The Skilled Seduction (41 page)

Tristan idly caressed her shoulder, then her neck, as the carriage gently swayed to a stop.

“Lean on me tonight,” Tristan kissed the top of her head.

Little did he realize, his wife had her own plans. Steeling her shoulders, Victoria braced herself for the scrutiny that awaited them. She would bear the brunt of it, would refuse to allow the
ton
to see her as pitiable ever again. Then, when the time was right, she would secure the truth from Tristan.

It was past time Victoria proved her strength.

Tonight would be the last time her husband underestimated her.

* * *

If Victoria expected the evening to be rough, she was sorely mistaken. It was vile, complete with smirks and catty comments spoken in whispers low enough not to be understood yet their tenor spoke volumes.

The opulent residence had been recently renovated and housed the owner’s most prized possessions. Collections from his trips abroad. Art, sculptures, and other mementos from around the globe.

She and Tristan currently stood in the main hall, a grandiose room with a collection of objects from various regions. Though Victoria suspected that they’d been in attendance for a half hour, possibly less, it already felt like a lifetime. She studied her husband as he spoke to a gentleman from Parliament, a portly chap with a round face and crimson cheeks.

“I dare say, Tristan, you needn’t attend tonight,” he said aloud, his volume heightened a tad above what Victoria thought proper. “You’re downright rich for God’s sake. You could buy half of the men present. Not to mention the prestige that comes with the title you’re to inherit. Why bother with this lot?”

Turning to face her husband, Victoria studied his reaction. She had wondered the same thing.

“Because my wife deserves much better than to be fodder for these gossips,” he said, leaning closer to his colleague. “And I can no longer run from my choices, can I?”

“I see,” the man’s tone was grim as he looked from Tristan to Victoria then back to Tristan again. “Yes, I understand.”

They exchanged knowing glances. What was she missing? What did this man understand that Victoria did not?
   

“What do you understand, my Lord?” she asked.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. It was a pleasure, Lady MacAlistair,” he bowed his head. Tori curtsied then turned to Tristan, her eyes beseeching him for an answer. Although she suspected that he wouldn’t respond, she felt it was worth a try.

Then the portly gentleman retraced his steps, leaning in to speak with her one more time. “I’ve known Tristan for many years. He’s been good to my family and fair to me when I needed help ...”

He fidgeted with his jade cravat, his discomfort evident, as if he were assessing whether or not he should continue. “Scandal will pass,” he added at last. “I know that from experience. I also know that your husband is a good man.”

“Johnathan,” Tristan warned in a downright dangerous baritone.

Lord Johnathan Crowley again glanced at his friend, “I am simply stating what I know you should but will not.”

Tristan glared the kind man into submission.

Shrugging his shoulders in defeat, Lord Johnathan again returned his attention to Victoria. “Trust your instincts, Lady MacAlistair. They will serve you well.” With that last bit of advice, he bowed before making his way down the hallway, a slight limp evident.

Victoria’s chaotic mind raced at a frantic pace. She was just given a clue to Tristan’s past, and his current scandal. But precisely what did the cryptic statement mean?

Her mind, her conscience, had been screaming that things just didn’t add up. This child that came out of nowhere and wound up in an orphanage … honestly, how could the man she had once respected become so morally corrupt in such a short amount of time? It was possible, but not probable. None of it made sense. Lord Crowley wanted her to know the truth. But what truth was that?

She had to know.

“To what was he referring, Tristan?” she asked, now standing face to face with her husband.

Tristan nodded to a passing couple. “Johnathan spoke out of turn. Pay him no mind.”

He was lying to her. She knew it, had become experienced in his manipulations, and could now tell when he was hiding the truth.

As if sensing her suspicions, he reached for her cheek, flattening his palm against it. “You needn’t worry about it.”

“It affects me, too, Tristan,” she whispered, taken aback by his improper display of public affection.

He gave her a small grin. “Worry not, darling.
 
Everything will be all right.”

He took his wife’s hand and led her to an exhibit against the far wall. They then began to tour the rest of the hall, stopping along the way to chat and make polite conversation with Tristan’s acquaintances.
   

As soon as she was able, Victoria seized her opportunity to escape to the powder room. In truth, she couldn’t wait to break free from the prying eyes that filled the opulent hall.

She felt as if she were one of the exhibits. Surely she was? All eyes had been studying her and Tristan relentlessly since their arrival. But the disgraced couple played their roles to perfection, pretending like it mattered not what these people thought of them. By doing so, their appearance became even more scandalous.

One could argue that Tristan seemed to be over-acting. His gentle caresses of her hands and back were entirely inappropriate.

Was he trying to give the appearance that he didn’t have a mistress? Perhaps he didn’t. For the first time, Victoria allowed herself to consider the possibility. She knew of numerous husbands who kept mistresses and she had never witnessed any of them display such public affection for their wives.

Regardless, though, it mattered not, for the
ton
could say what they would about her – as long as it didn’t hurt either of her brothers, their families, or Sophie.

Now, in the solitude of the powder room, Victoria allowed herself a deep, fortifying breath as she placed her hand on her abdomen, aware that she must amass the strength to get through the rest of the evening. Victoria then exhaled, slowly repeating the pattern.

“Oh, my dears,” a muffled female voice reverberated through the door behind Victoria. “I cannot believe that they made an appearance this evening. Scandalous, I dare say.”

“Now, Harriet, be reasonable, it isn’t as if they’ve done anything improper – tonight.” Another voice, this one mousier, chimed in with a meek giggle.

Tori heard the faint click of the doorknob and did the first thing she could think of. She hid behind the screen separating the powder room from the changing room so she could spy on them.

“His illegitimate child is residing with them,” the wicked soprano said. “Of course they shouldn’t have attended this evening.”

“Honestly, you are both being cruel,” a third female, this one with a lower voice, chimed in. “They could be lovely people.”

Smart woman
, Victoria thought.
In desperate need of better company, but bright all the same.

“Please, Calliope! If that were my husband, I’d ship the brat off somewhere far away.”

“Margaret—”

“I dare say the child would have been better off dying in childbirth than to be saddled with a whore for a mother and a debauched father.”

Rage pulsated through Victoria’s veins as she primped the peacock feathers around her neck before stepping out from behind the screen, her posture poised, as if she had every right to appear out of nowhere after eavesdropping on their conversation. She glared at the women through narrowed eyes, her expression so menacing that one of them actually gasped.

“Perhaps you should inspect the room before you begin gossiping about people and subjects you remain ignorant of,” she suggested, her tone fortified with a steely edge. Victoria was confident that she was a sight to behold, regally feigning strength and dignity while confronting the gossips about her husband’s illegitimate child.

“Our apologies, Lady MacAlistair,” one said, bowing her head as if shamed. Victoria recognized her voice to be that of the woman who had admonished the other two earlier.

Crossing the room through a fog of thick silence that hung like gray skies foreshadowing an ominous storm, Victoria stepped in front of the instigator.

“Never say such a horrendous thing about that little girl.” Her tone was lethal, a combination of tigress and gunpowder. “Better yet, never again speak of my daughter.”

“D-Daughter?” the woman sputtered.

“Yes, she is mine now and I will be damned if a vapid, selfish woman such as yourself ever again speaks of her so. That little girl is named Sophie, and you will show her respect.”

The woman laughed, “For heaven’s sake, you must be stark raving mad. That child is no more yours than she is mine.”

“I pity any child of yours,” Victoria hissed, glaring at the witch. The woman showed no sign of humility, instead smoothing her forehead with her hand, seemingly engrossed by her reflection in the mirror.

“Rest assured, Sophie is my child now, under my husband’s roof and under our protection. You will not utter another word about her.”

“Or what?” the nasty woman with the pursed lips asked, turning at last to face Victoria.

It was at this precise moment that Victoria noticed the powder, lifting the jar off the vanity without hesitation and with one fell swoop, tossing the contents directly in the woman’s face. Based upon how enamored the vile creature had been by her own reflection mere moments before, Victoria suspected that marring her features would inflict the most embarrassment upon her.
 

She then stepped back, surveying her efforts, failing to suppress a grin at the sight before her – powder rendered the viper’s face, hair, and neck white, as a fine cloud lingered amidst the emotionally charged air.

One of the women coughed while the other sneezed.

“Consider that a warning,” Victoria wiped powder from her hands with a handkerchief that she removed from her reticule. “The next time you disparage my child, I shall slap that smug smirk off of your face.”

This struck a chord, for the woman stumbled backwards. She then transferred her attention from Victoria to her two companions. The other women averted their eyes, choosing instead to study the marble floor beneath their feet.

Victoria did not budge, standing tall and proud.

What the bully saw reflected in Victoria’s eyes must have been tangible, for she turned on her heel and quickly exited through the door, a sight to behold covered in white powder.

Victoria was close on her heels, her stride effortless, when Tristan caught sight of her, his eyes widening at the vision of the other woman covered in power. Without hesitation, he bridged the distance that separated him and his wife.

“That is your handiwork I presume, darling?”

“I’m not done yet,” Victoria said, her tone lethal.

He reached for her arm, “Victoria, kindly resist doing bodily harm to the town gossip, at least whilst in front of so many witnesses. I may possess a brilliant legal mind, but even I may have difficulty winning that case.”

“Do you trust me, Tristan?”

His wife’s question caught him off guard as did her tone, which brooked no argument.

“You see, we are at a stalemate. Either you trust me or you don’t,” Victoria pressed onward, her eyes ablaze with passion and determination. “So I repeat my question one last time, do you trust me?”

His expression softened, his rich baritone rough with emotion, as he answered her. “I trust you with my life.”

“Then please release me,” her gaze locked with his.

“That I will not do,” he inched his fingertips down to her hand. The gesture was unexpected. He could tell by the spark of surprise in her brilliant blue eyes.

So he further clarified his position as his fingers entwined with hers. “I have no doubt that you can take the old bat single-handedly, however you and I are in this together. It is imperative that they know it,” he added with a conspiratorial wink.

He squeezed her hand in an attempt to reassure her. It seemed to work. His wife’s expression softened and, for the first time since she heard about the child, she actually smiled.

A group had already gathered, anxious to hear the sordid details, Tristan suspected. He scanned the room, noting that similar clusters were scattered throughout the great hall, all pointing at Victoria and whispering.

Tristan was prepared to tell each and every one of them to go straight to hell, but Victoria had a different strategy. She led him to the center of the room, her head held high.

Haughty, like royalty. Poised and strong, Victoria stole his very breath.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced in a manner rich with grace and tight-knit composure. “May I have your attention, please?”

Lord Crowley approached her from behind. “Are you all right, Lady MacAlistair?” he asked, glancing around the room.

“My Lord, who is that woman?” she pointed to the one wearing the powder. A gentleman offered her his handkerchief but instead of helping to alleviate the mess, it seemed to be smudging the powder instead. The woman looked a fright.