Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“Your Grace, we’ve seen you with the child at Hyde Park,” Lady Selkirk began, voice sweet with an undercurrent of irony.
“She is a charming little girl, of course! But surely you find that an infant, even a ward, must strain a new marriage? Does His Grace ask you or even worry at all about her care? Or do you rely entirely on a nursemaid?”
Victoria felt suffocated almost the moment the ball began. She was not a woman to flinch from a challenge, yet the throng of eager, chattering ladies descending upon her made her pulse spike.
Each smile, each tilt of the head, each subtle inquiry felt like a needle pressing into her chest. She had anticipated this moment, knew exactly what they meant to ask, yet it did little to steady her nerves.
Victoria’s jaw tightened as more voices joined in, like insects buzzing relentlessly around a light.
Lady Hubert’s voice followed, soft but piercing. “And the mother, Your Grace? It must have been such a tragedy to lose her so suddenly. Did she wish the child to be cared for elsewhere?”
Heat rose in Victoria’s cheeks, both from irritation and the ever-present self-consciousness that came when strangers scrutinized her. She took a steadying breath.
“Thank you for your concern,” she said, her tone polite but firm. “Melody’s mother was a delicate woman, taken far too soon. Were she alive, she would have cared for her child herself. Unfortunately, she was not granted the time.”
A few of the women exchanged subtle, disapproving glances, but Victoria pressed on, determined to retain control of the narrative. “She is well cared for. I have a nursemaid to assist, though I personally oversee her care whenever possible. I assure you, she is happy and healthy.”
Lady Selkirk arched a delicate brow. “And the father? Are there no other relatives who might … assist?”
“Unfortunately, Lady Selkirk, the father cannot be of assistance,” Victoria said patiently, her voice dropping to convey how grave the situation was.
“As I’ve mentioned, he passed before the mother.
The poor wife, my husband’s cousin, had her health already compromised by her recent childbirth.
Therefore, it was no surprise that she followed him to the grave so soon. The task had then fallen onto us.”
Yet the whispers did not cease. Lady Selkirk’s next words cut sharper, deliberate. “Yet your husband was away for over a year, only returning when this child needed care. One must wonder at the circumstances.”
Victoria’s chest tightened, but she did not falter. In fact, she felt a fierce, defensive resolve rise within her. This was her life now, and her ward deserved protection, even if it meant withstanding a swarm of gossipy aristocrats.
“Is she baptized, Your Grace?” Lady Hubert asked, pressing forward as if to test her further.
“I believe that it is none—” Victoria began, her voice faltering only as a shadow fell across her line of sight.
Richard.
He moved with a quiet command, stepping into their midst. The room seemed to shrink around him, the chatter fading into an almost imperceptible hum. Victoria felt the familiar pull of his presence, that mixture of heat and protection that always seemed to charge the air.
His hand brushed hers briefly on the small of her back, a subtle but intimate touch that both reassured and startled her.
“Ladies,” he said, voice low but resonant, cutting through the noise. The sheer authority in it made even the boldest dowager hesitate.
Victoria felt the relief wash over her, tempered with admiration. This was the man she had married: capable, commanding, protective. The gossip, overwhelming moments ago, now felt absurd under his gaze.
“My wife is a capable caregiver to our ward,” he continued, eyes scanning the group with calculated precision.
“She prefers to manage certain tasks personally, though she is well assisted by competent staff. Tonight, she is here to enjoy the generosity of our hostess, not to endure an interrogation.”
Lady Selkirk’s lips pursed. “Ah. Merely inquiring about the baptism, Your Grace. I meant no offense.”
Richard’s hand remained firm at Victoria’s back, a grounding presence.
“Concerned, my lady?” he countered sharply, though his tone was controlled.
“I am concerned about my wife being harassed on a night intended for enjoyment. Let her savor the evening, as it was meant to be. As for the baptism, you may find those records should you wish to inquire further.”
Victoria’s cheeks warmed with a mixture of relief and secret amusement. Richard’s deft handling of the situation had been as much a shield as it was a statement; he had made it clear to the ton that she belonged to him, that he would not tolerate harassment.
The dowagers’ expressions faltered; some looked embarrassed, others subdued.
Lady Selkirk bowed stiffly. “My apologies, Your Grace,” she murmured, retreating from the circle.
Victoria exhaled, her shoulders dropping for the first time since the interrogation began. Daphne, ever perceptive, nudged her twin with an approving smirk.
“Since you are already here, Hawksford, I will fetch Adrian,” Daphne said lightly, tugging Victoria toward the broader floor.
Richard’s gaze remained on her for a moment longer, concern etching his features. His hand lingered, brushing hers almost imperceptibly, an anchor against the lingering tension.
“Are you all right?” he murmured, low and intimate, his eyes scanning hers for any remaining trace of distress.
“I am fine, Richard,” Victoria replied, managing a smile, though it was fragile. “Thank you.”
Her heart still raced, partly from the encounter, partly from the ever-present intensity of his proximity. He understood her in ways she hadn’t realized, anticipating worry before she voiced it, shielding her without condescension.
“Come, Vicky,” Daphne said, linking arms with her.
Victoria allowed herself to be guided, still acutely aware of Richard’s presence a few steps behind. Every glance she stole toward him sent a jolt through her chest.
Soon, the music swelled, a rich waltz filling the room. Victoria felt the pull of nerves and excitement mingle in her chest. Richard stepped forward, extending a hand with an almost imperceptible command.
“Dance with me, duchess,” he murmured, his voice warm and measured, eyes locking on hers.
Victoria blinked in surprise. “Again? Richard, we—”
“We are here to establish a new narrative,” he interrupted, voice firm but gentle. “A united front. A presence that is unshaken by domestic matters. Will you accept this, duchess?”
There was no room for argument. Something in his gaze, in the intensity and quiet authority of his stance, left her no choice but acquiescence. She placed her hand in his, feeling the strength and assurance of him, and allowed him to draw her into the rhythm of the dance.
The waltz was a swirl of elegance and intensity, every movement precise yet intimate.
Victoria could feel the heat radiating from him, the way his large frame encompassed hers yet moved with delicate control.
His hand rested lightly but firmly at her back, guiding her through each turn, each sweep across the polished floor.
“Your family,” he murmured close to her ear, voice soft and steady, “they are your everything. Every time you are with them, your eyes light up. You laugh, and it shows a bond that cannot be forced. That strength is remarkable.”
Victoria allowed herself a quiet smile, letting the words sink in, the feel of his hands, the closeness of his body, the gentle pull of his presence. There was a thrill in the heat between them, a subtle electricity that accompanied every step.
She ventured softly, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity. “And your brother, Edgar? What was he like?”
Richard’s posture stiffened ever so slightly, a shuttering of the composure he wore so carefully. His voice flattened, measured. “Duty-driven. Commanding. He lived as our father demanded. I was not ready for his absence, and I am still not.”
Victoria’s heart ached with empathy, understanding the weight of expectation and responsibility he had borne. “I am so sorry for your loss, Richard,” she said softly, her hand still clasped in his. “I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose someone so close. My siblings … I could not bear it.”
His eyes softened, though only briefly, before he shifted back into the practiced composure of a duke.
The dance carried them onward, each step an echo of the intimacy and unspoken understanding between them.
The music ended, and the spell of their private world broke. Applause rose, dancers separated, and Victoria felt the return of the public sphere pressing in.
Richard remained composed, though the intensity of his desire lingered in his posture, in the protective curve of his arm, in the quiet strength of his presence.
They made their way toward the refreshment table, yet even as they moved, a cold awareness prickled Victoria’s attention. Emerging from the shadows, a figure stepped into the room with a calculated grace.
The man who was watching them at Hyde Park, Victoria, realized.
His eyes were sharp, cold, assessing, and unnervingly familiar. A threat dressed in impeccable tailoring, his presence alone was a challenge.
“Your Graces,” he intoned, a chilling charm in his voice. “A delightful pleasure to see you.”
Richard’s body stiffened, a subtle but unmistakable protective shift in his stance. He positioned himself between Victoria and the stranger without overt display, the silent declaration of his claim evident to all who could read it.
Penwike’s gaze lingered on Victoria, sharp and appraising, his smile wide but unsettling. “Pardon my directness, Your Grace. Thomas Conolly, Marquess of Penwike, at your service. Might I say that you look absolutely enchanting? Hawksford has indeed secured a remarkable wife. I am not disappointed.”
Penwike. The rival family.
Victoria forced a composed smile, the formal grace of her position in full effect.
“A pleasure to meet you, my lord. It is easy to settle into a role when one has a husband like His Grace,” she replied, carefully measured.
“I come from a large family and hope to recreate the bonds I have learned through them.”
Penwike raised an eyebrow, keenly observant. “Ah. Your father was … not gentle, I hear. And yet you manage this … domestic tableau with ease?”
The question struck with quiet precision.
For a brief, unwelcome instant, Victoria felt that familiar tightening at the base of her spine: the instinctive bracing of oneself, learned young and never entirely unlearned.
Her father’s voice rose unbidden in her memory, sharp and exacting; the sense of being watched for error, of affection offered only in exchange for obedience.
She schooled her expression at once. Whatever had been done to her, it would not be visible now.
“Indeed,” Victoria said, her tone polite, cool. “My father was harsh. Richard, however, offers guidance and support.”
Richard’s hand tightened on her arm briefly, the only acknowledgment she needed of his unwavering support.
“Then Hawksford is fortunate,” Penwike said smoothly. “But we all know duty has its demands. High expectations often lead to … unforeseen complications.”
Richard’s voice was deadly calm, each word deliberate as he said, “My wife has enjoyed the ball sufficiently, Lord Penwike. We must bid farewell to our hostess.”
Penwike bowed, but his eyes never left Victoria. “I shall be watching your progress with interest, Your Graces,” he said, the threat underlying the civility unmistakable.
Victoria felt a shiver run through her, which Richard immediately noticed, brushing his hand lightly over her arm, a grounding presence against the cold intrusion of Penwike’s gaze.
In that moment, she felt the strange security of his dominance, the certainty that she would be protected even amid scrutiny, even from those who sought to unsettle her. And though her smile remained polite, she knew the tension had shifted.
Richard Weston, duke and husband, had made it clear to all: she belonged to him, and she was safe under his watchful eye.