It felt to Victoria as if she was constantly fielding the latest influx of correspondence. A steady stream of it had come pouring in since she and her husband had been seen at the theater with the Stratfords. She’d been forced to have their newly-hired butler turn away a great many housecalls until she could perform a hasty and sufficient remodel of the more public rooms of the Townhouse; however, thetonwas nothing if not resourceful and had resorted to writing and extending invitations. For the most part, this routine was familiar to her; she’d done much of the same when she’d lived with her father and brother. Now that she was entrenched within London Society as “one of them”, however, she had more insight intowho was genuine and who was merely seeking the latest gossip or tidbit to share at the next event.
In addition to the purchases she’d begun to make, her father had gifted her with some outstanding pieces of furniture. With careful organization and planning, she estimated she would be able to receive more than just Rafe’s closest friends in the next week or two after the papering was finished and the fixtures were updated. The repairing, updating, and decorating of the main public rooms was proving to be an enjoyable task—and one she enjoyed, sitting with May as they selected from color samples together.
“Bwue!” May chirped and pointed excitedly at the paper sample Victoria held in her hand. The little girl’s penchant for swapping her l’s with w’s never failed to melt her heart.
“Yes, darling. That is quite a pretty shade of blue, is it not?”
“Finally, something other than pink,” Rafe groused as he strode into the drawing room. The furniture had been cleared, and every inch of the space had been cleaned and prepared for new papering and fixtures. Victoria and May sat in a puddle of mint green skirts and ivory pinafore in the center of the polished floor.
“Only one of the rooms has been decorated in pink,” she refuted as Rafe stood over them, hands on his lean hips, his powerful thighs level with her eyes made her tongue feel too large for her mouth.
“If that one has her say, then the entire place will be a frothy concoction of pink.” He lifted his chin at May, but the glitter in his eyes revealed his mirth.
“Don’t say you would deny this little angel anything!” Victoria gasped dramatically and held the giggling girl aloft. “Tell her to her face that you would not paint the world pink just to make her smile.”
Rafe narrowed his eyes a moment before he snatched May from Victoria’s hands and swung the child in a circle. “She knows I can deny her nothing.”
Victoria watched as he pretended to waltz across the room with May held close to his chest, and her heart throbbed with almost painful intensity.
Despite the closeness they were beginning to achieve, their marriage remained guarded and distant. They hadn’t shared a bed again since that first night. Despite her ongoing annoyance with him, there was no denying the way her skin tingled whenever Rafe was near; nor could she deny the way she woke up damp and aching almost every night. She craved his touch; she yearned for his taste. Every accidental brush of his hand on hers, each time she caught his intoxicating scent in a room, she would burn anew.
The blasted man.
She was softening to him more and more each day. Watching him prove himself to be caring, responsible, and silly in addition to the glib, charming, witty man she’d come to know…well, that was hazardous to her sensibilities. He was wearing her down without even realizing it.
A few times, Victoria had lain awake wondering how he thought himself incapable of love when he so clearly loved the children—he was, in fact, a big child himself. Could it be that he actually believed himself unworthy ofreceivingthat love? Could the scars left behind by his father’s rejection have cut him so deeply to shape who he was? She thought it was entirely possible, and it was also entirely fascinating. Whether she wanted him to or not, her husband drew her in, and she knew she was in serious danger of losing her control.
During a quietperiod in the early evening while the children were ensconced in the nursery prior to supper, Victoriawas attempting to drown that simmering desire in mundane correspondence when she sensed a flurry of activity in the hall. Footfalls and rushed, muted voices passed back and forth outside of the room. The stairs leading to the nursery creaked as they were traversed again and again.
Frowning, she set aside her work and went to see what the fuss was about. As soon as she stepped into the hallway, however, she was nearly knocked to the floor by her husband. A deep line of worry creased his handsome brow; his hair was uncharacteristically mussed and his eyes were wide with concern.
“I’ve sent for Dr. McCullom,” he said hurriedly. “Faith has not eaten, and she will not cease her crying. No one knows what to do anymore; nothing is helping or consoling her.” The naked concern was as torturous as a flame being pressed to Victoria’s skin.
Without thinking, she grasped Rafe’s hand and held it so tightly that both of their knuckles blanched to bone white. “We will go to the nursery and await the physician together.”
After that, Rafe did not release her hand for what felt like hours. He clutched her to him as they waited for Dr. McCullom’s arrival. He did not relinquish her when the Scottish physician was finally shown into the nursery. He kept her beside him as they stood by and watched his examination of the poor, miserable infant. Each of the pathetic, hoarse cries chipped away at Victoria’s heart until she felt less like she was providing support to Rafe than the other way around.
Her husband was proving to be a difficult man to read. Despite the tenseness of his every muscle, he maintained a stoic expression throughout the duration of the physician’s visit. Still, she’d come to know him well enough to recognize the flaring of his nostrils, the subtle flexing of his fingers on hers, thathis anxiety was steadily growing with each passing minute that McCullom did not provide them with a solution.
“You say she has not eaten?” he asked the nursemaid, a hint of his Scottish brogue evident in his vowels.
“No,” Nan said with a vehement shake of her head. “The wetnurse is tending to ’er own infant now or else she’d be ’ere. She said the babe ’as not taken to the teat once today, and not for lack of trying.” Worry and fear had deepened the creases around her weary eyes. Victoria had witnessed firsthand how deeply Nan cared for her charges; seeing one of them in such distress must have been agonizing for her.
“Has she been soiling her cloths?”
“Not as frequently.”
“And she has been this restless since when?”
“Since after supper last evening.”
Victoria was surprised when Rafe answered the last query himself. Had he spent the night helping care for the child? That would explain why she hadn’t heard a sound from his bedchamber all evening, why she hadn’t seen him all morning, why he looked so weary and worn.
“Is there aught that consoles her?”
“Only when His Lordship carries her,” Nan supplied.
McCullom nodded once and began closing up his bag. The child’s wails faded to whimpers when Rafe moved forward to place a gentle hand on her abdomen. She was so tiny and his hand so large that it looked as if he could scoop her up as if she were a kitten.
