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.
Charles’s head snapped around and he stared at her, his face draining of color. “Almighty God!” he breathed, and slowly came to his feet, his gaze clinging to the exotic young beauty standing before him. He saw Katherine, exactly as she had looked so many years ago. How well, and how lovingly, he remembered that incredibly beautiful, fine-boned face with its gracefully winged eyebrows and long, thick lashes framing eyes the color of huge iridescent sapphires. He recognized that soft, smiling mouth, the elegant little nose, that tiny, enchanting dimple in her stubborn chin, and the glorious mass of red-gold hair that tumbled over her shoulders in riotous abandon.
Putting his left hand on the back of the chair to steady himself, he extended his shaking right hand to her. “Katherine—” he whispered.
Uncertainly, Victoria put her hand in his outstretched palm, and his long fingers closed tightly around hers. “Katherine,” he whispered again hoarsely, and Victoria saw the sparkle of tears in his eyes.
“My mother’s name was Katherine,” she said gently.
His grip on her hand tightened almost painfully. “Yes,” he whispered. He cleared his throat and his voice became more normal. “Yes, of course,” he said, and shook his head as if to clear it. He was surprisingly tall, Victoria noticed, and very thin, with hazel eyes that studied her features in minute detail. “So,” he said briskly, “you are Katherine’s daughter.”
Victoria nodded, not quite certain how to take him. “My name is Victoria.”
An odd tenderness glowed in his eyes. “Mine is Charles Victor Fielding.”
“I—I see,” she mumbled.
“No,” he said. “You don’t see.” He smiled, a gentle smile that took decades off his age. “You don’t see at all.” And then, without warning, he enfolded her in a tight embrace. “Welcome home, child,” he said in an emotion-choked voice as he patted her back and hugged her close. “Welcome.” And Victoria felt oddly as if she might truly be home.
He let her go with a sheepish smile and pulled out a chair for her. “You must be starved. O’Malley!” he said to the footman who was stationed at a sideboard laden with covered silver dishes. “We’re both famished.”
“Yes, your grace,” the footman said, turning aside and beginning to nil two plates.
“I apologize most sincerely for not having a coach waiting for you when you arrived,” Charles said. “I never dreamed you would arrive early—the packets from America are routinely late, I was told. Now, then, did you have a pleasant voyage?” he asked her as the footman placed a plate filled with eggs, potatoes, kidneys, ham, and crusty French rolls before her.
Victoria glanced at the array of ornate gold flatware on either side of her plate and breathed a prayer of gratitude to her mother for teaching Dorothy and her the proper uses for each piece. “Yes, a very pleasant voyage,” she answered with a smile, then added with awkward shyness,“—your grace.”
“Good heavens,” Charles said, chuckling, “I hardly think we need stand on such ceremony. If we do, then I shall have to call you Countess Langston or Lady Victoria. I shan’t like that a bit, you know—I’d much prefer ‘Uncle Charles’ for myself and ’Victoria‘ for you. What do you say?”
Victoria found herself responding to his warmth with an affection that was already taking root deep in her heart. “I’d like that very much. I’m sure I’d never remember to answer to Countess Langston—whoever that is—and Lady Victoria doesn’t sound at all like me either.”
Charles gave her an odd look as he placed his napkin on his lap. “But you are both of those people. Your mother was the only child of the Earl and Countess of Langston. They died when she was a young girl, but their title was of Scottish origin and it passed to her. You are her eldest child; therefore the title is now yours.”
Victoria’s blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “And what am I to do with it?”
“Do what we all do,” he said, and chuckled. “Flaunt it.” He paused while O’Malley deftly slid a plate in front of him. “Actually, I think there’s a small estate in Scotland that might go with the title. Perhaps not. What did your mother tell you?”