Victoria wrinkled her nose. Why did she suddenly feel intimidated by the very idea of being a woman?
Several male voices floated down the corridor, followed by heavy booted steps thudding in her direction.
A high-pitched bark echoed within the house.
Victoria’s heart leapt. She slapped her book shut, setting it on the arm of her chair, and jumped to her feet in disbelief. “Flint?”
Mrs. Lambert closed her own book and sighed.
Standing in the doorway of the library, wearing a wool greatcoat, was Remington. His silken black hair was windblown and scattered and his boots well muddied as he gripped a very wide-eyed, mud-matted and exasperated Flint. Flint barked again, excitedly squirming his tiny, tawny furred body in an effort to be released.
Remington’s bright-blue eyes met hers. “I found him in an overturned barrel on the other side of the field. Do you still want him? Or shall I toss him back outside?”
Victoria grinned, but otherwise couldn’t move. She was simply too mesmerized by Remington to even think. He really was divine. In so many ways.
Her father, somewhat out of breath, staggered in behind Remington, his lopsided cravat unraveling. He shook his unkempt blond-gray head, stern dark green eyes flicking toward her. “You need to ensure the servants don’t let that dog out again without a leash. I’m tired of tending to your responsibilities at every turn. If you can’t oversee the needs of one goddamn dog, then you can’t keep him.”
Her grin faded. Since the passing of her mother, there were times she barely recognized him anymore.
“There is no need for such harsh words, my lord. She is undeserving of them.” Remington quickly bent and set Flint onto the floor.
Flint sprinted toward her, his nails clicking against the wood floors as he dripped and flung mud. Mrs. Lambert squeaked in protest and scrambled back toward the chair she’d risen from, gathering her morning skirts to keep them away.
Victoria dropped to her knees and didn’t care that Flint’s muddy paws climbed up onto the folds of her new lilac gown. She reveled in the cold, muddy kisses that drenched her entire face. “Flint,” she breathed down at him, ruffling the damp, dirty fur around his head. “You aren’t nearly as witless as you lead everyone to believe. You survived a storm all on your own, didn’t you? Yes. Yes, you did. You even found a barrel to hide in. I am so proud of you. And Victor would be, too.”
She squeezed Flint tightly against herself, causing him to yelp. He ducked and scampered back out of the room, no doubt in search of a meal from the kitchen.
Her father sighed and met her gaze pleadingly. “It appears Remington is more of a gentleman than I. I should have never spoken to you with such vile impatience. ’Tis unforgivable.”
Victoria smiled, feeling at peace with her father once again. “There is no need to apologize, Papa. Flint is my responsibility. Not yours.”
“Good. I am pleased to hear we understand each other. Now go. Carry on with your lessons. I will visit with you once the rest of our guests depart. Perhaps a bit of chess?” Her father smiled, turned and disappeared from the library.
Victoria glanced toward Remington, who continued to linger in the entryway, and rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts. “Thank you.” He always had an amazing way of making everything right.
A grin ruffled his lips, causing his shaven cheek to dimple. “I told you the ring was of merit.”
How could she not adore this man when all he continued to do was try to get her to adore him? Aside from valiantly coming to her defense, he’d also tramped through muddy fields all morning. Not even Grayson, drat him, had been willing to look for Flint, and her father had only gone out into the fields because Remington did.
She glanced over at Mrs. Lambert, who had turned away to gather a set of books for their upcoming lessons. She needed to return the ring. She had kept it on her finger long enough.
Victoria darted across the length of the room, toward Remington. Halting before him, she slid the ring from her finger and held it out with a mud-crusted hand. “I believe the magic lies not in this ring, but in its master. I bid you a glorious journey and promise to write if you promise to return in time for my debut.” She smirked. “I will need someone to vie for me. You may be the only one.”
His grin faded. He observed her for a solemn moment. Glancing toward Mrs. Lambert, he whispered hoarsely, “Put it back on your finger. Please. We are done playing games. I will see you upon my return.”
She blinked up at him. He wasn’t…was he?
He jerked a mud-streaked thumb toward the corridor behind them. “I leave for Portsmouth in an hour and from there to Venice. Grayson knows where I’ll be staying. Retrieve the address from him.” He lowered his voice, his lean face flushing as he now seemed to almost mouth the words, “I will compete for your hand upon my return, let there be no doubt. I only hope you won’t already be spoken for because after last night, I…” He glanced toward Mrs. Lambert and winced. “I should go.” He offered a quick bow of his head, turned and disappeared.
Her eyes widened as she glanced at the ring still pinched between her fingers. He really did intend to vie for her hand. Heavens above. This wasn’t a mere wayside fancy, was it? He really did harbor an affection for her. One she had sensed all along and yet one she had refused to acknowledge for fear it would be a farce and lead to something beyond her control as a respectable lady.
But it had already fallen beyond her control, hadn’t it? She had kissed him. Willingly. She had taken his ring and whispered to it because he told her to. Willingly. Although she had fought her adoration for him since their very first exchange of words, deep inside she knew she couldn’t fight it anymore. She had to assure him that she felt the same. Before he—
She frantically shoved the ring onto her finger and rushed out of the library. Her gown rustled around her slippered feet as she dashed after him down the corridor. “Remington?”
He paused and swung back toward her, his blue eyes capturing hers. “Yes?”
She came to an abrupt halt before him. Lingering, she wrung her hands. “I—”
“Lady Victoria!” Mrs. Lambert shrilled from the library. “Wherever have you gone to now?”
Victoria cringed, knowing she didn’t have much time. “I will write the first letter. I will also ensure Mrs. Davidson sends a few of her Banbury cakes to you in Venice. Would you like that?”
“You honor me.” Grabbing her hand with cool fingers, he brought it to his lips and kissed the ruby she had placed on her fourth finger. “Never part with this ring. It is worth far more than I could ever put into words.”
Her bare hand trembled within his larger one. “It belonged to your mother. Why would you entrust it to me?”
He stared down at her. “If you don’t know why I am entrusting it to you by now, Victoria, I have failed not only as a man, but as a human being.”
Her lips parted. “Are you asking me to—”
“Yes.” He leaned in closer, his hold tightening. “Will you have me? I have been waiting weeks to ask. Weeks. Long before the house party. Please say yes so I might speak to your father at once.”
She stared wordlessly up at him. This was madness. They had only known each other a year and yet…she felt as if she’d always known him.
Mrs. Lambert whisked into the entryway and came to an abrupt halt, causing her pinned gray hair to quiver. She gasped. “Lady Victoria. I demand you step away from Lord Remington at once.”
Victoria defied the command by tightening her grasp on Remington’s large hand. It wasn’t every day a lady was asked to become a wife. But would he return? And if he did, would he still want her once he had seen what the world had to offer? She refused to taint this wondrous moment. As her mother had once said, “One cannot embark upon an adventure without stepping onto a path. And there is no greater adventure than love.” Love. Is that what this was? The sort of love her parents had once shared?
Leaning toward Remington on the tips of
her slippered toes, she whispered quickly, “Let our letters determine what will become of us before we tell my father anything more. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” Remington bowed his head and rested his warm forehead against hers. “My stepsister is engaged to a British nobleman in Venice, which is why I am even—”
“Lord Remington!” Mrs. Lambert’s slippered heels click, click, clicked against the marble floor as she marched toward them, closing the vast distance between them. “I am without words. Does my presence mean nothing to either of you?”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Lambert.” Remington lifted his forehead from Victoria’s and ever so slowly slid his fingers from hers, as though he were trying to memorize every inch of her hand against his own. He stepped back and offered Victoria a quick bow, setting his hand against the brass buttons of his waistcoat. “I reluctantly depart.”
She smiled. “I reluctantly allow you to depart.”
He smiled, turned and strode away, his greatcoat shifting around his muddy boots and tall frame. When he reached the end of the vast corridor, he paused. Glancing back, he gave her a huge, saucy grin bursting with pride.
Her heart squeezed as she held up a hand in parting, wishing he didn’t have to go to Venice.
Ever so slowly he rounded the corner, his large hand playfully dragging against the length of the wall, as if he were forcing himself to leave. Then he, and his reluctant hand, disappeared.
Victoria let out a breathy sigh and refrained from whirling about the entire corridor like a top.
“Lady Victoria,” Mrs. Lambert chided, coming into full view. “I do believe your current reading is coming at an opportune time. I will expect you to have the entire book read within the week. I will also expect you to memorize and recite twenty different passages. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mrs. Lambert.”
“You will now follow me.”
“Yes, Mrs. Lambert.” Not caring if the woman noticed, Victoria lifted her hand and admired the mud-streaked ruby ring on her finger as she dutifully breezed back into the library. Was there a connection between Flint’s return and the ring? Not likely. But Remington was a fantastic magician of a different sort. The sort who made a wary soul such as hers give away not only a kiss, but her heart.
SCANDAL TWO
A lady should never engage in secret correspondences. For who is going to supervise all the words being scribed? Rest assured, much can and will go wrong, and much to a lady’s chagrin, there will even be documented proof.
How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
September 15, 1824
MY DEAR Remington,
Grayson is completely beside himself with grief now that you are gone, and has become rather annoying as a result of it. He is forever demanding I play chess with him whenever he visits, and claims I am the only one who can play as well as you. I never realized how close you and he were. It pleases me to no end knowing how fond Grayson is of you and only confirms everything I already know. Though I constantly ask him questions about you, and Grayson pesters me to disclose what it is I feel, I haven’t confessed to anything. Not yet. I am convinced everyone will only dismiss it as calf love if we present this prior to my coming out. And while I have yet to fully understand what it is we share and what it is I am submitting to, I do know I cannot brush this or you aside. As for that adorable little fool you rescued, he is still getting into trouble. During my French lesson, Flint managed to yank down my great-grandmama’s tablecloth in the blue drawing room and shattered what used to be Mama’s favorite antique vase. Papa was livid and threatened to make sausages out of him, even though I know he never would, since Flint is all we have left of Victor. I miss my brother, and think of him often, for he was my dearest friend and the only person I was able to confide everything to. Unlike before, however, I don’t feel quite so haunted. Perhaps it is because I now have new memories to replace the old. I find myself lingering by the staircase where you and I kissed, and do it more often than I should. Even Mrs. Lambert noticed my lingering and asked why I was always loitering about the staircase. It was embarrassing. Please write and tell me everything about Venice.
Ardently awaiting your return,
Victoria
16th October, 1824
MY DARLING Victoria,
I would like to begin my first correspondence by finally confessing how in love with you I really am. I have been in love with you for quite some time. I carry your letter with me in the inner pocket of my coat and pull it out whenever I think about you. Which is often. My stepmother insists I am daft for submitting to you so blindly. Of course, she thinks everything about me is daft. She claims I am terribly naïve when it comes to women, and at nineteen, I suppose I am. But I would rather be naïve than a superficial ingrate like the rest of the men around me. I often wonder why my father remarried at all. My stepmother is so prickly, quick to judge and prefers harsh words over any patience or kindness. Surprisingly, my stepsister, Cornelia, is nothing like her. She is very dedicated to being a good person and loved my father very much, which will forever merit my respect. Indeed, Cornelia is the only reason I continue to strive to please my stepmother at all.
Venice is incredible. I now understand why this city is so celebrated. The air is incredibly lush, with scents constantly changing depending upon the winds, and because the city is surrounded by both sea and sky, not a single day appears to be alike. To my disappointment, Venetians do not share the same passion for hunting that we do in England, not even in the plains or the hills, which are considered country. But they do excel in the art of catching birds, which isn’t all that surprising, considering there are more birds in this city than people. In the Laguna around Venice, men crawl into submerged tubs with weapons in hand and shoot everything in sight. The shooting of birds appears to be as popular as keeping them for pets. Whilst many are confined, I visited one palazzo in which all the birds flew about quite freely. Imagine hosting a ball in London whilst birds flap, chirp and deposit droppings on the furniture and guests at every turn. The ton would have a fit. Thus far, I have ridden countless gondolas. Indeed, what a carriage is to London, a gondola is to Venice, and surprising though it may be, there are those who claim to have actually never seen a horse at all. Each day, as I glide along water pathways and watch buildings float by, I think to myself how unfair it is that I am unable to share this city with you. After we marry—and we will—I insist we come to Venice, so that we can fulfill the potential of what seems to be a very romantic city.
At night, it is quiet, and decrepit buildings shine like new in the moonlight. The stars above shimmer, whilst the lit lanterns on the gondolas sway over rustling waters. I wish to share this and more with you. By the by, there is much more to eat here than merely citrus, soup and macaroni. There are melons, chocolate, cod, mussels, and the chefs in every noble home I have visited thus far are all, surprisingly, French. I am beginning to believe that Napoleon, damn him, invaded every country’s kitchen. Despite the food being exceptionally good, I do hope you will still send along those promised Banbury cakes. I miss them. Though not nearly as much as I miss you. I don’t wish to be forward, but every night I stare up at the ceiling of my room and think about you, and wonder what it would be like to have you in my arms and in my bed. This need to be near you is overwhelming.
I am and will forever be yours,
Remington
November 15, 1824
MY DEAR Remington,
I had Mrs. Davidson bake six Banbury cakes for you. You should be receiving them shortly, although I cannot promise they will arrive intact. Let us hope they do. Venice, as you describe it, sounds so divine. You will be happy to hear that Grayson intends on visiting you there in the next few months. I am livid, knowing I am unable to join him. Why is it he can go anywhere he pleases with whomever he pleases, whilst I remain confined in the library with Mrs. Lambert until my coming out? I prefer experiencing the world as opposed to learning about it through texts. What is worse, while I wait f
or my coming out, I am being forced to read and re-read a certain etiquette book, How To Avoid a Scandal. Although there is a vast amount of valuable advice to be found within its pages, the art of being a true lady, as is defined by this book and, I suppose, society, is rather horrifying to behold. I do believe I shall find myself ostracized for breathing the wrong way.
Now with regard to your bed… Though no one knows of our correspondences, except for Grayson and my lady’s maid, who both sneak your letters in and then sneak my letters out, I was compelled to ask Mrs. Lambert a few questions—questions that came about after I had read what little is stated about matrimonial duties in my etiquette book. Mrs. Lambert refused to answer, and instead forced me to write the words “I am a respectable lady” four hundred and fifty times. As I do not wish to be forced to write “I am a respectable lady” four hundred and fifty more times, I demand you elaborate as to what truly does go on between a man and a woman.
Yours faithfully,
Victoria
December 5, 1824
MY DARLING Victoria,
Where is a gentleman to begin? I should never have mentioned my bed at all. Being a gentleman, I shan’t go into too much detail, just enough to ease your curiosity and save you from further punishment. When I mentioned my bed, I was referring to the art of love. It involves no pretenses and consists of breath, passion and pleasure that in time will lead to the creation of precious life within your womb. There is far, far more than this, I assure you, but I am unwilling to scorch the tip of my quill or this parchment. Simply know that I am looking forward to our wedding night and think about it more often than a gentleman should. As a result of this restlessness within me, I have been distracting myself in many new ways. I travel to the plains often and carve every tree I pass with your name, so even though you are not here, everyone will still know of you. Fortunately, by overseeing the last arrangements for Cornelia’s wedding I have been fairly occupied. She is thrilled, as it is a good match. I now know I shall be returning to England in a little less than two months, shortly after the wedding. I cannot wait to see you and sweep you up into my arms and scandalize everyone. By the by, many thanks. I received all six Banbury cakes. To my distress, all six had become one enormous crumb. After eating what I could salvage, I took the rest to the Piazza San Marco and shared my crumbs with all the birds. They were all rather appreciative, and now, every time I visit the piazza, the birds seem to remember me and ardently flock to me expecting more. I am therefore asking you to send more Banbury cakes for my new Venetian friends. Christmas will be here soon. How odd to know I will not be celebrating it in England.
Once Upon a Scandal Page 4
