“With all due respect, you’re wrong,” Victoria said. “When he looks at me, all he sees is a convenient means to ruin my father. Why else would he force me here?”
With her hands folded in her lap, speaking to this stranger about the twisted events that forced her to leave her home, Victoria’s composure was as fragile as an eggshell.
Lady Devon reached out to touch her hand. “My dear Miss Ashton, settling a score may have been an outward excuse for bringing you here, but a man of Ravenspear’s wealth has many means at his disposal to harm an enemy. No, there must be more. He would not bring a woman he did not have feelings for into his home.”
Victoria’s head dropped to look at the smooth hand holding her own. “He may have felt something for me when I was a child, but no longer.”
“You’ll see. In the meantime, we will socialize frequently as my country residence is near Rosewood, and I visit Justin often. If you ever seek advice about men, I hope you will come to me.”
Victoria raised her eyes to study Lady Devon. Hope blossomed in her chest. “Can you speak to Mr. Woodward? Perhaps he can talk Ravenspear out of this mad scheme.”
A genuine smile curved Lady Devon’s lips. “I fear it will do no good. When Ravenspear has set his mind to accomplish something, he cannot be dissuaded. All I can say is this: I have seen the way he treats Justin and others in his employ. He is not a cruel man, but fair and honorable, even overly generous. I don’t believe he would harm you or ill-treat you.” Squeezing Victoria’s hand, she said, “A smart woman can turn a man’s desire into more.”
“But how?”
Footsteps in the hallway alerted them to the men’s presence.
Lady Devon held a finger to her lips, signaling Victoria to keep quiet.
Victoria was bursting with the need to ask more questions.
How could she turn Blake’s base needs into something more, something that could tip the scales in her favor in this twisted game?
Blake and Justin, port glasses in hand, entered the parlor.
Blake strode to the fire and placed his glass on the mantel shelf, then studied the two women. His sharp gaze seemed to miss nothing, the way the women sat facing each other, closer than required for mere casual conversation.
“How have you ladies been faring?” he asked. “I trust we have not kept you waiting for too long?”
Not long enough! Victoria wanted to shout. She needed more time, and perhaps pen and paper, to quiz the older, wiser Lady Samantha on all the aspects of male manipulation.
She must have glared at him, for he smiled at her a bit too cheerfully.
“I believe Miss Ashton is exhausted, Lord Ravenspear,” Samantha said smoothly. “She has had a long day traveling, and I fear I have kept her awake.” The baroness rose to depart.
Justin Woodward set his glass on the closest table and took her arm. “I’ll escort you to your carriage.”
The couple departed, leaving Victoria alone with Blake.
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Blake rested his arm casually on the mantel, fingers brushing his glass, and Victoria sat awkwardly on the edge of the settee.
She had done as he had asked and dined with his friends. The day’s travel and the tension of arriving at her new home for the next year had taken their toll. She was so tired her temples throbbed.
Rising from the cushions, she clasped her hands before her skirts. “I’d like to retire if you are finished with me.”
Blake’s look was one of faint amusement. “Your choice of words are intriguing, my dear.”
Victoria blushed. Why did he have to interpret an innocent comment in such a vile manner? “You’re showing your coarse upbringing in the poorhouse, my lord.”
“Careful, Victoria. All that keeps me from honoring my promise not to visit your chamber tonight is my good temper.”
The blood drained from her face. She dared to shoot him a scalding look before fleeing to her room.
Chapter 9
“I don’t remember how to ride,” Victoria insisted.
“Once you learn, you never forget,” Blake said. “I taught you how to ride before, and I’ll give you a quick refresher course now.”
They were in the stables, and Victoria nervously eyed the animals in the stalls.
That morning, after a small breakfast, Blake had asked her to accompany him on horseback to inspect his country estate. Trying to avoid spending time together, Victoria had protested.
When she was a child her family had resided in the country, and she had ridden often. But there was never a need for her to ride after they had moved to London, and it had been over ten years since she had sat a saddle.
Victoria chose a small white horse. The mare nuzzled her hand with its velvety pink muzzle. Its rough tongue tickled her palm as it licked a sugar cube she offered, and she giggled.
“See. I remembered you were a natural with animals.”
With false bravado she strode to the mounting block, lifted her skirts and swung her leg over the palfrey’s back. She mounted successfully, but her skirts were tight and restrictive.
“This gown wasn’t made for riding.”
“Then we’ll have to get you riding clothes.”
Her lids slipped down over her eyes, avoiding his gaze. It was easier to resent him when he acted arrogant and combative. She did not want his kindness to touch a nerve.
Raising her chin a notch, she asked, “What do I do next?”
“Put your boots in the stirrups, and grip the reins loosely in your hands. You must be ready to tighten them if need be.”
She followed his instructions and then looked at him expectantly.
Blake mounted his own horse, a large black stallion, and rode to her side. “Remember, the horse will respond to the pressure from your knees, and you can guide her by pulling on the reins. Go slow and follow my lead.”
For the first two miles, they walked their horses at an easy pace. Soon Victoria gained more confidence as her memories of riding astride returned. She relaxed, and began to enjoy the fresh country air and magnificent scenery.
With the arrival of spring, the sky was a brilliant blue, and the morning sun warmed her cheeks. As they crossed an open field, she breathed in the fragrant scent of the wildflowers that dressed the landscape with wild abandon. The splashes of vivid color reminded Victoria of a classical painting.
Suppressing a fanciful impulse to stop and pick handfuls of the delicate-looking blooms, she turned her attention to her mount. “It’s coming back to me now. Can we go faster?”
Blake grinned in approval. “Grip your legs tighter and ease up on the reins.”
The small horse began to canter, then gallop. Blake rode beside her.
A cool breeze blew through Victoria’s hair, and she reveled in the freedom that riding astride made her feel.
As they approached a copse of trees, Blake said, “Pull back on the reins and slow her down.”
Victoria did as he instructed. She glanced at the thick saddle muscles on his thighs as he gripped the powerful stallion and brought it to heel. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and his big hands held the reins skillfully. His fingers, tapered and strong, appeared calloused from hours of labor.
Hardly the hands of an earl, she thought. But then, nothing about Blake Mallorey was similar to any of the nobility in her acquaintance.
She remembered what his fingers had felt like when they traced her lips, her cheek, her collarbone, and, heaven help her, her breast.
Her eyelids fluttered and she trembled.
“Are you all right? There’s a stream up ahead where we can rest.”
Victoria stiffened, momentarily abashed. He mistook her physical reaction for fatigue.
God forbid he suspected the real reason behind her shivering.
He drew rein beside the stream, beneath a large oak tree, and helped her dismount. He did not tether the stallion but allowed him to wander to the water and drink.
Victoria followe
d his lead, and the smaller palfrey roamed to the water.
Blake withdrew a canister from his saddlebags, knelt by the water’s edge and then filled the container. He offered the fresh water to her first.
She eyed the canister, unsure how a lady should drink from it. Not wanting to appear timid, she drank the water, throwing her head back for the last few drops, then handed the canister back to him.
He nodded in approval, refilled the canister, and then imitated her actions.
Watching the white horse, she asked casually, “What’s my mount’s name?”
“Persephone.”
“The daughter of the Greek god Zeus and goddess Demeter? I had no idea you were knowledgeable of the Greek classics.”
Her tone sounded condescending to her ears, but it was not her intention to appear superior.
Blake’s eyebrow rose a fraction. “Don’t you mean to say that you’re surprised a poorhouse boy would have learned the classics?”
She swung her head around to look at him. “I didn’t mean to insult your education, my lord. I was just…genuinely surprised. Not many men call their animals by names from mythology.”
Turning back around to look at his enormous stallion, she asked, “What’s his name?”
“Pluto.”
She chuckled in disbelief. “According to the myth, Persephone was abducted by the god Pluto to rule with him over the underworld.”
“I know.”
The sudden realization dawned on her that Blake was Pluto and she his Persephone, captured by him to stay by his side and endure his seduction, his dark underworld, for an entire year. Their horses’ names seemed an uncanny coincidence.
Momentarily speechless, she looked up at him.
His mouth quirked with humor. “You picked the horse, my dear, remember? I can hardly control your thoughts.”
She eyed him suspiciously, not entirely certain that he had no mystic powers. If he could wield control over her physical reaction toward him, against her wishes, what else could the dark devil do?
Blake raised a forefinger and pointed. “All the land you see to the hill beyond belongs to Rosewood.”
She cupped her hand over her eyebrows to shield the sun from her eyes and surveyed Blake’s property. “I had no idea your estate was so extensive.”
“Six thousand acres.”
Six thousand acres!
She couldn’t fathom one man owning that much land. She wanted to ask how much he had paid for Rosewood, but at the same time, she didn’t want to hear the gross figure from his arrogant lips.
If he could afford so much real estate without strapping himself financially, then her father’s fifteen-thousand-pound debt meant nothing to him. Blake could have easily extended the terms of Charles’s loan.
But it isn’t about the money, she reminded herself. It’s about revenge.
They remounted their horses, and Blake led her toward the tenant farms. First they passed acres of orchards, where the sweet smell of apples, pears and peaches hung in the air. Then they rode through grazing pastures of horses, lambs and sheep.
Victoria spotted the dwellings of Rosewood’s tenant farmers. As they approached, families came out of their homes to greet them. Children ran forward, smiling and happy, to welcome their lord and pet his horse.
Blake laughed and reached down to ruffle the hair on the youths’ heads.
To her astonishment, Blake knew all their names and recalled a personal fact about each man, woman and child.
The birth of a babe, the death of a distant relative, the dates of upcoming nuptials and the accidental injury of a son were all familiar topics of conversation between master and tenants.
Victoria realized that he regularly patrolled his property and took a keen interest in the people working the land.
Looking into the eyes of these hardworking families, she saw their respect and admiration for Ravenspear.
Two farmers with calloused hands and bronzed skin conversed with Blake regarding several fallow fields Blake and Victoria had previously passed. The rough-hewn men suggested rye and barley be planted on the land set aside for next spring.
Blake agreed with his tenants’ plans and recommended hops be planted as well.
Victoria had never heard of a master taking an interest in the crops on his country estate, only in the money the land would yield to support a gambling habit in London.
On their way back to Rosewood, Blake guided Pluto through an unkempt path in the woods. Brush grew in abundance, scraping the soft leather of her riding boots and snaring the hem of her light-wool gown, and Victoria wondered where the untraveled road led.
They entered a clearing, and a small cottage came into view. The dwelling was dilapidated, unlike the tenants’ homes they had just visited, with a patched straw roof, a shutter dangling from its hinge and a garden full of weeds.
Blake dismounted, removed a package from his saddlebags and proceeded to the front door.
Victoria followed, curiosity aroused.
A woman opened the door and upon spotting them, curtsied immediately.
“Yer lordship. I wasna expecting yer visit.”
She appeared middle-aged with equal parts of gray and brown hair. Crow’s-feet lined the corners of her eyes, and deep creases around her mouth made her lips look permanently puckered. Her gown, navy in color but faded in most places, was fraying at the hem.
From what Victoria could see and smell, the interior of the cottage was dingy, damp and dirty.
Blake reached down and raised the frail woman from her knees. “How are you and little Simon faring, Maggie?”
The woman’s eyes remained respectfully downcast, and she twisted the worn material of her skirt with gnarled fingers. “We are gettin’ by, me lord.”
“My housekeeper, Mrs. Smith, arranged a package of food for you. She tells me Cook prepared enough fowl and biscuits that will last you and little Simon a week.”
Tears welled within Maggie’s eyes as she reached out to take the parcel. “God bless ye, me lord. Before my William passed, he always said ye becomin’ the new master of Rosewood was the best thing to happen here.”
Victoria heard the patter of little footsteps behind Maggie a moment before a red-haired boy of no more than five peeked behind Maggie’s faded skirts.
Blake bent down on one knee and looked into the child’s round eyes. “Hello, Simon.”
Simon smiled, revealing two missing front teeth. He looked up at Victoria, a glint of wonder in his eyes. “She’s pretty.”
Victoria knelt eye level to the boy. “My name is Victoria.”
Simon turned to Blake. “Yer wife?”
Victoria flushed. “No. We are not married.”
“Simon!” Maggie admonished as she pulled the boy tightly against her side and shot him a stern look.
Victoria recognized the look of horror on the boy’s face at the possibility of insulting his master.
“We are just friends, Simon,” Victoria said.
Simon offered a small, shy smile. “Well, yer a pretty friend.”
Maggie handed the package of food to her son and pushed the boy behind her. “Take this inside, Simon.”
The boy rushed to do his mother’s bidding.
“I apologize fer my boy, Lord Ravenspear.” She shuffled her feet and lowered her gaze. “I also apologize fer this month’s rent.”
Blake took Maggie’s worn hand into his own. “Nonsense, Maggie. I told you I don’t expect anything from you and Simon. I spoke with Tanner and he will fix the leak in your roof this week.”
A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek. “I donna know what to say except to thank ye.”
“That’s plenty, Maggie.”
As they rode back to Rosewood, Victoria could not get the image of Maggie and the adorable red-haired Simon out of her head. “What is Maggie’s story?”
“Her husband, William, passed away four years ago, right after Simon was born. Maggie has been struggling to support her son ever
since. Apparently, the former master of Rosewood did not give a fig for their tragic circumstances and gave them no rent relief. I learned of their plight soon after I purchased Rosewood. Maggie’s pride won’t allow me to move them into a habitable cottage. So with Mrs. Smith’s and Cook’s help, we make sure they have sufficient food.”
Victoria’s heart ached at the unfairness of Maggie’s situation and the cruelty of the former owner.
She recalled her conversation with Lady Devon—that Blake was not a cruel master but fair and honorable, even overly generous. This part of him—compassionate, caring, kind—reminded her of the Blake Mallorey of her youth.
“Maggie seems old to have a son as young as Simon,” she said.
Blake turned toward her. “Maggie’s your age, Victoria.”
She looked at him with surprise, remembering the deep creases around Maggie’s eyes and lips, her head of gray hair, the knotted fingers. “But she looks so old.”
His mouth was tight and grim, his hands clenched the reins. “Poverty and hardship will age a person,” he said, a cold edge in his voice.
In an instant, gone was the pleasant gentleman she had spent the day riding with, and in his place was the bitter, cynical earl. She knew he was thinking of his time spent in the workhouse as a boy.
The experience had not aged him but rather had honed him into an avenging demon.
His sharp change in mood caused the anger to rise within her at the unfairness of her own situation. The urge to lash out at him was insuppressible.
“I’d take any amount of poverty over forced servitude to you,” she said in a nasty tone.
His eyes slightly narrowed. “I think not, my dear. Females that look like you never go hungry for long in the poorhouse or on the streets. They quickly find a lucrative means by which to support themselves.”
“Are you insinuating I’d turn to prostitution? How dare you!”
“I’m not insinuating anything, I’m merely stating fact.”
They arrived at the Rosewood stables. Blake slid from the saddle and held up his arms.
Lady of Scandal Page 7
