To Catch a Countess (15 page)

My aunt is a pain in the arse,
Victoria thought, her gaze on the bonnet. She despised bonnets, but her aunt had insisted. A lady always wore a bonnet while riding in the park.

Alexander would arrive shortly to take her out, and Victoria looked forward to being alone with him. If she could only contrive to be alone with him in a private place.

Sipping her tea, Victoria thought about the previous evening and all the women who were attracted to Alexander. Would their pursuit continue once he married? Lydia Stanley, Miriam Wilmington, and Diana Drummond were beautiful, sophisticated, and intelligent. She’d bet her last shilling that each could read, too.

The
Times
lay on the table nearby. If Alexander arrived to see the newspaper open in front of her, he would assume that she was reading it.

Victoria pulled the
Times
closer, stared at the headline for a moment, and then turned to the society page. Using her index finger, she pointed at each word and tried to read it. Love for the letters O, T, and X swelled within her. Those letters were more constant than true love and never misbehaved like the despicable d and b.

“Come here, please,” Victoria called to the majordomo.

If Tinker read her a few tidbits from the gossip column, she could mention them to Alexander. He would believe she had read the newspaper.

“Yes, my lady?”

“I’ve forgotten my spectacles upstairs,” Victoria said. “Would you read me a few tidbits from the society page?”

“Of course, my lady.” Tinker perused the page and then read, “London society is awaiting the Earl of Winchester’s marriage to Lady Victoria Douglas.”

“Show me where it said that,” Victoria said, smiling with pleasure at being mentioned. When the majordomo pointed to the spot, she placed a finger on the letters of her name, and the V I, C, T, and O. The other letters escaped her. “Go on.”

“Society had a peek at the lovely bride-to-be when the earl and she attended the opera together.”

“Tell me something more interesting.”

“There is nothing more interesting than you,” the majordomo drawled.

Victoria smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Tinker perused the column and chuckled as he neared the bottom of the article. “Listen to this juicy tidbit,” he said. “A certain young lady about to marry a peer of the realm was overheard to say that she adored the composer Mo Sart. Hmm. One wonders what criteria the gentleman used for choosing his bride.”

I am the village idiot.
Victoria pushed her plate away and stared at the newspaper. Everyone at the Wilmingtons’ ball would read the column and know the reporter referred to her. Those who hadn’t attended would hear the story. All of London would know how stupid she was.

Though she held her sobs back, Victoria couldn’t stop the tears streaming down her cheeks. She wiped them away with a napkin, but fresh droplets appeared and rolled down her flushed cheeks.

Alexander would cry off when he realized how stupid she was. If the deed were done, he would divorce her, and she couldn’t fault him for that. No man of his social stature would wish to be married to the village idiot.

“Is anything wrong?” Tinker asked.

“I am fine,” Victoria lied, her expression grim.

“You are not fine,” Tinker said, his voice overly loud.

“What is wrong?” Alexander asked, walking into the dining room in time to hear the majordomo’s words.

Her heart ached at the sight of the earl. She loved him, but he deserved better.

“I am quite well.” Victoria dropped her gaze.

Behind her back, Tinker shook his head. Alexander arched a questioning brow, but the majordomo shrugged.

“Tinker, I would love a cup of coffee,” Alexander said.

“Yes, my lord.”

Alexander sat beside Victoria at the table. She gave him a wobbly smile but said nothing.

Tinker set the cup of coffee down on the dining table. At a flick of the earl’s wrist, the majordomo left the room and closed the doors.

“Why did Tinker leave?” Victoria asked.

“I told him to leave,” Alexander answered.

“How did you do that without speaking?”

“Practice.” Alexander lifted her hand to his lips and then turned it over to press a kiss on her palm. “Sweetheart, tell me what is bothering you.”

“I can’t marry you.” Victoria pointed at the newspaper article, her lips trembling as she fought back tears.

Alexander read the offending words and then raised his gaze to hers. “Let me understand this,” he said, leaning close to her. “You don’t want to marry me because you thought Mozart was Mo Sart?”

“I do want to marry you,” Victoria said, “but I don’t want to ruin your life. People are already laughing at my ignorance. When they start laughing at you because you chose me, you will begin to hate me.”

“Tory, I could never hate you,” Alexander said, putting his arm around her and nuzzling her neck. “A husband and wife belong to each other, no matter what comes. I want to marry you.”

“Do not try to make me feel better.”

“You don’t want to feel better?”

Victoria heard the smile in his voice and turned her head to look at him. She smiled in spite of her misery.

“I will teach you whatever you need to know,” Alexander promised, and then captured her lips in a lingering kiss.

Victoria slid her hand up his chest to entwine his neck and surrendered to his kiss. She parted her lips for him, allowing him entrance to her mouth, and let herself be carried along by his passion.

Alexander stood and offered his hand. Victoria placed her hand in his. Reaching for her bonnet, she complained, “My aunt is forcing me to wear this. She insists that proper ladies wear bonnets when they go riding.”

“Allow me.” Alexander lifted the bonnet out of her hand. He placed it on her head and fastened the two ends of the ribbon beneath her chin.

Stepping outside, Victoria smiled to herself when she saw his phaeton in front of the duke’s mansion. Apparently, he wanted to be alone with her, which matched her feelings for him.

Alexander helped her up and then climbed onto the phaeton, taking the reins in hand. Off they went but not far. Hyde Park was located on the opposite side of Park Lane.

June had delivered summer’s robust lushness to the park. Accentuated by the pastels of pink and lavender and peach, the primary colors of the red, blue, and yellow flowers abounded everywhere. Dark green shrubs and trees in bloom dotted the acres of lighter green grass.

Victoria suffered the urge to kick off her shoes and dance across the grass, letting each blade tickle her feet. The thought of what her aunt would say made her smile.

A parked carriage up ahead caught her attention, making her spirits plummet. Lydia Stanley, her friend Sarah, and two other women sat in a barouche, its hood down.

“Good morning, Alex,” Lydia called, as they passed the barouche.

Alexander nodded curtly and stared straight ahead. Glancing over her shoulder, Victoria saw the women put their heads together and then burst into titters of laughter.

God, how she hated titters.

Victoria knew they were laughing at her stupidity of the previous evening. If only Alexander and she could live by themselves without society intruding.

And then trouble approached in the shape of two women on horseback. Alexander pulled the phaeton to the side of the road when he spied his sister and the widow.

“Good morning, Alex.” Venetia reined her mount to a halt.

“Good morning, my lord,” Diana Drummond said, her voice low and a trifle breathless.

“Good morning, ladies.”

Victoria forced herself to smile and inclined her head. Then she dropped her gaze to her hands folded in her lap. One of these witches had tried to murder her sister, and the other coveted her husband-to-be.

“Your impending marriage to Lady Victoria is mentioned in today’s
Times
,” Venetia said.

Diana Drummond chuckled throatily, and Victoria couldn’t help thinking that even the witch’s mirth was seductive. “I’ve been laughing all morning about the twit who thought Mozart was Mo Sart,” the widow said. “How any gentleman could tie himself to so stupid a woman is beyond my ken. After all, a man must converse with his wife sometimes.”

Victoria froze, a blush staining her cheeks. Insidious insecurity coiled itself around her heart and mind. Her faux pas must embarrass Alexander. How long would it be before he tired of her ignorance and set her aside?

“We’ll expect you at eight,” Venetia was saying.

Alexander started the phaeton moving. “What’s wrong?”

“That woman insulted me purposely,” Victoria said, without looking at him.

“Diana wasn’t there, Tory,” Alexander said. “The insult was inadvertent.”

Victoria snapped her gaze to him. And she thought she was stupid? When it came to beautiful women, men were simpletons.

“How can you defend her?” Victoria asked. “I am your betrothed.”

“I’m not defending her,” Alexander said. “You should give other people the benefit of the doubt.”

“Those who give others the benefit of the doubt usually end by losing everything,” Victoria said, a bitter edge to her voice.

“So cynical, my love?”

“My family has long experience in being duped.”

Alexander made no reply. Victoria glanced at him and noted his lips tightened into a grim line.

“I’m sorry,” Victoria said, touching his arm. “I did not mean to imply—please, don’t be angry with me.”

“I should be apologizing to you,” Alexander said, steering the phaeton toward the Cumberland Gate.

“I intend to remind you of those words some day,” Victoria returned, making him smile. “Where are we going now?”

“I want to see where you lived before His Grace sent for you,” he answered her.

“I don’t think that is a good idea,” she said.

“I insist.”

“Alex—”

“I need to see it.”

Alexander turned the phaeton onto Edgeware Road. From there, they drove down Marylebone Road to Park Road, which brought them to Primrose Hill.

“Turn the phaeton around,” Victoria said, when they reached the two hundred and sixteen foot summit of Primrose Hill.

Alexander gave her a puzzled smile but did as she ordered. And then he knew why she had wanted to turn around. Beyond the sloping meadow lay London, its tallest landmarks—Westminister Abbey, Saint Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London—easily visible.

“What an outstanding view.”

“I used to stand here and pretend that I was a princess looking over my domain,” she told him, a smile touching her lips. “On New Year’s Eve, I watched the fireworks from this spot. Did you know that giant oaks covered the hill two hundred years ago?”

“Where did you read that?” Alexander asked, enchanted by her beauty, her charm, her artless innocence.

“Mister Lewis told me.”

“Poor Mister Lewis?”

Victoria nodded. “The very same man.”

Alexander turned the horses around and down the western slope of Primrose Hill. Below lay a tiny hamlet of cottages with their pale pink, lemon, and sage stucco fronts trimmed with white, like frosted cakes.

“Which one is yours?” Alexander asked when the phaeton reached the bottom of the hill.

“The last cottage at the end of the lane.”

Victoria bit her bottom lip at the thought that Alexander was about to see where she grew up. Knowing she had been poor wasn’t as graphic as actually seeing the poverty. She hoped he wouldn’t feel too guilty because of what his father had done.

Alexander halted the phaeton in front of the pale pink cottage with white trim. He sat in silence for a time and stared at it. “Can we go inside?”

When she inclined her head, Alexander climbed out of the phaeton and then helped her down. Together, they walked up the tiny path to the front door.

Victoria unlocked the door with the key hidden under the flower pot. Alexander followed her and stood just inside the doorway. The cottage consisted of one large room that served as kitchen and parlor, with a hearth at either end, one for cooking and one for warmth. The kitchen had a table with four chairs while the parlor had a settee and small table. Three doors stood along the back wall of the room.

“My sisters and I slept here,” Victoria said, opening the first door.

Alexander crossed the cottage and peered inside at the three cots. “This closet isn’t big enough for one person,” he said. “I suppose the other two rooms were for your aunt and your father.”

“Please, Alex, do not torment yourself,” Victoria said, noting the grim set to his jaw. “I didn’t know I was poor and spoke truthfully when I told you I was happy here.”

“I cannot credit that.”

“Whatever troubled me here would have troubled me on Park Lane or Grosvenor Square,” Victoria said.

“How did you manage to live once your aunt’s funds were depleted?” Alexander asked, putting his arm around her shoulder and pulling her close.

“Angelica was an expert cheat at dice and cards,” Victoria answered, her face flaming. “Samantha and I picked pockets.”

Alexander closed his eyes against the injustice Charles Emerson had wrought. Three young girls had lost the security of a home, their mother in childbirth, and their father to drunkenness. Lady Roxanne—God bless her—had kept the girls alive.

“Come here,” Victoria said, sitting on the cot. “Life was good. My sisters and I had fun.”

“How can you possibly have enjoyed life in this hovel?” Alexander asked, putting his arm around her.

“This is my home,” Victoria corrected him, her voice choked with emotion.

“I’m sorry,” Alexander apologized, gently forcing her to look at him. He touched his lips to hers. “Tell me about the fun.”

“We had fun the usual way, by playing with the hamlet’s other children. Except—” She broke off and shrugged again.

“Except what?” Alexander asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Samantha and I prayed each night for our heart’s desire,” Victoria answered. “We never did get it.”

“What was your heart’s desire?”

“Samantha wanted a tiara because the other children wouldn’t make fun of her limp if she was a princess,” Victoria answered, “and I wanted a magic wand.”