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?”
“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 being 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?”
“I would never ask the impossible,” she retorted, hastily backing from his touch.
“Once again, you are quite off the mark.”
“You are saying you would never take a mistress if I allowed you into my bed?”
He smiled wryly at her disbelief. There were times his reputation was a deuced nuisance. “I am saying that I vowed to be faithful the day we wed.”
Her breath caught. “Ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“I . . . you have always had a mistress.”
“Not always,” he denied, holding her gaze with his own. “And never when I possessed a wife.”
She gave a slow shake of her head. “And you wish me to believe that a wife will make a difference to you?”
“It makes all the difference.” With an effort, Claredon battled to maintain his patience. She wanted to believe the worst in him. It would be up to him to teach her that he was more than a scandalous rogue—always supposing he did not strangle her first. “Regardless of the unfortunate reason for our marriage, you are now my wife. Your position demands my respect, and I would do nothing to bring embarrassment to you.”
Her fierce expression briefly faltered with uncertainty. “It is hardly uncommon for a husband to seek pleasure outside his home.”
Claredon winced as he recalled his own father’s peccadilloes. He had certainly never taken care to hide his infidelities, nor even to spare a thought for his wife left at home. It was not that he was a cruel man. He merely presumed his behavior was that of any other noble gentleman.
“Perhaps not,” he admitted in low tones. “But after witnessing my mother’s distress when my father flaunted his birds of paradise, I made a personal decision never to bring such shame to my own family. As much as I love my father, I have never forgiven him for hurting my mother.”
A thick silence descended as she regarded him with an unreadable expression. Claredon prepared himself for her condemning words. He had never before revealed his deeply hidden disappointment in his father, and he was all too aware his wife possessed no trust in him.
Would she consider this yet another ploy to seduce her?
The silence lengthened then, just when he was prepared to toss up his hands in defeat, she allowed her features to soften. “I am sorry.”
Caught off guard by her low words, he regarded her with a lift of his brows. “For what?”
“I know you are very attached to your father,” she explained with a troubled expression. “That was why I . . .”
“Why you what?” he prompted.
“Why I assumed you would be willing to follow his example.”
Claredon breathed in deeply, realizing that there had been a great deal too much assumption on both sides.
“Perhaps you could have spoken to me rather than simply having presumed the worst?” he said with a wry smile.
“You have never indicated that you consider our marriage as anything more than a rather poor jest.”
He acknowledged her hit with a bow of his head, well aware he had walked into her thrust like a simpleton. “Neither one of us have attempted to put our best foot forward.”
“No,” she breathed.
“Maybe we should consider the vicar’s words.”
“What words?”
“Of attempting to seek out the best in our situation. We are, after all, stuck with one another.”
An indefinable emotion darkened her emerald eyes before she abruptly spun away. “It is not so simple.”
Claredon swallowed an impatient sigh as he ran his hand through his dark hair. Blast it all, she was as stubborn as an ox. “You would prefer that we devote the next fifty-odd years to sniping at one another and making ourselves miserable?” he demanded.
“Of course not.” Her head bowed with an oddly vulnerable motion. “But I cannot just dismiss the fact we are little more than strangers forced into this situation because you wished to seduce my own cousin.”
Claredon stiffened, refusing to take the full blame for their damnable situation. “Or if you had not heedlessly been eloping with an incompetent fool while masquerading as your cousin,” he retorted stiffly. “If you will recall, there were two of us in that bed.”
She shuddered, but refused to turn about and face him. “Did you love her?”
“What?”
“My cousin. Did you love her?”
“Good lord, no,” he protested with a grimace at the mere thought of Lady Westfield. The beautiful but coldly predatory woman was a danger to gentlemen everywhere. It was incredible that she was even related to Victoria, no matter how remotely. “Indeed, I have been battling her attempts at seduction for the past year.”
She gave a choked laugh. “Forgive me if I find that rather difficult to believe.”
He batted the urge to shake her. He was unaccustomed to having to explain himself to anyone, let alone an innocent chit who knew nothing of the meaningless games played between the more jaded members of the ton.
“If you must know the sordid truth, I thought she had followed me from London,” he grudgingly revealed, discovering he was not entirely proud of his actions upon that fateful evening. “It certainly would not have been the first occasion she had done such a thing. Once she even possessed the audacity to slip into my town house through the servant’s entrance. Since I had no desire to have her following me around the countryside, I had hoped that by offering her what she obviously wished for, she would leave me in peace.”
She slowly turned to regard him with a startled expression. “Oh.”
His lips twisted. It was not a simple matter to discuss his scandalous behavior with a true innocent. To be frank, he was beginning to feel a bit guilty—which was absurd, of course. “Have I shocked you, my dear?”
Her lips thinned with disapproval. “I do not comprehend how you can be so casual about such matters.”
He gave a slow shake of his head as he stepped toward her. He would not have her thinking he considered her just another female. She was his wife, his mate for life. “There is nothing casual in my response to you, Victoria,” he promised in low tones. “I do not believe I have ever had a woman haunt me with such frustrating persistence.”
Her tongue peeked out to wet her lips in a nervous manner. “No doubt because no other woman has ever bothered to resist your advances.”
“Ah, no, it is more than that. I . . .” His soft words of seduction were rudely interrupted as a distant cry echoed through the air. With a frown he glanced toward the door. “What the devil was that?”
“It sounded like Vicar Humbly,” she retorted, moving with astonishing speed to wrench open the door and disappear down the hall.
On his own, Claredon tossed his hands up in surrender.
He could only presume he was being punished for his very long list of sins. Why else would he have been saddled with the one woman in all of England he could not seduce? It truly was an astonishing irony.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, moving to follow his maddening wife.