Now he was a civil stranger who might need her, but who was purposely and effectively keeping her at arm’s length. She knew he was no longer angry with her; he had simply locked her out of his heart and mind as if she didn’t exist.
On the fourth night, Jason went to London again and Victoria lay awake, staring at the rose silk canopy above her bed, stupidly longing to dance with him again as she had done so many times before. Jason was wonderful to dance with; he moved with such natural grace. . ..
She wondered what he did during these long nights in London before he came home. She decided he probably spent his time gambling in the exclusive gentlemen’s clubs to which he belonged.
On the fifth night, Jason didn’t bother coming home at all. The next morning at breakfast Victoria glanced at the gossipy section of the Gazette that reported on the doings of the haute ton, and she discovered what Jason had been doing while in London. He had not been gambling or meeting with more businessmen. He had been at Lord Muirfield’s ball— dancing with the elderly lord’s exquisite, voluptuous wife. It also mentioned that on the prior evening, Lord Fielding had attended the theater and been seen in the company of an unnamed brunette opera dancer. Victoria knew three things about Jason’s mistress—her name was Sybil, she was an opera dancer, and she was a brunette.
Jealousy bloomed in Victoria—full-bodied, frustrated, sick jealousy. It caught her completely off guard, for she had never experienced the bitter agony of it before.
Jason chose that untimely moment to stroll into the dining room wearing the same clothes he had left for London in the night before. Except that now his beautifully tailored black evening jacket was carelessly slung over his left shoulder, his neckcloth was untied and hanging loose, and his white lawn shirt was open at the throat. Obviously, he had not spent the night at his own house in London, where he kept a full wardrobe.
He nodded distantly to her as he went over to the sideboard and helped himself to a cup of steaming black coffee.
Victoria slowly arose from her chair, trembling with hurt fury. “Jason,” she said, her voice cool and stiff.
He glanced inquiringly over his shoulder at her, then saw her stony features and turned fully around. “Yes?” he said, lifting the cup to his lips and watching her over its rim.
“Do you remember how you felt when your first wife was in London, engaging in all sorts of salacious affairs?”
The coffee cup lowered an inch, but his features remained impassive. “Perfectly,” he said.
Amazed and a little impressed with her own bravery, Victoria glanced meaningfully at the paper, then lifted her chin. “Then I hope you won’t make me feel that way again.”
His gaze flicked to the open paper, then back to her. “As I recall, I didn’t particularly care what she did.”
“Well, I do care!” Victoria burst out because she couldn’t stop herself. “I understand perfectly that considerate husbands have—have paramours, but you are supposed to be discreet. You English have rules for everything and discretion is one of them. When you flaunt your—your lady friends, it’s humiliating and it hurts.” She strode out of the room, feeling like an undesirable, cast-off shoe.
She looked like a beautiful young queen, with her long hair swaying in molten waves and thick curls at her back, her body moving with unconscious grace. Jason watched her in silence, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. He felt the familiar, hot need for her rising in his loins, the longing he’d felt for months to gather her into his arms and lose himself in her. But he didn’t move toward her. Whatever she felt for him, it was not love or even desire. She thought it was “considerate” of him to keep a mistress discreetly tucked away so he could satisfy his disgusting lust with her, Jason realized bitterly. But Victoria’s pride was piqued at the idea of his being seen in public with that same woman.
Her pride was suffering, nothing more. But when he remembered the terrible beating her pride had already received from her beloved Andrew, he discovered he didn’t have the heart to hurt her more. He understood about pride; he remembered how shattered and enraged he had felt when he first discovered Melissa’s perfidy.
He stopped in his study to retrieve some documents and then walked up the staircase, reading the documents and carrying his jacket.
“Good morning, my lord,” his valet said, casting a look of reproof at the abused jacket hooked over his master’s thumb.
“Good morning, Franklin,” Jason said, handing over the jacket without taking his eyes from the newly arrived documents.
Franklin laid out Jason’s shaving mug, razor, and strop, then whisked the jacket to the wardrobe, where he began brushing it. “Is your attire for this evening to be formal or informal, my lord?” he inquired politely.
Jason turned to the second page of the document. “Informal,” he said absently. “Lady Fielding thinks I’ve been spending too much time away from home at night.”
He strolled toward the marble bath adjoining his bedchamber, unaware of the expression of pleasure dawning across his valet’s face. Franklin watched until Jason had disappeared into the bath, then laid the jacket aside and hastened down the stairs to share the happy news with Northrup.
Until Lady Victoria had burst into the house months ago and disrupted the orderly, disciplined tedium of everyone’s lives, Mr. Franklin and Mr. Northrup had jealously guarded their individual positions of trust. In fact, they had scrupulously avoided one another for four long years. Now, however, these two former adversaries were allied in their mutual concern for, and interest in, the well-being of the lord and lady of the house.
Mr. Northrup was in the front hall near the salon, polishing a table. Glancing about to ensure that there were no lesser menials around to overhear, Mr. Franklin hurried forward, eager to impart his news about this latest development in his lordship’s tumultuous romance—or more accurately, his lack of romance—and to hear in return any news that Mr. Northrup might wish to confide in him. He leaned near his confidant, blissfully unaware of O’Malley, who was in the salon pressing his ear to the wall in order to hear their conversation. “His lordship intends to dine at home this evening, Mr. Northrup,” the valet advised in a conspiratorial stage whisper. “I believe that is a good sign. A very good sign indeed.”
Northrup straightened, his expression unimpressed. “It is an unusual event, considering his lordship’s absences these five nights past, but I do not find it particularly encouraging.”