Married At Midnight (23 page)

* * *

One man in particular, Count Antony DeFazio from Italy, was frequently at her side. No matter where she was, more often than not he was there as well. Eventually—unfailingly—he would make his way over to her. Sophie thought he was to-swoon-for handsome. In all honesty, Victoria supposed he was. Yet somehow when she looked into eyes as dark as midnight, she was reminded of eyes the color of storm clouds ...

It was most distracting—and highly vexing.

In any case, Antony was charming and warmly attentive. He complimented the rich gold of her hair, the creaminess of her

skin, the remarkable blue of her eyes. He was an outrageous flirt, but when it seemed her husband wanted nothing to do

with her, his praise was balm to her wounded pride.

But her husband was not as heedless of her activities as she thought.

* * *

Miles remained in the background, watching all unfold with mounting displeasure. Even before that disastrous night at the Rutherfords, he'd heard rumors of his new wife; in his estimation, she was a lady of fashion who thrived on attention. He couldn't help but think of Margaret Sutherland, the woman he had very nearly married. Once the toast of London, he'd fallen victim to Margaret's sultry beauty, her vivacious charm.

He'd not be so foolish again.

His mouth turned down. No, Victoria was no different than Margaret. Indeed, how could she be anything but shallow and

vain? In the end, Victoria would prove herself selfish and hurtful, and Miles would not expose Heather to such a woman.

You judge without evidence,
whispered an irascible little voice.

Hah! What more did he need? Why, they'd been wed nearly a fortnight and the chit had not spent one evening home!

Still, he was reminded how Victoria had stood up to her father and announced that
she
had kissed him.

Odd, how she'd

tried to protect him. Rather honorable, really, to say nothing of noble and courageous . . .

But Miles was a man who didn't need the glitter of London to be happy. He'd chosen a more simple life in the country, an infinitely more satisfying life. Margaret would never have been happy anywhere but London. Neither would Victoria, which

was yet another reason he was convinced they had no future together.

That very thought was high in his mind as he strolled inside his home that evening. Nelson hurried to greet him.

"Good, evening, my lord."

"Good evening, Nelson." He handed the butler his gloves and cane.

Now came the inevitable question. . . "Is the countess home?"

... and the inevitable answer. "No, my lord." The butler's eyes flitted away.

"I see. And where is she this fine night?"

"My lord, she mentioned something about a ball at Lord and Lady Raleigh's. I believe the invitation arrived last week."

It was then Miles saw it—a calling card on a silver tray. He picked it up and read the name—COUNT

ANTONY

DEFAZIO. Sheer red misted his vision, for Miles had also heard the count's name bandied about—in conjunction with

his wife's!

"The count was here?"

"This afternoon, my lord. He and the countess took tea together. Then he returned to escort my lady to the ball."

So now the chit was entertaining her admirers in his very house! A stark, blinding fury came over him. He damned himself

for giving in to it, even as he damned his errant wife for her part in it.

He jutted out his jaw. "Nelson, have the carriage brought round."

* * *

In all her days, Victoria didn't know when she'd been so bored. The lilting music all sounded the same. The crush of faces around her had blurred to indistinction, and she found the scent of fresh flowers almost cloying. If she had to attend one

more wretched affair like this, she would surely scream.

Whirling around the dance floor with Antony, she prayed he would unhand her. Her head ached and her feet hurt. All she wanted at this moment was to go home .. .

Home,
she thought with a pang. There was a painful catch in her breast. She no longer knew where she belonged. Papa

had foisted her off upon the earl, and the earl would just as soon be rid of her ...

The dance ended. One hand possessively at her waist, Antony would have led her from the floor. But Victoria gently broke away. "Oh, there's Sophie!" she exclaimed. "Please excuse me, count, but I must have a word with her." She gave him no chance to protest, but breezed away in a swirl of skirts.

Across the room, she kissed Sophie's cheek. "Thank heaven you appeared when you did, Sophie.

Antony is sweet, but he

can be a bit much at times."

"Oh, Victoria, but he is so dashing and handsome! And just think, he is quite entranced with you."

Victoria smiled slightly. She found two seats at the edge of the dance floor and sank into one of them, wriggling her toes gratefully. "Granted, he is quite pleasant to look at, but there are times when he's really quite full of himself, Sophie."

Sophie gave a .wistful sigh. "Still, that I could be in your slippers tonight. .." She had yet to sit, and her gaze drifted out to

the dance floor once more. All at once she gasped.

"Victoria, look! He—he's here!"

Victoria accepted a glass of champagne from a tray. "Who, love?"

"Your husband!"

Your husband.
Victoria's heart lurched. She very nearly dropped her glass of champagne.

"Victoria, what if he saw you dancing with Antony? Do you think he'll be angry? Do you think he'll be jealous?" Sophie

gasped. "He's coming this way and ... oh, dear ... I don't think I wish to be in your slippers after all!

Victoria, I could almost swear ... he
does
look rather jealous."

Her gaze tracked Sophie's. Sure enough, Sophie was right. Miles was there, already bearing down on them. But judging

from the expression on his face, she guessed he wasn't jealous at all...

He was positively livid.

Yet no trace of it showed in his demeanor as he stepped up before them. He bowed low, a gesture of graceful elegance. "Victoria, I had no idea you were here." He turned to Sophie, chiseled lips drawn into a devastating smile. "Who is your companion, my dear?" Victoria saw a dreamy appreciation enter Sophie's eyes and nearly groaned.

She hastened to her feet, and lay her hand on Sophie's arm. Her stomach twisted in dread but she was determined not to

show it. Lifting her chin, she matched his smile. "My lord, this is my dearest friend in all the world, Miss Sophie Mayfair. Sophie, my husband, Miles Grayson, earl of Stonehurst."

"Miss Mayfair, I do hope you don't mind if I steal my wife away. Can you imagine, married nearly a fortnight and we've

yet to dance together."

He allowed no protest, but set aside her champagne, captured her hand, and pulled her onto the dance floor. Victoria glared her outrage. " 'Married nearly a fortnight and we've yet to dance together,' " she quoted. "I wonder, my lord, whose fault that is."

"The opportunity could hardly present itself when you were not present, countess."

"My lord," she said sweetly, "I could say the very same of you."

He chose to be silent for several moments. His arm was hard about her back. He held her close—far closer than was proper!—so close- she fancied she could feel the muscled breadth of his chest. She felt suddenly giddy. . . from the way

he whirled her around, she told herself.

It was then she noticed they had attracted more than an idle number of glances. "We're being watched,"

she murmured.

Her gaze caught his. "Should we give them something to talk about?"

"My dear, I do believe you already have." He sounded almost angry.

Shuttered behind his oh-so-pleasant facade was an anger even deeper than she'd realized. Her heart bounded clear to

her throat.

"In fact," he went on, "I do believe we should continue this discussion at home." He whisked her off the dance floor.

Victoria was suddenly not at all eager to leave. She tried to twist away without making it appear she did so. "But I

came with—"

The arm about her waist tightened like a band of steel. "I know who escorted you. Nonetheless, you're leaving with me."

There was a tap on Miles's shoulder. "Excuse me," said a thickly accented voice, "but Victoria promised this next dance

to me."

Victoria held her breath while Miles squared off to face the count. But he only shook his head and said easily, "Then I'm

afraid you're out of luck, old man. Because my lovely wife has promised the night to me—along with every other night."

A very red-faced count fell back, murmuring his apologies.

Victoria clamped her mouth shut. When they were alone in the carriage, she vented the full force of her wrath. "I do not

recall promising the night to you, my lord. Not this night or any other."

"Ah, but I beg to differ with you, countess. Or do you forget our wedding vows so soon?"

Victoria lapsed into silence. Drat the man and his facile tongue, she decided furiously. Why must he always have his words

so ready at hand?

* * *

Once they were inside his home, he ushered her into the salon and closed the doors. Ignoring her, he removed his coat and unwound his cravat, dropping them onto the back of a chair. Her stomach dropped clear to the floor when he proceeded to undo the top buttons of his shirt. She balked. Surely he would not . . . But no. Why, the thought was ridiculous. He'd made no secret of his distaste for her. Of course he had no intention of asserting his husbandly rights .. . Stifling a pinprick of hurt, she seated herself in a velvet wing chair while he poured two glasses of wine.

He turned to face her.

Silence mounted, thick and heavy. Victoria's heart lurched, for he stared at her most oddly. Why, she could almost believe

that he
was
jealous .. . But no. She was mistaken. That familiar glacial coolness was very much in evidence as he presented himself before her. He wordlessly extended a glass of wine.

Victoria opened her mouth to decline but he cut her off abruptly.

"I suggest you take it, countess. You didn't get to finish your champagne, remember?"

She would rather not, she decided uneasily. Indeed, she would far rather put this entire night behind her and pretend it

hadn't happened, for there was an air of danger about her husband that sent warning bells ringing all through her.

He wasted no time. "You had a caller this afternoon, did you not?"

Her chin lifted a notch. "What, my lord? Am I not allowed to have callers?"

"Of course you may. It's this particular caller I have a problem with, countess. So tell me, who was he?"

Lying was not an option. He already knew. "Count Antony DeFazio," she ventured calmly.

"It's my understanding you've been seen with the count on numerous other occasions. Are you aware of his reputation?"

Her smile was as false as his had been earlier. "Why, yes, indeed I am. Antony is a wonderful dancer. An engaging conversationalist, to say nothing of being an immensely charming escort—"

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

Victoria shrugged. "Men have mistresses and ladies have lovers," she stated daringly. " 'Tis the way of the world."

"Well, it's not my way." Suddenly he was there before her. For the second time in just a few short minutes, her glass was set aside. Without further ado, she was hauled up and out of her chair. Strong hands imprisoned the fragile span of her shoulders.

"You've had free rein these past few weeks, Victoria, but no more. I will not have you behaving in a way that will cause embarrassment or dishonor to my name—to
your
name," he emphasized.

Temper flared but she held it in check. "And what behavior might that be?"

"Dancing with Count Antony DeFazio. Receiving him in our home when I am not present."

"Our home?" she retorted archly. "This is
your
home, my lord."

"It is also yours," he countered, "at least until such time as your father ceases to peer over our shoulder."

The soft line of Victoria's mouth thinned with suppressed fury. "Is there more, my lord?"

"Indeed there is. You will not cavort with the count—nor any man—for all to see."

"Why, my lord," she stated with acid sweetness. "I could almost believe you're jealous." She mocked him. She knew it,

and was secretly appalled at her daring. But another part of her, deep in the recesses of her being, yearned to hear him say

it was true— that he
was
jealous of DeFazio. And—God help her—that very same part of her desperately wanted the

strength of his arms hard around her back—the brand of his mouth upon hers, hot and searing, banishing these angry words

so that nothing else mattered.

Oh, it made no sense! She wanted to be rid of him—and he of her ...

"Well, my lord.
Are
you jealous?" She was aching inside. Quivering. Praying as never before ...

"Of course not. Why, the very idea is nonsense."

He denounced her baldly—heaven help her, a knife in the heart. But she wouldn't let him know it, not in a thousand years.

"Nonetheless," he went on, "I mean what I say, Victoria. I won't allow you to meet DeFazio again."

Her eyes narrowed. "You forbid me?" she said pleasantly.

"Call it anything you like. Either way, you won't be seeing him again. Nor will you stay out till dawn."

Anger flared at his imperious tone. "Till dawn," she sputtered. "Why, I did no such thing!"

"Nor will you."

"You can't stop me!"

"Oh, but I think I can."

"What will you do? Lock me in my room like a child?"

"If that's what it takes, yes." He was deadly serious. "You need a firm hand, Victoria. You are wild and reckless and I'll

have no more of it."

Victoria gasped. "You presume to know me quite well when you know me not at all." She wrenched herself free. Her

eyes smoldered, twin flames of pure fire. "Why do you even care what I do—and with whom I do it?"

He stood before her, a pillar of stone. "A ridiculous question, countess. I care because you are my wife."

"The wife you didn't want." Victoria spoke bitterly. Odd, but it burned inside to hear the words aloud.

"Regardless of the circumstances, we
are
wed. And you will mind your manners and your tongue—"

"I need no lessons in manners, my lord earl. Certainly not from you—a man who's been too long in the country!"

"I mean what I say, Victoria. I'll not have you making a spectacle of yourself, running wildly about town with a man like DeFazio—"

Victoria cried out indignantly. "Why, I do believe if it were up to you, I'd stay here in this house and—

and mold!"

His smile was utterly maddening. "A vast improvement, I daresay."

Tears stung her eyes, tears she blinked back furiously. "I'm going home to Papa," she announced. She sought to step past

him, only to find herself snared by the elbow and whirled around to face him.

She flung up her hands between them. "Let me go!"

He caught her up against him. His smile had vanished; his expression would surely have curdled cream.

"You are not

leaving this house, Victoria."

"Oh, yes, I am. I'm going home! Papa did not dictate to me like this."

"Well, perhaps he should have. Perhaps then we would not be in this wholly untenable predicament."

It was the wrong thing to say. Miles knew it the instant the words left his mouth, for Victoria's face whitened. For an instant,

she looked as if she'd been struck. And then she did the one thing he never expected.

She burst into tears.

For the space of a heartbeat, Miles could only stare. He'd been prepared for a fiery rage. A spiteful

defiance—anything but this.

She sobbed as if her heart were broken.

He wrapped one arm around her slowly. Her body was pliant and limp as he directed her to the small divan just to his left.

He sat, cradling her against his side, her head nestled against his shoulder. He spoke not a word, but stroked the shining cap

of her hair, holding her as he might have held Heather.

In time, the sobs eased to deep, jagged breaths. He stilled the movement of his hand, resting it between the narrow plane of

her shoulder blades. "Now," he said quietly. "Would you like to tell me what distresses you so?"

Oddly, she made no move to distance her person from him. "It's ... everything."

He studied her as she glanced up at him. It struck him how exquisite she was, even with her features ravaged by tears. "Everything?"

She expelled a sigh, her breath misting warmly across the line of his jaw. "I hate knowing how I displeased Papa. And I—I regret that I chose to involve you in my foolish scheme. But I did and—and now you're utterly miserable."

Miles wiped the pad of his thumb across her cheek, then held it up for her inspection. "I beg to differ with you, Victoria.

I do believe you're far more miserable than I."

She smiled. Oh, a shaky smile, at best, but a smile nonetheless.

But all at once her breath caught audibly. She withdrew from his arms and sat up. She didn't meet his regard; it was as if she couldn't bear to look at him. "It's just that I... I feel like I don't belong here." A tear traced a lonely pathway down her cheek

as at last she lifted her head. She spoke, her tone very low. "I-I know you hate me for ruining your life—"

"Stop right there. I don't hate you, Victoria."

Her eyes clung to his. "Truly?" she whispered.

"Truly."

And indeed, Miles had never been more certain of anything in his life. His eyes darkened, roving over her face. Her skin was flushed, her eyes still damp and bluer than ever, her lashes deeply spiked and glistening. God, she was sweet. Yet this was

not a disobedient child he'd held in his arms. He could still feel the soft, womanly imprint of her curves against his. He wanted

to kiss her again, he realized suddenly. But a kiss was what had got them into this mess ...

And indeed, he wanted far more than just a kiss.

These last weeks had been hell; knowing she slept beneath his very roof sheer torment. He had only to walk into a room and the lingering scent of her perfume sent him into a tailspin. He lay awake long into the night, his manhood rock-hard and nearly bursting. His dreams were as wantonly erotic as a youth's; he indulged his every fantasy.

Ah, yes. In his dreams he knew her body as well as he knew his own. He felt her come alive beneath his hands; with lips and tongue he teased the tips of her breasts to quivering erectness. The soft down between her legs hid flesh that was damp and sweetly wet. And when at last he came inside her, she moaned into his mouth. God! but she was like warm silk around his turgid shaft.

But it wasn't only the pleasure of the flesh that Miles envisioned. He imagined what it would be like to hold her through the

night while she slept, their passion in check. He longed to wake with her sleep-flushed and warm, her sweet curves tucked against his own.

But he'd not force himself on any woman, let alone his
wife.

And so he held himself very still, uncertain of himself in a way he liked not at all. He watched as her fingers plucked at her skirts. "We haven't tried to make this situation more palatable, either of us," she said.

She was right, he realized. He was not an ogre, though he'd behaved like one thus far. A sliver of guilt stabbed at him, for

he disliked knowing he was responsible for her unhappiness.

"It's true we don't know each other very well," he said slowly. "I admit, I've behaved rather abominably these past weeks."

"And I rather shrewishly."

"No." They looked at one another, for they spoke at the very same time.

Victoria had caught her lip between her teeth. All at once the tension was no longer quite so evident.

"Nor have we chosen to rectify the situation, either of us," Miles went on. "But. . . perhaps we should."

This was crazy. Dangerous. She was no different than Margaret, a voice in his head warned. They simply did not suit.

And God knew, he wasn't the only one who would end up hurt. There was Heather to think of ...

"I-I would like that, my lord."

"So would I," he heard himself say... and knew it for the truth. "Your social calendar, countess. I suspect it's quite full?"

His tone was deliberately offhand, yet his heart was suddenly thudding.

"Indeed it is. For the next week, in fact." Her reply was rather breathless.

"Then I fear we have a slight problem, for I am at a distinct loss as to how I might persuade you into crying off for just one evening—to have supper with your husband." As he spoke, he reached for her hand where it lay atop her silk-covered thigh. He felt her start of surprise. Slowly, giving her time to withdraw if she wanted, he laced his fingers through hers.

But she didn't pull away, as he thought she might. Instead, she stared at their hands, at his fingers entwined with her own.

Then she raised her head and smiled, a smile that held him spellbound.

"My lord," she said softly, "you have only to ask."