His only option was to scrub the picture of Victoria from his head. He could never touch her again. He banged his head back against the stucco wall, but she remained forefront in his mind. Even more worrisome, she was still firmly rooted in his heart.
Chapter 3
Victoria wanted to crawl under her covers with her boon companions—embarrassment and shame—for the rest of the day, but she couldn’t. Eleanor was counting on her. Lord Berkwith had left a note with Mrs. Leighton, the milliner, and Victoria needed to pass it to Eleanor. It was Lord Berkwith who had suggested the friendly milliner as a go-between for Victoria, the other go-between.
The chain of communication was overly complicated because Lady Stanfield, Eleanor’s mother, was a blue-blooded hunting dog on the scent of rakes and fortune hunters. She took her role of mother and chaperone with a zealousness reserved for nuns.
Eleanor was not even allowed to waltz—the position deemed too scandalous—much less take a carriage ride in the park or a turn in the garden with a gentleman. It was no wonder Eleanor, a spritely, curious young lady, was chaffing under the rigid control.
The romantic ruse had worn thin for Victoria, and she wanted nothing more than to cede the role of intermediary to someone else. Or, even better, she wished Lord Berkwith would court Eleanor as a gentleman should and win over her parents. If his intentions were honorable, which Victoria was beginning to doubt.
Thomas kept his distance on their brief walk to the milliner’s shop. He had seen her nearly naked. Would she ever be able to look him in the eye again?
She could have shielded herself or turned away or even screamed when she noticed him at the narrow curtain opening. Instead, she had invited his gaze, and if she were being truthful, she had gloried in it.
Her skin had gone hot and cold and tingly, as if she could feel his fingertips grazing across her body. Even now, her breasts were overly sensitive against her stays, and her belly ached with a longing she didn’t fully understand. But she understood it was scandalous.
The books she’d purchased as the dour widow McClain had offered knowledge in black and white, but hadn’t prepared her for the kaleidoscope of feelings Thomas’s attention had unleashed.
He hadn’t looked away and had seemed as boggled in the aftermath as she had felt. Her heart skipped faster in anticipation. But of what? They would never be given the opportunity to act upon their attraction.
She entered the milliner’s shop and glanced askance at the woman behind the counter. The two of them had performed this dance before. Mrs. Leighton was a beautiful widow in her thirties who held herself with an elegance that rivaled any duchess. Victoria always came away feeling gauche in comparison.
A confection made of netting and feathers perched atop Mrs. Leighton’s smooth blond chignon. The hat was a fine advertisement of her talents and would be at home in any ton ballroom.
While Lady Hawkins moved deeper into the shop, Victoria tarried over a straw bonnet decorated with delicate artificial poppy flowers. What should have been plain had been made special by Mrs. Leighton’s artistry. The milliner swept from behind the counter and joined her in examination of the bonnet.
“It would suit you very well, miss. The color would highlight your dark hair.” Mrs. Leighton touched one of the red flowers. Her lace gloves couldn’t disguise the calluses earned from the delicate millinery work.
“It is a veritable work of art.” In a softer voice, she asked, “Did he leave a message?”
Mrs. Leighton passed a tightly folded missive into Victoria’s hand. She stuffed it into her reticule without looking at what Lord Berkwith had written on the outside. Before she could turn and join her mother, Mrs. Leighton caught her wrist in a tight grip.
“You know Randall doesn’t truly love your friend, don’t you?” Mrs. Leighton spoke through clenched teeth, her lips still curled into a smile. The force and tone of the words took Victoria back. As did the use of Lord Berkwith’s Christian name.
“Actually, I don’t know that.” But she suspected the milliner was correct. The knot in her stomach tightened.
“She should beware.” Mrs. Leighton let Victoria go and nodded as if the vagaries of men were known to Victoria.
It was clear Mrs. Leighton believed Eleanor was on the path to heartbreak. Victoria would have to decide whether to confess her own misgivings to her friend. A headache brewed. She joined her mother where she was trying on a black-and-white turban.
“I know turbans are all the rage, but I’m not sure if they suit me.” Her mother pursed her lips and examined her reflection.
“I’m feeling rather peaked, Mother. I don’t feel up to joining the Carlyles for dinner. Especially as we will be leaving for Bedfordshire day after tomorrow.” Victoria fake coughed into her handkerchief.
Her mother removed the turban. “I hope you haven’t caught a cold. A red, runny nose would make for a poor impression at the house party.”
“A honeyed tea and a quiet evening will set me to rights.”
“Then let’s get you home and bundled into bed with a water bottle.”
Garrick didn’t ride in the carriage with them on their trip home. He crammed himself on top with Callum and John Coachman. Victoria battled relief and disappointment. Callum helped them descend when they returned to the town house, and Victoria was in her room waiting for a tray of honeyed tea within minutes. She paced until her maid, Annie, delivered the tea and a hot before pulling Lord Berkwith’s note out of her reticule.
She tapped it on the desk, staring at the Berkwith’s red wax seal of crossed swords. Typically she would disguise Beckwith’s notes in one of her own and send them to Eleanor with a footman, but this time she would take it herself. Lord Stanfield, a baron with a smallholding in Yorkshire, had taken a town house a short walk away, which was how she’d made Eleanor’s acquaintance.
After finishing her tea, Victoria rang for her maid to inform her they would be calling on Eleanor, which wasn’t unusual. Unlike her next request. “I’ll wait for you in the mews. We’ll leave from there.”
“The mews, miss? Are you planning a visit to the reading room or the bookshop as well? Should we change your gown?” Annie blinked, her spectacles lending her a myopic, slightly confused expression at all times. This made for an excellent ruse. In reality, the girl was as sharp as a hatpin and Victoria’s partner in crime when it came to unsanctioned forays. Annie’s brother worked for Sir Hawkins in a more dangerous capacity, but courage and willingness to take risks ran in the family.
“No need to change. We are only paying a call on Lady Eleanor.” Her skulking was because she wanted to avoid her mother and, even more so, dreaded bumping into Thomas. The buzzing embarrassment and arousal from their secret encounter at the modiste hadn’t faded. In fact, the longer she dwelled on the heat in his gaze as she stripped to her unmentionables, the closer she came to spontaneous combustion.
“Yes, miss.” Suspicions hid poorly behind the deferent acquiescence, and Victoria found herself blabbering on.
“I wish to check on Artemis. It’s been too cold to ride recently.” As excuses went, wanting to visit her horse was thin. One of the girl’s eyebrows arched, and Victoria thought, not for the first time, that Annie was underutilized as a lady’s maid, but she only nodded.