Everything and the Moon (3 page)

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“Oh, Torie,” he said, wanting desperately to haul her into his arms, but settling for touching her cheek. “Please don't berate yourself.”

“I shouldn't have let you.”

He smiled gently. “No, you probably shouldn't have. And I probably shouldn't have tried. But I'm in love. It's no excuse, but I couldn't help myself.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I shouldn't have enjoyed it so much.”

At that Robert let out a bark of laughter so loud that Victoria was sure Ellie would come crashing through the woods to investigate. “Oh, Torie,” he said, gasping for air. “Don't ever apologize for enjoying my touch. Please.”

Victoria tried to shoot him an admonishing glance, but her eyes were far too warm. She allowed her good humor to rise back to the surface. “Just so long as you don't apologize for enjoying mine.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him in the breadth of an instant. He smiled seductively, looking rather like the rake Victoria had once accused him of being. “That, my darling, has never been a danger.”

She laughed softly, feeling her earlier tension slip from her body. She shifted position, settling her back against his chest. He was absently toying with her hair, and it felt like sheer heaven.

“We'll be married soon,” he whispered, his words coming with an urgency she hadn't expected. “We'll be married soon, and then I will show you everything. I'll show you how much I love you.”

Victoria shivered with anticipation. He was speaking against her skin, and she could feel his breath near her ear.

“We'll be married,” he repeated. “Just as soon as we can. But until then I don't want you to feel ashamed of anything we have done. We love each other, and there is nothing more beautiful than two people expressing their love.” He turned her around until their eyes met. “I didn't know that before I met you. I—” He swallowed. “I had been with women, but I didn't know that.”

Deeply moved, Victoria touched his cheek.

“No one will strike us down for loving before we are married,” he continued.

Victoria wasn't certain whether “loving” referred to the spiritual or the physical, and all she could think to say was, “No one except my father.”

Robert closed his eyes. “What has he said to you?”

“He said I must not see you anymore.”

Robert swore softly under his breath and opened his eyes. “Why?” he asked, his voice coming out a bit harsher than intended.

Victoria considered several replies but finally opted for honesty. “He said you won't marry me.”

“And how would he know that?” Robert snapped.

Victoria drew back. “Robert!”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to raise my voice. It's just—How could your father possibly know my mind?”

She placed her hand on his. “He doesn't. But he thinks he does, and I'm afraid that is all that matters just now. You are an earl. I am the daughter of a country vicar. You must admit that such a match is most unusual.”

“Unusual,” he said fiercely. “Not impossible.”

“To him it is,” she replied. “He'll never believe your intentions are honorable.”

“What if I speak with him, ask him for your hand?”

“That might appease him. I have told him that you want to marry me, but I think he thinks I'm making it up.”

Robert rose to his feet, drawing her up with him, and gallantly kissed her hand. “Then I shall have to formally ask him for your hand tomorrow.”

“Not today?” Victoria asked with a teasing glance.

“I should inform my father of my plans first,” Robert replied. “I owe him that courtesy.”

 

Robert hadn't yet told his father about Victoria. Not that the marquess could forbid the match. At four and twenty Robert was of an age to make his own decisions. But he knew that his father could make life difficult with his disapproval. And considering how often the marquess urged Robert to settle down with the daughter of this duke or that earl, he had a feeling that a vicar's daughter wasn't quite what his father had in mind for him.

And so it was with firm resolve and some trepidation that Robert knocked on his father's study door.

“Enter.” Hugh Kemble, the Marquess of Castleford, was seated behind his desk. “Ah, Robert. What is it?”

“Have you a few moments, sir? I need to talk with you.”

Castleford looked up with impatient eyes. “I'm quite busy, Robert. Can it wait?”

“It is of great import, sir.”

Castleford set down his quill with a gesture of annoyance. When Robert did not start speaking immediately, he prompted, “Well?”

Robert smiled, hoping that would set his father's mood aright. “I have decided to marry.”

The marquess underwent a radical transformation. Every last touch of irritation disappeared from his expression, replaced by pure joy. He jumped to his feet and clasped his son into a hearty hug. “Excellent! Excellent, my boy. You know I have wanted this—”

“I know.”

“You are young, of course, but your responsibilities are grave. It would be the end of me if the title passed out of the family. If you do not produce an heir…”

Robert declined to mention that if the title passed out of the family, his father would already be dead, so he would not know of the tragedy. “I know, sir.”

Castleford sat down against the edge of his desk and crossed his arms genially. “So, tell me. Who is it? No, let me guess. It's Billington's daughter—the blond gel.”

“Sir, I—”

“No? Then it must be Lady Leonie. Smart pup, you are.” He nudged his son. “Old duke's only daughter. She'll come into quite a portion.”

“No, sir,” Robert said, trying to ignore the avaricious gleam in his father's eye. “You are not acquainted with her.”

Castleford's face went blank with surprise. “I'm not? Then who the devil is she?”

“Miss Victoria Lyndon, sir.”

Castleford blinked. “Why is that name familiar?”

“Her father is Bellfield's new vicar.”

The marquess said nothing. Then he burst out laughing. It was several moments before he was able to gasp, “Good God, son, you had me going there for a moment. A vicar's daughter. Quite beyond anything.”

“I'm quite serious, sir,” Robert ground out.

“A vicar's…heh heh—
What
did you say?”

“I said I'm quite serious.” He paused. “Sir.” Castleford took stock of his son, desperately searching for a hint of jest in his expression. When he found none he fairly yelled, “Are you mad?”

Robert crossed his arms. “I'm utterly sane.”

“I forbid it.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I don't see how you
can
forbid it. I'm of age. And,” he added as an afterthought, hoping to appeal to his father's softer side, “I'm in love.”

“Goddamn it, boy! I'll disinherit you.”

Apparently his father didn't
have
a softer side. Robert raised an eyebrow and practically felt his eyes turn from light blue to steely gray. “Go ahead,” he said nonchalantly.

“Go ahead?!” Castleford spluttered. “I'll turn you out on your ear! Cut you off without a farthing! Leave you to—”

“What you'll do is leave yourself without an heir.” Robert smiled with a hard determination he had never known he possessed. “How unfortunate for you that Mother was never able to present you with another child. Not even a daughter.”

“You! You!” The marquess began to turn red with rage. He took a few deep breaths and continued in a calmer fashion. “Perhaps you have not reflected adequately upon the unsuitability of this girl.”

“She is entirely suitable, sir.”

“She won't—” Castleford broke off when he realized that he was yelling again. “She won't know how to fulfill the duties of a noble-woman.”

“She is quite bright. And one could find no fault with her manners. She has received a gentle education. I am certain she will make an excellent countess.” Robert's expression softened. “Her very nature will bring honor to our name.”

“Have you asked her father yet?”

“No. I thought I owed you the courtesy of informing you of my plans first.”

“Thank God,” Castleford breathed. “We still have time.”

Robert's hands curled into harsh fists, but he held his tongue.

“Promise me you won't ask for her hand yet.”

“I will do no such thing.”

Castleford regarded the firm resolve in his son's eyes and met it with a harsh stare. “Listen to me well, Robert,” he said in a low voice. “She cannot love you.”

“I fail to see how you could know that, sir.”

“Goddamn it, son. All she wants is your money and your title.”

Robert felt a rage welling up within him. It was unlike anything he had ever known. “She loves me,” he bit out.

“You will never know if she loves you.” The marquess slammed his hands down on his desk for emphasis. “Never.”

“I know it now,” Robert said in a low voice.

“What is it about this girl? Why her? Why not one of the dozens you have met in London?”

Robert shrugged helplessly. “I don't know. She brings out the best in me, I suppose. With her by my side, I can do anything.”

“Good God,” his father snapped. “How did I raise a son who spouts such romantic drivel?”

“I can see that this conversation is pointless,” Robert said stiffly, taking a step toward the door.

The marquess sighed. “Robert, don't leave.”

Robert turned back around, quite unable to show his father the disrespect of countermanding a direct request.

“Robert, please listen to me. You must marry within your own class. That is the only way you will ever be sure that you were not married for your money and position.”

“It has been my experience that women of the
ton
are quite interested in marrying for money and position.”

“Yes, but it is
different
.”

Robert thought that this was a rather weak argument, and he said so.

His father raked his hand through his hair. “How can this girl know what she feels for you? How could she help but be dazzled by your title, your wealth?”

“Father, she is not like that.” Robert crossed his arms. “And I
will
marry her.”

“You will be making the biggest—”

“Not another word!” Robert exploded. It was the first time he had ever raised his voice to his father. He turned to leave the room.

“Tell her I've cut you off without a farthing!” Castleford yelled. “See if she'll have you then. See if she loves you when you have nothing.”

Robert turned, his eyes narrowing ominously. “Are you telling me that I have been disinherited?” he asked, his voice chillingly soft.

“You're perilously close to it.”

“Have I or have I not?” Robert's tone demanded an answer.

“You may very well be. Do not cross me on this measure.”

“That isn't an answer.”

The marquess leaned forward, his eyes steady on Robert's. “If you were to tell her that marriage to her would almost certainly result in a vast loss of fortune, you would not be lying.”

Robert hated his father in that moment. “I see.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” And then almost as an afterthought, he added, “Sir.” It was the last time he addressed his father with that title of respect.

T
ap. Tap tap tap.

Victoria slammed awake, sitting bolt upright in the space of a second.

“Victoria!” came the hissed whisper from her window.

“Robert?” She crawled down the bed and peered out.

“I need to talk with you. It's urgent.”

Victoria glanced around the room, quickly judged that the household was fast asleep, and said, “Very well. Come in.”

If Robert thought it was odd that she was inviting him into her room—something she had never before done—he did not mention it. He climbed through the window and sat down on her bed. Oddly he made no attempt to kiss her or pull her into his arms—his usual methods of greeting her when they were alone.

“Robert, what is wrong?”

He didn't say anything at first, just stared out the window at the north star.

She put her hand on his sleeve. “Robert?”

“We must elope,” he said baldly.

“What?”

“I have analyzed the situation from every direction. There is no other solution.”

Victoria touched his arm. He always approached life so scientifically, treating every decision as a problem to be solved. Falling in love with her was probably the only illogical thing he'd ever done in his life, and it made her love him all the more. “What is wrong, Robert?” she asked softly.

“My father has cut me off.”

“Are you certain?”

Robert looked into her eyes, stared into those fabulous blue depths, and then made a decision he wasn't proud of. “Yes,” he said, “I'm certain,” neglecting to mention that his father had only said, “Almost certainly.” But he had to be sure. He didn't think it was possible, but what if Victoria really was more dazzled by the possessions than she was by the man?

“Robert, that is unconscionable. How could a father do such a thing?”

“Victoria, you must listen to me.” He grabbed her hands in his, clutching them with a ferocious intensity. “It doesn't matter. You are more important to me than the money. You are everything.”

“But your birthright…How can I ask you to give that up?”

“It is my choice to make, not yours, and I choose you.”

Victoria felt tears stinging her eyes. She had never dreamed that she might cause Robert to lose so much. And she knew how important the respect of his father was to him. He had worked his whole life to impress him, always trying and always coming up just a little bit short. “You must promise me one thing,” she whispered.

“Anything, Torie. You know I would do anything for you.”

“You must promise me that you will try to make amends with your father after the marriage. I—” She swallowed, hardly able to believe that she was putting a condition on her acceptance of his proposal. “I won't marry you unless you do. I couldn't live with myself knowing that I was the cause of your rift.”

A strange expression crossed Robert's face. “Torie, he is most stubborn. He—”

“I didn't say you have to succeed,” she said quickly. “Just that you have to try.”

Robert lifted her hands to his lips. “Very well, my lady. I give you my vow.”

She offered him a smile that pretended to be stern. “I'm not ‘your lady' yet.”

Robert only grinned and kissed her hand again. “I would leave with you tonight if I could,” he said, “but I will need a bit of time to amass some funds and supplies. I don't intend to drag you across the countryside with nothing but the clothes on our backs.”

She touched his cheek. “You're such a planner.”

“I don't like leaving anything to chance.”

“I know. It's one of the things I love best about you.” She smiled sheepishly. “I'm forever forgetting things. When my mother was alive she always said that I would forget my head if I weren't in possession of a neck.”

That prompted a smile. Robert said, “I'm glad you have a neck. I'm rather fond of it.”

“Don't be silly,” she said. “I was merely trying to say that it is nice to know that I'll have you to keep my life in order.”

He leaned forward and brushed the gentlest of kisses on her lips. “It's all I want to do. Just keep you happy.”

Victoria looked up at him with damp eyes and curled her face into the crook of his shoulder.

Robert let his chin rest on the top of her head. “Can you be ready in three days time?”

Victoria nodded, and they spent the next hour making plans.

 

Robert shivered against the night wind, checking his pocket watch for what must have been the twentieth time. Victoria was five minutes late. Nothing to be alarmed about; she was terribly disorganized and was frequently five or ten minutes late for their outings.

But this was no ordinary outing.

Robert had planned their elopement to the last detail. He'd taken his curricle from his father's stables. He would have preferred a more practical vehicle for the long journey to Scotland, but the curricle belonged to him, not his father, and Robert didn't want to feel beholden.

Victoria was to meet him here, at the end of the road leading to her cottage. They had decided that she would have to slip out on her own. It would be far too noisy if Robert drove the curricle to her house, and he didn't want to leave it unattended. It would only take five minutes for Victoria to make her way to him, and the area had always been quite safe.

But damn it, where was she?

 

Victoria scanned her room, checking for any last item she might have missed. She was running late. Robert expected her five minutes ago, but at the last minute she decided that she might need a warmer dress, so she had to repack her bag. It wasn't every day a young woman left home in the middle of the night. She ought to at least be certain that she packed the right belongings.

The miniature! Victoria smacked herself on her forehead as she realized that she couldn't possibly leave without the small painting of her mother. Mrs. Lyndon had had two done, and Mr. Lyndon had always said that Victoria and Ellie would each take one when they married so they would never forget their mother. They were tiny paintings; Victoria's fit in the palm of her hand.

Still clutching her satchel, Victoria tiptoed out of her room and into the hall. She made her way to the sitting room, silently crossing the rug to the end table where the small portrait sat. She snatched it up, stuffed it into her bag, and then turned around to go back to her room, where she planned to leave through the window.

But as she turned, her bag connected with a brass lamp, sending it crashing to the floor.

Within seconds the Reverend Mr. Lyndon came storming through the doorway. “What the devil is going on here?” His eyes took in Victoria, who was frozen with fright in the middle of the sitting room. “Why are you awake, Victoria? And why are you dressed?”

“I…I…” Victoria shook with fear, unable to force a word from her mouth.

The vicar spied her bag. “What is that?” In two steps he crossed the room and snatched it from her. He yanked out clothing, a Bible…And then his hand rested on the miniature. “You're running away,” he whispered. He looked up at her, staring at her as if he could not believe that one of his daughters would possibly disobey him. “You're running away with that man.”

“No, Papa!” she cried. “No!”

But she had never been a very good liar.

“By God!” Mr. Lyndon shouted. “You'll think twice before you disobey me again.”

“Papa, I—” Victoria couldn't finish the sentence, for her father's hand had come across her face with such blinding force that she was knocked to the ground. When she looked up she saw Ellie, standing motionless in the doorway, her expression petrified. Victoria shot her sister an entreating look.

Ellie cleared her throat. “Papa,” she said in a gentling tone. “Is something amiss?”

“Your sister has chosen to disobey me,” he snarled. “Now she will learn the consequences.”

Ellie cleared her throat again, as if that were the only way she could summon the courage to speak. “Papa, I'm sure there has been a grave misunderstanding. Why don't I take Victoria to her room?”

“Silence!”

Neither girl made a sound.

After an interminable pause, the vicar grabbed Victoria's arm and roughly hauled her to her feet. “You,” he said with a vicious yank, “are not going anywhere tonight.” He dragged her into her room and shoved her onto her bed. Ellie followed fearfully behind, hovering in the corner of Victoria's chamber.

Mr. Lyndon poked his finger at Victoria's shoulder and growled, “Do not move.” He took a few steps toward the door, and that was all the time Victoria needed to make a mad dash for the open window. But the vicar was fast, and his strength was fueled by rage. He threw her back down on the bed, giving her face another vicious slap. “Eleanor!” he barked. “Get me a sheet.”

Ellie blinked. “I-I beg your pardon?”

“A sheet!” he bellowed.

“Yes, Papa,” she said, scurrying off to the linen closet. In a few seconds she emerged, carrying a clean white sheet. She handed it to her father, who then began to methodically tear it into long strips. He bound Victoria's ankles together, then tied her hands in front of her. “There,” he said, surveying his handiwork. “She won't be going anywhere this evening.”

Victoria stared at him mutinously. “I hate you,” she said in a low voice. “I will hate you forever for doing this.”

Her father shook his head. “You'll thank me someday.”

“No. I won't.” Victoria swallowed, trying to work the quiver out of her voice. “I used to think that you were second only to God, that you were all that was good and pure and kind. But now—Now I see that you are nothing but a small man with a small mind.”

Mr. Lyndon shook with rage, and he raised his hand to strike her again. But at the last moment he brought it back down to his side.

Ellie, who'd been chewing on her lower lip in the corner, stepped timidly forward and said, “She'll catch a chill, Papa. Just let me cover her.” She pulled the blankets up over Victoria's shaking body, leaning down to whisper, “I'm so sorry.”

Victoria shot her sister a grateful look, and then rolled herself over so she was facing the wall. She didn't want to give her father the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

Ellie sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at their father with what she hoped was a gentle expression. “I'll just sit with her, if you don't mind. I don't think she should be alone just now.”

Mr. Lyndon's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?” he said. “I'll not leave you to untie her and let her run off to that lying bastard.” He yanked on Ellie's arm and pulled her to her feet. “As if he would ever marry her,” he added, shooting a scathing glance at his elder daughter.

Then he pulled Ellie from the room and proceeded to tie her up, too.

 

“God
damn
it,” Robert bit out. “Where the hell is she?”

Victoria was now more than an hour late. Robert imagined her raped, beaten, killed—all of which were extremely unlikely to have occurred on her short walk down the road, but his heart was still icy with fear.

Finally he decided to throw caution to the wind, and he left his curricle and belongings unattended as he ran up the road to her house. The windows were dark, and he crept alongside the outer wall to her window. It was open, its curtains ruffling gently in the breeze.

A sick sensation formed in his stomach as he leaned forward. There, in the bed, was Victoria. She was facing away from him, but there was no mistaking that glorious black hair. Cozily bundled beneath her quilts, she appeared to be asleep.

Robert sank to the ground, landing in a silent heap.

Asleep. She'd gone to bed and left him waiting in the night. She hadn't even sent a note.

He felt something turn in his gut as he realized that his father must have been right all along. Victoria had decided that he wasn't such a catch without his money and title.

He thought about the way she'd pleaded with him to make amends with his father—amends that would surely result in the restoration of his fortune. He thought she'd asked that out of concern for his well-being, but now he realized she'd never been concerned with anyone's well-being but her own.

He'd given her his heart, his soul. And it wasn't enough.

 

Eighteen hours later, Victoria was racing through the woods. Her father had kept her prisoner through the night and morning and well into the afternoon. He had untied her with a stern lecture about behaving herself and honoring her father, but she let only twenty minutes go by before she climbed through her window and ran off.

Robert was going to be frantic. Or furious. She didn't know which, and she was more than a little apprehensive about finding out.

Castleford Manor came into view, and Victoria forced herself to slow down. She had never been to Robert's home; he had always come to call at her cottage. She realized now, after the marquess's vehement opposition to their betrothal, that Robert had been afraid his father would treat Victoria rudely.

With a trembling hand she knocked on the door.

A liveried servant answered, and Victoria gave him her name, telling him that she wished to see the Earl of Macclesfield.

“He is not here, miss,” was the reply.

Victoria blinked. “I beg your pardon.”

“He left for London early this morning.”

“But that's not possible!”

The servant gave her a condescending look. “The marquess did ask to see you, should you call.”

Robert's father wanted to speak with her? That was even more unbelievable than the fact that Robert had left for London. Numbly Victoria let herself be led through the great hall and into a small sitting room. She glanced around her surroundings. The furnishings were far more opulent than anything she and her family had ever owned, and yet she knew instinctively that she had not been shown to the best sitting room.