"I think you may be right," Alice said, rubbing her small baby bump. "You are destined for better things, my dearest. Who is attending this evening, Mama? We need to show society that we have rallied around Victoria and will not abide her being slighted."
"Well, as for that," her mama said, rattling off several families, all of whom Victoria knew and classed as friends. They would not offend or slight her in her time of need. They would be home soon. Safe from London and the gossiping ton.
While she did not know what her future held, where she would live, or what name to use, one thing she was at least grateful for… Her dowry was still her own, and no matter where Paul traveled with his lover, he could not swindle her money away. She supposed she could purchase a townhouse in London or a small country estate near Dunsleigh. All ideas would need considerable thought and once they were home, she would be able to set her mind to figuring out her future.
One thing was certain however, her future would not involve her husband. Not ever again.
Hampshire, 1811
Albert Kester, Marquess Melvin wrote the final words in his latest gothic romance novel. His quill scrawled The End—a little salute to himself he always signed when he'd completed a manuscript.
He leaned back in his chair, staring out at the inky-black night. Secluded away in Hampshire near Surrey's border, he ought to feel alone, vulnerable perhaps, and yet, he did not.
He loved living in the country. The hunting lodge he now used as his writing oasis was the perfect setting for a man such as himself, a man who did not enjoy crowds or socializing. He'd never been one to have the abilities to speak pretty to females or act as one of the rogues, gambling and carousing about the town without a care.
But he would have to soon. In a week or so, his closest neighbor and influential family were returning to Surrey, and he would have to ride the ten miles between their estates and endure the weekend house party and ball the Duke of Penworth held.
And he would see her again...
Lady Victoria Worthingham, now widow to the late Mr. Paul Armstrong after the fool dabbled with the wrong married lady abroad and received a bullet through his skull for his troubles. The only woman he was certain of in England and perhaps the world to make him question his life. His way of living. So private and alone.
The invitation had arrived today, and he'd sent off an acceptance without delay before he could change his mind and remain at Rosedale.
Albert slipped the manuscript into the leather binder he used and locked the book away in a cabinet before securing the lodge and returning to the main house.
He had not brought his horse this afternoon, knowing he would be several hours here, but it did not matter. He knew his way back home, even in the night.
At least he could attend the ball at the duke's estate without the nagging guilt he always suffered when he had a book due. With it finished, he could at least attempt to enjoy the ball more.
The lights to the main house flickered through the trees and then rose high before him as he cleared the copse of forest that surrounded his estate. Tomorrow he would send his book off to his publisher and, should they like the next installment of his series, his book would be available within the next twelve months or so.
It may not be the usual occupation that a marquess would do, but he enjoyed writing stories, becoming lost in his characters' worlds. What started as a hobby was now another source of income to his estate, and it pleased him. He could control that world. He could not control the one he lived in.
His mother, who resided on an estate just outside of Bath with her new husband, was forever writing to him, asking when he would return to London for another Season. Find a bride to marry and have an heir. A grandchild she longed for.
He knew his mama had a lot of love to give. His father had been a cruel man, a bullying bastard, and all the love she had for the man withered and died only years into the marriage. Now she was happy. They both were, he supposed, in their small, different ways, but she wanted to share the love she had bottled up for so many years.
Albert, too, would like to love. He would like to court Lady Victoria, but since the scandal of her husband’s affair, his running off with a maid followed by several other indiscretions all written about in the London gossip rags, Victoria looked less than interested in entering such a union for a second time.
Who could blame her for such thoughts.
While he liked the idea of marriage, he certainly had no idea what to do with a wife once the union was officiated. A problem he'd been trying to solve with extensive research. He'd purchased a collection of books on the art of lovemaking, sketches of how it was that women and men came together—drawings depicting the act of lovemaking, some of which had taken his breath away.
Albert let himself into the house, his staff well used to the strange times he came and went. He walked into the library and went directly to the latest book he had received from London about the life story of Moll Flanders, having left it on his desk before he'd set off to write this afternoon. An amusing and interesting account, with some bawdy tales that entertained him.
With his books featuring scenes similar to those he found in Daniel Defoe's book, he hoped he at least sounded as true and accurate as this author. His career would be over should the public know the truth. That one of their favorite
