Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

D inner conversations had unraveled her.

Ford was too focused on her. The young heiress, Clementine, made no secret of her wishes that he'd train his attentions instead on her. Vicky had tried to summon the hope that he would, but she was too selfish, too needy. She remembered so much about the house party six years ago when they had fallen in love. His kindness, his wit, his words of praise and his kisses were indelible impressions on her mind. That he might now bestow such blessings on this beautiful girl with money and pedigree and sunshine in her smile, made Vicky sick to her stomach. During dinner she had tried to recover.

But her confidence waned. Oh, the company was superb. Yet it was a rare thing for her to be unsettled by others. But as the guests bid good night and headed for their homes or assigned chambers, she had not taken the turn for the stairs and her bedroom in the far east wing. Instead, she stood in the hall, a hand to the old sculpted oak newel, transported to a moment when she felt strong arms around her and fierce lips upon her own. The charms of Ford in love with her and the sadness of her own introspection had her turning and remembering the way to the garden.

The Tudor-era garden parterre was what the English termed a maze. With tall evergreen box hedges that rose to six feet and discreetly hid children at games and lovers at play, the pebbled paths were dotted with stone statues and urns. For those who wished an assignation, benches and even a chaise longue or two were available. Famous and infamous, the Barlows' knot garden was known throughout the land as a remnant of old Henry Tudor's time when romance reigned supreme and the king had lain with more women than he could marry or kill.

Vicky found one lane she had preferred six years ago when she visited last during the Harvest festival. While the garden was studded with rosemary and sage, basil and fennel, the paths had flowers too. This particular line held rose bushes. As years ago, during autumn, the roses were gone. The hips remained and still, within these green corridors the fragrance of roses sat upon the breeze. The essence of it seeped into her and offered her a fresh taste of peace.

"I hoped to find you here. You love roses."

Ford stood behind her. He had intuited she'd be here. He remembered such facts about her, while her husband had never given her a rose. Only daisies. She hated daisies.

"Will you talk with me?"

Could she simply just walk into his arms and never say a word?

She turned to face him. And oh, in the moonlight, he was an even finer vision than he had been in the dining room in the flickering candlelight. He loomed above her, her handsome passion, her one madness, the swain she had never forgotten and never wished to. "Of course. I long to hear about you. How you are. Why you are home so quickly since the peace. Did you not want to stay for the Occupation?"

He swept out a hand to the white stone chaise longue. "No. I had to come home to assume control. With David and Thomas gone, I am here to command the wheat to grow and the animals to carry their load and reproduce. I am here to become a proper earl."

To marry. And have sons. She sat beside him, so close by necessity of the size of the chaise, that their hips touched. And hers burned. "You will excel."

He took in a sharp breath, leaned his elbows on his knees and shook his head. "You have great faith in me."

"I do. And why not? You were the earl in all but name your whole life. You ran the estate. You knew how to lead."

"How do you know this?"

"Your mother and my aunt are fond correspondent's. I've learned of each of your successes, all your exploits. Famous Colonel Lord Barlow of the 95 th sharpshooters who treats his men so well."

"You will give me a swelled head."

"And justly so. You know how to lead by principle and example. No wonder that when you went into the army with your commission, you rose steadily in rank. You commanded your men with honor and discipline, and they respected you. Here, with those men and women who respect your name and your past leadership of them, you will once more impress your tenants with the same fairness you gave those in your regiment."

He tipped his head toward her and chuckled. The smile on his lips was the glorious prize she won for her compliment. "You were always kind."

"It is easy to be kind to one who is thus." She pressed her lips together, looked straight ahead and considered the blunt brown ends of dead roses.

"Was your husband kind to you?"

She sucked in air. In many ways, yes. "He was."

A moment ticked by in which silence said more than she had.

Ford took her hand from her lap to bring it to his thigh. "Look at me. Tell me the truth. I always wondered. It tortured me that I did not know. Please tell me that he was good to you."

She nodded but could not look at him as she recounted the nature of her marriage. "Charlie was kind, yes. Considerate. He gave me an allowance to run the houses, the staff, and my own use. We entertained often. He attended Parliament, and he liked to have people in for tea and dinner and garden parties. I arranged it all and enjoyed the work. When he became ill, he amended my widow's allowance and I have five thousand a year and the townhouse in Bath until I die."

"I see." He pulled at her hand. "But, my dearest, you say nothing of him."

She yanked away. His endearment shot ripples of yearning through her blood. She would not reprimand him for it. God knew, she needed someone to call her dear words. Someone. This one.

She grabbed her courage to blurt out the truth. "He had affairs. He told me the night before our wedding." After I had given you up. After I had lashed myself to my duty to marry him as Papa's agreements demanded. "He informed me that he would not change his life for me. In fact, if I wished to jilt him, I could."

"But you didn't." He put a hand with his rough calloused fingertips to turn her face toward him, and smiled in sorrow at her. "Why not?"

"You know the prices a woman pays if she is a spinster. You know my father wanted this marriage to make me truly English and keep me safe. Far from any French who might want to take my life for the lives my father destroyed by his slavish use of his peasants. The family name of Fortin is still spoken of in France with damning words."

He nodded. "After we fought and won at Toulouse, we marched to Paris through your family's domain."

That surprised her. "And?"

"The town is sparsely inhabited. The lands are fallow. Gone to weeds and grasses."

"I am shocked. I always envisioned them as prospering. Happy to be rid of us. My father and his before him were greedy managers."

"You do not wish to return?"

She shook her head. "Never. There is nothing and no one there I wish to see. This is my home. Safe. Serene. Quiet."

"And what of love?"

She flinched. "What do you mean?"

"Do you love anyone here?"

You. Only you. "My Aunt Celeste. All the others in my family are gone. I am interested in seeing this baby tomorrow. If he is Yvette's…" Her heart pounded at the prospect she might have a child to love and she pressed her free hand to her chest. "If he might be hers, I will take him. I have money. I have time to nurture him and…"

She shot to her feet. "I should go in."

He stood and ran his big warm hands from her back down her shoulders and arms. He nestled her backward against him and put his lips to her ear. "You have not told me if you loved him."

She'd had no one who'd held her with affection in so many years. Since last he had—and she could not forbid herself the pleasure of his embrace.

"Victorine." He burrowed his lips into the hollow behind her ear and kissed her there. "Darling. Tell me. I have thought of only you for six long years. Where you are, how you are. What you do. Who you love. Did you learn to love him? If you did, I cannot be jealous. Not now. Not any longer. He is gone. Tell me."

She tried—she really did—to suppress her sob. But she rushed toward all the truths about her husband that few knew. Few understood. Fewer still accepted. "He always treated me with kindness and honor. I had no quarrels with how he presented me, but?—"

Ford hugged her around her waist and sent kisses down her throat.

She was lost to him, his never-ending tenderness. But from a place where prudence lived inside her, she undid his fingers wrapped round her waist and whirled to face him.

In the moonlight, he gazed at her with a need that threatened to send her to her knees. His twinkling eyes, his silver-streaked hair drew her compassion and her fingertips to touch him. "My husband was a man any woman could respect. I accepted him as he was. He cared for me as much as he could. I lived with that. I had to. You see, he loved only men."