Once and Always
Page 41
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“Oh?” Jason said in a silky voice. “Is that right?”
The little maid, who knew full well her wages were paid by the terrifyingly tall, powerful man looming in front of her, nodded, swallowed, and added apologetically, “Yes, my lord. You—you see, Miss Sybil read about your fiancée's ball and how you’ll be there attending it, and she took to her bed. She’s there now.”
“Excellent!” Jason said crudely. In no mood to tolerate a tantrum from Sybil tonight, he stalked past the maid, bounded up the staircase, and flung open the door to Sybil’s bedchamber.
His eyes narrowed on the ravishingly beautiful woman who was reclining on the bed amid a mountain of satin pillows. “Having an attack of the vapors, my sweet?” he inquired coolly, leaning his shoulder against the closed door.
Sybil’s green eyes shot sparks of fury at him, but she did not deign to reply.
Jason’s temper, already sorely strained, was about to explode. “Get out of that bed and get dressed,” he ordered in a dangerously quiet voice. “We’re going to a party tonight. I sent you a note.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you! Ever!”
Casually Jason began unbuttoning his jacket. “In that case, move over. We’ll spend the evening right where you are.”
“You rutting beast!” the tempestuous beauty exploded, leaping off the bed in a flurry of pale pink chiffon as he came toward her. “How dare you! How dare you think you can come near me after that article in the Times! Get out of my house!”
Jason regarded her impassively. “Must I remind you that this is my house? I own it.”
“Then I’ll leave it,” she shot back. Despite her show of defiance her chin trembled and, covering her face, she burst into tears. “Jason, how could you,” she wept, her body shaking with heart-wrenching sobs. “You told me your engagement was a sham and I believed you! I—I’ll never f-forgive you for this. Never. .. .”
The anger drained from Jason’s face and was replaced by a touch of surprised regret as he listened to what sounded like genuine, heartbroken weeping. “Will this help you forgive me?” he asked quietly. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a flat velvet box, flipped it open with his thumb, and held it toward her.
Sybil peeked between her fingers and gasped as she beheld the glittering diamond bracelet resting upon a bed of black velvet. Reverently, she lifted it from its velvet nest and hugged it to her cheek. Raising her glowing eyes to his, she said, “Jason, for the matching necklace, I would forgive you for anything!”
Jason, who had been about to reassure her that he had no intention of marrying Victoria, threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Sybil,” he chuckled, shaking his head as if he was as amused at himself as he was at her, “I think that is your most endearing quality.”
“What is?” she asked, forgetting about the bracelet as she studied his sardonic features.
“Your honest, unabashed greed,” he said without a hint of malice. “All women are greedy, but you, at least, are honest about it. Now, come here and show me how pleased you are with your new trinket.”
Sybil obediently walked into his arms, but her eyes were faintly troubled as she raised her face for his kiss. “You— you don’t have a very high opinion of women, do you, Jason? It isn’t just me you hold in secret contempt—it’s all of us, isn’t it?”
“I think,” he murmured evasively, untying the satin ribbons at her breasts, “that women are delightful creatures in bed.”
“And out of bed? What about then?”
He ignored her question and slid her gown off her shoulders, his fingers expertly teasing her nipples into quick response. Taking her lips in a wildly demanding kiss, he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. Sybil forgot that he had never answered her question.
Chapter Twelve
Victoria sat upon the settee in her bedchamber, surrounded by stacks of newly arrived boxes from Madame Dumosse containing yet more gowns to add to the stunning variety of walking dresses, riding habits, ball gowns, bonnets, shawls, long French kid gloves, and slippers that already filled every available storage space in her suite. “My lady!” Ruth gasped excitedly as she unwrapped a royal blue satin cloak with a wide hood, lined in ermine. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”
Victoria glanced up from Dorothy’s letter. “It’s lovely,” she agreed weakly. “How many cloaks does that make?”
“Eleven,” Ruth answered, stroking the soft white fur. “No, twelve. I forgot about the yellow velvet lined with sable. Or is it thirteen? Let me think—there are four velvet cloaks, five satin ones, two furs, and three woolen ones. Fourteen in all!”
“It’s difficult to believe that I used to manage quite nicely with two,” Victoria sighed, smiling. “And when I go back home, three or four will be more than enough. It seems such a waste for Lord Fielding to squander his money on clothing I won’t be able to use after a few weeks. In Portage, New York, ladies don’t dress in such finery,” she finished, her attention returning to Dorothy’s letter.
“When you go back home?” Ruth whispered in alarm. “Whatever do you mean? I beg your pardon, my lady, forgive my asking.”
Victoria didn’t hear her; she was rereading the letter, which had arrived today.
Dearest Tory,
I received your letter a week ago and was very excited to learn you were coming to London, for I hoped to see you at once. I told Grandmama I wished to do so, but instead of remaining in London, we left the very next day for Grandmama’s country house, which is little more than an hour’s ride from the place called Wakefield Park. Now I am in the country and you are in the city. Tory, I think Grandmama means to keep us apart, and it makes me very sad and quite angry. We must contrive some way to meet, but I will leave that to you, for you are much better at thinking of schemes than I am.
Perhaps I am only imagining Grandmama’s intentions. I cannot be certain. She is stern, but she has not been cruel to me. She wishes for me to make what she calls “a brilliant match” and to that end she has in mind a gentleman named Winston. I have dozens of splendid new gowns of every color, although I cannot appear in most of them until I make my come-out, which seems a very odd tradition. And Grandmama said I cannot make my come-out until you are betrothed to someone, which is another tradition. Things were so much simpler at home, were they not?
The little maid, who knew full well her wages were paid by the terrifyingly tall, powerful man looming in front of her, nodded, swallowed, and added apologetically, “Yes, my lord. You—you see, Miss Sybil read about your fiancée's ball and how you’ll be there attending it, and she took to her bed. She’s there now.”
“Excellent!” Jason said crudely. In no mood to tolerate a tantrum from Sybil tonight, he stalked past the maid, bounded up the staircase, and flung open the door to Sybil’s bedchamber.
His eyes narrowed on the ravishingly beautiful woman who was reclining on the bed amid a mountain of satin pillows. “Having an attack of the vapors, my sweet?” he inquired coolly, leaning his shoulder against the closed door.
Sybil’s green eyes shot sparks of fury at him, but she did not deign to reply.
Jason’s temper, already sorely strained, was about to explode. “Get out of that bed and get dressed,” he ordered in a dangerously quiet voice. “We’re going to a party tonight. I sent you a note.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you! Ever!”
Casually Jason began unbuttoning his jacket. “In that case, move over. We’ll spend the evening right where you are.”
“You rutting beast!” the tempestuous beauty exploded, leaping off the bed in a flurry of pale pink chiffon as he came toward her. “How dare you! How dare you think you can come near me after that article in the Times! Get out of my house!”
Jason regarded her impassively. “Must I remind you that this is my house? I own it.”
“Then I’ll leave it,” she shot back. Despite her show of defiance her chin trembled and, covering her face, she burst into tears. “Jason, how could you,” she wept, her body shaking with heart-wrenching sobs. “You told me your engagement was a sham and I believed you! I—I’ll never f-forgive you for this. Never. .. .”
The anger drained from Jason’s face and was replaced by a touch of surprised regret as he listened to what sounded like genuine, heartbroken weeping. “Will this help you forgive me?” he asked quietly. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a flat velvet box, flipped it open with his thumb, and held it toward her.
Sybil peeked between her fingers and gasped as she beheld the glittering diamond bracelet resting upon a bed of black velvet. Reverently, she lifted it from its velvet nest and hugged it to her cheek. Raising her glowing eyes to his, she said, “Jason, for the matching necklace, I would forgive you for anything!”
Jason, who had been about to reassure her that he had no intention of marrying Victoria, threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Sybil,” he chuckled, shaking his head as if he was as amused at himself as he was at her, “I think that is your most endearing quality.”
“What is?” she asked, forgetting about the bracelet as she studied his sardonic features.
“Your honest, unabashed greed,” he said without a hint of malice. “All women are greedy, but you, at least, are honest about it. Now, come here and show me how pleased you are with your new trinket.”
Sybil obediently walked into his arms, but her eyes were faintly troubled as she raised her face for his kiss. “You— you don’t have a very high opinion of women, do you, Jason? It isn’t just me you hold in secret contempt—it’s all of us, isn’t it?”
“I think,” he murmured evasively, untying the satin ribbons at her breasts, “that women are delightful creatures in bed.”
“And out of bed? What about then?”
He ignored her question and slid her gown off her shoulders, his fingers expertly teasing her nipples into quick response. Taking her lips in a wildly demanding kiss, he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. Sybil forgot that he had never answered her question.
Chapter Twelve
Victoria sat upon the settee in her bedchamber, surrounded by stacks of newly arrived boxes from Madame Dumosse containing yet more gowns to add to the stunning variety of walking dresses, riding habits, ball gowns, bonnets, shawls, long French kid gloves, and slippers that already filled every available storage space in her suite. “My lady!” Ruth gasped excitedly as she unwrapped a royal blue satin cloak with a wide hood, lined in ermine. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”
Victoria glanced up from Dorothy’s letter. “It’s lovely,” she agreed weakly. “How many cloaks does that make?”
“Eleven,” Ruth answered, stroking the soft white fur. “No, twelve. I forgot about the yellow velvet lined with sable. Or is it thirteen? Let me think—there are four velvet cloaks, five satin ones, two furs, and three woolen ones. Fourteen in all!”
“It’s difficult to believe that I used to manage quite nicely with two,” Victoria sighed, smiling. “And when I go back home, three or four will be more than enough. It seems such a waste for Lord Fielding to squander his money on clothing I won’t be able to use after a few weeks. In Portage, New York, ladies don’t dress in such finery,” she finished, her attention returning to Dorothy’s letter.
“When you go back home?” Ruth whispered in alarm. “Whatever do you mean? I beg your pardon, my lady, forgive my asking.”
Victoria didn’t hear her; she was rereading the letter, which had arrived today.
Dearest Tory,
I received your letter a week ago and was very excited to learn you were coming to London, for I hoped to see you at once. I told Grandmama I wished to do so, but instead of remaining in London, we left the very next day for Grandmama’s country house, which is little more than an hour’s ride from the place called Wakefield Park. Now I am in the country and you are in the city. Tory, I think Grandmama means to keep us apart, and it makes me very sad and quite angry. We must contrive some way to meet, but I will leave that to you, for you are much better at thinking of schemes than I am.
Perhaps I am only imagining Grandmama’s intentions. I cannot be certain. She is stern, but she has not been cruel to me. She wishes for me to make what she calls “a brilliant match” and to that end she has in mind a gentleman named Winston. I have dozens of splendid new gowns of every color, although I cannot appear in most of them until I make my come-out, which seems a very odd tradition. And Grandmama said I cannot make my come-out until you are betrothed to someone, which is another tradition. Things were so much simpler at home, were they not?
