by Tracy Sumner
He stabbed the crumpled envelope against his thigh, and she tried, valiantly, to evade tracking the move. Her heartbeat tripped against her better judgment. “You didn’t answer my question. The rationale, as it were. Dreams. Have you had any?”
She knew the moment her face betrayed her—as his betrayed him.
Dreams, yes. Inexplicable, vivid, though none she was willing to share.
Not yet.
The flash of dismay that twisted his features had her sinking against the desk. He was across the room before she caught her breath, the invitation arriving in the hearth with a shockingly violent lob. It sizzled and popped, catching fire. The scent of burned vellum circled them as the muted tick of a clock, and Agnes’s periodic sniffles rode the silence.
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” he whispered, “but at Harbingdon, being there will make everything clear at—”
A soft thump and a giggle behind the closed door to his bedchamber arrested his explanation. He had the good grace, for an all-too-brief second, to look nonplussed. At the very least, his anger trickled out like water from a splintered pail as discomfiture trickled in.
So, he had just crawled from bed, the cad.
Victoria flipped the puzzle box between her hands, this embarrassing insight entirely what she deserved after showing up on the doorstep of a man who’d purportedly leaped from a second-story window to escape a marquess intent on doing him bodily harm for bedding his mistress. Who did he have in there, she wondered with the faintest throb of what she feared was envy.
The clock ticked off a minute, two. She found if she remained silent during a standoff, calm struck worse than words, and her opponent stumbled into a senseless explanation that typically led to her winning the argument.
Alas, there was nothing typical about Finn Alexander.
Halting before her, he took the box and placed it on the desk, his body brushing hers as he shifted. He radiated heat and smelled, ah…her nose twitched. Sandalwood and something dark, like chocolate but not quite. A hint of brandy. And ginger. His exhalations a gentle, consistent caress against her cheek, he held her hand for a lingering moment, his thumb sweeping the row of pearl buttons at her wrist. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you in a compromising position. Or three. Ruined a new coat with the spill I created so you weren’t discovered behind that pillar, lips locked to Selby’s.” He halted over a pearl, and she had the panicked notion he was considering popping it free, seeking bare skin. “I wonder, does your intended know about your penchant for kissing strange men? Or the unhappiness that forces you into such perilous positions?”
She stilled to nothing but breath as he flipped her hand over and continued the caress, this time to her palm, a part of her body she’d had no comprehension of until this moment. Even though kidskin, she burned, awareness fluttering, shooting jolts down her arm and from her fingertips like a moonbeam.
“Victoria,” he said very softly and shook his head, sending that tousled hair of his tumbling across his brow. “Victorias don’t cause unbelievable amounts of trouble and glare at you like a boxer stepping in the ring. Tori has a nice hum to it. Toris are, conversely, quick-witted, surrounded by mayhem, and utterly enigmatic. A more interesting, if impudent, set. My choice, as it were.”
She grunted, then wished she could call it back when his smile bolstered around the edges. What he preferred was a giggling bundle waiting behind a sealed bedchamber door. Tori? How common. She recalled a shopgirl in Haymarket who called herself thus. Her mother would loathe it. Vulgar, Victoria could just hear her say. The dart of pleasure that raced through her as she imagined that was absurd but unmistakable.
“I like the one you’ve chosen for me,” he added. “Quite succinct and leaves off the insulting second morsel the ton loves to emphasize.”
Blue. Yes, she had called him that. Twice, as she recollected. She yanked at her hand, deciding she wasn’t the only quick-witted one. “I must tell you, I preferred the reprobate.”
“Me, too. He’s considerably easier to live with.” Finn laughed, releasing her hand and taking the appropriate step back. “Never fear us finding common ground, Tori. I have a rainbow of secrets, one in every color. There must be crossover somewhere. You simply have to decide to share yours with me in return.”
The moment drew out, suspended, an irretrievable step into a world, a part of herself, she had long denied. “Secrets bind us, meaning I should trust you because of them? Because you know about my parlor trick?”
Those arresting eyes of his sliced up, pinning her where she stood. “No, oh, no. Secrets are a chasm, a breach to cross. A complication. The parlor trick is why you belong in my world, which makes sense now that I know about your gift.” His throat muscles rippled as he swallowed, drawing her gaze to the provocative sliver of skin exposed by his open collar. “I thought you understood. You should trust me because of the dreams.”
She tripped into his gaze as the night closed in, sealing her in a hushed space where her pulse drummed, her breath caught, and this impossible, appealing man sought to lead her somewhere she wasn’t sure she wanted to go. Sinking back, she grasped the edge of the desk and squeezed until her fingers throbbed.
“Mine have been full of you for months until I’m compelled, most earnestly, to ask you to give me time—at Harbingdon—to figure out why. My dreams, I will tell you from experience, mean something.”
She palmed her stomach, her pulse jumping through layers of cloth to bump against her fingertips. Her dreams were surprisingly informative, particulars he might not want to accept once she exposed them. “If I go…”
“Enlightenment.” He cocked his head, thoughtful, then entertained, she could see by the turn of his lips. A contained bit of theatrics. “About some things, in any case.”
“Your secrets,” she whispered, having no idea why this is what she said when there were so many questions she could have asked. Should have asked. Oh, she was as foolish as the rest of the flock when he’d stated in definite terms he wasn’t one of her puzzles. But the extreme paradox of Finn Alexander—intelligence hidden behind astounding splendor hidden behind a gaze laden with contradictions—persuaded in a way she couldn’t deny.
He stilled, shooting her a sidelong glance, the insinuation nothing her mind could determine, but her body…betrayer, warmed until she felt her cheeks sting, the skin beneath her bodice dampen. “Perhaps a trade will someday make itself known. My confidences in exchange for yours.” He shrugged a wide shoulder beneath wrinkled linen. “Like the Rossby conundrum, there could be worse arrangements.”
Curiosity drilled her to the bone. The one aspect of her personality that held sway above the pragmatism hammered into any aristocratic female from the time they were in leading strings. She was an inquisitive woman in an era when inquisitive women were neither appreciated nor admired.
He’d either made a grave error in judgment or a fantastically intelligent one by hooking her as nothing else could, presenting himself and this trip to his family’s country estate as a mystery.
She knew little about him, while he’d directed her to reveal much about herself.
He knew about her parlor trick, the reckless kisses behind pillars, the dreaded engagement, her family’s finances. With a sinking feeling, she realized she’d done the opposite of what she’d been coached to do, disclosing graceless personal information in uncouth fashion, while the man standing across from her, a byblow accepted because his brother, Viscount Beauchamp, demanded it, sailed his ship through treacherous waters with nary a tremor. Adroitly managing an assemblage set to gut him should he turn his back on them.
She threw a glance at his bedchamber door. Attraction wasn’t the reason he’d been following her, which had been senseless to imagine for one moment as the line of women volunteering for the job stretched from here to Westminster.
He tipped her chin with a long, slim finger until her eyes met his. “Nothing sordid is connected to this invitation. You’ll be under Julian an
d Piper’s protection the entire time. Under my protection, should you be able to place value on it.”
She drew back from his touch and lied without hesitation, “I never imagined it did.”
“Consider this. Perhaps I can help you decipher your parlor trick. As a friend.”
She felt her brow pinch. Friend?
His deep laughter brought her out of her deliberation. “It’s possible, Tori. Or so I’ve been told.”
“I’ve never had many friends. My brother, I suppose, but…”
His expression shifted, softening around the edges. “They’re nice to have. Especially for those of us with, for lack of a more precise designation, interesting quirks to our persona. This sojourn provides the added benefit of a duke in residence, should he be entertaining the appalling notion of matrimony. At the very least, a country gathering with such esteemed members of society will be a boon for you rather than a set down. My participation omitted, of course. Or at least not emphasized any more than it need be.”
Finn continued to watch her in his lazily penetrating way, as a violent gust shook the windowpanes and sent the hearth fire snapping. He didn’t press, corner, or urge, giving her time to make her decision, a blessing no one had previously bestowed on her. In her world, freedom and friendship were almost nonexistent.
Maybe he could answer some of the questions about her quirk. And introduction to a duke in need of a wife was never wasted effort, she supposed. Her mother would undoubtedly agree to delaying the dreaded wedding to Rossby with such an opportunity having landed in their laps. More time to figure out another solution to her family’s dilemma.
As she stood there mulling the invitation, Victoria knew she’d accept.
Although her foolhardy fascination with solving the mystery of the Blue Bastard surely meant she shouldn’t.
Chapter 3
Victoria peered from the window of the aging post-chaise as it settled with a squeal before the Beauchamp country estate, a sprawling chalk-brick manor surrounded by breathtaking lawns and miles of vast woodland that seemed to separate it from the rest of the world. Summer arrived differently here than it did in the city, and her gaze followed the scent of gardenias, roses, and daffodils to the blooming thicket lining the pebbled drive.
The estate was lovelier than she’d imagined, and imagination was crucial as she and Agnes had been given scarce information, aside from periodic updates on time of arrival from the footman seated on the outside bench. Surprisingly, her host had acted as subordinate postillion since they’d left the Cock and Bull—the quaint inn sitting midway between London, where they’d stopped to refresh themselves and change horses—managing the equine team with poise born from experience and following the shouted orders of the lead-boy with nothing more than amused replies. She’d never known a nobleman, or one close to it, to take orders from a servant.
Finn Alexander seemed to have no care for how others viewed him.
Or, she’d never witnessed a man being his true self.
Puzzle book forgotten on her lap, Victoria tracked a dirty streak on the window with her pencil and studied him as he alighted from his mount with all the elegance he was known for. Dusting his breeches and tugging at his sleeves, he ran his hand through his hair, seeming to prepare for inspection. One he would pass.
Unlike the night she’d ambushed him in his quarters, Finn looked the part of the patrician gentleman in shades of gray and black, sedate traveling attire, assuredly, but fit by the best tailor in London if she had her guess. An expert cut rounding out what was a singularly lean yet muscular figure, no padding required, unlike most of the men of her acquaintance. Sidestepping the whinnying mare, light burst from a crimson and teal sunset to streak across him, lighting the tips of his midnight-black hair like they’d been dipped in cinnamon. And those eyes, oh, they matched the brilliant blue sky to perfection.
Turning, he captured her gaze. She shifted, intent on breaking the contact, then tapped her pencil against the glass pane and thought, I’m going to look all I like.
Served him right for insisting on this expedition.
His chin dropped as delight roared across his face, glorious to behold even as she felt a pinch of irritation that he seemed to understand her in a way few ever had. She didn’t know what to make of the man—and had spent a bewildering amount of time since their vexing encounter in the gaming hell trying to. For one, those smiles he unleashed, easily and so often. She’d no frame of reference to account for them. Her father was aloof, irritable really with the gout and stomach condition, his taciturn nature her example of how men conducted, well, the business of life.
A business involving modest affection, stern lectures, and harsh commands. She couldn’t recall her father hugging her. Not once. Or expressing love.
Consequently, when a crowd of people erupted from the manor to encircle Finn, Victoria’s disorientation intensified. There were kisses and shouts, embraces and shoulder slaps. Not every family functioned like hers, it appeared, and she suddenly wondered how much she’d missed.
Wondered if ice encased her like it did her parents, never to be cracked or melted.
After all, she’d been formed by glaciers.
The snap of the step being forced into place shook the carriage and pulled her from her musing. She nudged Agnes from sleep and moved to exit when the door swung wide, and a footman’s arm shot into the interior. A deep inhalation to calm her nerves, then she took the gloved hand and stepped into another world.
Finn Alexander’s world.
The footman escorted her to the boisterous group gathered on the emerald-green lawn as if this was where she belonged. When she felt a solitary star, orbiting but unseen. No one of value, certainly no one who’d ever received a reception like this upon returning home. Why they were emotional. A woman Victoria assumed was Lady Beauchamp was clinging to Finn and dashing tears from her eyes. A tiny thing, head barely reaching his elbow, belly round with pregnancy, her grip on his arm fierce, as if she feared he’d disappear at any moment. A young man with a rather startling bruise on his cheek elbowed his way into the cluster, and Finn started, tipping the boy’s face high and saying something urgent which the wind swept away before she could catch it—a very paternal display both men seemed comfortable with.
The crowd parted as a man she recognized as Viscount Beauchamp strode from the house, the ends of an open waistcoat batting his hips, streaks of what Victoria thought was paint smearing his sleeve. He halted before Finn, and they stared, lost in tense reticence. She’d seen them in a heated discussion at a racing event the season prior—easy to locate the tallest men in the room—and noted the affection flowing between them even during a disagreement. They made no apologies for their relationship, their unwavering connection, or the regrettable circumstances of Finn’s birth. Indeed, the bond between them was legendary when most siblings in the ton barely tolerated each other.
Victoria clenched her fingers around her puzzle book. She and her brother had loved like that once, too. As if taking stage direction in a play, Agnes alighted from the carriage and bumped against her just as things got interesting, knocking her behind the group.
“I’m surprised you remembered the way,” Julian Alexander finally murmured, his gaze never leaving his brother.
It was then Victoria realized the viscount was furious and not a little bit. His hands, also covered in specks of paint, flexed at his side as he took a rushed step forward. The viscountess moved between the men, a protector in miniature. Not surprising as her reputation was also legendary. Rescued from one scrape after another until Julian finally married her—a rumored love match—and from the tender look he sent her as he released a pent exhalation, it appeared the rumor was true. The crowd of servants surrounding them, sensing discourse, dispersed with quiet haste.
Finn’s grin collapsed, completely wilting as he watched his celebration evaporate like fog beneath a brilliant sun. “We’re going to do this on the drive, Jule?”
Julian
shook off his wife’s hold and stabbed a paint-tipped finger at Finn. “No, we’re going to do it in my study. Ten minutes, boy-o.” Then he stalked back the way he’d come, the front door slamming behind him. He never glanced her way, impolite but captivating. And perfectly understandable. Finn hadn’t alerted his family to the theoretical house party, and for all Victoria knew, he dragged women of varying degrees of respectability to his brother’s country estate with unfailing regularity.
From the corner of her eye, she watched Finn palm his brow with a pained expression.
Lady Beauchamp sighed and reached for his hand. “Too many thoughts sliding into that nimble brain of yours? I’m sorry the entire household felt the need to swarm you, but it’s been so long. I hadn’t considered—”
“It’s not that, not right now,” he interrupted with a glance cast Victoria’s way. “You said the children were improving his mood, Piper. With one in nappies and another on the way, how can he still be so damned controlling?” Finn ripped his hat from his head and whipped it against his thigh. “Has he forgotten I’m a grown man?”
The boy with the bruised face snorted as he flipped a farthing between his fingers, around and back, in and out, much better than the illusionist at Lady Calbert’s vapid tea party. “Good one, boy-o.” The coin caught a glint of sunlight and sent it careening off a silver button on his waistcoat. “Viscount Beauchamp not controlling. That would be quite a feat.”
Glancing curiously at Victoria, Piper sent her elbow into the boy’s ribs. “Simon, inside. There’ll be time for a reunion after dinner. We have visitors. Can you alert Cook, please?” As he ambled off with a sullen salute, she turned back to Finn. “Misguided angel who hasn’t been home in months, let me explain your brother’s exasperation. After the incident at Harbingdon last year and your accident just after—”
