“Grandmama,” she whispered brokenly, and found herself wrapped tightly in her great-grandmother’s arms.

The duchess drew back slightly, her smile gruff and self-conscious; then she bent an imperious look on Jason. “Wakefield, I’ve decided not to die until I’ve held my great-great-grandson in my arms. Since I cannot live forever, I shall not countenance any delays on your part.”

“I will give the matter prompt attention, your grace,” Jason said, straight-faced, but with laughter lurking in his jade eyes.

“I shall not countenance any shilly-shallying about on your part either, my dear,” she warned her blushing great-granddaughter. Patting Victoria’s hand, she added rather wistfully, “I’ve decided to retire to the country. Claremont is only an hour’s ride from Wakefield, so perhaps you will visit me from time to time.” So saying, she beckoned to her solicitor, who was standing at the church doors, and said grandly, “Give me your arm, Weatherford. I’ve seen what I wished to see and said what I wished to say.” With a final, triumphant look at a dazed Charles, she turned and walked away, her shoulders straight, her cane barely brushing the ground.

Many of the wedding guests were still milling about, waiting for their carriages, when Jason guided Victoria through the throngs and into his own luxurious vehicle. Victoria automatically smiled as people waved and watched them leave, but her mind was so battered by the emotion-charged day that she did not become aware of her surroundings again until they were approaching the village near Wakefield. With a guilty start, she realized she hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to Jason in over two hours.

24S Beneath her lashes she stole a swift glance at the handsome man who was now her husband. His face was turned away from her, his profile a hard, chiseled mask, devoid of all compassion or understanding. He was angry with her for trying to leave him at the altar, she knew—angry and unforgiving. Fear of his possible revenge jarred through her nervous system, adding more tension to her already overburdened emotions. She wondered frantically if she had created a breach between them that might never heal. “Jason,” she said, timidly using his given name, “ I’m sorry about what happened in the church.”

He shrugged, his face emotionless.

His silence only increased Victoria’s anxiety as the coach rounded a bend and descended into the picturesque little village near Wakefield. She was about to apologize again when church bells suddenly began tolling, and she saw villagers and peasants lining the road ahead, dressed in their holiday best.

They smiled and waved as the coach passed by, and little children, holding bouquets of wild flowers clutched tightly in their fists, ran forward, offering their posies to Victoria through the open coach window.

One little boy of about four caught his toe on a thick root at the side of the road and landed in a sprawled heap atop his bouquet. “Jason,” Victoria implored, forgetting about the uneasiness between them, “tell the driver to stop—please!”

Jason complied, and Victoria opened the door. “What lovely flowers!” she exclaimed to the little boy, who was picking himself up from the road beside their coach while some older boys jeered and shouted at him. “Are those for me?” she asked enthusiastically, nodding to the bedraggled flowers.

The little boy sniffed, rubbing the tears from his eyes with a grimy little fist. “Yes, mum—they was for you afore I failed on ‘em.”

“May I have them?” Victoria prodded, smiling. “They would look lovely right here in my own bouquet.”

The little boy shyly held out the decapitated stems to her. “I picked ‘em myself,” he whispered proudly, his eyes wide as Victoria carefully inserted two stems into her own lavish bouquet. “My name’s Billy,” he said, looking at Victoria with his left eye, his right eye skewing up toward the corner near his nose. “I live at the orphanage up there.”

Victoria smiled and said gently, “My name is Victoria. But my very closest friends call me Tory. Would you like to call me Tory?”

His little chest swelled with pride, but he shot a cautious look at Jason and waited for the lord’s nod before he nodded his head in an exuberant yes.

“Would you like to come to Wakefield someday soon and help me fly a kite?” she continued, while Jason watched her in thoughtful surprise.

His smile faded. “I don’t run so good. I fall down a lot,” he admitted with painful intensity.

Victoria nodded understanding. “Probably because of your eye. But I may know a way to make it straight. I once knew another little boy with an eye like yours. One day when we were all playing Settlers and Indians, he fell and hurt his good eye, and my father had to put a patch on it until it healed. Well, while the good eye was covered up, the bad eye began to straighten out—my father thought it was because the bad eye had to work while the good eye was covered up. Would you like me to visit you, and we’ll try the patch?”

“I’ll look queer, mum,” he said hesitantly.

“We thought Jimmy—the other little boy—looked exactly like a pirate,” Victoria said, “and pretty soon we were all trying to wear patches on one eye. Would you like me to visit you and we’ll play pirate?”

He nodded and turned to smile smugly at the older children. “What did the lady say?” they demanded as Jason signaled the driver to continue.

Billy shoved his hands into his pockets, puffed out his chest, and proudly declared, “She said I can call her Tory.”

The children joined in with the adults, who formed a procession and followed the coach up the hill in what Victoria assumed must be some sort of festive village custom when the lord of the manor married. By the time the horses trotted through the massive iron gates of Wakefield Park, a small army of villagers was following them and more people were awaiting them along the tree-lined avenue that ran through the park. Victoria glanced uncertainly at Jason, and she could have sworn he was hiding a smile.

The reason for his smile became obvious as soon as their coach neared the great house. She had told Jason that she had always planned to be married in a little village with all the villagers there to help celebrate the occasion, and in a strangely quixotic gesture, the enigmatic man she had just married was trying to fulfill at least part of her dream. He had transformed the lawns of Wakefield into a fairy-tale bower of flowers. Enormous canopies of white orchids, lilies, and roses stretched above huge tables laden with silver plate, china, and food. The pavilion at the far end of the lawns was covered in flowers and strung with gaily colored lamps. Torches burned brightly everywhere she looked, driving off the encroaching dusk and adding a festive, mysterious glow to the scene.