By the time they returned to Wakefield Park that afternoon, Victoria felt much more optimistic about her new life and was hoping for the opportunity to know the villagers better.

To avoid causing any more trouble for herself, she limited the rest of her day’s activities to reading in her own room and two more forays to the compost pile, where she tried unsuccessfully to coax Willie to come closer to her for his food.

She lay down before supper and fell asleep, lulled by the notion that further dissension between herself and Jason Fielding could be avoided if she simply stayed out of his way, as she had thus far today.

She was wrong. When she awakened, Ruth was placing an armful of pastel frocks in the armoire. “Those aren’t mine, Ruth,” Victoria said sleepily, frowning in the candlelight as she climbed out of bed.

“Yes, miss, they are!” Ruth said enthusiastically. “His lordship sent to London for them.”

“Please inform him that I won’t wear them,” Victoria said with firm politeness.

Ruth’s hand flew to her throat. “Oh, no, miss, I couldn’t do that. Really I couldn’t!”

“Well, I can!” Victoria said, already heading to the other armoire in search of her own clothes.

“They’re gone,” Ruth said miserably. “I—I carried them out. His lordship’s orders—”

“I understand,” Victoria said gently, but within her she felt a temper she didn’t know she possessed come to a simmering boil.

The little maid wrung her hands, her pale eyes hopeful. “Miss, his lordship said I may have the position of your personal maid, if I’m able to do it properly.”

“I don’t need a maid, Ruth.”

The girl’s shoulders sagged. “It would be so much nicer than what I do now. . ..”

Victoria wasn’t proof against that pleading expression on her face. “Very well, then,” she sighed, trying to force a smile to her lips. “What does a ‘personal maid’ do?”

“Well, I help you dress and make certain-sure your gowns are always clean and pressed. And I fix your hair, too. May I? Fix your hair, I mean? You have such beautiful hair, and my ma always said I have a way with hair—makin‘ it look pretty, I mean.”

Victoria agreed, not because she cared for having her hair styled, but because she needed time to calm herself before she confronted Jason Fielding. An hour later, dressed in a flowing peach silk gown with wide, full sleeves that were trimmed with horizontal strips of peach satin ribbon, Victoria silently surveyed herself in the mirror. Her heavy copper hair had been twisted into burnished curls at the crown and entwined with peach satin ribbons, her high cheekbones were tinted with rich, angry color, and her brilliant sapphire eyes were sparkling with resentment and shame.

She had never seen, never imagined, a gown as glorious as the one she wore, with its low-cut, tightly fitted bodice that forced her breasts high and exposed a daring expanse of flesh. And she had never taken less pleasure in her appearance than she did now, when she was being forced to display a frivolous disregard for her dead parents.

“Oh, miss,” Ruth said, clasping her hands in satisfied delight, “you’re so beautiful, his lordship won’t believe his eyes when he sees you.”

Ruth’s prediction was true, but Victoria was too furious to derive the slightest gratification from Jason’s stunned expression when she walked into the dining room.

“Good evening, Uncle Charles,” she said; pressing her cheek to his as Jason came to his feet. Rebelliously she turned and faced him, standing in resentful silence while his gaze slid boldly over her, from the top of her shining red-gold curls to the swelling flesh exposed above her bodice and right down to the toes of the dainty satin slippers he had provided. Victoria was somewhat accustomed to the admiring glances of gentlemen, but there was nothing gentlemanly about Jason’s insolent, lazy perusal of her body. “Are you quite finished?” she asked tersely.

His unhurried gaze lifted to her eyes and a wry smile quirked his stern lips when he heard the antagonism in her voice. He reached forward and Victoria took a quick, automatic step backward, before she realized he simply intended to pull out her chair.

“Have I made another social blunder—like failing to knock?” he inquired in a low, amused voice, his lips offensively close to her cheek as she took her seat. “Is it not the custom in America for a gentleman to seat a lady?”

Victoria jerked her head away. “Are you seating me, or trying to eat my ear?”

His lips twitched. “I may do that,” he replied, “if the new cook provides us with a poor meal.” He glanced at Charles as he returned to his own seat. “I dismissed the fat Frenchman,” he explained.

Victoria felt a momentary pang of guilt for her part in the affair, but she was so angry at Jason’s peremptory disposal of her gowns that not even guilt could take the edge off her anger. Intending to have the matter out with him in private, after dinner, she directed all her conversation to Charles; but as the meal continued, she became uncomfortably aware that Jason Fielding was studying her across the brace of candles in the center of the table.

Jason lifted his wineglass to his lips, watching her. She was furious with him, he knew, for having those shabby black gowns taken away, and she was dying to loose a tirade at his head—he could see it in those flashing eyes of hers.

What a proud, spirited beauty she was, he thought impartially. She had seemed a pretty little thing before, but he hadn’t expected her to blossom into a full-fledged beauty tonight, simply by shedding those unflattering black gowns. Perhaps he hated the dismal mourning color so much that it had tainted his view of her. Either way, he had no doubt Victoria Seaton had led the boys back home a merry chase. No doubt she would dazzle the boys in England, too. Dazzle the boys and men, he corrected himself.

And therein lay his problem: despite her lush, alluring curves and that intoxicating face, he was rapidly becoming convinced she was an inexperienced innocent, exactly as Charles had claimed. An inexperienced innocent who had landed on his doorstep, and for whom he was now unwillingly responsible. The image of himself as her protector— the fierce guardian of a young maiden’s virtue—was so ludicrous that he nearly laughed aloud, yet that was the role he was going to be forced to play. Everyone who knew him would surely find it as preposterous as he did, considering his notorious reputation with women.

O’Malley poured more wine into his glass, and Jason drank it while trying to decide the most expedient way to get her safely off his hands. The more he considered it, the more convinced he became that he ought to provide her with the London season that Charles was so anxious that she have.