At those crucial moments, the gentleman Tom had always striven to be (a sensible, logical, upright fellow cast in the mold of his uncle) had disappeared behind the shadow of an uncontrolled, violent cretin.
Tom swallowed down his nausea. If he lived, he’d have enough regrets to last him the rest of his days.
He wouldn’t allow his behavior toward Victoria to be another. His sole remaining occupation for the day was to apologize to her. Tom threw a glance up the staircase, inhaling to calm his impatience.
He forced himself to adopt a relaxed stance near the circular table in the center of the foyer. Even as he’d drafted his will with a solicitor and written letters of farewell to his mother and to his uncle’s family, he’d tried to assure himself that his fits of temper (twice in as many days) would not cost him his life. Tom was a decent shot, but from what Charles had told him, Carmichael was better than decent. Actually, “unrivaled marksman” was the phrase Charles had used.
Of course, a duel often hinged on luck as well as skill. As for luck: well, Tom’s luck had never been in high supply. But he would not leave Victoria to Carmichael’s machinations, nor could he leave the family that depended on him.
So make your own luck, you bloody fool. He’d repeated the sentiment in his head as the day wore on—even as he’d walked to Vicky’s house. Of course, when he realized he’d also been telling himself all he wanted was to see Vicky one last time—to apologize to her before it was too late—he’d nearly turned back. Such thinking should not grace the brain of a fellow about to make his own fate.
Tom took a deep breath and glanced up at the empty staircase again, wondering for the first time if she’d even see him. Then he wondered what he’d do if she wouldn’t.
As soon as Mr. Carmichael left, Vicky ran back into the house. She didn’t stop until safely in her room. She locked the door behind her, threw herself on the bed, and buried her head in the coverlet, pounding her fists into the soft feather mattress.
Her situation was intolerable. Mr. Carmichael didn’t want her. He said he cared for her, but his idea of caring for a wife seemed to mean directing her every thought and action. She couldn’t deny her attraction to him, but how could she marry someone who wouldn’t accept her for who she was? Perhaps she would change eventually, but she wouldn’t do so because her husband wished it. For all his good qualities, Mr. Carmichael would trap her.
Which left Tom. Surely he’d grown accustomed to her by now. Surely he wouldn’t try to change her? Then she remembered why he’d proposed: to keep her from marrying Mr. Carmichael.
If she refused Carmichael, Tom’s reasons for marrying her disappeared. Yet, it wouldn’t be in his character to withdraw his proposal. He’d consider himself bound to her. And she’d trap him just as surely as Mr. Carmichael would trap her.
She held her forehead in her hands. How could she do it to him, knowing how it would feel? She couldn’t. Tom deserved better too.
Vicky stood and flopped into a chair near the fire. There, she found herself staring at the intricately patterned wallpaper, as if the answer might emerge from its whorls. A knock at the door startled her out of her mental tirade.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s Thea. May I come in?”
Vicky sighed, but pushed herself up to go to the door.
As she opened it, her sister gasped.
“Vicky, are you well?”
Vicky touched her hair self-consciously and felt how disheveled it was. Then she dropped her hand and turned back to the bed. What did it matter?
For a moment, Vicky considered pretending nothing had happened, that all her hopes hadn’t been shattered, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She walked back to the bed and sat. She looked at her sister. Althea’s brows knit together.
“Thea, I don’t know what to do.”
Althea nodded slowly. She closed the door behind her and walked to a chair. “Mama told me Tom proposed. Does Mr. Carmichael know?”
Vicky bobbed her head.
“What did you say to him?”
So many things she didn’t care to relive at the moment. “I told him I wanted a husband I could trust.”
“What said he?”
Vicky swallowed. “He said I should banish my childhood ideals.”
Althea raised her brows. “There have been recent times where I would have agreed with him,” she stated.
Vicky looked away.
“And what of Tom?”
“I cannot trap Tom into marriage.”
Althea frowned. “He proposed. How would you trap him?”
Vicky couldn’t meet her gaze. “He could not speak of love. Only duty.”
“Perhaps, as Papa implied, Tom has other considerations.”
Vicky eyed her sister, not liking where she was headed. “Such as?”
Althea said nothing. They both knew she’d meant Vicky’s dowry. If Mr. Carmichael was right, Tom could have more need of it than he’d let on last night.
“If,” Althea said, “Tom has more pecuniary concerns, you would hardly be trapping him. Instead, you could see it as—a partnership.”
Vicky’s head started to swirl. She’d go mad if she continued in this vein. She needed rest.
Vicky looked at her hands and stilled as she realized she was wringing them together. Then she raised her head as someone scratched at the door.
“Who’s there?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from breaking.
“It is Sheldon, Lady Victoria.”
Vicky uttered a relieved sigh at the butler’s voice. The last thing she wanted was to attempt to explain her feelings to yet another person.
“Yes?”
“Lord Halworth is here, my lady. Shall I tell him you will receive him?”
Althea raised an eyebrow.
Vicky couldn’t see him now—not like this. She needed to prepare herself. And she was sick of men turning up without notice, telling her what she thought. “Tell Lord Halworth he may come back tomorrow if he pleases, but I will not see him today,” she called through the door.
“As you wish, my lady,” the butler intoned from behind the door.
Althea frowned. “At least hear what he will say.”
Vicky shook her head. She looked out the window onto the square but barely registered the bustling people below.
“Not all men are like Dain,” Althea said, her voice more steady and sure than she’d sounded in weeks. “I cannot speak for Mr. Carmichael, but we have known Tom since he was born. If anyone had reason to lose his generosity, it was he—especially after his father threw him out. Yet, he rose above it. Even had we not known him all our lives, his goodness would be unmistakable.”
Vicky turned back and looked at her sister. She sat in the upholstered chair, her spine straight, her face composed and assured. Her delicate hands lay still in her lap, and her cheeks held the slightest bloom. It was almost as though her true sister, and not the fragile imitation of recent weeks, had returned.
But Althea’s serenity could not reach Vicky. “What if he does need my dowry?”
“Even if it were so, that would not change who he is. And now he is here, you may put the question to him directly. Ask him if he needs your dowry. At least then you will know the truth.”
She couldn’t bear to listen to him say the words. Her chest constricted at the thought. “Tom is the last person I wish to see at the moment. I cannot hear another argument to the contrary!” She wheeled around to face the window as her tears burst free. Hating her weakness, she swiped them away. Then she felt her sister’s presence close at her back. Althea’s light touch on her arm brought more tears forth until Vicky gave an involuntary sob.
Her sister turned her away from the window and wordlessly folded Vicky into her arms. It had been so long since she’d cried into Althea’s shoulder. Gripping her sister’s willowy torso, she wept with all the bitter frustration and misery in her heart.
Tom studied the massive vase overflowing with blue and p
urple blooms on the entry table. He hadn’t yet decided whether to tell Vicky about the duel. A part of him wanted to explain everything. Yet he couldn’t hurt her again by revealing she was part of the reason he’d accepted Carmichael’s challenge.
Hearing footsteps, Tom looked up. The butler descended the staircase. Vicky was not with him.
“Lord Halworth,” the man began formally, “Lady Victoria will not see you.”
Tom took a step backward. Could the man be serious? Yet he’d wager Sheldon had never made a jest in his two hundred years of life.
“Is she unwell?”
“I cannot say, my lord,” Sheldon replied. “She did say you might return on the morrow if it pleased you.”
Tomorrow might be too late. “I must see her today.”
“I’m afraid she will not see you, my lord,” the butler said, his expression unwavering.
“Then you may tell her I refuse to leave,” Tom stated.
The man blinked once, turned, and ambled slowly back toward the stairs.
Tom rubbed his neck. He couldn’t wait another ten minutes for Sheldon to return. He closed his eyes and took a breath, willing himself to have patience. When his eyes opened, the butler had only reached the foot of the stairs. Whatever patience Tom had gained in the last few moments evaporated.
In a series of quick strides, he reached the staircase, ascended the bottom steps before Sheldon could, and yelled, “Victoria! Victoria, I must speak with you.”
“Lord Halworth,” the butler sputtered.
No doubt he’d never seen such a display in his life, but Tom didn’t care. “Vicky!”
Two men appeared as if from nowhere. A moment later, hands gripped Tom’s arms with vise-like strength. One of the men Tom recognized as the guard he’d spoken to last night.
“Unhand me, damn you!” Tom tried, rather unsuccessfully, to sound superior, hoping it would be enough to make the burly guards take pause. He called Vicky’s name, louder this time.
The men started dragging him down the stairs.
Tom did his best to hold his ground, and managed to grab the railing on the staircase, but their combined strength overpowered him. They yanked at his arms until his hands began to lose their grip.
“I don’t believe that will be necessary,” a commanding voice intoned.
Still holding the railing, Tom craned his neck. Vicky’s father stood in the foyer. He held his side with one hand as though the effort to speak loudly had pained him. Then again, maybe the scene he’d just witnessed had pained him.
The guards released their grip on Tom’s arms, and the earl motioned for Tom to follow him. Tom straightened to his full height. He threw a glance at Sheldon and the men, who eyed him warily. It seemed his brief theatrical display was over.
With a swift downward yank, he pulled his waistcoat back to its original position and strode down the stairs with more dignity than he felt. He followed Vicky’s father down a hall until they reached a room not far from the entry. The earl walked around a large desk and sat behind it, gesturing for Tom to sit.
Tom took a walnut armchair. He hadn’t seen the earl since before the attack on their carriage. A dark bruise marred his cheek. Various cuts on his brows and lips had yet to heal. His light brown hair seemed grayer than Tom remembered.
For moments, neither of them spoke. As the silence lengthened, a muscle in Tom’s neck screamed at him to stretch it. He didn’t have time for this. All he wanted was to see Vicky and be on his not-so-merry way. He was grown now, and he wasn’t going to stand being treated like an errant child, even by Lord Oakbridge. Not today.
Resolved to break the silence, Tom opened his mouth to speak. Lord Oakbridge cut him off.
“Let us come to the point, shall we?”
Tom nodded. They could have done so moments earlier.
“I know quite well how Vicky once felt about you. I daresay when you were young, she cared for you and your opinions more than her own sister’s. But you must now be aware that Vicky changed after you left England. A part of her disappeared and has never quite returned.”
Tom frowned. It had taken him some time to see it, but of course she’d changed. Yet he wouldn’t say it had been for the worse.
“Sir, why are you telling me this?”
The earl sat back in his chair. “Victoria told her mother you proposed marriage last night.”
Tom nodded. “I did.” Was Lord Oakbridge irritated he hadn’t asked his permission first?
“I take that to mean you gave some thought to the offer,” he prompted, watching Tom closely.
Tom hesitated for a split second. “I did.”
Lord Oakbridge nodded almost imperceptibly. “For a moment, let us pretend I am not Vicky’s father and that I’m not fiercely protective of her. Now imagine yourself in my position—on one side there is a man who has expressed interest in Vicky who is wealthy and known to be honorable. On the other is a boy she has cared for in the past, in dire financial straits—albeit with a title of significance—but who also has the distinction of breaking her heart once before. Whose suit would you promote, I wonder?”
“I am no longer a boy, sir,” Tom said evenly.
Lord Oakbridge inclined his head. “Perhaps not. Yet at nineteen I would hardly call you a man of experience.”
Tom said nothing. When viewed in such stark contrast, he was clearly the lesser suitor. But as for breaking Vicky’s heart, he was at a loss. She’d essentially still been a child when he’d left England. They’d been friends—the best of friends, even—but nothing more.
The earl cleared his throat, and Tom focused. He knew what the earl wanted him to say, but he’d never agree Vicky should marry Carmichael. Just the thought had his pulse thrumming in his ears again. The hand lying on his knee clenched into a fist. He would not let it happen.
“I do not know if Victoria has told you, but we both have suspicions about Mr. Carmichael—”
The earl put up his hand. “I will not hear any more nonsense about Mr. Carmichael. He has done a great deal for this family and is a man of unimpeachable moral character.”
Tom exhaled and sat back in his chair, appalled by the ridiculous statement. Unimpeachable moral character? How could everyone be blind to Carmichael’s true nature? He looked over the earl’s battered face—the only man he’d ever respected as a boy. “Did you think the same about Dain?”
The earl got to his feet. “That’s quite enough. It may not have been your intention, but you have been a black cloud over Victoria’s life for the last five years. Now it is time to stop causing her pain. Allow her to move on.”
Tom shook his head. “Sir, you mistake me—”
“I do not,” the earl snapped. “Let her go.”
Chapter the Twenty-Seventh
He cannot much longer deceive himself.
—Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
Shortly after five o’clock, Tom arrived home, still stinging from Victoria’s refusal to see him. He felt such a fool. He’d practically yelled down Aston House to see her, and all he’d received was her father’s lecture.
Entering the library, Tom rang the bell and asked for Susie when the butler came in. The man bowed and left.
Tom sat behind the desk. He pulled a piece of paper from the drawer and inked his pen. His hand hovered over the paper as he struggled with what to say. The devil knew what she thought of him.
A small drop of ink clung to the tip of the pen. Too tired to react, Tom let it fall to the page. After a moment, he put the tip of the pen to the dot and drew a line, which he then made into the letter M.
My Dear V—
“Tom?”
He looked up. Susie stood just inside the door. He motioned for her to come in. As he looked at her strawberry-blond curls and dimpled cheeks, he realized today might be the last day he spent with her. No, blast it all, he would make his own luck on the morrow.
“Are you all right?” Susie asked.
Tom sighed and put his pen back in the
stand. “I want to ask a favor.”
“Of course. You know I’d do anything you asked,” Susie said, sitting in one of the armchairs.
He took a deep breath. “If I don’t return tomorrow—”
“Tom, don’t say such things.”
He swallowed. “We must prepare for whatever may occur. If the worst should happen, which I do not anticipate, will you deliver a letter to Lady Victoria for me?”
Susie’s eyes widened.
“I know I haven’t had the opportunity to introduce you to her, but make Charles take you. If I leave it to him, I worry he’d wait too long or even forget. And I would like you to be acquainted. You think similarly on many points. She could use a friend. So could you,” he finished with a weak smile.
He should have introduced them before, but it was too late now.
He shook his head. When was it ever appropriate to discuss one’s father’s infidelities? He’d been shielding Vicky from his father’s secrets for so long, he hadn’t known how to stop.
Despite the hardship his request might impose, he knew Susan wouldn’t refuse him. But the silence stretched and still she did not answer.
“Does she know about me?” she finally asked.
Tom looked down at his letter. “Not as such.”
In his peripheral vision, Susie narrowed her eyes.
He met her gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Did you ever tell her what Father was doing to you—and the others?”
“She saw what he did to me; she now knows it was a regular occurrence. As to the other—” He cleared his throat and cast his eyes at the paper. He’d only spoken the truth once. After months of Susie asking him to tell her stories about their father, one day in Solothurn, Tom had lost his temper and blurted out his ugliest memory of the old man. She’d stopped asking for remembrances after that day.
“So you just let her wonder all these years? That is why you stopped speaking to her in the first place. Doesn’t she deserve to know the entire truth? Especially if, as you say, the worst should happen,” Susie said matter-of-factly.
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