"Espionage, indeed." She straightened her gown with a few swift jerks of her hand.
The hum of voices began to rise while Drake watched her color darken. "You are very welcome."
The music started, laughter rang out, and the party progressed as if nothing had happened at all. Victoria glared at him, her eyes narrowing in rage. "Oh, I do believe you enjoyed that little scene."
Drake was about to say that he certainly did enjoy it when Fox interrupted their little
tête-à-tête
and whisked her away for a waltz. Drake snapped out his pocket watch and scowled. In exactly thirty minutes he would retrieve her, Foxcroft or not. And then they would have that little talk.
But luck was not with him. For at least a full hour had passed before he could look for Victoria again. By then, he realized she had withdrawn to her bedchambers, orders from Lady Phoebe.
Chapter Ten
A
t four in the morning Victoria’s piercing scream sent Drake, clad in only a pair of tan trousers and an unbuttoned shirt, running to her chambers. He whipped open the door, catching sight of the lady dressed in a thin nightgown while she stood on her bed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. Besides looking like some angel standing on a cloud of silk, he thought grimly, trying to control his desire.
The chirp of birds seeped into the air, announcing the predawn hour, and Drake realized he had barely slept at all even though the duke had ended the ball earlier than the usual hour of ton parties. His Grace had seen Phoebe's weariness for what it was, pure fatigue. No one had questioned the duke's dictate, but all knew he had eyes for only one, Lady Phoebe.
Drake saw his father's ploy for what it was—a move to protect his lady from any discomfort at all. It was that same sense of protectiveness that Drake felt for Victoria. Try as he might, Drake's thoughts had never been far from Victoria or her flight with Nightham.
"Dispose of it," she snapped, jerking her finger toward the bed.
William, he thought, trying to avert his gaze from her lovely silhouette presented against the sliver of moonlight peeking into the room. No doubt the boy had planted something in Victoria's bed. After Victoria had departed the ball, Drake asked Sarah to dance, and she had given him a compact, but decidedly accurate report about William's mischievous tricks during the sleeping hours.
"D-dispose of what?" he asked, clearing his throat.
Her hand shot toward the end of her bed. "That! There! That thing!"
Drake strode forward. His mouth went dry at the sight of her wondrous hair flowing about her barely dressed shoulders.
There was a large croak, and he snapped his gaze away from her enchanting form toward the bed. She jumped to the floor, clutching his arm. The sweet scent of roses reached his nostrils, and he wanted to swing her into his arms and devour her right there.
Gritting his teeth, he whipped the coverlet from her bed and released the slippery beast from its tight confines.
"William?" he asked, hiding the laughter in his eyes as he held the gigantic frog in his hands.
"Who else?" she said, still holding his arm.
"Did you call?" Their heads jerked in unison as the small boy emerged from the hall and entered the room. He stood silently, watching their cozy embrace.
"Victoria?" The dowager duchess appeared, her tiny silhouette set inside the door's frame, her nightdress buttoned up to her chin as thick wavy gray hair fell about her shoulders.
"And Jonathan?" Her gray brows lifted as the candle moved toward him. "What in the world are you doing in here?"
Drake groaned and pushed Victoria aside. He could barely see his grandmother's face in the shadows dancing about by the candlelight, but her dictating manner announced her disapproval. He opened his mouth to speak but could not find the words. It was indeed a compromising situation, and blast it, she was calling him Jonathan again.
"I know why," William burst out. "He was protecting Vicki from the villain!"
Drake's mouth twisted. "Hmmm, yes. I was saving her from a frog. She was a damsel in distress, and I came to her rescue."
"This is scandalous." His grandmother's gaze shot to Victoria.
Victoria frowned and clutched one of the linens off the bed for cover. "It was all so innocent. It croaked, you see..."
William shrugged his shoulders. "Botheration, why does everyone make such a fuss about this all the time? It was only a
little
frog." He reached under the bed to collect another croaking possession, and it was all Drake could do to keep from laughing.
"Jonathan," the dowager demanded. "Why are you standing there half naked with that smirk on your face? This is a lady's bedchambers and the middle of the night. If your father ever found out about this, he would demand satisfaction, and you, sir, would be at the altar in no time."
Drake's jaw tightened. "The altar?"
His gaze tilted in Victoria's direction, feeling the treachery of his first wife coming back to haunt him. Had she planned this? "I never thought of that possibility. Did you, Lady Victoria?"
Victoria's eyes grew wide at his insinuation. "Of course not. I am quite certain this little episode will be forgotten by tomorrow." She took a quick step back, away from the light of the dowager's candle.
Drake grimaced. He was not about to be forced. No, indeed!
"Jonathan, did you hear me?" His grandmother took a step toward him. "Out! Now!" Her stiff forefinger pointed the way.
Biting back an oath, he stomped out of the room.
Wordlessly, Victoria slid beneath her covers. William's feet slapped across the wood as he approached the door. "So, one of them was a big frog! So what!"
"So what indeed," the dowager replied tartly. "Come on, William. Out with you now."
He let out a giggle as the dowager patted his back and followed him, pulling the door closed behind her.
Victoria cringed. If her aunt received news of this, she might insist on a quick marriage. It was all so insane.
Victoria recalled the marquess's cool response at the very notion of a union with her. Evidently, it was a detestable thought. Her heart sank. Did he believe that she was replacing Nightham with him?
The following morning at breakfast, Margueretta looked over the table and stuffed some bread into her mouth. "Where ith Papa?"
The duchess pulled the large amount of food from Margueretta's hand. "Your papa has taken a ride to Grandfather's house."
Victoria felt a blush creep up her neck. She sipped her coffee, peering over her cup at William.
"Why are you looking at me like that for, Vicki?" He wiped his milk mustache with the back of his hand. "It was only a stupid frog, and I won't do it again. I won't. Truly." His lips twisted into an amusing grin.
"Won't what?" Phoebe asked.
William exchanged a nervous glance with Victoria. Victoria had enough of his foolish pranks. She turned to the duchess.
"Your Grace, do you think we might try something different for dinner?"
"Something different?"
Victoria began to tap her fork gently against her plate. "Yes, well, I believe I would like to try one of Napoleon's favorites."
"And what is that, my dear?"
"Why, frog legs, of course."
William spurted his milk onto the table.
"Yes, I do believe the fattest frogs do best," the dowager said with a sparkle in her eyes.
"Frog legth?" Margueretta snorted in disgust. "Not me!"
Phoebe eyed her son. "Sounds very interesting, but I believe it would be a tall order. I wonder if Bonaparte had them on the battlefield."
Victoria locked eyes with her little cousin. "We are not on a battlefield, but I believe we have all the necessary ingredients available right here."
William jumped from his chair. "I will die first!" He bolted from the breakfast room and flew up the stairs. "You will not have them," he cried from the landing. "And neither will Old Boney!"
Later that morning, dressed in a light blue riding habit, Victoria stood in the stables arguing with the groom. Her bruises from her fall had diminished considerably, but it seemed this man was not about to let her ride.
"You jest, sir. I am a guest of Her Grace, and I have it from her that I may ride any time I choose."
She may be a bit sore, but she was feeling much better and she needed to clear her mind. Anything to keep her distance from the marquess. Today she had worn her split riding skirt that she had specially made a year ago for riding astride when they had visited their cottage in Yorkshire.
"Sorry, m'lady, but my orders are not to let you ride."
Parks turned his back to her and continued to brush the horse beside him. The mare behind him was already saddled. It seemed the groom was obviously ready to take the animal for a ride when Victoria had stepped into the stables.
"I see. When may I ride then?" she asked.
She met the groom's eyes as he looked over his shoulder. He seemed to shrink back a foot as she continued to glare at him.
Ah, so glaring at him did the trick, did it? "I insist on riding and will not leave here until I do. I may be a bit sore after my fall, but believe me, that was a rare occurrence indeed."
Guilt gnawed at her conscience when she saw the frown on the older man's face. He gulped and wiped the sweat from his forehead. A horse snorted loudly in one of the nearby stalls.
Well, goodness, it's not as if she had bitten the man.
"Please, you have no need to worry about your position with the duchess." Her voice softened. "I won't tell a soul about my little ride, and if by chance, someone finds out," she tapped her riding crop against her skirt, "I will insist that it was all my doing."
She took a step toward him, and the man's eyes widened with something akin to fear. "Oh, please. You take too much upon yourself, sir."
The man flinched as her hand grazed his elbow.
"Parks!"
Victoria turned with a jerk.
"Do not let those turquoise jewels deceive you again," the marquess replied curtly. "You have my orders."
"Yes, my lord."
Lord Drakefield was leaning against the stables, his arms folded firmly about his chest, one foot butted up against the hinge of the door. His gray eyes darkened. "You may leave now, Parks."
Within seconds, the groom hopped over one of Drake's boots and dashed outside, leaving Victoria to fight it out alone. The smell of hay suddenly made her cough. She met the marquess's stern gaze and clutched her riding crop tighter. A warm wind whooshed past the doors, blowing a strand of mahogany hair across her cheek. She tucked her hair back into her riding habit and struggled to gain some kind of composure.
The man looked positively dangerous this morning.
He was dressed in a neat brown jacket and buckskin breeches. But he looked more the pirate than ever with his coal black hair tied back in that ridiculous queue and his gray eyes boring into her as if she were some child playing with his treasures.