Beverley Kendall
Page 16
Victoria stood in the same spot for several seconds before she clambered onto the canopied bed. Tugging the hem of her nightdress higher, she settled her weight in the center and drew the counterpane up to her chin.
She should be pleased that things with her mother had turned out so well. The scolding she had feared had not come to pass due in large part that her mother had just received one of her greatest desires. It was true, that during her first Season, her mother had wanted the Duke of Kent’s son for her, but when Lord Graham had wed a baron’s daughter, she had been forced to set her sights elsewhere. And then there had been Lord Chadwick, but the man tended to be a bit of a recluse. Lord Granville appeared destined for Millicent Armstrong, but Victoria had always had doubts about that match. Regardless, he’d never shown any interest in her. That is when her mother’s sight had turned to Lord Rutherford, the heir to a fortune surpassing their own and a title no sane mother could find wanting. Yes, for the marchioness, a match with James Rutherford would be most advantageous.
Unfortunately, a more difficult task still lay ahead. Now she must tell the man himself. She had led him to believe that nothing had occurred between them the night she had gone to his residence. It had suited her purpose at that time. She’d hoped to find another way out of her difficulties and had sworn to herself he would be her last resort. As it stood, he was the one she sorely needed now.
What would he say when she told him about the child? Lord, how she hated the deception, but what other choice did she have? None. Thankfully, the one thing she had learned about James Rutherford in the years she had known him was that he was nothing if not honorable. A resigned sigh escaped her lips. He would do the gentlemanly thing, the honorable thing.
The short missive found James still abed the following morning. Randolph handed him the sealed folded piece of paper as he dragged his body into a sitting position.
“I was told it was urgent, and the footman is downstairs awaiting a reply,” he said.
James quickly read the note. His brows furrowed. “Tell him I will be there,” he said tersely.
“I will have your bath prepared,” his valet said upon his exit.
Within the hour James had bathed, dressed and was perched atop his phaeton, headed down Piccadilly toward Hyde Park, the same question running through his head, What did Lady Victoria want? Her note had been short and to the point:
Lord Rutherford,
I need to speak with you. It is urgent. Please meet me in Hyde Park, at the large elm along Rotten Row.
Victoria Spencer
He was certain it was connected to the same matter that had driven her to his residence the month before. He had taken pains to avoid her since then, so she must be desperate to have contacted him in this manner.
He found her precisely where she had written in her note. The elm was the largest in the park and often used as a landmark of sorts. The area had little foot traffic at that time of the morning, and even fewer carriages and riders. Drawing his phaeton to a halt in front of her barouche, he alighted.
Lady Victoria wore a blue bonnet, with a dizzying array of blue and white flowers adorning the crown. Her dress was a soft blue, printed muslin, with short blunted sleeves and a square neckline, and except for her mouth, which was pinched and drawn, she appeared none the worse for wear.
She offered him a hesitant smile on his approach. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Lord Rutherford.”
James’s return smile was constrained. “How could I ignore such an urgent request?”
“Come, let us go inside the carriage. The air is quite misty.”
He assisted her into the carriage. Done in a dark red leather and brass-colored knobs, it was plush and luxurious. He took the seat opposite her once she was seated. The dark, half-drawn curtains on the windows allowed in a weak ray of light.
“Now perhaps you can tell me what was so urgent that I was awakened with the roosters this morning?” Silence greeted his attempt at lightness. Unease began to churn in his gut.
He heard her sigh but there was a catch to it that made it sound like a sob. She had lowered her head, and because of the brim of her bonnet, he couldn’t make out any of her features save her mouth, which quivered uncontrollably.
James saw the slow glide of a tear as it slid down her cheek and plopped onto the back of her blue-gloved hand. Until a month ago, he hadn’t thought Lady Victoria a woman capable of tears. His unease grew.
He was beside her in an instant, his finger tipping her chin so he could look unobstructed into her eyes. “What is wrong?”
“I—I am with child and the child is yours,” she whispered as a fresh wave of tears bathed her cheeks.
James jerked his hand from beneath her chin with such speed her head dropped unceremoniously, her slender neck seeming unable to bear its weight. Making a reflexive move away from her, he sat back slack-jawed on the seat, a quiet stillness enveloping his form.
Lady Victoria watched him, her lips now quivering violently, her blue eyes wide and shiny. Her hands trembled visibly but his mind had shut down and he noticed little of the woman seated beside him. His world had ceased to make sense.
“That night—that night I came to your residence we did—what I mean is we—” She paused and took a ragged breath as she battled to conquer long familiar words. “I could not bring myself to admit to you that I’d allowed myself to be compromised and—and I didn’t want you to feel obligated as I know you don’t wish to marry me.” She turned her face toward the window, presenting him with the delicate lines of her profile. “But a child has changed everything. I could never bring myself to bear my father a bastard grandchild, and my mother…well my mother has already guessed the truth.”
James remained frozen, feeling the faintest movement would shatter him. All the while, an all-consuming dread choked the blood to his brain, sweeping aside all logic and reason. He shook his head, as if the small action would somehow negate everything he’d just heard.
“You assured me nothing had occurred.” His words came low and strangled.
She turned to face him, her expression haunted. “I was ashamed.”
His heart took a crushing blow at the starkness of her statement. His feelings of regret over yesterday’s incident with Missy paled in comparison to the emotion swamping him now.
“But there was no blood—” He felt like a fish taking in air, desperate, struggling for its very life.
She sent him a stricken look. “I assure you, my lord, I was a virgin,” she said, her tone a mixture of affront and embarrassment.
His eyes closed briefly as thoughts of Missy surfaced. Had it not been just last night when he’d resigned himself to a life with her? An image of her rose in his mind’s eye and his chest contracted tightly. He had ruined not one, but two ladies and he could offer only one recompense.
And then the rage surfaced and he cursed the alcohol that had robbed him of the memory of that evening. Surely, he’d have known if he had bedded Lady Victoria. Surely, there would have been some faint memory, have it be hazy or distorted, of having taken a woman’s virginity? Lord, he could not even remember leaving the library, why the hell would he remember much else? That night remained as empty as the future before him.
Raking an agitated hand through his hair, James pressed his fingers hard against his skull, the motion jerking roughly on the dark strands. He felt suffocated by the confines of the carriage. He wanted to pace. He wanted to run. As it was, he sat in the tense silence, his breathing deep and measured, pondering his options, while knowing he had none.
“You have confirmed your condition with a physician?” he asked quietly.
Lady Victoria stared at him, a profound sadness in her big eyes, and nodded. “His name is Dr. Samuel Litchfield. I am sure you would like to confirm it for yourself,” she said, guessing correctly he’d waste no time in doing so. If he was to be forced into marriage in this manner, it would be negligent of even the most trusting of men not to ensure the validi
ty of a claimed pregnancy—and he’d hardly be considered a man who laid a great deal of trust in anyone. Especially women.
James responded with a curt nod. “Have you told your mother that I am the father?”
Lady Victoria’s head bobbed her bleak affirmation.
“And your father?” he asked, viewing her downcast head.
She shook her head in vehement denial. A wisp of white-blond hair fluttered about her face.
He supposed he should be grateful a visit from the powerful Marquess of Cornwall wasn’t in his imminent future. No, as it was, he would be seeking the man out to ask for his daughter’s hand.
“I will be in contact in a day or two,” he said.
A pregnancy meant the wedding would be a rushed affair, which would of course start Society’s tongues wagging. He knew quite well that the marriage of Lord James Rutherford would have the gossip mills spinning at breakneck speeds. With his known aversion to the institution, speculation would run rampant and the ton would be waiting with bated breath for the announcement of a coming child, and then would be counting the subsequent months with cunning zeal.
Resignation laced his drawn sigh. Defeated, he wiped a fatigued hand over his face. In less than a day, his bride-to-be had changed as well as his life’s course. His throat closed and a searing pain burned the walls of his chest and settled into a dull ache as thoughts of Missy again assailed him. He cringed at the thought of her reaction once news of his betrothal to Lady Victoria was made public. He swallowed hard before pushing open the door and alighting the carriage.
With deft expertise, James steered the phaeton at reckless speeds along streets dense with coaches, horses, and people. Some of the corners were taken so sharply the carriage tilted precariously on two wheels, before coming down with a jarring jolt.
The first thing he did upon arriving at his residence was to have his footman request two meetings: one with Dr. Litchfield, and the other with Missy.
What an odd thing to realize that someone could not tell by just looking at you, that you had been debauched.
Her mother, her sisters, and Beatrice hadn’t looked at her curiously at all. They had not seen that under her mask of normalcy lay a seething mass of raw emotions vacillating between shame, dread, uncertainty, and the faintest flicker of hope. They could not tell that she was no longer a maiden and therefore, for all intents and purposes, ruined. So the morning progressed like any other.
It had been after her morning walk in Hyde Park when Stevens delivered the note to her, right before breakfast. He had waited until she was alone in the morning room. After skimming the short note, she had issued him her response. He then conveyed the message to James’s waiting footman.
Her plan of action played out immediately once her mother and sisters made their appearance. Claiming she needed additional rest before the Florsham’s ball, which was that evening, Missy begged off from going on their scheduled trip to Vauxhall Gardens. Although the viscountess was disappointed, she allowed her to demur from the day of entertainment. Her mother quite understood the rigors of the social whirl. Young ladies required sleep if they were to remain sufficiently animated until the wee hours of the morning.
At precisely two o’clock that afternoon, a full thirty minutes after her mother and sisters had departed, James arrived at their residence. Missy, clad in her most becoming lavender day dress, awaited him anxiously in the drawing room.
With her stomach in a knot and unable to sit still, she was standing in front of the fireplace when he arrived. Powerless to resist the pull of his magnetism, she soaked in the sight of him, her heart choking off her breath. He emanated an earthy heat, his form tall and commanding in a charcoal gray jacket, waistcoat, and necktie, black trousers, and a white linen shirt. The black Wellingtons on his feet were buffed to a brilliant shine. His countenance however, was closed and cold. The beginnings of a fresh stubble shadowed his square jawline. The lips that had kissed her in ways she’d never imagined a man could kiss a woman, were compressed in a severe line. His eyes were chips of blue ice. Trepidation shortened her already choppy breaths. Slowly, she drew a deep calming breath.
“You wished for us to speak,” she said, her gaze direct.
James advanced into the room, stopping by the tea service next to the chintz settee several feet from her. He did not sit and she was not inclined to offer he do so.
“What do you intend to do?” he said, skipping the normal pleasantries, and asking the question as if they were discussing something as mundane as which flowers she’d like best for the garden.
The question itself was so forthright, for an instant, it caught her by surprise. She wavered, trying to come up with an honest response. Lord, she had rather hoped that particular issue would have been taken out of her hands. She had hoped James would decide for her. Her knight come to sweep her off her feet and make everything in her topsy-turvy world steady and lucid. The thought had never occurred to her that he would ask her how they should proceed.
Drawing another calming breath, she said, “I expect nothing of you if that is what you are asking. I have no intention of foisting myself upon you.”
Brave words, a voice inside her snickered. Now what will you do if he turns and walks away without a glance? A heavy silence followed. He approached until a mere arm span separated them. She was forced to tilt her head slightly to meet his heavy-lidded gaze.
“And what will you do? I have irreparably compromised you. Your prospects now are to become a rich man’s mistress, or some reprobate’s wife. Or do you intend to rusticate in the country and live your life as a spinster?” His voice held a hard edge of derision as if he very much doubted the latter.
She turned away from his steely regard, and found a spot on the silk blue-and-white floral wall to focus. It prevented her from having to look into the eyes of the man, who at that precise moment had sealed the coffin to a dream that had just lost its already precarious hold on the last gossamer thin thread of hope.
“No one ever has to know,” she replied stiffly. It was enough that they would know.
“What of your husband? How will you explain your obvious lack of virginity?”
“It isn’t always obvious.”
“I do not want to talk to your back,” he bit out, touching her shoulder as if to turn her around. But then, as if burned, he pulled his hand back sharply and dropped it to his side. She could hear his breaths coming harshly.
Missy slowly turned to face him once again, an odd calm settling over her.
“What is not obvious?” he asked, his gaze narrowed.
“That a woman is no longer innocent.” In her wildest imagination she’d never dreamed she would have such a discussion with a man.
“What the devil are you talking about?” He advanced another step bringing their bodies close in proximity, the tips of her breasts nearly brushing the silver buttons on his waistcoat. Missy inhaled sharply and the fragrant, woodsy scent of sandalwood bombarded her senses. His pale eyes pinned her with a stare so potent and hot, she thought she would melt from the sheer heat of it. She despised that weakness in herself.
She nervously dragged the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip. His eyes followed. “My mother said sometimes one is not able to tell if a woman is a virgin because there are other ways besides the act of intercourse to rid a woman of her maidenhead. She said, on rare occasions, some women are not born with one.” If her mother could hear her she would probably faint dead away, and her mother was not a woman who took to the vapors.
His attention, which had locked on the red fullness of her bottom lip, shifted to her eyes as her words seemed to penetrate. His brows shot up and his eyes widened.
“So you do not intend to tell your husband that you are no longer a virgin? You will have the poor sod believe that he is your first?” His tone dripped with disdain and condemnation.
“What does it matter to you what I do as long as you will not be forced into an unwanted marriage with me?”
“You are right, it should not matter to me what you plan to tell your future husband.”
If she’d been alone, she might have sunk to her knees at the devastating impact of his words. As it was, all she could do was turn away and dam up an ocean of tears.
“I hope I have put your mind at ease.” She blinked furiously as she choked out the final word. “I will never tell anyone what occurred between us so you needn’t worry my brother will one day appear at your door demanding satisfaction. You are safe from me. You have made it clear enough that my attentions are not welcome, so in the future I shan’t subject you to them.”
The depth of James’s sorrow was unmeasured. He tried to speak but the words refused to come, cut by the force of his helplessness. He knew he dare not touch her or he would damage things well beyond repair.
God, she looked so fragile and defeated, her blue-gray eyes glittering with unshed tears, her usually creamy complexion pale.
There, too, was the knowledge that eventually one day she would marry—she was too passionate, too innately sensual to be forever without a man—and it wouldn’t be he who would lie beside her at night, or his children she would bear. She would belong to some faceless man who would have rights to her that he never would. The knowledge was like a vise squeezing his heart, making him crazy.