Once and Always (6 page)

Victoria turned at the sound of the farmers’ shouts and giggled nervously as the red-faced men ran after the speedy little porkers.

Ahead of her, the door of the mansion was flung open and a stiff-faced man dressed in green and gold livery cast an outraged glance over the farmers, the piglets, and the dusty, disheveled female approaching him. “Deliveries,” he told Victoria in a loud, ominous voice, “are made in the
rear.”

Raising his arm, he pointed imperiously toward the drive that ran alongside the house, Victoria opened her mouth to explain she wasn’t making a delivery, but her attention was diverted by a little piglet, which had changed direction and was headed straight toward her, pursued by a panting farmer.

“Get that cart, those swine, and your person out of here!” the man in the livery boomed.

Tears of helpless mirth sprang to Victoria’s eyes as she bent down and scooped the escaped piglet into her arms. Laughing, she tried to explain. “Sir, you don’t under—”

Northrup ignored her and glanced over his shoulder at the footman behind him. “Get rid of the lot of them! Throw them off—”

“What the hell is going on here?” demanded a man of about thirty with coal black hair, stalking onto the front steps.

The butler pointed a finger at Victoria’s face, his eyebrows levitating with ire. “That woman is—”

“Victoria Seaton,” Victoria put in hastily, trying to stifle her mirth as tension, exhaustion, and hunger began pushing her perilously close to nervous hysteria. She saw the look of unconcealed shock on the black-haired man’s face when he heard her name, and her alarm erupted into hilarity.

With uncontrollable laughter bubbling up inside her, she turned and dumped the squirming piglet into the flushed farmer’s arms, then lifted her dusty skirts and tried to curtsy. “I fear there’s been a mistake,” she said on a suffocated giggle. “I’ve come to—”

The tall man’s icy voice checked her in mid-curtsy. “Your mistake was in coming here in the first place, Miss Seaton. However, it’s too close to dark to send you back to wherever you came from.” He caught her by the arm and pulled her rudely forward.

Victoria sobered instantly; the situation no longer seemed riotously funny, but terrifyingly macabre. Timidly, she stepped through the doorway into a three-story marble entrance hall that was larger than her entire home in New York. On either side of the foyer, twin branches of a great, curving staircase swept upward to the next two floors, and a great domed skylight bathed the area in mellow sunlight from high above. She tipped her head back, gazing at the domed glass ceiling three stories above. Tears filled her eyes and the skylight revolved in a dizzy whirl as exhausted anguish overcame her. She had traveled thousands of miles across a stormy sea and rutted roads, expecting to be greeted by a kindly gentleman. Instead she was going to be sent back, away from Dorothy— The skylight whirled before her eyes in a kaleidoscope of brilliant blurring colors.

“She’s going to swoon,” the butler predicted.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” the dark-haired man exploded, and swept her into his arms. The world was already coming back into focus for Victoria as he started up the right-hand branch of the broad marble staircase.

“Put me down,” she demanded hoarsely, wriggling in embarrassment. “I’m perfectly—”

“Hold still!” he commanded. On the landing, he turned right, stalked into a room, and headed straight for a huge bed surrounded by blue and silver silk draperies suspended from a high, carved wood frame and gathered back at the corners with silver velvet ropes. Without a word, he dumped her unceremoniously onto the blue silk coverlet and shoved her shoulders back down when she tried to sit up.

The butler rushed into the room, his coattails flapping behind him. “Here, my lord—hartshorn,” he panted.

My lord snatched the bottle from his hand and rammed it toward Victoria’s nostrils.

“Don’t!” Victoria cried, trying to twist her head away from the terrible amoniac odor, but his hand persistently followed her face. In sheer desperation, she grasped his wrist, trying to hold it away while he continued to force it toward her. “What are you trying to do,” she burst out, “feed it to me?”

“What a delightful idea,” he replied grimly, but the pressure on her restraining hand relaxed and he moved the bottle a few inches away from her nose. Exhausted and humiliated, Victoria turned her head aside, closed her eyes, and swallowed audibly as she fought back the tears congealing in her throat. She swallowed again.

“I sincerely hope,” he drawled nastily, “that you are not considering getting sick on this bed, because I’m warning you that
you
will be the one to clean it up.”

Victoria Elizabeth Seaton—the product of eighteen years of careful upbringing that had, until now, produced a sweet-tempered, charming young lady—slowly turned her head on the pillow and regarded him with scathing animosity. “Are you Charles Fielding?”

“No.”

“In that case, kindly get off this bed or allow me to do so!”

His brows snapped together as he stared down at the rebellious waif who was glaring at him with murder in her brilliant blue eyes. Her hair spilled over the pillows like liquid golden flame, curling riotously at her temples and framing a face that looked as if it had been sculpted in porcelain by a master. Her eyelashes were incredibly long, her lips as pink and soft as—

Abruptly, the man lunged to his feet and stalked out of the room, followed by the butler. The door closed behind them, leaving Victoria in a deafening silence.

Slowly she sat up and put her legs over the side of the bed, then eased herself to her feet, afraid the dizziness would return. Numb despair made her feel cold all over, but her legs were steady as she gazed about her. On her left, light blue draperies heavily embellished with silver threads were pulled back, framing an entire wall of mullioned windows; at the far end of the room, a pair of blue-and-silver-striped settees were placed at right angles to an ornate fireplace. The phrase “decadent splendor” drifted through her mind as she dusted off her skirts, cast one more look about the room, and then gingerly sat back down on the blue silk coverlet.

An awful lump of desolation swelled in her throat as she folded her hands in her lap and tried to think what to do next. Evidently she was to be sent back to New York like unwanted baggage. Why then had her cousin the duke brought her here in the first place? Where was he?
Who
was he?

She couldn’t go to Dorothy and her great-grandmother, because the duchess had written Dr. Morrison a note that made it clear that Dorothy, and Dorothy alone, was welcome in her home. Victoria frowned, her smooth brow furrowing in confusion. Since the black-haired man had been the one to carry her upstairs, perhaps
he
was the servant and the stout, white-haired man who’d opened the door was the duke. At first glance, she’d assumed he was a ranking servant—like Mrs. Tilden, the housekeeper who always greeted callers at Andrew’s house.

Someone knocked at the door of the room, and Victoria guiltily jumped off the bed and carefully smoothed the coverlet before calling, “Come in.”

A maid in a starched black dress, white apron, and white cap entered, a silver tray in her hands. Six more maids in identical black uniforms marched in like marionettes, carrying buckets of steaming water. Behind them came two footmen in gold-braid-trimmed green uniforms, carrying her trunk.

The first maid put the tray on the table between the settees, while the other maids disappeared into an adjoining room and the footmen deposited the trunk at the end of the bed. A minute later, they all trooped right back out again in single file, reminding Victoria of animated wooden soldiers. The remaining maid turned to Victoria, who was standing self-consciously beside the bed. “Here’s a bite for you to eat, miss,” she said; her plain face was carefully expressionless, but her voice was shyly pleasant.

Victoria went over to the settee and sat down, the sight of the buttered toast and hot chocolate making her mouth water.

“His lordship said you were to have a bath,” the maid said, and started toward the adjoining room. Victoria paused, the cup of chocolate partway to her lips. “His lordship?” she repeated. “Would that be the ... gentleman ... I saw at the front door? A stout man with white hair?”

“Good heavens, no!” the maid replied, regarding Victoria with a strange took. “That would be Mr. Northrup, the butler, miss.”

Victoria’s relief was short-lived as the maid hesitantly added, “His lordship is a tall man, with black curly hair.”

“And
he
said I should have a bath?” Victoria asked, bristling.

The maid nodded, coloring.

“Well, I do need one,” Victoria conceded reluctantly. She ate the toast and finished the chocolate, then wandered into the adjoining room where the maid was pouring perfumed bath salts into the steaming water. Slowly removing her travel-stained gown, Victoria thought of the short note Charles Fielding had sent her, inviting her to come to England. He had seemed so anxious to have her here.
“Come at once, my dear,”
he had written.
“You are more than welcome here
—
you are eagerly awaited.”
Perhaps she wasn’t to be sent away after all. Perhaps “his lordship” had mistaken the matter.

The maid helped her wash her hair, then held up a fluffy cloth for Victoria and helped her out of the tub. “I’ve put away your clothes, mum, and turned down the bed, in case you’d like a nap.”

Victoria smiled at her and asked her name.

“My name?” the maid repeated, as if stunned that Victoria should care to ask. “Why, it’s—it’s Ruth.”

“Thank you very much, Ruth,” Victoria said, “for putting away my clothes, I mean.”

A deep flush of pleasure colored the maid’s freckled face as she bobbed a quick curtsy and started for the door. “Supper is at eight,” Ruth informed her. “His lordship rarely keeps country hours at Wakefield.”

“Ruth,” Victoria said awkwardly as the maid started to leave, “are there two ... ah ... ‘lordships’ here? That is, I was wondering about Charles Fielding—”

“Oh, you’re referrin‘ to his grace!” Ruth glanced over her shoulder as if she was fearful of being overheard before she confided, “He hasn’t arrived yet, but we’re expectin’ him sometime tonight. I heard his lordship tell Northrup to send word to his grace that you’ve arrived.”

“What is his—ah—grace like?” Victoria asked, feeling foolish using these odd titles.

Ruth looked as if she was about to describe him; then she changed her mind. “I’m sorry, miss, but his lordship doesn’t permit his servants to gossip. Nor are we allowed to be familiar-like with guests.” She curtsied and scurried out in a rustle of starched black skirts.

Victoria was startled by the knowledge that two human beings were not permitted to converse together in this house, simply because one was a servant and the other a guest, but considering her brief acquaintance with “his lordship,” she could fully imagine him issuing such an inhuman edict.

Victoria took her nightdress from the wardrobe, pulled it over her head, and climbed into bed, sliding between the sheets. Luxurious silk caressed the bare skin of her arms and face as she uttered a weary prayer that Charles Fielding would prove to be a warmer, kindlier man than his other lordship. Her long dark lashes fluttered down, lying like curly fans against her cheeks, and she fell asleep.

Sunlight streamed in through the open windows and a breeze glided through the room, softly caressing Victoria’s face. Somewhere below, a horse’s hooves clattered on a paved drive, and two birds landed simultaneously on her windowsill, embarking on a noisy quarrel over territorial rights. Their irate chirping slowly penetrated Victoria’s slumber, stirring her from happy dreams of home.

Still half-asleep, she rolled over onto her stomach, burrowing her face into the pillow. Instead of the slightly rough fabric that covered her pillow at home and smelled of sunshine and soap, her cheek encountered smooth silk. Dimly aware that she was not in her own bed with her mother downstairs making breakfast, Victoria squeezed her eyes closed, trying to recapture her tranquil dreams, but it was already too late. Reluctantly, she turned her head and opened her eyes.

In the bright light of midmorning, she stared at the silver and blue draperies that surrounded her bed like a silken cocoon, and her mind abruptly cleared. She was at Wakefield Park. She had slept straight through the night.

Shoving her tousled hair out of her eyes, she pulled herself up into a sitting position and leaned back against the pillows.

“Good morning, miss,” Ruth said, standing at the opposite side of the bed.

Victoria stifled a scream of shock.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the little maid apologized hastily, “but his grace is downstairs and he said to ask if you would join him for breakfast.”

Vastly encouraged by the news that her cousin the duke actually wished to see her, Victoria flung back the covers.

“I’ve pressed your gowns for you,” Ruth said, opening the armoire. “Which one would you like to wear?”

Victoria chose the best of the five—a soft black muslin with a low, square neckline, embellished with tiny white roses she’d carefully embroidered on the full sleeves and hem during the long voyage. Refusing Ruth’s offer to help her dress, Victoria pulled the gown on over her petticoats and tied the wide black sash about her slim waist.

While Ruth made the bed and tidied the spotless room, Victoria slid into the chair at the dressing table and brushed her hair. “I’m ready,” she told Ruth as she stood up, her eyes alight with hopeful anticipation and her cheeks blooming with healthy color. “Could you tell me where to find ... ah... his grace?”

Victoria’s feet sank into the thick red carpet as Ruth led her down the curving marble staircase and across the foyer to where two footmen were standing guard beside a pair of richly carved mahogany doors. Before she had time to draw a steadying breath, the footmen swept the doors open with a soundless flourish, and Victoria found herself stepping into a room perhaps ninety feet in length, dominated by a long mahogany table centered beneath three gigantic chandeliers dripping with crystal. She thought the room was empty at first, as her gaze moved over the high-backed gold velvet chairs that marched along both sides of the endless table. And then she heard the rustle of paper coming from the chair at the near end of the table. Unable to see the occupant, she walked slowly around to the side and stopped. “Good morning,” she said softly.