Once and Always

by Judith McNaught

  “Put me down,” she demanded hoarsely, wriggling in embarrassment. “I’m perfectly—”

  “Hold still!” he commanded. On the landing, he turned right, stalked into a room, and headed straight for a huge bed surrounded by blue and silver silk draperies suspended from a high, carved wood frame and gathered back at the corners with silver velvet ropes. Without a word, he dumped her unceremoniously onto the blue silk coverlet and shoved her shoulders back down when she tried to sit up.

  The butler rushed into the room, his coattails flapping behind him. “Here, my lord—hartshorn,” he panted.

  My lord snatched the bottle from his hand and rammed it toward Victoria’s nostrils.

  “Don’t!” Victoria cried, trying to twist her head away from the terrible amoniac odor, but his hand persistently followed her face. In sheer desperation, she grasped his wrist, trying to hold it away while he continued to force it toward her. “What are you trying to do,” she burst out, “feed it to me?”

  “What a delightful idea,” he replied grimly, but the pressure on her restraining hand relaxed and he moved the bottle a few inches away from her nose. Exhausted and humiliated, Victoria turned her head aside, closed her eyes, and swallowed audibly as she fought back the tears congealing in her throat. She swallowed again.

  “I sincerely hope,” he drawled nastily, “that you are not considering getting sick on this bed, because I’m warning you that you will be the one to clean it up.”

  Victoria Elizabeth Seaton—the product of eighteen years of careful upbringing that had, until now, produced a sweet-tempered, charming young lady—slowly turned her head on the pillow and regarded him with scathing animosity. “Are you Charles Fielding?”

  “No.”

  “In that case, kindly get off this bed or allow me to do so!”

  His brows snapped together as he stared down at the rebellious waif who was glaring at him with murder in her brilliant blue eyes. Her hair spilled over the pillows like liquid golden flame, curling riotously at her temples and framing a face that looked as if it had been sculpted in porcelain by a master. Her eyelashes were incredibly long, her lips as pink and soft as—

  Abruptly, the man lunged to his feet and stalked out of the room, followed by the butler. The door closed behind them, leaving Victoria in a deafening silence.

  Slowly she sat up and put her legs over the side of the bed, then eased herself to her feet, afraid the dizziness would return. Numb despair made her feel cold all over, but her legs were steady as she gazed about her. On her left, light blue draperies heavily embellished with silver threads were pulled back, framing an entire wall of mullioned windows; at the far end of the room, a pair of blue-and-silver-striped settees were placed at right angles to an ornate fireplace. The phrase “decadent splendor” drifted through her mind as she dusted off her skirts, cast one more look about the room, and then gingerly sat back down on the blue silk coverlet.

  An awful lump of desolation swelled in her throat as she folded her hands in her lap and tried to think what to do next. Evidently she was to be sent back to New York like unwanted baggage. Why then had her cousin the duke brought her here in the first place? Where was he? Who was he?

  She couldn’t go to Dorothy and her great-grandmother, because the duchess had written Dr. Morrison a note that made it clear that Dorothy, and Dorothy alone, was welcome in her home. Victoria frowned, her smooth brow furrowing in confusion. Since the black-haired man had been the one to carry her upstairs, perhaps he was the servant and the stout, white-haired man who’d opened the door was the duke. At first glance, she’d assumed he was a ranking servant—like Mrs. Tilden, the housekeeper who always greeted callers at Andrew’s house.

  Someone knocked at the door of the room, and Victoria guiltily jumped off the bed and carefully smoothed the coverlet before calling, “Come in.”

  A maid in a starched black dress, white apron, and white cap entered, a silver tray in her hands. Six more maids in identical black uniforms marched in like marionettes, carrying buckets of steaming water. Behind them came two footmen in gold-braid-trimmed green uniforms, carrying her trunk.

  The first maid put the tray on the table between the settees, while the other maids disappeared into an adjoining room and the footmen deposited the trunk at the end of the bed. A minute later, they all trooped right back out again in single file, reminding Victoria of animated wooden soldiers. The remaining maid turned to Victoria, who was standing self-consciously beside the bed. “Here’s a bite for you to eat, miss,” she said; her plain face was carefully expressionless, but her voice was shyly pleasant.

  Victoria went over to the settee and sat down, the sight of the buttered toast and hot chocolate making her mouth water.

  “His lordship said you were to have a bath,” the maid said, and started toward the adjoining room. Victoria paused, the cup of chocolate partway to her lips. “His lordship?” she repeated. “Would that be the . . . gentleman . . . I saw at the front door? A stout man with white hair?”

  “Good heavens, no!” the maid replied, regarding Victoria with a strange look. “That would be Mr. Northrup, the butler, miss.”

  Victoria’s relief was short-lived as the maid hesitantly added, “His lordship is a tall man, with black curly hair.”

  “And he said I should have a bath?” Victoria asked, bristling.

  The maid nodded, coloring.

  “Well, I do need one,” Victoria conceded reluctantly. She ate the toast and finished the chocolate, then wandered into the adjoining room where the maid was pouring perfumed bath salts into the steaming water. Slowly removing her travel-stained gown, Victoria thought of the short note Charles Fielding had sent her, inviting her to come to England. He had seemed so anxious to have her here. “Come at once, my dear,” he had written. “You are more than welcome here—you are eagerly awaited.” Perhaps she wasn’t to be sent away after all. Perhaps “his lordship” had mistaken the matter.

  The maid helped her wash her hair, then held up a fluffy cloth for Victoria and helped her out of the tub. “I’ve put away your clothes, mum, and turned down the bed, in case you’d like a nap.”

  Victoria smiled at her and asked her name.

  “My name?” the maid repeated, as if stunned that Victoria should care to ask. “Why, it’s—it’s Ruth.”

  “Thank you very much, Ruth,” Victoria said, “for putting away my clothes, I mean.”

  A deep flush of pleasure colored the maid’s freckled face as she bobbed a quick curtsy and started for the door. “Supper is at eight,” Ruth informed her. “His lordship rarely keeps country hours at Wakefield.”

  “Ruth,” Victoria said awkwardly as the maid started to leave, “are there two . . . ah . . . ‘lordships’ here? That is, I was wondering about Charles Fielding—”

  “Oh, you’re referrin’ to his grace!” Ruth glanced over her shoulder as if she was fearful of being overheard before she confided, “He hasn’t arrived yet, but we’re expectin’ him sometime tonight. I heard his lordship tell Northrup to send word to his grace that you’ve arrived.”

  “What is his—ah—grace like?” Victoria asked, feeling foolish using these odd titles.

  Ruth looked as if she was about to describe him; then she changed her mind. “I’m sorry, miss, but his lordship doesn’t permit his servants to gossip. Nor are we allowed to be familiar-like with guests.” She curtsied and scurried out in a rustle of starched black skirts.

  Victoria was startled by the knowledge that two human beings were not permitted to converse together in this house, simply because one was a servant and the other a guest, but considering her brief acquaintance with “his lordship,” she could fully imagine him issuing such an inhuman edict.

  Victoria took her nightdress from the wardrobe, pulled it over her head, and climbed into bed, sliding between the sheets. Luxurious silk caressed the bare skin of her arms and face as she uttered a weary prayer that Charles Fielding would prove to be a warmer, kindlier man than his other
lordship. Her long dark lashes fluttered down, lying like curly fans against her cheeks, and she fell asleep.

  Chapter Five

  SUNLIGHT STREAMED IN THROUGH THE open windows and a breeze glided through the room, softly caressing Victoria’s face. Somewhere below, a horse’s hooves clattered on a paved drive, and two birds landed simultaneously on her windowsill, embarking on a noisy quarrel over territorial rights. Their irate chirping slowly penetrated Victoria’s slumber, stirring her from happy dreams of home.

  Still half-asleep, she rolled over onto her stomach, burrowing her face into the pillow. Instead of the slightly rough fabric that covered her pillow at home and smelled of sunshine and soap, her cheek encountered smooth silk. Dimly aware that she was not in her own bed with her mother downstairs making breakfast, Victoria squeezed her eyes closed, trying to recapture her tranquil dreams, but it was already too late. Reluctantly, she turned her head and opened her eyes.

  In the bright light of midmorning, she stared at the silver and blue draperies that surrounded her bed like a silken cocoon, and her mind abruptly cleared. She was at Wake-field Park. She had slept straight through the night.

  Shoving her tousled hair out of her eyes, she pulled herself up into a sitting position and leaned back against the pillows.

  “Good morning, miss,” Ruth said, standing at the opposite side of the bed.

  Victoria stifled a scream of shock.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” the little maid apologized hastily, “but his grace is downstairs and he said to ask if you would join him for breakfast.”

  Vastly encouraged by the news that her cousin the duke actually wished to see her, Victoria flung back the covers.

  “I’ve pressed your gowns for you,” Ruth said, opening the armoire. “Which one would you like to wear?”

  Victoria chose the best of the five—a soft black muslin with a low, square neckline, embellished with tiny white roses she’d carefully embroidered on the full sleeves and hem during the long voyage. Refusing Ruth’s offer to help her dress, Victoria pulled the gown on over her petticoats and tied the wide black sash about her slim waist.

  While Ruth made the bed and tidied the spotless room, Victoria slid into the chair at the dressing table and brushed her hair. “I’m ready,” she told Ruth as she stood up, her eyes alight with hopeful anticipation and her cheeks blooming with healthy color. “Could you tell me where to find . . . ah . . . his grace?”

  Victoria’s feet sank into the thick red carpet as Ruth led her down the curving marble staircase and across the foyer to where two footmen were standing guard beside a pair of richly carved mahogany doors. Before she had time to draw a steadying breath, the footmen swept the doors open with a soundless flourish, and Victoria found herself stepping into a room perhaps ninety feet in length, dominated by a long mahogany table centered beneath three gigantic chandeliers dripping with crystal. She thought the room was empty at first, as her gaze moved over the high-backed gold velvet chairs that marched along both sides of the endless table. And then she heard the rustle of paper coming from the chair at the near end of the table. Unable to see the occupant, she walked slowly around to the side and stopped. “Good morning,” she said softly.

  Charles’s head snapped around and he stared at her, his face draining of color. “Almighty God!” he breathed, and slowly came to his feet, his gaze clinging to the exotic young beauty standing before him. He saw Katherine, exactly as she had looked so many years ago. How well, and how lovingly, he remembered that incredibly beautiful, fine-boned face with its gracefully winged eyebrows and long, thick lashes framing eyes the color of huge iridescent sapphires. He recognized that soft, smiling mouth, the elegant little nose, that tiny, enchanting dimple in her stubborn chin, and the glorious mass of red-gold hair that tumbled over her shoulders in riotous abandon.

  Putting his left hand on the back of the chair to steady himself, he extended his shaking right hand to her. “Katherine—” he whispered.

  Uncertainly, Victoria put her hand in his outstretched palm, and his long fingers closed tightly around hers. “Katherine,” he whispered again hoarsely, and Victoria saw the sparkle of tears in his eyes.

  “My mother’s name was Katherine,” she said gently.

  His grip on her hand tightened almost painfully. “Yes,” he whispered. He cleared his throat and his voice became more normal. “Yes, of course,” he said, and shook his head as if to clear it. He was surprisingly tall, Victoria noticed, and very thin, with hazel eyes that studied her features in minute detail. “So,” he said briskly, “you are Katherine’s daughter.”

  Victoria nodded, not quite certain how to take him. “My name is Victoria.”

  An odd tenderness glowed in his eyes. “Mine is Charles Victor Fielding.”

  “I—I see,” she mumbled.

  “No,” he said. “You don’t see.” He smiled, a gentle smile that took decades off his age. “You don’t see at all.” And then, without warning, he enfolded her in a tight embrace. “Welcome home, child,” he said in an emotion-choked voice as he patted her back and hugged her close. “Welcome.” And Victoria felt oddly as if she might truly be home.

  He let her go with a sheepish smile and pulled out a chair for her. “You must be starved. O’Malley!” he said to the footman who was stationed at a sideboard laden with covered silver dishes. “We’re both famished.”

  “Yes, your grace,” the footman said, turning aside and beginning to fill two plates.

  “I apologize most sincerely for not having a coach waiting for you when you arrived,” Charles said. “I never dreamed you would arrive early—the packets from America are routinely late, I was told. Now, then, did you have a pleasant voyage?” he asked her as the footman placed a plate filled with eggs, potatoes, kidneys, ham, and crusty French rolls before her.

  Victoria glanced at the array of ornate gold flatware on either side of her plate and breathed a prayer of gratitude to her mother for teaching Dorothy and her the proper uses for each piece. “Yes, a very pleasant voyage,” she answered with a smile, then added with awkward shyness,“—your grace.”

  “Good heavens,” Charles said, chuckling, “I hardly think we need stand on such ceremony. If we do, then I shall have to call you Countess Langston or Lady Victoria. I shan’t like that a bit, you know—I’d much prefer ‘Uncle Charles’ for myself and ‘Victoria’ for you. What do you say?”

  Victoria found herself responding to his warmth with an affection that was already taking root deep in her heart. “I’d like that very much. I’m sure I’d never remember to answer to Countess Langston—whoever that is—and Lady Victoria doesn’t sound at all like me either.”

  Charles gave her an odd look as he placed his napkin on his lap. “But you are both of those people. Your mother was the only child of the Earl and Countess of Langston. They died when she was a young girl, but their title was of Scottish origin and it passed to her. You are her eldest child; therefore the title is now yours.”

  Victoria’s blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “And what am / to do with it?”

  “Do what we all do,” he said, and chuckled. “Flaunt it.” He paused while O’Malley deftly slid a plate in front of him. “Actually, I think there’s a small estate in Scotland that might go with the title. Perhaps not. What did your mother tell you?”

  “Nothing. Mama never spoke of England or her life here. Dorothy and I always assumed she was . . . well, an ordinary person.”

  “There was nothing ‘ordinary’ about your mama,” he said softly. Victoria heard the thread of emotion in his voice and wondered about it, but when she started to question him about her mother’s life in England, he shook his head and said lightly, “Someday I shall tell you all about . . . everything. But not yet. For now, let’s get to know each other.”

  An hour passed with unbelievable swiftness as Victoria answered Charles’s pleasantly worded questions. By the time breakfast was over, she realized, he had smoothly gleaned from her an exac
t picture of her life, right up to the time of her arrival at his door with an armful of squealing piglet. She’d told him about the villagers at home, about her father, and about Andrew. For some reason, hearing about the last two seemed to severely dampen his spirits, yet those were the two people he seemed to be most interested in. About her mother, he carefully avoided inquiring.

  “I confess I’m confused about the matter of your betrothal to this fellow Andrew Bainbridge,” he said when she was finished, his forehead etched with a deep frown. “The letter I received from your friend Dr. Morrison made no mention of it. Quite the opposite—he said you and your sister were alone in the world. Did your father give his blessing to this betrothal?”

  “Yes and no,” Victoria said, wondering why he looked so distressed about it. “You see, Andrew and I have known each other forever, but Papa always insisted that I must be eighteen before I became formally betrothed. He felt it was too serious a commitment for a younger female to make.”

  “Very wise of him,” Charles agreed. “However, you became eighteen before your father passed away, and yet you still are not formally betrothed to Bainbridge, is that correct?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Because your father still withheld his consent?”

  “Not exactly. Shortly before my birthday, Mrs. Bainbridge—Andrew’s widowed mama—proposed to my father that Andrew should take a shortened version of the Grand Tour to test our commitment to each other, and to give him what she called a ‘last fling.’ Andrew thought the idea was nonsensical, but my papa was fully in agreement with Mrs. Bainbridge.”

  “It sounds to me as if your father was extremely reluctant to have you marry the young man. After all, you’ve known each other for years, so there was no real need to test your commitment to each other. That sounds very much like an excuse, not a reason. For that matter, it seems to me that Andrew’s mother is also opposed to the match.”