Frowning in surprise at Jason’s dismissive attitude, Charles took the seat across the desk from him and put on his spectacles. “First, there is young Lord Crowley, who has already asked my permission to court her.”
“No. Too impulsive,” Jason decreed flatly.
“What makes you say so?” Charles said with a bewildered look.
“Crowley doesn’t know Victoria well enough to want to ‘court’ her, as you so quaintly phrased it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. The first four men on this list have already asked my permission to do the same thing—providing, of course, that your claim on her is not unbreakable.”
“No, to all four of them—for the same reason,” Jason said curtly, leaning back in his chair, absorbed in the report in his hand. “Who’s next?”
“Crowley’s friend, Lord Wiltshire.”
“Too young. Who’s next?”
“Arthur Landcaster.”
“Too short,” Jason said cryptically. “Next?”
“William Rogers,” Charles shot back in a challenging voice, “and he’s tall, conservative, mature, intelligent, and handsome. He’s also heir to one of the finest estates in England. I think he would do very well for Victoria.”
“No.”
“No?” Charles burst out. “Why not?”
“I don’t like the way Rogers sits a horse.”
“You don’t like—” Charles bit out in angry disbelief; then he glanced at Jason’s implacable face and sighed. “Very well. The last name on my list is Lord Terrance. He sits a horse extremely well, in addition to being an excellent chap. He is also tall, handsome, intelligent, and wealthy. Now,” he finished triumphantly, “what fault can you find with him?”
Jason’s jaw tightened ominously. “I don’t like, him.”
“You aren’t going to marry him!” Charles shot back, his voice rising.
Jason lurched forward in his chair and slammed his hand on his desk. “I said I don’t like him,” he said through clenched teeth. “And that’s the end of it.”
The anger on Charles’s face slowly gave way to surprise, then to a mirthless smile. “You don’t want her, but you don’t want anyone else to have her—is that it?”
“Right,” Jason replied acidly. “I don’t want her.”
Victoria’s low, furious voice sounded from the doorway behind them. “I don’t want you either!”
Both men’s heads snapped around, but as she came forward, her magnificent blue eyes were trained exclusively on Jason’s impassive face. She braced her palms on his desk, her chest heaving with angry hurt. “Since you’re so worried about getting me off your hands if Andrew doesn’t come for me, I’ll make every effort to find several substitutes for him, but you would never be one of them! You aren’t worth a tenth of him. He’s gentle and kind and good, while you are cold and cynical and conceited and—and a bastard!”
The word “bastard” ignited a leaping fury in Jason’s eyes. “If I were you,” he retaliated in a low, savage voice, “I’d start looking for those substitutes, because good old Andrew doesn’t want you any more than I do.”
Humiliated past bearing, Victoria whirled on her heel and stalked out of the room, only one thought in her mind: somehow she was going to show Jason Fielding that other men did want her. And she was never, never going to let herself trust him again. In the last weeks, she had been lulled into thinking they were friends. She had even thought he liked her. She remembered the name she had just called him, and her humiliation doubled. How could she have let him provoke her into calling him names!
When she had gone, Charles turned to Jason. “Congratulations,” he said bitterly. “You’ve wanted her to despise you since the day she arrived at Wakefield, and now I know why. I’ve seen the way you watch her when you think no one is looking. You want her and you’re afraid that in a weak moment you’ll ask her to marr—”
“That’s enough!”
“You want her,” Charles continued furiously, “you want her, and you care for her, and you hate yourself for that weakness. Well, now you don’t have to worry—you’ve humiliated her so thoroughly she’ll never forgive you for it. Both of you were right. You are a bastard, and Andrew isn’t going to come for her. Gloat away, Jason. You don’t have to worry about weakening anymore. She’ll hate you even more as soon as she realizes Andrew isn’t coming. Enjoy your triumph.”
Jason picked up the report he had been reading earlier, his expression glacial. “Make out another list during the next week and bring it to me.”
Chapter Sixteen
The task of selecting the best prospects from amongst the increasing number of Victoria’s suitors, in order to prepare that list, became far more difficult for Charles than the last time. By the end of the following week, the house on Upper Brook Street was overflowing with bouquets of flowers brought there by a parade of eager gentlemen all hopeful of gaining the distinction of winning her favor.
Even the elegant Frenchman the Marquis de Salle fell under her spell, not despite the language barrier, but because of it. He appeared at the house one day in the company of his friend, Baron Arnoff, and another friend who had stopped to pay a morning call on Victoria.
“Your French is excellent,” the marquis lied with suave, meaningless gallantry as he wisely switched to English and sat down in the appointed chair.
Victoria looked at him in laughing disbelief. “It is dismal,” she declared ruefully. “I find the nasal tones one uses in French almost as difficult to imitate as the guttural ones used in Apache.”
“Apache?” he inquired politely. “What is that?”
“It is the language spoken by a tribe of American Indians.”
“American savages?” echoed the Russian baron, a legendary horseman in the Russian army. His expression of boredom changed to one of rapt interest. “I have heard that these savages are superb horsemen. Are they?”
“I’ve only known one Indian, Baron Arnoff, and he was quite old and very polite, rather than savage. My father came upon him in the woods and brought him home to nurse him back to health. His name was Rushing River, and he stayed on as a sort of helper to my father. However, to answer your question, although he was only half Apache, he was indeed a superb horseman. I was twelve when I first saw him do tricks, and I was speechless with wonder. He used no saddle and—”