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
“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
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