Page 84 of When We Touch

He didn’t reply at first. She gripped the banister, feeling a strange new sense of agony. There was a distance between them, naturally. Charles had died. She knew that she had suffered a terrible sense of guilt and betrayal. He must have known it all the worse. And yet . . .

That night . . . all magic and seduction to her . . . had just been . . . a moment of undeniable urge for him.

And now, he wasn’t just the illustrious adventurer who had so nobly and loyally served the Queen. He was Viscount Langdon. Titled, and rich. Every mother in the Ton would be pushing her young and beautiful daughter in his direction. She had been a moment’s fancy, and worse. She was the tainted woman who had married a commoner, been caught in an indecent club, married his great uncle, and possibly contributed to his early demise.

Not only that, the solicitors had said that Jamie had been well aware of Charles’s intent for his daughter. Did that mean that she was supposed to marry Jamie? Was that why he was so determined that he must not live at the house now?

“Arianna is young, and at the moment, in a great deal of pain. Somehow, you both must reconcile.”

“I’m seriously doubtful that we shall ever reconcile.”

“But you must.”

“I should leave the house, and you should stay,” she said coolly.

“Really?” he inquired. “You should take the money—and run?” he added politely.

“I am saying no such thing!” she told him angrily. “I’m not at all sure that my handling the girl will be good. How can I guide her in any direction when she can’t abide being in the same room with me?”

“You’ll have to figure it out, won’t you?” he said. “Good day, my lady.”

He started to move past her on the stairs.

And for a moment, they were close. So close that she could remember being in his arms, remember his eyes when they were gentle, and suddenly, the agony of it seemed more real than even her long cherished grief for Nathan, and the horror of the days gone by. And she knew that he had come to mean far more to her than even that night of intimacy that had seemed greater than the world itself. She had liked him, what she knew about him, the way that he saw the world, the way that he had seemed, beneath it all, to understand certain things about her.

And yet he did not, and what she remembered was an illusion, nothing more. For though it seemed that he hesitated for a minute, that he might even look at her and smile with a touch of gentle longing and understanding, he did not.

He stiffened and continued down the stairs, calling back, “If you need me, send Darby to me. I’ll be at my town house, or within the city at least, for a few months to come.”

She didn’t wait for him to exit. She suddenly felt that she had to reach the top of the stairs before she burst into wretched tears.

She had sworn that she would cry no more.

For the moment, it seemed imperative that she get out of the house herself. She didn’t look back as Jamie left the house, but hurried to her room to collect her cape and reticule.

* * *

It seemed amazing to Jamie that so fragile and ordinary a woman should be the queen of such a vast empire.

And yet, Victoria, for all her simplicity in dress and manner in her own home, looked at him with eyes that were intelligent and wise, even for all her years. Her hair was gray and smoothed sternly back. She was in black, as she was always. Albert was gone so many years now, and still, Queen Victoria lived for her memories of a better time. Her memories of love.

He had been surprised that she had summoned him, yet glad to come. She met with him in the little sitting room beyond her bedchamber, and with no ceremony or preamble. The tea service set before them was elegant, but the Queen herself was quite down to earth.

“I apologize for summoning you when the loss of your dear uncle is so recent,” she told him, waving a hand that indicated he must take a seat.

“Your Majesty, you know that you may summon me at any time, and I am grateful for the love that you gave my uncle. Indeed, his loss is a great one,” Jamie said.

“To me, as well.”

“Thank you.”

“The country has never needed the likes of him more!” Victoria said. Her hand shook slightly with indignation as she moved to pour.

“Your Majesty, the insurrectionists are opposed by many loyal Englishmen and women—of all classes—who admire you tremendously, and are totally loyal to the Crown,” Jamie assured her.

Her eyes flashed. “Ah, but surely you are aware that there are those who would happily destroy all that has been forged throughout the years. We are not just a country, Lord James! We are an empire, and all the glory has been gained by those men who have gone out and fought for our glory. So many of whom gave their lives . . . and yet, yet here, we struggle!”

Since she had taken the throne of England, Victoria had faced her detractors. There had been attacks on her very life. They were living in a new world, and they both new it. The prime minister and the parliament were the true law of the country, and many believed that indeed, the monarchy itself was an anachronism. But it was equally true that, despite the lives of many of the royal household, Victoria herself was loved and esteemed; she was a great figurehead, a grandmother, a woman who, despite her years of mourning and the many times she had shut herself away, remained beloved.