She let out a laugh and shook her head. “Why is it, my lord, that you had far more intelligent things to say when I last saw you?”
I wasn’t leaving the country the last time I saw you. He pushed away the thought and focused on being subtle. Subtle, subtle, subtle. “How many more months before your coming out?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
She sighed. “Seven. Mrs. Lambert won’t let me forget it. Nor will my father.”
Seven months. He’d be gone all seven of those months, maybe even eight to ten of those months, depending on how long it took him to settle his stepsister into her new way of life. And then there was his stepmother. He hoped the woman not only stayed in Venice, but died there.
Jonathan met Victoria’s gaze and knew if he waited to declare himself, he’d have to compete against a horde of richer, better titled men. He was only worth two thousand a year. And while that allowed for an excellent living most would envy, it only allowed for one estate. Unlike the five her father owned.
Victoria eyed him expectantly, silently prodding him to do more than just blatantly stare at her.
He wished to God he could just grab her and kiss her and declare himself that way. “I’m leaving for Venice,” he blurted, fingering the plate he still held.
She half nodded, causing her gathered blond curls to sway against her cheeks. “Yes, I know. After the house party. Grayson told me.” A soft sigh escaped her lips. “I wish I could travel. Sadly, Papa is set against my doing any tours.”
Was that delicious yearning in her voice meant for him? Or for the tours? “Might I write to you about my travels?”
Her green eyes brightened. “But of course. Who else will keep me from boredom but you?”
This really wasn’t going anywhere. It was the same old, same old. Everything said, yet nothing said. Subtle simply was not going to win her over, regardless of what Grayson thought. In truth, Grayson’s idea of courting a woman amounted to lifting her skirt and whistling.
Jonathan rounded the table and closed the remaining distance between them feeling as if his fifteen minutes had already dwindled to a mere one. He leaned in, offering her the plate once again, trying not to get too distracted by the alluring scent of soap and lavender drifting toward him.
“Victoria,” he whispered, searching her face, memorizing the arch of those blond brows and how soft her porcelain skin appeared in the fading afternoon light. “Take the plate if you love me.”
Her eyes widened. She edged back and glanced toward those in the distance. With the flick of her wrist, she shielded them from view with her parasol, then leaned in and tsked. “Being more amorous than usual, I see.”
“Forgive me, but there are times when a man has to be.”
“Oh? And what times are those? The end of days?”
“I want assurance of your devotion.”
She giggled. “By offering me a plate?”
By offering you my life. He gestured toward the china still in his hand. “This plate is but a metaphor representing all that I am. Polished. Clean. Able to present, hold and endure whatever you place upon it, whilst allowing you to feast for both substance and pleasure, though surprisingly, it is also incredibly fragile. If dropped, it will shatter and become nothing but a worthless mess. I would say more, but we have an audience and this is about as forward as I can get without altogether grabbing you.”
She stared up at him for an abashed moment and dropped her voice a whole octave. “So by taking the plate I would in fact be taking your heart? Is that what you are informing me of, my lord?”
He drew in a ragged breath. “Yes. Exactly.”
“Ingenious.” She smiled, leaned in and playfully tapped her gloved finger against the painted rim of the plate. “Have it polished and ready for my coming out. I’m certain I can find a place for you somewhere at the table. In the meantime, use this plate to enjoy however many Banbury cakes you can stomach. I should go, before Mrs. Lambert realizes Grayson is a decoy.” She grinned, twirled her parasol once in a form of bravado and breezed past.
Hell. That was neither a yes nor a no.
Jonathan heaved out an exasperated breath and set the plate back onto the table. He turned to watch those delectable, curvy hips sway beneath her flowing, bright-white gown. She and that gown trailed across the length of the green lawn, past men and women wandering out toward the fountain in the distance.
He had two weeks to convince her that his heart beat solely for her. Two weeks. Because if he left England without extracting a promise of matrimony from those lips, he knew he’d return only to find her married to some lucky bastard and his heart would forever bleed in regret of what could have been.
SCANDAL ONE
A lady should never make promises to a gentleman without the consent of a guardian. It will only lead to a most compromising situation.
How To Avoid a Scandal, Author Unknown
Two weeks later, after midnight
The Linford country estate
THE SHARP crack of thunder startled Lady Victoria Jane Emerson from slumber. Her eyes fluttered open. Rain drummed against the large, latticed windows, echoing in the quiet darkness of a room she did not recognize.
She groaned. She was at the estate.
Oh, how she wished her father would let them stay in London. Although she had a genuine fondness for Bath itself, she loathed every inch of their one-hundred-and-thirty-year-old estate. It was a breathing cemetery—and more than enough Linfords had died in it throughout the decades to warrant that thought. In fact, the neighboring hillside beyond the main road was littered with gravestones and crypts of both the esteemed and the blackest of black Linfords. That same hill also harbored her mother, dead now four years past, and her twin brother, dead now almost two years past.
Lightning streaked the night sky, illuminating the massive hearth opposite her bed in a momentary flash of brilliant white. Victoria sank deeper into the warmth of the coverlet and scooted closer toward her dog, formerly her brother’s. But instead of her fingers grazing soft, warm fur, there was nothing but cool linen.
She patted the empty space beside her.
“Flint?” She sat up and threw aside the coverlet. Thunder rumbled, punctuating the horrible realization that he was not amongst the linens.
“Flint?” She scrambled off the bed, noticing the door was slightly ajar. Faint candlelight peeked through the open crevice.
Not again. Whoever would have thought a short-legged terrier could get around so much? She hurried across the room, her nightdress flapping around her, and pulled the door farther open. She edged out into the passageway. The candles in the nearby candelabra were waning, spreading marred shadows across hanging portraits of relatives long gone.
Dread crept up her spine. It was so late, she doubted if any of the servants would be up to assist. Of course, if Flint started barking, everyone, including all twenty of their house guests, would be up in a blink. Then her father would deliver yet another stern lecture about the annoyance of keeping a mongrel who couldn’t even be used for a fox hunt.
“Flint,” she hissed out into the darkness. “Flint!”
There was no answer. Which meant he wasn’t within hearing distance.
Drat him. She huffed out a breath, not wanting to leave her bedchamber, but knew a promise to her brother was a promise. During his last days, Victor had repeatedly insisted she watch over Flint and keep the blighter from harm. Mostly because Flint was a very stupid dog, notorious for chewing everything, and if not properly supervised, he would most likely die. The dim-witted creature