Meet Me at Midnight (8 page)

So she had, dash it all. “That was between us.”

“Ah. So the world at large is to believe we fell madly in love at first sight.”

If nothing else, he had considerable skill at sarcasm. “Yes. Something like that.”

“Then give me your arm again.”

“You don’t have to fall all over me to make everyone think we’re fond of one another.”

“I’m not very good at doe-eyed, love-struck looks from across the room, my lady.”

She was about to retort in kind when she spied Lord William Landry approaching, a cynical sneer on his inebriated countenance. “How long do we have to remain here?” she asked tightly.

“I thought we were becoming acquainted.”

“I’m acquainted enough for one day.”

He hesitated. “Then we’ll go home.”

Home, of course, meant Grafton House, with him. Perhaps she would stay longer at the reception, after all. Victoria drew a breath. Her things were already gone from this house, and her parents had had ample time to arrange for her to stay if they had cared to do so.

“Home is fine with me.”

He took her hand again, and they evaded Landry with little effort. Instead of going to her parents and formally taking their leave, Sin guided her around the fringes of the ballroom to the main door.

“Timms,” he said in a low voice, “have the groom bring around my coach.”

The butler hesitated. “Of course, my lord. But don’t—”

“Now.”

The tall servant bowed. “At once, my lord.”

They followed Timms downstairs and waited in the foyer while he summoned the groom. Music echoed from the ballroom upstairs; no doubt the guests hadn’t yet realized that the bride and groom were no longer present.

Both Alexandra and Lucien had claimed that she wouldn’t have allowed this marriage to take place if she hadn’t somehow wanted it. Victoria studied Sinclair’s profile. True, she had been bored and restless
and dissatisfied, but marrying an unrepentant hedonist hardly seemed the solution for that.

A part of her, though, wanted to know what would happen next. Something about Sin Grafton had lured her out to the garden that night, and that same something had kept her from fleeing the impending wedding. Now, though, she wondered whether that something—that rampaging physical lust, she supposed it must be—was enough to compensate for the dreams of freedom and independence she had lost.

Viscount Perington, Ramsey DuPont, and Lucien Balfour. The first two were already suspects, and he was more than happy to include the third. The Vixen knew all of them, knew things about them that he hadn’t known, and nothing she’d said had inclined him to remove them from his list. Just the opposite. Sinclair gazed at his bride, seated as far from him as the confines of the coach would allow.

For once in his life, he wasn’t certain how to proceed. In the past, the people he’d guided into traps and confessions had occasionally earned his pity, but never his compassion. Yet he had a hard time convincing himself that Victoria Fontaine—Grafton, now—deserved this.

“Your father had the rest of your things sent over during the reception,” he said, unused to seeing her quiet and reserved.

“Yes, I know. Where am I to sleep?”

He didn’t suppose she’d forgotten there would be no “tonight” tonight, but for a few moments he had held out hope that she might change her mind. Until he’d announced to all and sundry that he had no in
tention of indulging in a honeymoon, he might have had a chance.

Sin scowled in the dimness, then wiped the expression from his face as she glanced at him and then back out the window. Because he needed to stay in London, they were going to stay in London. He hadn’t even considered that she might at least want to be consulted about their travel plans. He was becoming more of a boor every time he turned around. Not surprising, he supposed, but another disappointment for everyone concerned.

“I can’t convince you to join me, I suppose?” he offered because she would expect it.

She faced him. “No. You could force me, of c—”

“I won’t,” he interrupted flatly. “Goes against my morals, such as they are.” He’d thought to reassure her, but at the abruptly curious look she gave him, he realized he’d given something away. “What?”

“Given your haste to marry and to assume the duties of your title, I would have assumed you intended on starting a family. You said this marriage was ‘convenient’ for you, after all.”

“I like a challenge.”

She smiled. “I’m happy to oblige you.”

“Good God,” he muttered, impressed despite the considerable trouble he foresaw for himself. “I can be very persuasive, Victoria. I want you. I want to taste your lips again.”

Victoria blushed. “You won’t be tasting them any time soon, my lord.”

“Sin,” he murmured. “I shall anticipate the future, then.” He sat back. “I’ve put you in the bedchamber adjoining mine. The door locks from either side. I’ll give you the key.”

“And will you have a key?”

He shook his head. “You’ll be inviting me in soon enough.”

The coach rocked to a halt. Ordinarily it would have been only a second or two before a footman pulled the door open, but Sinclair imagined their early arrival had caused substantial chaos in the household. Indeed, nearly thirty seconds passed before a panting Orser yanked open the door and flipped down the steps.

“We didn’t expect you yet, my lord,” he said.

“So I gathered.”

He had instructed the staff to assemble out front to welcome the new mistress of the house when she arrived. As he stepped to the ground and turned to take Victoria’s hand, he was gratified to see all twenty-two of his London employees hurrying out of the house and lining up along the short drive.

“I’m causing turmoil already,” Vixen murmured.

He smiled, guiding her toward the head of the line. “We thrive on turmoil. I do, anyway.”

“That remains to be seen, my lord,” she said, releasing his hand to advance on her own.

He’d thought the mass of curious servants ogling her would make his bride nervous, but she merely nodded politely and stopped before Milo. Her composure made sense, though; she would be more used to the hubbub of elite London life than he was.

“Milo,” he said, and the butler stepped forward. “Victoria, our butler, Milo. Milo, I am pleased to present the Marchioness of Althorpe.”

The butler bowed. “Lady Althorpe.”

Sinclair hung back, watching, as Milo introduced Victoria to the head servants. He had met them in much the same way a few weeks earlier. Today,
though, and despite the rush, they seemed less nonplussed. But Victoria wasn’t replacing a beloved master or mistress, as he had; she had no one else’s sterling reputation to greet her with a slap in the face at the front door. He was relieved; she would be facing enough from him without the servants to add insult to injury.

Roman, of course, hadn’t joined the rest of the servants, he would be lurking inside, watching and waiting to see if any other lurkers appeared. Of course, he might also be making the acquaintance of Victoria’s maid, who also seemed to be absent.

“Thank you, Milo,” he said, stepping forward as the litany ended.

“Very good, my lord. May I assume that you and Lady Althorpe will be dining at home this evening?”

He supposed it would be pushing things too far, even for him, if he spent the evening reviewing the latest list of suspects and information with his compatriots. They were probably still at the reception searching for any crumbs of information anyway. “Yes.” They arrived up the shallow steps at the front door, and he stopped, looking at his petite bride. “Shall I carry you over the threshold, my lady?”

Color touched her cheeks, though he wasn’t certain whether it was nerves or annoyance. “No. I don’t think so.”

“After you, then.” Hiding his disappointment, he gestured her into the house. Admittedly she had little reason to want his attentions, and in fact that would make things easier on him. But damn it all, tonight was his wedding night, and he wanted her—more badly with each passing moment.

With a hesitation so slight he might have imagined
it, she stepped into Grafton House. As she took in the dark, polished floor and deep-grained mahogany wood of the foyer, it occurred to him that his brother had expensive, if very conservative, taste. In Grafton House he had indulged it fully.

“The morning room is there to your right,” he said, gesturing at the nearest door, “and the downstairs sitting room, which has an ample supply of Thomas’s very good brandy, adjoins it. Across—”

“I think I would like to go to my room and rest,” she interrupted.

The mob of servants behind them increased the volume of their muttering. So much for presenting a unified front to the household. “This way, then.” Stifling a sigh, Sinclair led the way to the curving staircase. “What happened to only the two of us knowing this marriage is a sham?” he murmured.

“I only said I was tired, which I am.”

“You’re certain you’re not going into hiding? You said I couldn’t shock you.”

“You haven’t.” She stopped at the top of the stairs, and he turned around. “Hiding,” she said crisply, “would imply that I am frightened of you, which I am not.”

He took a step closer. “Good. We’ll sit for dinner at eight, unless you can think of something more…enjoyable for us to be doing.”

“Hm. My mind’s a blank. You’ll have to occupy yourself.” Victoria held out her hand, the gesture more vulnerable-looking than defiant as she stood there in her delicate silk-and-lace wedding gown. He wanted to take the clips from her dark hair and let it spill over his hands.

“The key,” she said.

Sinclair blinked. “You’re serious.”

“Did I say something to make you doubt that?”

He shook his head, amused. The master spy had been outmaneuvered by a wisp of a female who barely came to his shoulder. “No.” Digging into his pocket, he produced the key. Reluctantly he placed it into her palm, curling her fingers closed with his. “I won’t hurt you, Victoria,” he said softly, hoping he was telling the truth. “I’m not quite that awful.”

For a long moment she looked at him in silence, while he gave her his best harmless expression. “I hope not,” she said finally, her voice catching.

He resumed the tour down the hallway. “Your rooms are here. My bedchamber is the door just beyond.”

“Very well. Thank you, my lord. Sinclair.”

“You’re welcome. And don’t think you’re confined to your private rooms. This house is yours now.”

“You don’t think I’ll run away?”

He smiled. “You haven’t so far.”

He seemed willing to stand in the hallway all afternoon chatting with her. Part of Victoria—the part that tried to convince her this wasn’t a sham and a nightmare, but something that deep down she wanted for herself—was willing to stay as well. Rational thinking, sleeplessness, and nerves won out, though, and with a half smile that hopefully looked more sincere than it felt, Victoria slipped into her bedchamber and closed the door. And gasped as something rubbed against her ankles.

“Lord Baggles,” she cooed, kneeling, “you nearly frightened me out of my wits. What are you doing here?”

“He wouldn’t go into the cage, my lady,” Jenny said, stepping into the bedchamber from an adjoining dressing room. “I thought perhaps Lady Kilcairn might look after him while you and Lord Althorpe are away.”

“With her icky dog Shakespeare determined to pull my sweetum’s pretty little ears off?” Victoria gathered the gray-and-black ball of fur known as Lord Baggles into her arms and stood. “It’s not necessary to banish my pretty little kitty, anyway.”

“Will that snooty Milo keep an eye on him, then? Or maybe Miss Lucy would,” Jenny continued. “I left the two trunks packed as you said, but I didn’t know which traveling dress to put out.”

Victoria glanced at the two large trunks standing beneath the window. “Don’t put any of them out. We’re going to be staying in London.”

“But—”

“He’s just returned to England, Jenny. Why would he want to go dragging about the Continent again, and with a wife he barely knows?” Lord Baggles jumped from her loose grip onto the large bed.

“Because he just got married, I would guess.”

“I hardly think that will interfere with his social schedule.” She heaved a breath, knowing she must sound forlorn. “Or mine.”

“Shall I send for the rest of your babies, then, my lady?”

“Please do. Father and Mother will be relieved to see them gone from the house.” She scratched Lord Baggles behind the ears, and he purred. “And I could use a few more friends.”

Jenny cleared her throat. “Well, at least Lord Althorpe is generous with his rooms,” she said. “For
once we’ll have enough space for all your clothes, I think.” She paused, considering. “I hope.”

“That seems as sound a reason to marry as anything else I’ve come up with. So show me my new rooms then, Jenny.”

Her maid was correct; the marquis had allotted her not just the bedchamber and dressing room but also an adjoining private sitting room, and beyond that a small conservatory complete with a balcony with floor-length windows. The delicate plants looked terribly unkempt, but no doubt they had only been sparsely tended since Thomas’s death. She wasn’t a very keen gardener herself, but puttering around in the airy, well-lighted room might be rather nice on occasion.

The doorway between the greenhouse and the sitting room looked new; and the best thing about her private chambers was that she could go all the way from bed to balcony without setting foot in the upstairs hallway. Lord Althorpe had given her space and privacy, which would have been both splendid and thoughtful if she’d enjoyed spending time alone. Unfortunately, as her father often lamented, she seemed to be the most social creature in London.

She returned with Jenny to the bedchamber to change out of her wedding gown. Through the dressing room another door stood, and she stopped, gazing at it.
His
dressing room and bedchamber would be through there. She was tempted to try the door just to see if it was locked, but it might not be, and he might be inside, and she didn’t quite feel ready to face him again so soon. She couldn’t even seem to converse when he was present—and if there was one thing at which she excelled, it was conversation.