Finn continued to watch her in his lazily penetrating way, as a violent gust shook the windowpanes and sent the hearth fire snapping. He didn’t press, corner, or urge, giving her time to make her decision, a blessing no one had previously bestowed on her. In her world, freedom and friendship were almost nonexistent.
Maybe he could answer some of the questions about her quirk. And introduction to a duke in need of a wife was never wasted effort, she supposed. Her mother would undoubtedly agree to delaying the dreaded wedding to Rossby with such an opportunity having landed in their laps. More time to figure out another solution to her family’s dilemma.
As she stood there mulling the invitation, Victoria knew she’d accept.
Although her foolhardy fascination with solving the mystery of the Blue Bastard surely meant she shouldn’t.
Chapter 3
Victoria peered from the window of the aging post-chaise as it settled with a squeal before the Beauchamp country estate, a sprawling chalk-brick manor surrounded by breathtaking lawns and miles of vast woodland that seemed to separate it from the rest of the world. Summer arrived differently here than it did in the city, and her gaze followed the scent of gardenias, roses, and daffodils to the blooming thicket lining the pebbled drive.
The estate was lovelier than she’d imagined, and imagination was crucial as she and Agnes had been given scarce information, aside from periodic updates on time of arrival from the footman seated on the outside bench. Surprisingly, her host had acted as subordinate postillion since they’d left the Cock and Bull—the quaint inn sitting midway between London, where they’d stopped to refresh themselves and change horses—managing the equine team with poise born from experience and following the shouted orders of the lead-boy with nothing more than amused replies. She’d never known a nobleman, or one close to it, to take orders from a servant.
Finn Alexander seemed to have no care for how others viewed him.
Or, she’d never witnessed a man being his true self.
Puzzle book forgotten on her lap, Victoria tracked a dirty streak on the window with her pencil and studied him as he alighted from his mount with all the elegance he was known for. Dusting his breeches and tugging at his sleeves, he ran his hand through his hair, seeming to prepare for inspection. One he would pass.
Unlike the night she’d ambushed him in his quarters, Finn looked the part of the patrician gentleman in shades of gray and black, sedate traveling attire, assuredly, but fit by the best tailor in London if she had her guess. An expert cut rounding out what was a singularly lean yet muscular figure, no padding required, unlike most of the men of her acquaintance. Sidestepping the whinnying mare, light burst from a crimson and teal sunset to streak across him, lighting the tips of his midnight-black hair like they’d been dipped in cinnamon. And those eyes, oh, they matched the brilliant blue sky to perfection.
Turning, he captured her gaze. She shifted, intent on breaking the contact, then tapped her pencil against the glass pane and thought, I’m going to look all I like.
Served him right for insisting on this expedition.
His chin dropped as delight roared across his face, glorious to behold even as she felt a pinch of irritation that he seemed to understand her in a way few ever had. She didn’t know what to make of the man—and had spent a bewildering amount of time since their vexing encounter in the gaming hell trying to. For one, those smiles he unleashed, easily and so often. She’d no frame of reference to account for them. Her father was aloof, irritable really with the gout and stomach condition, his taciturn nature her example of how men conducted, well, the business of life.
A business involving modest affection, stern lectures, and harsh commands. She couldn’t recall her father hugging her. Not once. Or expressing love.
Consequently, when a crowd of people erupted from the manor to encircle Finn, Victoria’s disorientation intensified. There were kisses and shouts, embraces and shoulder slaps. Not every family functioned like hers, it appeared, and she suddenly wondered how much she’d missed.
Wondered if ice encased her like it did her parents, never to be cracked or melted.
After all, she’d been formed by glaciers.
The snap of the step being forced into place shook the carriage and pulled her from her musing. She nudged Agnes from sleep and moved to exit when the door swung wide, and a footman’s arm shot into the interior. A deep inhalation to calm her nerves, then she took the gloved hand and stepped into another world.
Finn Alexander’s world.
The footman escorted her to the boisterous group gathered on the emerald-green lawn as if this was where she belonged. When she felt a solitary star, orbiting but unseen. No one of value, certainly no one who’d ever received a reception like this upon returning home. Why they were emotional. A woman Victoria assumed was Lady Beauchamp was clinging to Finn and dashing tears from her eyes. A tiny thing, head barely reaching his elbow, belly round with pregnancy, her grip on his arm fierce, as if she feared he’d disappear at any moment. A young man with a rather startling bruise on his cheek elbowed his way into the cluster, and Finn started, tipping the boy’s face high and saying something urgent which the wind swept away before she could catch it—a very paternal display both men seemed comfortable with.
The crowd parted as a man she recognized as Viscount Beauchamp strode from the house, the ends of an open waistcoat batting his hips, streaks of what Victoria thought was paint smearing his sleeve. He halted before Finn, and they stared, lost in tense reticence. She’d seen them in a heated discussion at a racing event the season prior—easy to locate the tallest men in the room—and noted the affection flowing between them even during a disagreement. They made no apologies for their relationship, their unwavering connection, or the regrettable circumstances of Finn’s birth. Indeed, the bond between them was legendary when most siblings in the ton barely tolerated each other.
Victoria clenched her fingers around her puzzle book. She and her brother had loved like that once, too. As if taking stage direction in a play, Agnes alighted from the carriage and bumped against her just as things got interesting, knocking her behind the group.
“I’m surprised you remembered the way,” Julian Alexander finally murmured, his gaze never leaving his brother.
It was then Victoria realized the viscount was furious and not a little bit. His hands, also covered in specks of paint, flexed at his side as he took a rushed step forward. The viscountess moved between the men, a protector in miniature. Not surprising as her reputation was also legendary. Rescued from one scrape after another until Julian finally married her—a rumored love match—and from the tender look he sent her as he released a pent exhalation, it appeared the rumor was true. The crowd of servants surrounding them, sensing discourse, dispersed with quiet haste.
Finn’s grin collapsed, completely wilting as he watched his celebration evaporate like fog beneath a brilliant sun. “We’re going to do this on the drive, Jule?”
Julian shook off his wife’s hold and stabbed a paint-tipped finger at Finn. “No, we’re going to do it in my study. Ten minutes, boy-o.” Then he stalked back the way he’d come, the front door slamming behind him. He never glanced her way, impolite but captivating. And perfectly understandable. Finn hadn’t alerted his family to the theoretical house party, and for all Victoria knew, he dragged women of varying degrees of respectability to his brother’s country estate with unfailing regularity.