Love and Marriage

by Alexandra Ivy

  “But never far from your heart.”

  “I . . . no.”

  “You revealed remarkable courage in keeping your household from falling into ruin and raising your sister all alone,” Humbly persisted, oddly not seeming to sense her reluctance in discussing that terrible time in her past. “Most young maidens never would have considered attempting such a feat, let alone have succeeded so admirably.”

  Victoria felt a heat crawl beneath her cheeks. “It was more necessity than courage.”

  “No.” Humbly shook his head. “You could easily have handed your sister to a relative and requested that another handle the estate.”

  “I could not uproot poor Anna at such a time,” she retorted in soft tones. “And to be honest, it was a blessing to have the estate matters to take my mind off my sadness.”

  Humbly was not about to be so easily put off. He had, of course, been close at hand to witness the struggle she had undertaken to convince the tenants to respect her opinion and the endless effort to keep the local merchants from attempting to use her inexperience to take advantage. He had, indeed, seen the days she was so weary of carrying the responsibilities of her parents that she could barely make it through the day.

  “Say what you will, my dear, you could have turned your back on the burdens dumped upon you. Instead, you sacrificed your own life to ensure Anna’s happiness.”

  Claredon’s fingers abruptly tightened upon her shoulder, and Victoria uncomfortably realized that Humbly was revealing more of her past than she desired.

  “Really, Mr. Humbly, it was what I desired to do. There was no sacrifice.”

  “Of course there was,” he argued firmly. “But now Anna is safely wed, and it is the moment to think of yourself. That was why I was so anxious to assure myself that you are well.”

  Distinctly embarrassed by the undeserved praise, Victoria shifted uneasily. “And now you know that everything has worked out perfectly,” she muttered.

  The vicar frowned at her words, not seemingly assured by her strained tones. “As you say.”

  Without warning, Claredon abruptly rose to his feet and with a determined air pulled Victoria to stand beside him.

  “I believe Victoria is appearing a trifle worn,” he said, an unnerving perception in those blue eyes. “If you will excuse us, I should have her tucked into bed.”

  The vicar struggled from his seat. “Yes, of course.”

  Putting an arm about Victoria’s shoulders, Claredon gently steered her toward the door. “Come along, my dear.”

  For the first time in five months, Victoria did not argue.

  Four

  Claredon was disturbed.

  Leading his wife down the corridor and toward the staircase, he covertly studied her elegant profile in the dim light.

  He had, of course, known that her parents had been killed in a tragic carriage accident and that she possessed no close male relatives. But he had been unaware that she had been forced to shoulder such burdens at such a young age, burdens that surely would have made most maidens crumble in defeat.

  There was no doubt he felt a large measure of pride in her strength of will. Unlike many gentlemen, he did not fear a woman of courage. Nor did he desire a mate who depended utterly upon him.

  He admired in women precisely what he admired in men: Courage. Honor. Loyalty.

  Three qualities that his wife possessed in abundance.

  But while he readily conceded that Victoria had displayed rare determination to keep her sister and household together, he could not dismiss an odd flare of disappointment that she had never spoken of her trials. Surely as her husband he should know of such a difficult event in her life.

  No doubt she readily unburdened her soul to her precious Thomas Stice, a nasty voice whispered in the back of his mind. The mere thought was unpleasantly painful.

  They climbed the stairs in silence, but as they moved toward her chambers, she abruptly tilted her head upward.

  “It is not necessary to escort me to my door,” she murmured.

  “I believe it is,” he insisted, a frown drawing his brows together. “You were distinctly pale downstairs. Did the vicar upset you?”

  There was a slight pause, and Claredon feared she might refuse to admit her distress. Then she gave a shrug. “It is always difficult to speak of my parents.”

  “Which, perhaps, explains your rather astonishing omission in telling me that you were forced to fend for yourself and your sister after their death.”

  He was unable to keep the edge from his voice, and her eyes widened in surprise.

  “You knew I was in London to oversee my sister’s launch into Society.”

  “I knew you had accompanied your sister to London,” he corrected. “But I presumed Mrs. Stolden had charge of both of you.”

  “Aunt Millie?” She gave a startled laugh. “Good heavens, she came to us after my parents’ deaths to lend us countenance, but she was hopeless to take command of anything beyond the daily menu.”

  His frown only deepened. “How old were you?”

  “I was seventeen when my parents died.”

  “And your sister?”

  “Fourteen.”

  A measure of anger surged through him at the thought of Victoria, so tenderly young and burdened with mourning for her parents, being forced to shoulder such responsibility.

  Bloody hell. She should have had someone caring for her, someone who could have ensured she was safe and comfortable while she grieved for her loss. Someone who later ensured she could have the proper life for a young maiden. “So you never had a Season of your own?” he demanded.

  She abruptly turned her head to hide her expressive features. “I never desired one.”

  He gave a disbelieving click of his tongue. “Not even before your parents died?”

  “Really, Claredon, you cannot be interested in my youthful fantasies,” she retorted in defensive tones.

  “Oh, I am very interested,” he countered, pulling open the door and stepping into her private chambers.

  It was the first time he had been in her rooms, and Claredon was startled to discover the heavy English furnishings had been replaced with a delicate rosewood. Soft peach wall coverings were echoed in the flowered carpet and in the silk curtains, while upon the ceiling mischievous angels peeked from behind clouds. It was utterly feminine and not all what he had expected from his forceful wife.

  The knowledge only reinforced his realization he knew very little of the woman who claimed his name. Firmly shutting the door, he leaned against it with a relentless expression. It was obviously past time for them to have a serious discussion. “I wish to know the truth,” he said baldly.

  Standing in the center of the room, Victoria eyed him warily. “The truth of what?”

  “How did a maiden of seventeen take command of her own household?”

  She looked as if she desired to command him to leave her chamber, but clearly noting his determined air, she gave a frustrated shake of her head.

  “As I told Mr. Humbly, it was simply a matter of necessity. After my parents were killed, there were few relatives willing to take in two young maidens. The few who tried to push their way forward were interested only in getting their hands upon our inheritance. Thankfully, the estate was not entailed and there was no title, so after I convinced Aunt Millie to claim guardianship, the vultures were turned aside. She is, after all, our closest relative.”

  Claredon thought of himself at the age of seventeen. He had still been in school and reckless to a fault. There had been few things more important than dice games, escaping the stern eye of the headmaster, and the pleasures of a particularly experienced barmaid.

  How would he have reacted had his own parents died and he had been forced to take over as head of the family? He experienced a prick of dismay at the knowledge he could not be fully certain he would have possessed his wife’s fortitude. He gave a restless shake of his head. “Surely there was someone you could depend upon?”
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  “I did not wish to depend upon anyone.” Her chin tilted to a proud angle. “I was quite capable of taking care of both my sister and myself.”

  “Of course.” He grimaced, all too familiar with that particular expression. On this occasion, however, he did not allow himself to bristle with the need to ruffle that rigid composure. Instead, he forced himself to consider how the tragedy in her life had molded her into such a powerful female. “I believe I at last begin to understand you, my dear.”

  Her gaze narrowed with suspicion at his mild tone. “What do you mean?”

  “I now understand why you are such a strong-willed, managing female. You have been forced to take command and give orders to others.”

  An absurd expression of outrage rippled over her lovely countenance. “I am not a managing female.”

  He could not halt his laugh of disbelief. “My dear, you are perhaps the most ruthless bully I have ever encountered. There was not a gentleman in all of Society who was not terrified of you.”

  “That is absurd,” she protested, her emerald eyes flashing. “And you are most certainly not terrified of me.”

  “No,” he generously conceded, a sudden smile curving his lips. “But that is only because I am quite as stubborn and untrained to the bridle as yourself—which no doubt explains why we are constantly at daggers drawn.”

  As usual, she refused to concede she possessed any blame in their discomforting situation. Instead, she glared at him with a gathering anger. “We are at daggers drawn because you are arrogant to a fault and incessantly provoking.”

  Claredon remained unperturbed by her sharp words. He was beginning to suspect that they both deliberately used provoking words to keep a prickly distance between one another. Why they should feel the necessity to do so was a question he did not desire to ponder at the moment.

  “And you are a sharp-tongued shrew,” he retorted without rancor.

  She planted her hands upon her hips. “I think you have said quite enough for one night.”

  “Ah, but I have not yet finished,” he retorted, pushing away from the door to stroll toward her.

  She stiffened as he halted a mere breath from her. For a moment, Claredon simply gazed at her delicate features.

  He had known women far more beautiful, some who could make a gentleman halt in his tracks. But he did not think he had ever encountered a more fascinating countenance. Such an odd combination of stubborn determination and innocent vulnerability. And, of course, that enticing hint of sensuality that smoldered deep in her magnificent eyes and was evident in the lush curve of her lips.

  His blood quickened as he realized he could never tire of studying those fine features. It spoke well of their future together.

  With a visible effort, she forced herself not to retreat from his large form. “What is it?” she demanded.

  “I also comprehend your fascination with Mr. Stice.”

  Her nose flared in protest at his smooth words. “You could never comprehend such pure emotion.”

  “Hardly pure,” he corrected without apology. To be frank, he had endured enough of her absurd belief her feelings toward the namby-pamby twit were utterly superior to normal human emotions. No woman of intellect could think Mr. Stice the sort to inspire more than pity. “You were accustomed to playing the role of mother for your sister, and when she flew the nest, you swiftly sought to replace your missing chick. The hapless, rather pathetic Mr. Stice was the perfect choice.”

  His logical explanation was met with stony disbelief. Clearly she had not allowed herself to consider the notion she had been desperate to fill a suddenly empty place in her life, or that she had treated Mr. Stice more as a dutiful son than a lover.

  “You could not be more in error,” she at last said in flat tones. “I loved Thomas.”

  His heart twitched with what he swiftly assured himself was annoyance at her refusal to accept the truth. “Yes, as a mother loves her child,” he said softly.

  “No.”

  Damn, but she was stubborn. She would not even attempt to listen to reason. Then, abruptly recalling all she had endured and the courage she had displayed, his annoyance faded.

  She had simply been in need of someone to love and care for, he reminded himself, and, at the time, clearly not in the position to have a child of her own.

  Claredon stilled as inspiration struck with the force of a lightning bolt.

  Of course.

  Women such as Victoria would always need someone to fuss over. It was little wonder she appeared so restless and incapable of accepting her marriage.

  “There is a very simple answer to your frustration,” he murmured gently.

  Her brows arched. “You intend to magically disappear from my life?” she demanded in overly sweet tones.

  His eyes narrowed. “Have a child of your own.”

  A thick silence fell as she regarded him with disbelieving shock.

  Claredon couldn’t deny he was rather shocked himself. He had given little thought to siring children. It had not seemed necessary until he discovered the perfect woman.

  Oddly, however, he discovered himself swiftly becoming accustomed to the notion. He did not doubt Victoria would be an excellent mother. And he had every intention of being a devoted father.

  Why not begin a family?

  Taking a sharp step backward, Victoria regarded him with an expression that warned him she was not nearly as accepting of the thought of creating a child as he was. “Good lord, do you never halt?” she at last managed to croak. “You will say and do anything to get into my bed. It is ridiculous.”

  The fact that he had for once been attempting to think of her needs threatened to stir his ever ready temper. He folded his arms across his chest and peered down the length of his nose. “You are not quite so irresistible as you believe, my dear. And I assure you that if I were that desperate to have you, I could easily have seduced you long ago.”

  Never able to leave well enough alone, she gave a toss of her head. “Not likely.”

  “It is a certainty.” He closed the distance between them, reaching up to pluck the combs from her hair so the glossy tresses could tumble over her shoulders. “Shall I prove it here and now?”

  Her lips parted as she battled the sudden crackle of heat in the air. Claredon was dangerously aware that she had never appeared lovelier, with her hair shimmering like fire in the candlelight, framing her softly flushed countenance, and the wide bed so conveniently near.

  Far, far too near.

  That delicious pulse at the base of her neck began its frantic pace, revealing that Victoria was far from indifferent to the fingers he allowed to brush softly over the line of her collarbone. “I want you out of my chambers,” she said unsteadily.

  He slowly smiled. “Frightened, Victoria?”

  “Queasy,” she brazenly lied. “The mere thought of you . . .”

  Whatever insult she had been about to hurl was abruptly cut off by the simple process of covering her lips with his own.

  For five months, she had denied the passion that pulsed between them. More than that, she had done her damnable best to imply he was as repulsive as the plague.

  Really, enough was enough.

  Not above using his rakish experience, Claredon deliberately softened his kiss, teasing her delectable lips until they parted and he was able to trace them lightly with the tip of his tongue.

  He felt her shiver and swiftly wrapped his arms about her to pluck her close. His initial thought had been to halt her incessant rudeness, but his purpose was swiftly becoming lost in the pleasure swirling through him.

  Bloody hell, but she felt good in his arms.

  The softness of her curves fitted perfectly with the hardness of his own frame, her satin hair spilling over his hands and surrounding them in lilac heat. And those lips. Those lush, sensuous lips that would provoke a saint to madness.

  A madness that was swiftly consuming him. A difficult admission for a gentleman renowned for always bei
ng in control of the fine art of seduction—difficult and a bit alarming.

  Pulling back, he regarded her flushed countenance with an unwittingly brooding gaze. “A word of advice, my love,” he said in husky tones. “Never challenge a gentleman’s prowess as a lover. It makes him quite determined to prove his worth.”

  A spark of panic glittered in her emerald eyes. “Let me go.”

  “In a moment.”

  “Claredon.”

  “You are quite breathtaking, you know,” he husked softly, his gaze unable to leave her delicately tinted features. “Hair the color of a blazing sunset, eyes as rich as emeralds, and that skin. That enticing, silken skin.”

  For a moment, she appeared as spellbound as he. Then, with an effort, she forced herself to recall she did not particularly like him. “I want you to leave.”

  He cast a regretful glance toward the bed. “You are certain?”

  “Yes.”

  With great deal more reluctance than he cared to admit, Claredon dropped his arms and stepped back. He had not, however, given up on his clever notion. “Think upon what I have said, Victoria. You are lonely and in need of someone to devote your heart to. A child could bring you happiness.”

  She pushed back her heavy curls with a hand that was not quite steady. “This is just another means of attempting to seduce me.”

  He gave a dry laugh. “Actually, for once I am truly thinking of you. I had not realized how much you have been forced to sacrifice. I admire your strength and wish to give you some means of happiness.”

  Something that might have been pain darkened her eyes. “And yourself a willing lover who is conveniently close at hand.”

  “Why are you so reluctant to admit that you desire me?” he demanded with a hint of impatience. “We are wed. There is nothing shameful in enjoying the touch of your husband.”

  “I have told you, I will not be another conquest.”

  He reached out to brush her chin upward. “You desire me to swear I will be faithful only to you?”