arly the following afternoon, Dr. Worthing was able to report that Uncle Charles was “still holding his own.” The next day, he came downstairs to the dining room where Jason and Victoria were having dinner and informed them that Charles “appeared to be much improved.”

Victoria could scarcely contain her joy, but Jason merely quirked a brow at the physician and invited him to join them for dinner.

“Er—thank you,” Dr. Worthing said, shooting a sharp look at Jason’s inscrutable features. “I believe I can leave my patient unattended for a short time.”

“I’m certain you can,” Jason replied blandly.

“Do you think he’ll recover, Dr. Worthing?” Victoria burst out, wondering how Jason could appear so utterly unemotional.

Carefully avoiding Jason’s assessing stare, Dr. Worthing directed his uneasy gaze at Victoria and cleared his throat. “It’s difficult to say. You see, he says he wants to live to see you two married. He’s most determined to do so. You might say that he’s clinging to that as a reason to live.”

Victoria bit her lip and glanced uneasily at Jason before asking the doctor, “What will happen if he starts to recover and we—we tell him we’ve changed our minds?”

Jason answered her in a bland drawl. “In that case, he’ll undoubtedly have a relapse.” Turning to the physician, he said coolly, “Won’t he?”

Dr. Worthing’s gaze skittered away from Jason’s steely eyes. “I’m sure you know him better than I, Jason. What do you think he’ll do?”

Jason shrugged. “I think he’ll have a relapse.”

Victoria felt as if life were deliberately tormenting her, taking away her home and the people she loved, forcing her to come to a strange foreign land, and now propelling her into a loveless marriage with a man who didn’t want her.

Long after both men left, she remained at the table, listlessly toying with the food on her plate, trying to find a way out of this dilemma for Jason’s sake and her own. Her dreams of a happy home, with a loving husband at her side and a baby gurgling in her arms, came back to mock her, and she allowed herself a bout of self-pity. After all, she hadn’t asked very much of life; she hadn’t yearned for furs and jewels, for seasons in London or palatial homes where she could play reigning queen. She had wanted no more than what she’d had in America—except that she had wanted a husband and children to go with it.

A wave of dizzying homesickness washed over her and she bent her head. How she longed to set time back a year and keep it there, to have her parents’ smiling faces before her, to listen to her father speak of the hospital he wanted to build, and to be surrounded by the villagers who had been her second family. She would do anything, anything to go back home again. An image of Andrew’s handsome, laughing face appeared to taunt her, and Victoria thrust it away, refusing to shed any more tears for the faithless man she had adored.

She pushed her chair back and went looking for Jason. Andrew had abandoned her to her own fate, but Jason was here and he was obliged to help her think of some way out of a marriage neither of them wanted.

She found him alone in his study—a solitary, brooding man standing with his arm draped on the mantel, staring into the empty fireplace. Compassion swelled in her heart as she realized that, although he had pretended to be cold and unemotional in front of Dr. Worthing, Jason had come in here to worry in lonely privacy.

Suppressing the urge to go to him and offer sympathy, which she knew he would only reject, she said quietly, “Jason?”

He lifted his head and looked at her, his face impassive.

“What are we going to do?”

“About what?”

“About this outrageous idea Uncle Charles has of seeing us married.”

“Why is it outrageous?”

Victoria was amazed by his answer, but determined to discuss the matter, calmly and frankly. “It’s outrageous because I don’t want to marry you.”

His eyes hardened. “I’m well aware of that, Victoria.”

“You don’t want to be married either,” she answered reasonably, lifting her hands in a gesture of appeal.

“You’re right.” Shifting his gaze back to the fireplace, he lapsed into silence. Victoria waited for him to say something more; when he didn’t, she sighed and started to leave. His next words made her turn back and stare. “However, our marriage could give each of us something we do want.”

“What is that?” she asked, peering at his ruggedly chiseled profile, trying to fathom his mood. He straightened and turned, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes meeting hers. “You want to go back to America, to be independent, to live among your friends and perhaps build the hospital your father dreamed of building. You’ve told me all that. If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll admit you’d also like to go back there to show Andrew, and everyone else, that his desertion meant nothing to you—that you forgot about him as easily as he forgot about you, and you went on with your life.”

Victoria was so humiliated by his reference to her plight that it took a moment before his next words registered on her. “And,” he finished matter-of-factly, “I want a son.”

Her mouth fell open as he continued calmly, “We could give each other what we both want. Marry me and give me a son. In return, I’ll send you back to America with enough money to live like a queen and build a dozen hospitals.”

Victoria stared at him in stricken disbelief. “Give you a son?” she echoed. “Give you a son, and then you’ll send me back to America? Give you a son and leave him here?”

“I’m not completely selfish—you could keep him with you until he is... say, four years old. A child needs his mother until he is that age. After that, I would expect to have him with me. Perhaps you will choose to stay here with us when you bring him back. Actually, I’d prefer that you stay here permanently, but I will leave that up to you. There is one thing, however—a condition to all this—that I would insist upon.”

“What condition?” Victoria asked dazedly.

He hesitated as if framing his answer with care, and when he finally spoke, he looked away, studying the landscape above the fireplace as if he wished to avoid meeting her eyes. “Because of the way you leapt to my defense the other night, people have assumed you do not despise or fear me. If you agree to this marriage, I will expect you to reinforce that opinion and not do or say anything to make them think differently. In other words, no matter what may transpire between us in private, when we are in public I would expect you to behave as if you married me for more than my money and title. Or to put it simply—as if you care for me.”

For no reason at all, Victoria recalled his caustic remarks at the Mortrams’ ball: “You’re mistaken if you think I give a damn what people think....” He had been lying, she realized with a pang of tenderness. He obviously cared what they thought or he wouldn’t ask her to do this.

She gazed at the cool, dispassionate man standing before her. He looked powerful, aloof, and completely self-assured. It was impossible to believe he wanted a son, or her, or anyone—as impossible as it was to believe that it bothered him that people feared and mistrusted him. Impossible, but true. She remembered how boyish he had seemed the night of his duel, when he had teased her and coaxed her to kiss him. She remembered the hungry yearning in his kiss and the lonely desperation of his words: “I’ve tried a hundred times to let you go. But I can’t.”

Perhaps beneath his cool, unemotional facade, Jason felt as lonely and empty as she did. Perhaps he needed her, and couldn’t make himself say so. Then again, perhaps she was only trying to fool herself into believing it. “Jason,” she said, voicing part of her thoughts aloud. “You can’t expect me to have a child and then hand him over to you and go my own way. You can’t be as cold and heartless as your proposition makes you sound. I—I can’t believe you are.”

“You won’t find me a cruel husband, if that’s what you mean.”

“That is not what I mean,” Victoria burst out a little hysterically. “How can you speak of marrying me as if you’re discussing a—a common business arrangement— without any feeling, without any emotion, without even a pretense of love or—”

“Surely you have no illusions left about love,” he scoffed with stinging impatience. “Your experience with Bainbridge should have taught you that love is only an emotion used to manipulate fools. I neither expect nor want your love, Victoria.”

Victoria grasped the back of the chair beside her, reeling under his words. She opened her mouth to refuse his offer, but he shook his head to forestall her. “Don’t answer me before you consider what I’ve said. If you marry me, you’ll have the freedom to do whatever you like with your life. You could build one hospital in America and another near Wakefield, and stay in England. I have six estates and a thousand tenants and servants. My servants alone could provide you with enough sick people to fill up your hospital. If not, I’ll pay them to get sick.” A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, but Victoria was too heartsore to see any humor in the situation.

When he saw that his quip had won no response, he added lightly, “You can cover the walls of Wakefield with your sketches, and if you run out of room, I’ll add on to the house.” Victoria was still trying to absorb the startling information that he knew she sketched when he reached out and ran his fingertips across her taut cheek and said matter-of-factly, “You’ll find me a very generous husband, I promise you.”

The finality of the word “husband” sent a chill skidding through Victoria’s body and she clasped her arms, rubbing them in a futile effort to warm herself. “Why?” she whispered. “Why me? If you want sons, there are dozens of females in London who are nauseatingly eager to marry you.”

“Because I’m attracted to you—surely you know that,” he said. “Besides,” he added, his eyes teasing as his hands went to her shoulders and he tried to draw her near, “you like me. You told me so when you thought I was asleep— remember?”

Victoria gaped at him, unable to absorb the amazing revelation that he was actually attracted to her. “I liked Andrew, too,” she retorted with angry impertinence. “I have poor judgment in the matter of men.”

“True,” he agreed, amusement dancing in his eyes.

She felt herself being drawn relentlessly closer to his chest. “I think you’ve taken leave of your senses!” she said in a strangled voice. “I think you’re quite mad!”

“I have and I am,” he agreed as he angled his arm across her back, holding her close.

“I won’t do it. I can’t—”

“Victoria,” he said softly, “you have no choice.” His voice turned husky and persuasive as her breasts finally came into contact with his shirt. “I can give you everything a woman wants—”

“Everything but love,” Victoria choked.

“Everything a woman really wants,” he amended, and before Victoria could fathom that cynical remark, his firmly chiseled lips began a slow, deliberate descent toward hers. “I’ll give you jewels and furs,” he promised. “You’ll have more money than you’ve ever dreamed of.” His free hand cupped the back of her head, crumpling the silk of her hair as he tilted her face up for his kiss. “In return, all you have to give me is this....”

Oddly, Victoria’s one thought was that he was selling himself too cheaply, asking too little of her. He was handsome and wealthy and desired—surely he had a right to expect more from his wife than this.... And then her mind went blank as his sensual mouth seized possession of hers in an endless, stirring kiss that slowly built to one of demanding insistence and left her trembling with hot sensations. He touched his tongue to her lips, sliding it between them, coaxing them, then forcing them to part, and when they did his tongue plunged between them, sending shock waves of dizzying emotions jolting through her. Victoria moaned and his arms tightened protectively around her, pulling her against his hard length while his tongue began a slow, wildly erotic seduction and his hands shifted possessively over her sides and shoulders and back.

By the time he finally lifted his head, Victoria felt dazed and hot and inexplicably afraid.

“Look at me,” he whispered, putting his hand beneath her chin and tipping it up. “You’re trembling,” he said as her wide blue eyes lifted to his. “Are you afraid of me?”

Regardless of all the raw emotions quivering through her, Victoria shook her head. She wasn’t afraid of him; she was suddenly, inexplicably afraid for herself. “No,” she said.

A smile hovered about his lips. “You are, but you’ve no reason to be.” He laid his hand against her heated face, slowly running it back to smooth her heavy hair. “I will hurt you only once, and then only because it’s unavoidable.”

“What—why?”

His jaw tensed. “Perhaps it won’t hurt after all. Is that it?”

“Is what it?” Victoria cried a little hysterically. “I wish you wouldn’t speak in riddles when I’m already so confused I can scarcely think.”

With one of his quicksilver changes of mood, he dismissed the matter with a cool shrug. “It doesn’t matter,” he said curtly. “I don’t care what you did with Bainbridge. That was before.”

“Before?” Victoria repeated in rising tones of frustrated incomprehension. “Before what?”

“Before me,” he said in a clipped tone. “However, I think you ought to know in advance that I won’t tolerate being cuckolded. Is that clear?”

Victoria’s mouth dropped open. “Cuckolded! You’re mad. Utterly mad.”

His lips quirked in a near-smile. “We’ve already agreed on that.”

“If you continue speaking in insulting innuendos,” she warned, “I’m going upstairs to the sanctuary of my room.”

Jason looked down into her stormy blue eyes and repressed the sudden urge to gather her into his arms and again devour her mouth with his. “Very well, we’ll talk about something mundane. What is Mrs. Craddock preparing?”

Victoria felt as if the world, and everyone in it, was revolving in one direction, while she was constantly turning in the opposite direction, dizzy and lost. “Mrs. Craddock?” she uttered blankly.

“The cook. See, I have learned her name. I also know that O’Malley is your favorite footman.” He grinned. “Now, what is Mrs. Craddock preparing for supper?”

“Goose,” Victoria said, trying to recover her balance. “Is—is that acceptable?”

“Perfectly. Are we dining at home?”

“I am,” she replied, deliberately noncommittal.

“In that case, naturally, so am I.”

He was playing the role of husband already, she realized dazedly. “I’ll inform Mrs. Craddock then,” she said, and turned away in a trance of confusion. Jason said he was attracted to her. He wanted to marry her. Impossible. If Uncle Charles died, she would haveto marry him. If she married him now, perhaps Uncle Charles would find the will to live. And children—Jason wanted children. She wanted them too, very much. She wantedsomething to love. Perhaps they could be happy together; there were times when Jason could be charming and engaging, times when his smile made her feel like smiling. He had said he wouldn’t hurt her.... She was halfway across the room when Jason’s calm voice stopped her.

“Victoria—”

Automatically, Victoria turned toward him.

“I think you’ve already made your decision about our marriage. If it is yes, we ought to see Charles after supper and tell him we’re setting the date for our wedding. He’ll like that, and the sooner we tell him, the better.”

Jason was insisting on knowing if she intended to marry him, Victoria realized. She stared across the room at the handsome, forceful, dynamic man—and the moment seemed to freeze in time. Why did she think he was tense as he waited for her answer? Why did he have to ask her to marry him as if it was a business proposition?

“I—” Victoria began helplessly, while Andrew’s sweet, formal proposal suddenly tolled through her mind. “Say you will marry me, Victoria. I love you. I’ll always love you....”

Her chin came up in angry rebellion. At least Jason Fielding didn’t mouth words of love he didn’t feel. Neither, however, had he proposed to her with any show of sentimental affection, so she accepted his proposal in the same unemotional way it had been offered. She looked at Jason and nodded stiffly. “We’ll tell him after supper.”

Victoria could have sworn the tension seemed to leave Jason’s face and body.

Technically, it was the evening of her engagement, and Victoria decided to use the occasion to try to set a better pattern for their future. The morning of the duel, Jason had said he enjoyed her laughter. If, as she suspected, he was as lonely and empty inside as she herself often felt, then perhaps they could brighten each other’s lives. Barefoot, she stood in front of the open wardrobe, surveying her loveliest gowns, trying to decide what to wear for this mock-festive occasion. She finally decided on an aqua chiffon gown with an overskirt dusted with shimmering gold spangles and a necklace of gold-encrusted aquamarines Jason had given her as a gift the night of her come-out. Ruth brushed her hair until it shone, then parted it at the center and let it fall in gleaming waves that framed Victoria’s face and spilled over her shoulders and back. When Victoria was satisfied with her appearance, she left her room and went down to the drawing room. Jason had evidently followed the same impulse, for his tall frame was formally clad in an immaculately tailored claret velvet coat and trousers with a white brocade waistcoat and ruby studs winking in his shirtfront.

He was pouring champagne into a glass when he looked up and saw her, and his bold eyes moved over her with unhidden masculine appreciation. Pride of ownership was evident in his possessive gaze and Victoria’s stomach jumped nervously when she saw it. He had never looked at her like this before—as if she were a tasty morsel he was planning to devour at his leisure.

“You have the most disconcerting ability to look like an enchanting child one moment, and an incredibly alluring woman, the next,” he said.

“Thank you,” Victoria said uncertainly, “I think.”

“It was intended as a compliment,” he assured her, smiling slightly. “I’m not usually so clumsy with compliments that you can’t identify them. I’ll be more careful in future.”

Touched by this small indication that he intended to try to change to please her, Victoria watched as he deftly poured the sparkling liquid into two glasses. He handed her one and she started to turn toward the settee, but he put a restraining hand on her bare arm and drew her back. With his other hand he opened the lid of a large velvet jeweler’s box lying beside his glass and withdrew a triple strand of the largest, most magnificent pearls Victoria had ever seen. Wordlessly he turned her toward the mirror above the side table and pushed her long hair aside. His fingers sent tiny tremors down her spine as he removed the aquamarines and laid the wide, heavy pearl choker around her slim neck.

In the mirror, Victoria watched his expressionless features as he fastened the diamond clasp at the back of her neck, then lifted his eyes to hers, studying the pearl choker at her throat. “Thank you,” she began awkwardly, turning around, “j__”

“I’d rather be thanked with a kiss,” Jason instructed patiently.

Victoria leaned up on her toes and obediently but self-consciously pressed a kiss on his smooth, freshly shaven cheek. Something about the way he gave her pearls and coolly expected a kiss in return bothered her very much—it was as if he was purchasing her favors, beginning with a kiss in exchange for a necklace. That notion was rather frighteningly confirmed when he said about her kiss: “That isn’t much of a kiss for so beautiful a necklace,” and took her lips with sudden, demanding insistence.

When he let her go, he smiled quizzically into her apprehensive blue eyes. “Don’t you like pearls, Victoria?”

“Oh, I do—truly!” Victoria said nervously, angry with herself for her inability to control her foolish, fanciful fears. “I’ve never seen such beautiful ones as these. Even Lady Wilhelm’s weren’t so huge. These are fit for a queen.”

“They belonged to a Russian princess a century ago,” he said, and Victoria was oddly touched that he apparently thought her worthy of such a priceless necklace.

After supper, they went upstairs to see Charles. His delight when they quietly told him of their decision to go ahead with the wedding plans took years off his face, and when Jason fondly put his arm around Victoria’s shoulders, the bedridden invalid actually laughed with joy. He looked so happy, so confident that they were doing the right thing, that Victoria almost believed they were, too.

“When’s the wedding to be?” Charles asked suddenly.

“In one week,” Jason said, earning a surprised glance from Victoria.

“Excellent, excellent!” Charles averred, beaming at them. “I intend to be well enough by then to attend myself.”

Victoria started to protest, but Jason’s fingers tightened on her arm, warning her not to argue.

“And what have you there, my dear?” Charles asked, beaming at the necklace at her throat.

Her hand went automatically to the object of his gaze. “Jason gave me these tonight, to seal our barg—betrothal,” she explained.

When the interview with Charles was finished, Victoria pleaded exhaustion and Jason walked her to the door of her bedroom suite. “Something is bothering you,” he said calmly. “What is it?”

“Among other things, I feel wretched about being married before my mourning period for my parents is past. I’ve felt guilty every time I’ve gone to a ball. I’ve had to be evasive about when my parents died so people wouldn’t realize what a disrespectful daughter I am.”

“You’ve done what you had to do, and your parents would understand that. By marrying me immediately, you’re giving Charles a reason to live. You saw how much better he looked when we told him we’ve set the date for the wedding. Besides, the original decision to cut short your mourning period was mine, not yours, and so you had no choice in the matter. If you must blame someone, blame me.”

Logically, Victoria knew he was right, and she changed the subject. “Tell me,” she said, her smile lightly accusing, “now that I’ve just discovered we decided to be married in one week, could you tell me where we decided to be married?”

“Touche,” he grinned. “Very well; we’ve decided to be married here.”

Victoria shook her head emphatically. “Please, Jason, can’t we be married in church—in the little village church I saw near Wakefield? We could wait a little longer until Uncle Charles can make the trip.” Astonished, she watched a look of cold revulsion flash through his eyes at the mention of a church, but after a moment’s hesitation, he acquiesced with a curt nod. “If a church wedding is what you want, we’ll have it here in London at a church large enough to accommodate all the guests.”

“Please, no—” Victoria burst out, unconsciously laying her hand on his sleeve. “I’m very far from America, my lord. The church near Wakefield would be better—it reminds me of home, and ever since I was a little girl, I’ve dreamed of being married in a little village church—” She’d dreamed of being married in a little village church to Andrew, Victoria realized belatedly, and wished she’d never thought of the church at all.

“I want our marriage to take place in London, before the ton,” Jason said with absolute finality. “However, we’ll compromise,” he offered. “We’ll be married in church here, and then we’ll go to Wakefield for a small celebration.”

Victoria’s hand slid from his sleeve. “Forget I mentioned a church at all. Invite everyone here to the house. It would be little short of blasphemy to enter a church and seal what is nothing more than a cold business arrangement.” With a lame attempt at humor, she added, “While we were vowing to love and honor one another, I’d be waiting for lightning to strike.”

“We’ll be married in a church,” Jason said curtly, cutting short her diatribe. “And if lightning strikes, I’ll bear the expense for a new roof.”