“You’re wrong,” Jason said, grinning as he rose to his feet with that pantherish grace of his. “I’ve been cheating during all three hands.” Without warning, he leaned down and pressed a kiss on the top of her head, affectionately rumpled her long hair, and strolled out of the library.
Victoria was so stunned by his actions that she didn’t notice the expression of pure joy on Charles’s face as he watched Jason leave.
Chapter Eleven.
The Gazette and the Times reported two days later that Lady Victoria Seaton, Countess Langston—whose betrothal to Jason Fielding, Marquess of Wakefield, had been previously announced—would be making her formal bow to society at a ball to be given in a fortnight by her cousin, the Duke of Atherton.
No sooner had London’s ton digested that exciting news than they witnessed a sudden burst of activity at the Marquess of Wakefield’s palatial London home at #6 Upper Brook Street.
First came two coaches accommodating, in addition to lesser servants, Northrup, the butler; O’Malley, the head footman; and Mrs. Craddock, the cook. These vehicles were soon followed by a large fourgon, which contained the housekeeper, several housemaids, three kitchen porters, four subordinate footmen, and a mountain of trunks.
Shortly thereafter another coach arrived bearing Miss Flossie Wilson, the duke’s maiden aunt, a plump elderly lady with a cherubic, pink-cheeked face framed by blond curls. Perched upon her head was a delightful little mulberrycolored bonnet that would have been more appropriate for a much younger lady and that made Miss Flossie look very much like a cuddly, elderly doll. Miss Flossie, who was a well-known figure among the Quality, climbed down from the coach, waved gaily to two of her friends who were passing by, and rushed up the front steps of her great-nephew’s Brook Street mansion.
All of this activity was duly noted by the elegant ladies and gentlemen who paraded leisurely along Upper Brook Street in their gorgeous finery, but none of it created the wild stir of attention that was generated the next day when witnesses observed Jason Fielding’s sleek burgundy coach, drawn by four prancing grays, pulling up smartly before the house at #6.
From the sumptuous interior of the crested coach emerged Charles Fielding, Duke of Atherton, followed by a young lady who could only be Jason Fielding’s promised wife. The young lady stepped gracefully down the coach steps, tucked her hand in the crook of the duke’s arm, and paused, gazing in smiling disbelief at the lavish four-story mansion with its wide bow windows.
“Good God, that’s her!” young Lord Wiltshire exclaimed from his vantage point across the street. “That’s Countess Langston,” he added, enthusiastically digging his elbow into his companion’s chest for emphasis.
“How d’you know?” Lord Crowley demanded, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from his injured jacket.
“It’s plain to the humblest intelligence who she is—look at her, she’s a beauty. An Incomparable.”
“You can’t see her face,” his friend pointed out reasonably.
“I don’t have to, nodcock. If she weren’t beautiful, she’d never have wrung an offer out of Wakefield. Have you ever seen him with a woman who wasn’t a raving beauty?”
“No,” Lord Crowley admitted. Raising his quizzing glass, he squinted through it and emitted a low, surprised whistle. “She has red hair. Wouldn’t have expected that in a million years.”
“It ain’t red, it’s more to the gold than the red.”
“No, it’s titian,” Lord Crowley argued. After a moment’s additional consideration, he declared, “Titian is an enchanting color. Always preferred it, myself.”
“Rubbish! You’ve never gone in for titian hair. It’s not at all the rage.”
“It is now,” Lord Crowley predicted, grinning. Lowering his glass he sent a smug look at his friend. “I believe my Aunt Mersley is acquainted with Atherton—she’ll get an invitation to Countess Langston’s come-out ball. Think I’ll tag along with her to it and—” He stopped speaking and gaped as the young lady under discussion turned back to the coach and called out something. An instant later, a huge silver and gray beast hurtled out and bounded to her heel, whereupon the trio proceeded up the front steps. “Damn my eyes if that wasn’t a wolf!” Lord Crowley breathed in awe.
“She’s stylish,” the other young man decreed when he recovered his voice. “Never heard of a woman with a wolf for a pet. Very stylish, is the countess. An Original, to be sure.” Eager to spread the word that they had been the first to glimpse the mysterious Lady Victoria Seaton, the two young men separated and rushed off to their respective clubs.
By the next evening, when Jason arrived in London and strolled into White’s for the first time in months, intending to enjoy a few hours of relaxation at cards before attending the theater, it was already a widely known, accepted fact that his betrothed was a dazzling beauty and an acclaimed trendsetter. As a result, instead of being able to gamble in peace, Jason was repeatedly confronted by acquaintances who interrupted his game to compliment him on his excellent taste and good fortune, and to press upon him congratulations and best wishes for his future happiness.
After enduring two hours of this farce, of having his hand shaken and his shoulder patted, it occurred to him that, despite what Charles seemed to think, it was not wise for the ton to believe that Victoria was betrothed to him. Jason based this conclusion on the simple observation that none of the eligible bachelors who were congratulating him would dare to risk offending him by courting his affianced bride. Therefore, he set about encouraging them to pursue her by thanking them for their good wishes but adding a disclaimer.
“The matter is not entirely settled between us yet,” he murmured, or, “Lady Seaton is not completely certain her affections are permanently fixed on me—she doesn’t know me well enough.”
He said those things because they were necessary, but he was thoroughly disgusted with the entire farce and completely incensed at being forced to play the role of a prospective bridegroom whose fiancée was on the verge of jilting him.
By nine o’clock, when his carriage drew up in front of the elegant house in Williams Street that he provided for his mistress, Jason was in a black mood. He strode up the steps and rapped impatiently on the door.
The maid who opened it took one look at his hard features and stepped back in nervous alarm. “M—Miss Sybil instructed me to tell you she doesn’t wish to see you again.”