you, Mama, you will not regret this.”
“I sincerely hope not, my dear. Now you must go and write a letter to both your Aunt Camille and Cousin Abigail, and once you receive their replies, I will have Thomas arrange your passage. You will leave after my rout in August and return at the end of November.”
Giving her mother one last squeeze, Missy rose to her feet. “I will compose the letters today and send them out to post.”
James had never missed the Derby. At least, he had never missed the event since the age of five until this year. He absently rimmed the untouched cup of coffee, his thoughts elsewhere. Cartwright, sitting across the table from him in a small eatery on Regent Street, watched him steadily.
“Will you drink that before it turns to ice?” Cartwright flicked his head in the direction of the earthenware mug.
As the day of the official betrothal announcement drew closer, James knew his disposition soured disproportionately. He was sick to death of squiring Lady Victoria about town and playing the doting suitor. And the marchioness—he didn’t have a polite thing to say to the woman, so he wisely remained tight-lipped when in her presence, which was much too frequent for his liking.
“What I need is a real drink,” he muttered, setting the cup down and pushing it across the scarred surface of the wooden table.
“I see our match wasn’t enough to work off your foul mood,” Cartwright said.
James didn’t respond, merely turned to view the nearly empty streets through the large window at the front. Most of the masses, aristocrats, gentry, and working class alike, had taken themselves off to the Derby, which is where he should be. But a day standing in the heat of London’s June sun held no appeal. The crush of bodies, the scent of horseflesh and sweat, and the excitement of the races didn’t have the pull it normally did.
Cartwright preferred not to attend the Derby most years and this year was no exception. He thought the whole event rather overblown and hadn’t a penchant for gambling of any sort.
The door of the eatery opened and James was more than a little surprised to see Armstrong enter. Parliament hadn’t met today so he should have gone to the Derby hours before.
Armstrong immediately started for their table, his strides long and swift on the wood floors. Cartwright swiveled in his seat just in time to see him drop into the chair next to him.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Cartwright asked, his surprise evident in his voice and raised brows.
Armstrong didn’t even glance at him, his regard intent on James. “Last night I saw Lady Victoria coming from Clifton’s residence.”
Car
twright sat straight back in his chair. Then two pairs of eyes trained on James, closely gauging his response. The full impact of what the viscount had just revealed was slow to penetrate, but when it did come, the import left him reeling, confused, elated.
He stared at his golden-haired friend for several long seconds, giving his head a mental shake. “You don’t believe there is—” He slapped the palm of his hand down hard on the table. “White’s! That would explain why he looks at me as if he’d like nothing better than to see me drawn and quartered.”
“Now you can’t go off half-cocked,” Cartwright said, always the voice of reason. “There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
“Which I’m sure she will convey to me when I ask her.”
The viscount brought his seat closer to the table. “Damn, I still find it rather hard to believe Lady Victoria would risk herself by carrying on with Clifton. The marchioness elevates snobbery to an entirely different level. If it were not for your vast estates and holdings,” he looked pointedly at James, “I’m certain even an earl wouldn’t be good enough for her.”
James nodded his agreement.
“Well if I were you—and I am most happy I am not—I would approach Clifton, not Lady Victoria.” Cartwright bore the sage look of a man far more advanced than his twenty-five years. “If she has been lying to you, who says she’ll come clean with the truth? Who says she won’t come up with some fairy tale for being at Clifton’s home?”
“I agree with Cartwright.” Armstrong said.
“The man despises me, he won’t give me an audience,” James grumbled.
Cartwright chortled. “When has that ever stopped you before?”
A half smile tugged the corner of James’s mouth. He had a way with people. They would either listen to reason and, if that didn’t suffice, he had been known on occasion to apply brute force. But he didn’t want to brawl with the man; he just wanted to talk.
“I doubt he will grant me entrance to his lodgings, so I’ll seek him out at White’s tomorrow evening. I know he fairly haunts the place after his day in Parliament. He can hardly avoid me there.”
James found Clifton seated at the very same table, hunched over a glass of alcohol looking just as surly as he had the last time he encountered him. But the circumstances were much changed now, and he was far more knowledgeable. So instead of passing his table, with Clifton’s brown eyes bearing down on him with stark animosity, James shouldered his way past many of his rowdy, drunken contemporaries to the table.
If a look of hatred could fell a man, James would be lying dead on the floor. James noted his bloodshot eyes but, surprisingly, the rest of him appeared well put together. His clothes were impeccable, and his neckcloth hadn’t lost that crisp starched look.
Coming to halt in front of the table, James cast a long shadow over his seated form. “Clifton, you don’t mind if I take a seat, do you?” But it wasn’t a question. Before the man could utter a sound, he pulled out the empty chair opposite him and sat down.
Clifton stared at him through glazed eyes, his mouth twisted in a scowl. “We have nothing to discuss, my lord.” He infused the address with venom enough to send a host of small animals darting for cover.
James’s intention wasn’t to further provoke the man, but he saw his task wouldn’t be an easy one. His own ire began to rise, and the only thing that stopped it from spiking right along with Clifton’s was the matter concerning a woman. James had never come across a woman he would willingly fight over—fight for—especially if said woman had cunningly plotted to leg-shackle him.
Easing back into the chair, James rested his back against the laddered frame. With a studied casualness, he loosened the buttons on his charcoal gray coat, splaying his legs before him, and folded his arms across his chest.
“It’s hard to believe Lady Victoria has the power to reduce you to this. I had thought you above such behavior,” he drawled. The brief flaring in Clifton’s eyes gave him away. He had hit his mark.
“You don’t know anything,” Clifton replied, raising his glass and tossing his head back for a deep swallow.
James snorted. “Like bloody hell. She was seen leaving your lodgings in tears the night before last.” If he pushed, he was certain Clifton would break. The man exuded an acridness that probably burned right through to his soul.
“What, you’re not comfortable marrying soiled goods?” he bit out harshly.
James had known, so no great surprise showed on his face. He had sensed the truth the moment Armstrong had relayed the incident to him. And it had taken so little prodding to get the man to admit to it.
He stared at Clifton, who in turn stared right back at him, glowering and tense, as if he was on the verge of a big explosion. Then Clifton dropped his head. His eyes closed, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly. For a moment James thought he would break down and—God forbid—cry. He shifted uncomfortably at that notion, and sent a singular prayer for that not to occur—at least not while he was sitting there. Seconds later, and with a deep inhalation, Clifton seemed to visibly pull himself together.
“So perhaps you can explain to me why the blazes she set out to trap me into marriage.” James’s voice was calm, completely juxtaposed to the tumult of his emotions.
Clifton snorted derisively. “Why don’t you ask her yourself.”
James pushed from the table and rose to his feet. He gazed down at the broken man before him, who, like an animal, lashed out when it was hurt. “Believe me, I intend to.”
He gave a curt nod and pivoted on his heels. Before he was out of earshot, he heard Clifton call out, his voice slightly slurred, “Good day, my lord.”
James paused before resuming his course. Lady Victoria would have plenty to explain in the morrow.
James could barely believe he’d endured the ten hours that had elapsed since he confronted Clifton, with such incredible forbearance. The marchioness was delighted to find him waiting in the foyer the following morning at nine o’clock sharp. His one wish was she disappeared just as quickly as she’d come.
She ushered him into the drawing room, like a clucking hen, assuring him in the most solicitous tones that Victoria would be arriving shortly. He declined her offer of coffee, tea, hot cocoa, and pastries—French, because they indeed are the flakiest—with a polite but firm shake of his head.
To his undying relief, Lady Victoria arrived just as her mother launched into a monologue in reference to an outing of some sort.
“Lady Victoria, you’re looking well.” He duly accepted her proffered hand and brought it up to his lips to plant a fleeting kiss on the cool, white flesh.
“I shall leave you two now. I am sure you have many things to discuss,” the marchioness simpered. The swish of her heavy skirts as she bustled from the room was one of the most pleasing sights and sounds James had witnessed thus far that week.
“Good morning, Lord Rutherford. What brings you by so early?” Her gaze didn’t quite meet his own probing stare. Her eyes were faintly red-rimmed, as if she’d been crying, and she had a pinched look about her mouth.
“Perhaps we could take a seat outside in the garden.” He inclined his head toward the doors off the drawing room leading to a lavish garden where yellow daisies ran amuck down the side of the house. He motioned with his hand and she led the way, glancing back nervously as she did. Her blue eyes watched him as if she sensed something unpleasant awaited her.
Humid air met them as they emerged into a day begun with feeble sunlight and ominous gray clouds. Lady Victoria took a seat on the wooden bench, her skirt literally overrunning the smooth, aged surface. James parked himself on a black wrought-iron chair facing her.
Raising her gaze to his, she appeared excessively proper, her pale hands neatly folded in her lap. His eyes caught their tremor.
She didn’t look like a treacherous liar, nor did she appear to be a woman who had so little conscience as to trap a man when he was deep in his cups, suffering a weak moment in his
life. Amazingly enough, she was both.
“You certainly look serious this morning.” An uneasy laugh accompanied her words.
He hadn’t realized his expression had altered enough for her to make that observation. But then, why should he put on a false face? He wasn’t pleased and he wouldn’t pretend otherwise.
“I want you to tell me what has transpired between yourself and George Clifton.”
Lady Victoria stilled and her face went as white as the handkerchief in his jacket pocket. Her eyelids drifted shut. Her slender shoulder lifted and fell.
“Do not bother with any denials because I know you were seen leaving his quarters quite distraught. Also, I have spoken to Clifton. It came as some relief to find out why the man so despises me.” His tone gave nothing, hard and implacable.
Several times she opened her mouth, as if to say something, and then snapped it closed. She did at least have the grace to look discomfited; a crimson tide spread from the area exposed by her square-necked morning dress, up to her face. She was unable to meet his gaze. Slowly, she unclasped her hands and held out her palms, imploring. “I was desperate.” Her words came out a barely audible whisper, forcing him to strain for every word.
“So I was to be the sacrificial lamb?”
She peered anxiously up at him. “I beg your forgiveness. I know what I did was unforgivable. My only excuse is that I would have done anything to prevent Mother from forcing me to marry Lord Frederick.” Clutching herself about her waist, she shivered as if the mere thought was too abhorrent to be borne.
Yes, Lady Victoria presented a pitiful sight, her slender form bowed over in guilt and anguish, her eyes glassy with tears, but James remained unmoved. The damn chit had only been thinking of herself when she cooked up her scheme to trap him. His wishes had not once been considered, so—as sorry as she professed to be—he could not summon up an ounce of sympathy for her quandary.
“I assume I’m not the father of this baby you carry—or does a child even exist?” he asked, a cynical smirk twisting his mouth. “Did you get Dr. Litchfield to part with his ethical scruples to lie for you?”
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