by Gayle Callen
The water was growing cool, so she finished her bath quickly. Most likely she’d be going to bed alone, after their “discussion.” Relief and disappointment mingled within her.
She was sitting before the hearth, her hair almost dry, when she heard the soft knock on the door between their rooms. She froze with her hand on the brush, then slowly set it down.
“Come in.”
When he stepped inside, she realized they were both garbed just as they had been the previous night, dressing gowns belted in place. He watched her with a serious gaze as silence stretched out between them.
He sat down across from her, their knees almost brushing. Her throat went dry. As always, Victoria had no control over her skin; it heated into a blush that she knew could be seen by candlelight. She wanted to talk about everything, yet she didn’t feel an apology was necessary. Yet how to make things right between them?
“My lord—”
“Victoria, we said everything that needed to be said. As I sit here looking at you, smelling you—”
She gasped at how sensuous that sounded.
“I find I’m not thinking of the daytime, of discussions and agreements and business. I’m only thinking of you and me alone together.”
He leaned forward again, and this time their knees touched. He didn’t move away, just put out his hand, palm up.
“Give me your hand, Victoria.”
His voice was deep and hoarse, and made her think of movement in the darkness, things better felt than said. She gave him her hand, and this time he cupped it in both of his.
“Kiss me, Victoria,” he whispered.
Her gaze flew to his in surprise. Still holding her hand, he leaned back in his chair. Her arm was forced to straighten between them. She understood that he was challenging her, and she realized that she wanted to meet that challenge. She pulled on his hands, but he remained where he was, a lazy smile tugging one corner of his lips. He looked so…intriguing.
Slowly, she rose and leaned over him, bracing her free hand on the arm of his chair. His head was tilted back, and they stared at each other as if they shared a silent contest of wills. And to her shock, she didn’t mind that he was winning this one.
There was something different about being above him, seeing him below her. It made her feel…powerful, in control, something she’d rarely felt in her day-to-day existence. But here, in the candlelit dark, he was letting her experience it in a very intimate way.
She lowered herself ever nearer to him, her gaze sliding to his mouth. Their lips touched, and her uncertainty began. What was she supposed to do—remain still?
Then his fingers began to slowly caress her hand, his thumbs brushing the back of her palm. Her eyes slid closed. She never would have imagined that a man touching her hand could make her feel…fluttery, shaky, so very aware of their skin meeting.
Her attention was torn between the gentle pressure of his mouth and the movement of his hands. As she caught her breath at the sensation, her lips parted. His did the same, catching the fullness of her lower lip very gently between his. She shuddered at the exquisite rush of pleasure, so very new.
Her worries about her desirability faded. His questing fingers slid up her wrist, beneath the cuff of her nightdress. He rubbed her there, gently, and her soft gasp echoed in his mouth.
He broke the kiss. “Does that feel good?” he asked in a low, rumbling voice.
Straightening, she found her wits. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll leave you with that.”
He released her and rose to his feet, so tall and near her that she wanted to step back, but wouldn’t. His clothing brushed her body, making her tremble with a feeling of want. She wanted him to touch her, wanted him to kiss her. As he looked down into her face, she could tell he knew it.
“Good night, Victoria.”
“Good night.”
And then he was gone, and she was left to slump bonelessly in her chair, disappointed in his absence, but relieved she would not have to discover tonight just how much he could control her with a touch. Was that his true purpose, to show her who was in charge in their relationship, after she had challenged him at dinner?
Chapter 8
The next morning, Victoria persuaded her mother to leave her room. They were to meet Mrs. Wayneflete in the kitchen, and then go next door together to say their farewells to Louisa and Meriel. As they circled the stairs above the entrance hall, Victoria looked down and noticed that there was a silver tray on a table bearing the day’s post.
“Just a moment,” she said, hurrying down the stairs in curiosity.
She lifted an envelope or two, all of which were of course addressed to the earl or his son. Many of them looked written in a woman’s flowing hand. Were these invitations? Several bore a wax seal with an insignia proclaiming them from society’s highest families.
Victoria felt her mouth go dry. These were vastly different parties from the ones Lord Thurlow had planned with the railway directors.
“Those aren’t for you,” said a cold voice.
Victoria gave a little start, sending the stack of invitations to the floor. She heard her mother gasp and come quickly down the stairs. From her knees, Victoria glanced up. The notorious Earl of Banstead sat in his wheelchair near the front windows in the library, which looked out over the street he seldom visited. His valet stood against the wall.
Lord Banstead watched her, and she recognized something of his son in those expressionless eyes. With Lord Thurlow, she sensed polite attention—at least when he chose to see her!—but with Lord Banstead, there was a bitterness that colored the edges of what he’d just said.
Before she could respond, Lord Banstead glanced with disapproval at her mother, who now hovered protectively at her side. Victoria rose to her feet and took Mama’s arm.
She looked down at the invitations she was still holding, wishing this had happened after they’d at least been formally introduced.
“My lord, I know this mail belongs to you and your son.”
“Then why are you touching it?”
“Because I saw several addressed in a woman’s hand.”
“And why should that concern you? You can hardly accuse him of an affair two days after your marriage.”
“An affair?” she repeated in a quiet, stunned voice. Good Lord, did even his father know about his mistress? “I would never make accusations, my lord.” She didn’t need to.
The valet was looking pointedly at the floor, and Victoria inwardly winced that a servant had to overhear such a personal disagreement.
“Then why do you care who corresponds with him?” the earl demanded.
How could she tell him that she was still frightened by simple party invitations, that the thought of attempting to dance at a ball made her feel dizzy inside?
“I had assumed that one of my roles as his wife would be to look after the social aspects of our marriage. I thought the letters were party invitations.”
“They may very well be, but he never attends anymore. If you married him for the rise in social class, you’ll be vastly disappointed,” he added with satisfaction.
She could not be angry with Lord Banstead—she’d married his son for something far worse: the safety bought by his money. She had no right to feel slighted because the earl didn’t like her. Yet she couldn’t think of a way to change his attitude.
Instead she let herself think about Lord Thurlow. So his father didn’t know he’d begun to socialize with commoners. Yet Lord Thurlow never attended the events of the ton? She couldn’t be surprised, because of the rumors of scandal attached to his family name. She imagined it was easier for Lord Thurlow to deal with wealthy railway directors, who cared more about his money than any gossip. No wonder he hadn’t found a bride among the ton. His relationship with his own class seemed so very mysterious. Yet she still didn’t feel comfortable asking him to explain everything. She sensed he was far too proud.
“My lord, a rise in social class is not the
reason I married your son,” Victoria said. “And since you are aware of my background, you’ll know that society is nothing I’m accustomed to. I can’t miss what I have never known.” And she admitted to herself a feeling of relief that she would not have to find out. If Lord Thurlow did not wish to socialize with the ton, she was just fine with that.
“So you say,” the earl said, glancing over his shoulder at his valet. The man came forward to slowly push the wheelchair toward her.
She held her ground. Her mother was staring intently at the earl, a frown spreading across her face. Victoria could not have Mama saying something they’d both regret.
“My lord, I will do my best to be the kind of wife your son needs.”
The slow roll of the chair brought him past them.
“That will never be possible,” he said coldly.
The valet pushed the earl down the corridor, through his bedroom door, and closed it behind him.
“What a terrible man, to speak to you in such an abhorrent manner!” her mother said.
“I know. He’s old and sick. It will take him time to-to—”
“You are too kind, Victoria.” Her mother searched her eyes. “That is an accomplishment I take pride in.”
Victoria blinked back tears of gratitude. “Come, Mama, let’s go see off Louisa and Meriel.”
When David returned at mid-morning, he found Victoria waiting in the drawing room. She was alone, for which he was grateful. He thought that it might be easier to steer her wardrobe choices without her mother in attendance.
She stood up when she saw him, her expression polite but reserved. “I am ready, my lord.”
She looked so prim and proper, garbed well but not looking indecently wealthy.
And she was his. For the first time he truly looked at her and realized that someone finally belonged to him. He felt rather bewildered at such emotions, and decided it was only because he was physically frustrated by the slow pace of their intimacy.
Or maybe he was still feeling guilty that he’d allowed his mistress in his home, something he’d never done before.
He sighed. “I hope you do not feel like I’m intruding on you.”
She blinked her eyes. “Why…no, my lord. I promise I will not burst into noisy tears if you look at me crossly.”
He held back a grin. He liked her spirit—but then again, hadn’t he always?
At the dressmaker’s shop on Bond Street, David descended first then helped Victoria down. Inside, several customers were being waited on by the dressmaker and her assistant. Glass cabinets displayed lace and ribbons and garters. Since he was the only gentleman present, he found himself being watched and giggled at by two young ladies, obviously sisters by their resemblance. Then their mother turned around at their behavior and saw him.
He knew the moment she recognized him.
“Lord Thurlow, how good to see you again,” she said, curtsying, followed quickly by identical curtsies from her daughters. The three were as colorful as peacocks, done up in pink, blue, and yellow satin.
“Lady Augusta, it is a pleasure,” he said, bowing. He turned to the daughters. “Lady Alice, Lady Athelina.”
Their three identical gazes bore in on Victoria.
“And this must be your new bride,” Lady Augusta said, oozing kindness and an underlying fascination.
“May I present my wife, Lady Thurlow. This is Lady Augusta Clifford, and her daughters Lady Alice and Lady Athelina.”
They all curtsied together, and Victoria performed hers with simple grace.
“How clever of you to surprise us all with your…marriage,” Lady Augusta said. “Never quite gave the other ladies a chance, you young rascal.”
He understood that for the snide insult it was.
David smiled. “One’s heart shall always lead in the right direction, Lady Augusta.”
Victoria watched the scene unfold with a morbid fascination, even as she was trying hard to think of something to say. One’s heart?
“The good of the family should also be a concern in marriage decisions,” Lady Augusta said.
And Victoria knew that Her Ladyship was implying that this marriage was not good for the Banstead family. It was good for my own family, Victoria thought, but she was hardly going to say that. Everyone must already know that she brought nothing to the marriage. Even the earl himself was quick to point that out.
Her husband watched the lady and her daughters, saying nothing, leaving that rude statement just hanging there uncomfortably.
Lady Augusta was the first to back down, and she turned to Victoria with a sweet smile. “Lady Thurlow, how lucky you are to have a husband who takes an interest in your clothing. Or is it that you can’t be separated so early in your marriage?”
“I am fortunate, my lady,” she said. “I tried to tell Lord Thurlow that he did not have to accompany me today—”
She felt her husband’s arm slide about her waist and she kept her smile frozen on her face, as if this happened all the time. But even Lady Augusta looked surprised at such an intimate gesture.
“And I told my wife,” he interrupted smoothly, “that to be with her is the highlight of my day.”
Oh, now he was lying to people, Victoria thought worriedly. Why? He was only reinforcing to Victoria that appearances mattered more than the truth. And if she didn’t live up to the necessary “appearance,” what would happen? “Appearances” would matter little if he discovered the truth about her father’s death.
Lady Augusta looked her up and down, still smiling. “Then, Lady Thurlow, you should have your husband escort you to the milliner’s just down the block. You may tell the proprietress that I sent you.”
Lord Thurlow released her.
Victoria assumed that Lady Augusta was only insulting her choice of bonnet, but any mention of a milliner reminded her of Miss Lingard. Was Victoria actually jealous of something that had happened before she’d married Lord Thurlow? What did that say about her feelings for him?
“Thank you for taking such an interest in me, my lady,” she said, wishing she could let her sarcasm show.
The older woman nodded. “A good day to you, Lord Thurlow. And do consider attending my breakfast on Saturday, Lady Thurlow. You would be the center of attention as the new bride. Come along, girls.”
Victoria sighed as she watched them leave the shop, understanding exactly why she’d attract attention at such an event.
“And she wonders why I never attend,” Lord Thurlow said.
Victoria looked at him, and knew this was something they would need to discuss in private.
Madame Dupuy approached them, obviously salivating at the thought of Lord Thurlow’s money.
And Victoria’s obvious lack of a sterling wardrobe.
They were ushered into the next room, where there were several chairs gathered around a table piled with sketches. For the next hour, Victoria sat beside her husband as the dressmaker showed her sketches of gowns and discussed the various fabrics. She had expected Lord Thurlow to be bored, but he was obviously following the discussion quite closely. Since he was the one being so generous, she could not refuse him one or two small requests, even when she thought the colors would be too flamboyant on so plain a woman as herself.
Madame Dupuy stood up, a stack of sketches in her hand. “Lady Thurlow, I do have several lovely gowns in your size already pieced together, if you would like these sooner.”
“I have enough for now, madame,” Victoria said, rising to her feet.
Lord Thurlow didn’t move, and both women looked down at him. “You should try them on,” he said.
Was that hesitation she heard in his voice?
Victoria stared at him in surprise. “Now?”
He shrugged. “Why not? You might like them.”
But he seemed suddenly uncomfortable, as if he now regretted the idea. Why was that?
Lord Thurlow wasn’t meeting her eyes. She found herself far too curious than could be good for her.
> “Very well, Madame Dupuy,” Victoria said slowly, studying her husband.
The dressmaker soon returned with an armful of gowns and shooed Victoria behind the changing screen. Victoria stood still as the woman helped unhook her gown and replaced it with one only basted together. It felt loose in some places, tight in others.
The dressmaker turned her toward the standing mirror and Victoria tried to look at herself objectively. She saw a blushing woman, but she realized that it was not out of embarrassment.
She was actually…excited to be seen in new garments by Lord Thurlow. He would be looking at her body—and she liked the thought.
Then she was being led out from behind the screen. She stood still as Lord Thurlow’s gaze dwelled on every part of her. Under that pale blue stare, she’d once felt…frosted with cold, but instead a warmth started from her chest, where he stared the most, and spread outward at a slow languorous pace. She’d spent so much of her life feeling invisible around men. But now her husband wasn’t looking past her, or thinking ahead with distraction to his next appointment. His attention was focused all on her.
And she liked it.
She felt attractive, even…sensual. Though she’d always been considered plump, it was definitely an asset to fill out the dress’s bodice.
Someone bolder seemed to take over her tongue.
“Madame Dupuy, this is a ball gown,” Victoria said. “Will the neckline do?”
Her husband’s startled eyes met hers, then focused back where she wanted them.
And that’s all she’d meant to accomplish, but Madame said, “Ah, I had forgotten. The necklines are lower this season.”
Shocked, Victoria watched as the dressmaker stepped in front of her, folded down the bodice, and pinned it in place, looking amused as she stepped aside. The air that swirled from her movement felt cool against the tops of Victoria’s breasts. She was more exposed that she’d ever been.
