Laurence hardly understood it himself as he looked at her sitting there, wide-eyed and vulnerable and trembling. And lovely. Dear Lord, she was lovely. He wanted her with a fierceness that took his breath away.
‘I’m sorry, Victoria. I should not have done that. By making me your guardian, your mother placed me in a position of trust. I will not—cannot—contravene that trust. I promise you that my barbaric display of passion will not be repeated. When the time is right I want you to have an opportunity to enjoy the acquaintance of other men, to look over eligible suitors. I will not allow myself to get in the way of that.’
Victoria stared at him. How could he kiss her with such passion, raising her hopes that he wanted her, when all the time he was trying to rid himself of her? She could see it in his eyes. She could feel it, and why not? She meant nothing to him. She was merely someone who had been thrust on him by her mother whose wishes he felt obliged to carry out—and the sooner the better.
But she didn’t want anyone else. She wanted Laurence—but she wasn’t suitable.
She felt as if something were breaking up inside. Tears of humiliation burned the backs of her eyes, which she struggled to control, fighting desperately to recover her shattered pride and not to weep for her stupidity, for her gullibility—and for falling for a man who felt nothing for her but a responsibility. Some protective feminine instinct warned her that she must never again let herself trust him, never again let him touch her or kiss her, for if she did she would be well and truly lost.
‘I’m not ready for any of that,’ she said quietly. ‘But I suppose...given time...I will have to put my mind to it.’
‘It will be for the best,’ he said, trying to ignore the wounded look in her eyes which tore at his heart, fighting the desire to wrap her in his arms and beg her forgiveness. From now on, he would stay well away from her. He wouldn’t lose control of himself again.
Victoria looked away, swallowing hard. ‘Yes, I am sure you’re right. I—I thought I might visit Mrs Knowles tomorrow—if that is all right,’ she said awkwardly, considering it best to draw a line under the kiss—which had been a dreadful mistake—and change the subject.
Laurence looked at her, trying to pull himself together. ‘You are not a prisoner, Victoria. Of course you may visit Mrs Knowles. Now I think we should resume your lesson. Matters of this sort bring out the worst in me.’
* * *
Since Aunt Libby had taken up residence at Stonegrave Hall, being a popular and well-loved figure of the community, not a day passed when carriages didn’t arrive to deposit friends and neighbours at the door. Some came out of curiosity to see Lord Rockford’s ward, and, not surprisingly, when word of Victoria’s beauty got out, some of the district’s eligible young gentlemen found their way to the Hall on some pretext or other to see for themselves.
Victoria was flattered by all the attention, and since Laurence seemed to be avoiding her, she welcomed the distraction.
Laurence watched it all from a distance. On one particular day when a hopeful young male came calling with his mother, while she was taking tea with Aunt Libby on the terrace, the youth was promenading Victoria round the garden paths. From the window of his study, Laurence observed the happy pair, his eyes colder than an icy winter sky. The sight of Victoria with another man, and laughing as though she had not a care in the world, was crucifying him. The desire she had ignited in him with that one kiss was still eating at him. He wanted her so badly that he ached with it.
Dear Lord, what was wrong with him? How could he let a woman affect him as this one did? He had told himself that the kiss they had shared had meant nothing to him—and yet he had felt the glory in her. She was an obligation he could not escape, not until she was wed to another—which was a situation he could not bring himself to contemplate. As he continued to watch her, he wanted to go out and shake off her companion’s hand, to fling him away from the lovely girl whose rosy face was smiling up at him. How dare he put his hand on what was his... And yet who could blame him?
There was something about Victoria Lewis, a beauty not just of her face but in her heart and soul. It shone from her like the sun, and when men looked at her they were drawn in by that glow.
Turning from the window, he shook his head to clear his reeling senses. His strategy to avoid her had backfired with a vengeance. Perhaps, he thought disparagingly as his inner turmoil turned to self-scorn, he should never have allowed himself to get so close to her in the first place. Had his past encounters with women taught him nothing?
Disgusted with his body’s relentless craving for her, he knew something had to be done. Because he lived in the same house as Victoria there was no escape.
* * *
It was when she was going to her room after dinner that he told her he had decided to leave Yorkshire for London.
‘But—why?’ Victoria asked, pausing at the bottom of the stairs, so disappointed she could hardly think. Ever since he’d kissed her he’d been avoiding her, passing the duty of teaching her to ride to one of the grooms and only speaking to her when Aunt Libby was present.
‘It’s a matter of business,’ he told her. ‘I have clerks and managers who do an excellent job, but I like to keep my finger on the pulse so to speak.’
Victoria was unprepared for the wave of distress that swept over her—and she certainly didn’t relish being all alone at the Hall. ‘Oh—I see. So the minute I become your ward, you abandon me,’ she remarked in a prickly tone.
He raised his eyebrow. ‘I have no intention of abandoning you. I would never do that.’
‘Do you expect to be away long?’
‘Six weeks at the most.’
‘Then might I suggest that I travel to York to stay with Amelia. I know Mrs Fenwick won’t mind.’
‘I would prefer you to remain here for the present. Aunt Libby will be here and Diana will call on you so you won’t exactly be devoid of company.’
‘But she won’t be here all the time. Can’t you understand? And I would so like to visit Amelia. Besides, there are times in this house, where my mother—and your father... Oh,’ she cried, thrusting her hair back from her brow in frustration, ‘there’s no point expecting you to understand.’
Laurence looked at her, and then he looked away. For the briefest instant she saw a flash of—what? Remorse in his dark-blue eyes? Then he looked at her again and said, ‘I’m sorry, Victoria. I do understand how difficult this must be for you and you are quite right. I think you should go and stay with your friend for the time being. Write to Mrs Fenwick. If she is in agreement, then I shall take you there myself.’
The quietness, the gentleness, startled her. She stared at him, frightened, and at the same time oddly moved. Then he suddenly reached out and took her hand, looking at her, studying her. A lick of desire, entirely unexpected, shot through Victoria. She was startled by it, by its intensity, contrasting with her other emotions—her anger, her fear, her sense of loneliness—it seemed absurdly, ridiculously sweet. When he had kissed her she had felt things, things that were completely alien to her, and she was still unsure how to deal with them. She stood quite still, staring at him, wanting him to kiss her again more than anything in the world.
And as Laurence looked at her, still quiet, still gentle, he recognised that, saw it—and said, ‘I’m not completely heartless, Victoria. While you are in York you might like to do some shopping and see the sights, even though you are familiar with them. You have to begin building up your wardrobe some time—although it’s a wonder you learned anything of fashion at that Academy of yours. I imagine you mostly wore uniforms.’
‘Only in the latest styles,’ she replied with a puckish smile.
‘Then I can only hope that time spent in York and Mrs Fenwick will be your salvation.’
‘You are very generous, Laurence.’
‘Nonsense. The
clothes you have are adequate, but as my ward it is imperative that you have a fashionable wardrobe. Does that appeal to you?’
‘Oh, yes, but I cannot discard my mourning for frivolous gowns and such for some time.’
Having no desire to look at her dressed in funereal black for the next twelve months, Laurence felt a stab of disappointment. ‘No?’
‘A definite no. If I am to acquire a position in society, I must not deviate an inch from the path that society demands.’
‘That’s true. But there’s nothing wrong with preparing for the time when you are no longer in mourning. However, for the present, since you are so recently bereaved we won’t get mired down with that just now. Plenty of time later.’
Laurence didn’t pursue the subject, but he had every intention of raising the matter again very soon. She was young, eighteen years old, and could not be expected to suffer the living death of mourning for twelve long months, living in partial seclusion. That was the last thing Betty would have wanted for the daughter she had so passionately dreamed of being a lady.
Chapter Seven
Mrs Fenwick had replied to Victoria’s letter, expressing her condolences for her recent loss and saying how pleased they would be to have her stay with them. Two weeks more of being alone in the house with Laurence, night after night dining together. He was always so proper and distant, never hinting by word or deed that he even remembered what they had both felt on that first riding lesson—how they had become physically aware of each other, that they had kissed and touched each other’s faces, the gesture both intimate and ridiculously sweet.
The Fenwick residence was a large, imposing house along The Mount just outside York. Mr Fenwick was a respected lawyer in the city, his wife wrapped up in all manner of charity work. With three sons, Amelia was their only daughter and the youngest.
Arranging to collect her on his return in about six weeks’ time, telling her he would write and let her know the exact date, Laurence carried on to London. As much as Victoria was sad to see him go, her sadness was set aside when she became caught up in the household she had come to know so well from the times she had spent there whilst attending the Academy.
She was happy to be with Amelia again, a vivacious brunette. So much had happened to Victoria since she had left the Academy that they had plenty to talk about. On a day of pale-yellow sunshine, when white clouds drifted gently across the River Ouse like cotton wool, they entered York to do some shopping, returning three hours later after visiting shops popular with those who could afford the exorbitant price of garments made specially. All were to be delivered to the Fenwick residence, most of them for Victoria. She sighed, but there was no sadness in that sigh—only the sheer pleasure of satisfaction.
Victoria enjoyed herself in York as much as her mourning allowed. After six weeks she received a letter from Laurence, informing her that business commitments meant he had to remain in London longer than he’d expected and that she should make her own arrangements for returning to Stonegrave Hall. She stared at the letter, thinking of Laurence, and she lifted her hand to touch her cheek with the tips of her fingers, just as she had done countless times during the past few weeks. She closed her eyes and imagined far more—a kiss, a touch, his hand on her breast. With these thoughts uppermost in her mind, she decided to return to Stonegrave Hall.
* * *
Laurence stretched out his long legs and lifted his head, encouraging the light breeze which had just sprung up outside the open upper window to lay its coolness upon his face. Shadows lengthened as the sun sank rapidly in the sky over London’s docklands, where he sat in his office at Rockford Enterprises. Then the night, deep and swift, was upon him.
Brandon, his secretary, appeared from nowhere, shaking the floorboards with his heavy tread.
‘Your brandy, sir, and shall I be lighting the lamp?’
Laurence sighed, reaching for the drink and sipping it absently. He would stop off at his club in St James’s before going home. He glanced at Brandon.
‘You were saying, Brandon?’
‘Shall I light the lamp, sir?’
‘Oh, yes, and bring me another brandy.’
The lamp was lit and, in the glow, shared suddenly by a horde of tiny moths, Laurence put down his pen, and his thoughts, as they did so often of late, darting like swifts about his head, quick and hard to grasp, turned to Victoria. He stared blindly across the black sheet of water littered with mighty sea-going vessels of all kinds—a great many of them his own, the breeze plucking at the rigging with a tuneful hum—thinking of the time he had spent in the company of the young woman, which would be the beginning of a relationship that would be important to them both.
Whenever she was in a room with him he had difficulty keeping his eyes off her, and when they were alone, it took all his control to keep his hands off her. When they were apart he couldn’t seem to keep his mind off her. She had intrigued his male sensibilities from the start, stirred his senses, her sharp mind stimulating his own, and had captured his imagination with her bright, spirited opinions on everything from literature to sailing ships.
She was possessed of strong determination, waywardly confident, and she showed a capacity to think for herself and to assess what went on around her. He admired her spirit and her sweetness—especially her honesty. And she made him laugh. He could see her now, laughing and shaking her head when her horse had almost thrown her, and he remembered how her brow clouded as she argued some point with him.
He stared into the deep-purple blackness of the night sky. His hand reached out again for the tumbler of brandy before him and, as he sipped it, he began to marshal his thoughts with the precision taught him by years of doing business with pirates and gentlemen alike. His head cleared and in the gloom a strange elated gleam, a pinpoint of clarity, shone in his deep-blue eyes and a smile, lurking at the edges of his mouth, quivered as though longing to burst into laughter.
He had a choice to make. Either he could go on fighting this—denying it—the ever-strengthening bond between him and Victoria. Or he could believe that someone could actually love him—not his money, not his power, not his flesh—but him. Victoria Lewis was the only woman he knew for whom he could ever imagine risking his heart again—baring his soul.
Suddenly, with enormous vitality he sprang up and the blood raced through his veins. He’d had enough of London. He was going home to sort out this muddle Victoria’s mother had left him—and to hell with finding her a suitor. His mood veered from grim to thoughtful to philosophical, and finally relief and gladness when he decided he would act out his desire without surrendering all claim to honour and decency, for he knew, deep down, he could not consider handing her over to another and he had no idea to what irrational lengths he might have gone when other suitors started appearing at his door.
She had already turned nineteen years old and was ripe for marriage. He’d known he wanted her from the moment he’d looked into those mesmerising amber eyes of hers. It had started then and strengthened the more time they spent together. Victoria wanted him, too. He’d known that from the beginning, and she hadn’t changed, no matter how much she tried to behave otherwise.
A long time ago Melissa Piggott had dealt him a blow that had wounded him deeply. He’d had many affairs since, but not one woman he’d considered proposing marriage to. He’d been reluctant to repeat the process. As a consequence, he had not come near to forming an association with another woman that was anything approaching permanent—until Victoria. At the risk of upsetting his brother, which would be complicated, he contemplated for the last time his decision and the desirability of acting on it at once.
Since he was now determined, he considered only the advantages of haste and ignored any disadvantages. After one past mistake, of almost marrying a woman who hid avarice behind inviting smiles and ambition behind lingering glances, who pretended passi
on when all she was capable of feeling was for what he could give her, Laurence had finally found a woman who wanted only him. Now, ready for domesticity, he was grasping it with both hands. Should he find it was a handful of broken glass he held, so be it, he would bleed, but at least he would know he was alive.
Shrugging into his coat and telling Brandon to lock up, his spirits flew like the moths still circling the lamp in demented circles, as excitement gripped him.
* * *
As he drank with some of his most intimate friends in St James’s, he could see only two clear and candid eyes shining in the sunlight and in his anticipation, uncharacteristically, he let down the barrier of reserve which had always stood between himself and those with whom he socialised. They were amazed to discover that not only did he have an intended, but he would be married as soon as he arrived back at Stonegrave Hall.
‘By god, you devil, you!’ one of his companions shouted, raising a glass, the champagne in it sparkling in the light from the lamps, its pale amber lucidity shot through with a thousand tiny bubbles. ‘Are you not the dark horse? Here we all were thinking you married to those ships of yours when all the time you have a delectable young beauty hidden away in the darkest reaches of Yorkshire.’
‘And why did you not tell us this before, you sly dog?’ shrieked another.
Swept away upon a wave of hopeful exultation, by the time Laurence sought his bed some time during the early hours, he was, in his own mind, firmly and irrevocably engaged to Victoria Lewis.
* * *
‘Where is Miss Lewis, Jenkins?’ Laurence enquired on arriving home four months after he had left.
‘Out riding, sir. I believe she was to ride into Ashcomb and return by the river.’
Laurence was pleased to hear her riding had progressed to such an extent that she was both competent and confident enough to go off on her own. The day was pleasantly warm, but with a summer storm threatening to break at any minute, concern for her safety was paramount. Thinking he would surprise her, he set off over the moor.
The Master of Stonegrave Hall Page 14
