Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Richard returned to Hawksford House, feeling slightly grimy from the day’s search.
The information Mrs. Tallow had given him clung to his mind, just as the urge to see Victoria did.
He found her in the sitting room, seated near the hearth with a book balanced lightly in her hands.
Firelight gilded her profile, catching along the line of her cheek and the soft curve of her mouth.
The flames deepened the blue of her eyes to something almost nocturnal, thoughtful rather than sharp.
Her dark-blonde hair had escaped its pins and brushed her shoulders, giving her an unguarded look she rarely allowed herself in company.
Richard did not announce himself at once.
He stood just inside the doorway, watching her breathe, watching the small crease between her brows smooth as she turned a page.
He wished foolishly, dangerously, that he could preserve this version of her: the quiet vulnerability before it hardened into wit and boldness, before the world demanded she armor herself again.
She was a woman of formidable intellect and unyielding standards; she would never accept less than she believed she deserved.
Yet here, softened by firelight and solitude, she looked almost fragile.
After a few steadying breaths, he stepped forward.
“Good evening,” he said, then dispensed with all ceremony. “I have new information to share.”
She lifted her gaze to him, unsurprised. If anything, she looked relieved to be interrupted. “Good evening. The midwife had something to say?”
“She did,” Richard replied, moving closer to the hearth. “She confirmed much of what we suspected. The mother was frightened enough to insist on giving birth in secrecy, in the midwife’s own home rather than her own. She gave a false name. Paid well. And she feared someone with power.”
Victoria’s fingers tightened slightly on the book. She closed it and set it aside. “Power,” she echoed softly. “That changes things.”
“One detail emerged,” Richard continued.
“A seamstress in Soho. The mother must’ve relied on her for more than clothes.
I’m guessing she could be a confidante.” He exhaled and dragged a hand over his face, the weight of it all settling heavily on his shoulders.
“It is a thread, but a thin one. Soho is … extensive. Discretion will be difficult. Time-consuming.”
Victoria studied him, her gaze lingering on the fatigue he could not fully hide. “You look exhausted.”
“That is beside the point.”
“It is not,” she countered gently. “But go on.”
“Jonathan and I will begin inquiries,” he said. “Quietly. Mrs. Tallow believed the mother was hiding from someone influential. If that is true, then haste matters.”
Victoria fell silent for a moment, staring into the fire. Then she said, “I want to go with you.”
Richard turned sharply. “No.”
Her head snapped toward him. “No?”
“It is not a place for you,” he said at once, the words clipped. “You are a duchess. Soho is dangerous, unsuitable, and beneath the protection you ought to have.”
“And not for you?” she asked coolly. “Do you imagine there will be no whispers if you are seen there alone? A duke wandering Soho? They will assume brothels. A mistress. Or worse.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“With me,” she went on, rising from her chair, “it will look like a married couple on an errand. Perhaps an eccentric one, but respectable. And if we find the seamstress, most ideally, or Melody’s mother, she is far more likely to trust another woman than a duke who embodies everything she fears.”
Richard’s jaw tightened. “You assume she fears me.”
“I assume she fears men with power,” Victoria said quietly. “Which includes you, whether you like it or not.”
She stepped closer, the space between them narrowing.
Richard became acutely aware of her size beside him.
Victoria was petite, yes, but not fragile.
Slightly curvy beneath her gown, composed and steady, her presence drew his focus against his will.
He could see the pulse at her throat, the firelight reflecting in her eyes.
“She left the child at our home,” he said. “She may already trust me.”
“Or she may have been desperate,” Victoria replied. “And desperation does not equal trust.”
There was a beat of silence.
“I want to meet her,” Victoria added, more softly now. “Not because I doubt you.” She hesitated. “But because … if I were in her place, I would want someone to look at me without judgment. Someone who understands what it means to give something up.”
Richard searched her face, noting the resolve there … and something else. A quiet protectiveness that mirrored his own, though it came from a different place. He wondered when Melody had ceased being an obligation to her and begun to matter in ways neither of them had anticipated.
“You would be placing yourself at risk,” he said, his voice lower now. “And I—” He stopped himself.
And I would not forgive myself, he did not say.
Victoria tilted her head, studying him with that infuriating perceptiveness of hers. “I understand where your caution stems from.”
He tensed. She knew about his past; everyone in London did. And he himself had laid it all out before her when he’d proposed. The feud, the violence, the promise of peace.
And she’d still accepted his offer.
“So you understand why I cannot accept what you’re suggesting,” he replied.
Her expression softened, just enough to undo him. “I will not be reckless,” she said. “But I will not be excluded, either.”
Richard looked away, toward the fire, then back at her. The pull between them hung thick in the air.
“Very well,” he said at last. “We will go together.”
Her shoulders eased, relief flickering across her face before she masked it. “Thank you.”
“This does not mean I approve,” he added.
“Of course not.”
“And you will follow my lead.”
She smiled faintly. “I always do.”
The lie, or perhaps the promise, settled between them.
Richard turned away before the moment stretched too far, already bracing himself for what lay ahead.
Soho would be dangerous. The truth, more so.
And bringing Victoria with him would change everything.
The ball hosted by the Countess of Mildrake—the invitation from Hyde Park—finally arrived.
Victoria had been anticipating it with a mixture of dread and reluctant excitement.
She and Richard had to establish some form of domestic unity in public.
Gossip about their sudden reunion and the mysterious child in their care had already begun to spread, and appearances mattered, even if she hated the pretense.
The other reason was simpler: a night away from worries, if only fleeting. She missed the rare indulgence of dressing up purely for the joy of it. There was something decadent in the silk against her skin, the cool brush of satin slippers on polished floors.
She had never liked dressing for attention before—never for the sake of a suitor, but now, as the Duchess of Hawksford, she could do it on her own terms.
When she emerged from the dressing room, the reaction she hadn’t expected struck her like a jolt.
Richard’s jaw slackened; his blue eyes widened as if he’d never seen her before.
He took her in with a slow gaze, from the carefully pinned curls of her dark-blonde hair to the sapphire gown that clung just enough to her form without overreaching, down to the delicate satin slippers that peeked from beneath her hem.
“Y-you …” he faltered, his voice breaking slightly as it traveled over the curves of her gown, the faint sparkle of her jewels catching the light.
Victoria’s chest warmed. That gaze, the one that made her feel both desired and small, had always been a dangerous weapon in Richard’s hands.
It wasn’t the first time he had looked at her as if she were something newly discovered, yet tonight it felt sharper, more immediate, like he was seeing her for the first time and also claiming her silently before everyone else.
“You’re staring,” she murmured, though she didn’t pull back.
She wanted to, she wanted to tease him, but she also didn’t. Her body hummed with an awareness she had never fully indulged before.
His stare softened slightly, but did not leave her form.
Instead, it lingered, appreciating, judging, claiming.
Her fingers itched to smooth down her gown, to reclaim some semblance of composure.
Yet she didn’t. There was a thrill in feeling so visible to him, so acknowledged, and yet not entirely exposed.
They descended the grand staircase in near silence.
Normally, Victoria would have had something biting to remark upon, something clever to throw at him, but she found herself oddly distracted.
The awe in his expression seemed to fade, replaced by a seriousness she could not read.
Still, the occasional glance he stole at her drew a flush she could not suppress.
Even in her mind, she felt the danger of her heart betraying her composure.
By the time they entered the carriage, she was acutely aware of how closely he walked to her, of the subtle heat that radiated off him, and how impossible it was to focus on anything else when Richard Hawksford was so near.
The ball was as she expected: a swirl of color, scent, and constant movement, with the ton gliding through the room as if they owned it. Victoria adjusted the folds of her sapphire gown, taking a deep breath. Her pulse quickened, but from the faint, steady weight of Richard’s presence behind her.
“Vickie, you must come here!” Daphne’s voice rang across the room, pulling her toward her sisters. “You simply must see the chandelier!”
“I suppose it is …” Victoria said lightly, forcing a smile, though her eyes kept flicking to Richard.
He stood a few feet away, broad-shouldered and still, surveying her as though the rest of the world had disappeared. Each subtle movement of his head, each tightening of his jaw, made her heart skip.
And then someone approached, a man she had not met before. He stopped a few feet away, bowing smoothly. “Good evening, duchess. I am Jonathan Trupleigh, Marquess of Cotswell. I have heard much of you from our mutual friend,” he said, eyes twinkling, warm and unthreatening.
Victoria blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Richard speaks of me?” she asked, a faint lift to her brow.
“Yes, though I assure you, I only know the highlights,” Jonathan replied lightly, bowing again. “I hope this first introduction is as agreeable as it is inevitable.”
Victoria found herself smiling, charmed despite the tension curling in her stomach. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord.”
He gestured slightly toward Richard, who had begun to move toward them. “Evening, Hawksford. Quite shy this evening, are you?”
Victoria’s attention shifted, and her stomach fluttered.
Richard’s eyes were locked on her, hands lightly clasped behind his back at first, then moving with deliberate precision to the small of her back.
The heat of his hand against her gown was unmistakable, subtle yet commanding.
The touch startled her, awareness snapping to every detail of him: the tilt of his head, the controlled tension in his frame, the quiet authority that made the entire room seem to blur around them.
“Evening, Cotswell,” Richard said, voice low, deliberate, keeping his eyes on Jonathan. “I believe I should escort my wife this evening.”
Jonathan’s smile remained polite, though his eyes betrayed amusement. “By all means, Your Grace. I would not presume to intrude.”
Richard’s hand pressed just slightly more firmly to the small of her back.
Victoria felt herself respond, a shiver trailing along her spine.
The possessive pressure, subtle yet undeniable, left her cheeks warm.
Her pulse raced, awareness of the room and Jonathan fading, leaving only the proximity of her husband.
“Duchess, the music is about to begin,” Richard murmured, his lips close enough that only she could hear.
His breath was faint, warm, teasing, yet restrained.
Victoria glanced at him, then back at Jonathan. “I suppose I should dance?” she asked lightly, still processing the closeness, the intensity of Richard’s presence.
Jonathan inclined his head with charming civility. “Only if Your Grace permits.”
Richard’s jaw tightened. “For the first dance, I suggest you remain under my guidance,” he said, voice low, firm, yet tinged with warning.
His fingers pressed briefly at her back, a reminder of the silent claim he was staking.
Victoria’s breath caught. “Richard …” she murmured, half amusement, half awe. “Are you always so … proprietary?”
“Only when it matters,” he replied quietly, a faint edge of something unspoken threading through his words.
Her cheeks flushed, and her pulse thundered. The room, the music, the chatter of the ton … it all seemed to fade. She felt the pull of him, the weight of his authority and attention, the subtle thrill of being claimed in a way she could neither ignore nor fully understand.
But the music ended, and Richard guided her off the dance floor when Daphne soon approached.
“You don’t mind if I whisk my dear sister away, do you, duke?” Daphne’s voice cut across the hall.
“Of course not,” Richard bowed politely, and Victoria shot Richard one last glance.
His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held a storm she recognized as only hers. She allowed herself to be steered away, pulse still high, aware that every step pulled her further from him but never fully released the tension that lingered in his watchful gaze.
Richard’s eyes followed her relentlessly. She felt the weight of his attention even as she moved across the room with her sisters.
She realized, with a thrill she did not entirely suppress, that this night had only begun.
And the challenge of navigating both her composure and her heart was just starting.