The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (16 page)

“I am afraid so,” Lady Berne replied. “It is
much worse than I anticipated. Victoria’s marriage to Atherbourne
has helped a bit, but Lord Stickley continues to accuse her of
wanton faithlessness. He refuses to deny that she may have been
carrying on an affair during their engagement. No, the scandal is
still burning bright, I fear.”

Damn Atherbourne to hell.
Harrison had
half a mind to make his sister a widow just as soon as he could
locate a new dueling pistol. He had sold his pair shortly after
shooting the previous Lord Atherbourne. “I will take care of
Stickley,” Harrison said, his tone flat.

Lord Berne sat forward. “With all respect,
Harrison, I think in this case, you may be better off staying clear
of the fray.” Every instinct rose up with the need to shout his
refusal at the older man, but before he could take a breath, Berne
continued, “I know you want to protect Victoria. That is only
right. But solving this particular malady requires a
specialist.”

“Specialist?” he asked, still unsure about
this vague plan they kept referring to.

Lady Berne nodded emphatically. “In matters
of gossip and rumor, her authority is unmatched. Victoria will be
in excellent hands.”

Harrison met Lord Berne’s sympathetic eyes,
wishing like hell he did not have to place his sister’s welfare in
the care of these well-meaning but somewhat exasperating people.
However, Lord Berne was correct in saying Harrison was not the best
person to combat the scandal. Because of his feud with Atherbourne,
his direct involvement would serve only to inspire the viscount’s
resistance. As much as he despised the man—now his
brother-in-law—Harrison knew they could not possibly succeed
without Atherbourne’s cooperation. It was the only reason he had
agreed to Victoria’s marriage, the only reason he hadn’t bloody
well killed the blackguard outright.

Besides, the women of the ton were the ones
driving this scandal. In their jealousy, they were eager to tear
Victoria apart. The best person to reverse the damage was probably
a female, one who knew how to navigate the gossip circles, one who
might even have sufficient power to change perceptions. As he
generally tried to remain far removed from such circles, he hadn’t
a clue who such a figure might be.

His consternation must have shown in his
expression, because Lady Berne smiled reassuringly and said, “Not
to worry, your grace. If anyone is capable of dousing this fire, it
is Lady Wallingham.”

Good God,
he thought.
Wallingham?
It was like using a hammer to catch a butterfly.
That woman was both a termagant and a tyrant. She was powerful,
yes, but also blunt, tactless, and at times outrageous. Such a
solution was fraught with risk, which was unacceptable.

“Lady Berne,” Harrison said, his voice
deliberately patient. “I am most appreciative of your efforts on my
sister’s behalf. However, I fear involving Lady Wallingham will do
more harm than good. I must ask that you allow me to handle the
matter.”

Lord Berne began to speak, probably to offer
reassurances, but the countess suddenly stood, appearing agitated.
It forced Harrison to his feet, where he remained, stiff and wary,
as she came around the low table to stand directly in front of him.
At not even five feet tall, Lady Berne was well over a foot shorter
than he, and it was most marked when she stood next to him. He was
reminded of a scene from one of his favorite boyhood stories,
Gulliver’s Travels.
As she gazed up at his face, the
awkwardness of the moment grew, causing him to want to fidget like
the boy who had devoured that book in one day.

She reached out slowly and took his hands in
her own. Startled at the gesture, he could only stand, speechless,
as she squeezed his gloved fingers. Other than the occasional
impulsive hug from Victoria or clap on the shoulder from Dunston,
no one touched him without his permission. Ever. And while his
parents had been close with the earl and countess, he was not,
though he valued the connection to such a well-respected
family.

“Ah, my lady,” he began gently, wondering how
to extricate himself without giving offense.

She did not waver, her large brown eyes
filled with some indefinable emotion. He would almost describe the
look as maternal, but that was ridiculous. He was the Duke of
Blackmore, not some poor weakling in need of mothering.

“Dear boy,” she said softly, almost sighing
the words. “You are so like your father.”

It was hardly the first time he had heard the
sentiment. Such comparisons were inevitable—and only partially
accurate. Harrison was considered by many to be cold through and
through, as his father had been. But he had never managed more than
a fair imitation of it.

“Allow me to pose a question,” she continued,
seemingly unfazed by his rigid posture. “Do you wish Victoria to be
happy?”

He frowned, wondering if the woman was bloody
daft. “Of course.”

She smiled, squeezed his fingers one last
time, then stepped back as though satisfied with his answer. “Good.
Then you will permit me and Lady Wallingham to proceed.”

Opening his mouth to refute her claim, he was
halted when she pressed on, her voice harder, more emphatic.
“Otherwise, your grace, there is very little chance of her
recovering her standing within society. The scandal may eventually
fade in its significance, but frankly, without Lady Wallingham, it
will never completely disappear.”

Reluctantly, he mulled her statement over in
his mind. It was a risky plan. The old woman was unpredictable.
Furthermore, she lived by her own set of rules, which did not
include reverence for anyone else’s authority. However, perhaps
because
of her formidable nature, when she chose, Lady
Wallingham could wield an astounding degree of influence. Although
it pained him to place his sister’s welfare in the hands of someone
so volatile, he had to admit Lady Berne was likely correct—it was
the best option available if they wanted to reverse the damage,
rather than simply weather the storm.

Bloody hell. He felt like a bull that had
been neatly herded into a stall. It was becoming an
all-too-familiar sensation. “Very well,” he said after a long
silence. “You may solicit Lady Wallingham’s assistance.”

Lady Berne gave him a delighted grin and
clapped her hands excitedly. “Splendid!”

“However,” he said repressively, “You will
alert me should any problems arise. Immediately and without
hesitation. If Lady Wallingham becomes more of a hindrance than a
help, I shall take action, and she will not enjoy the consequences.
Feel free to advise her so.”

Lady Berne waved her hand as though
unconcerned. “You worry needlessly. When she puts her mind to a
task, Lady Wallingham is positively a force of nature.”

That,
he thought grimly,
is
precisely why I should worry.

*~*~*

Chapter Thirteen

“
Have a care, my dear. Others may dabble. I wage
war.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Duchess of
Rutland upon her grace’s stated desire to host a competing weekly
luncheon.

“Do you think she will agree to help us?”
Victoria asked nervously a week later.

Seated beside her in the carriage, Lucien
replied, “Probably. Lady Wallingham may be a dragon, but her
influence allows her many eccentricities. I imagine she will help,
if only to amuse herself for the remainder of the season.”

Victoria nodded and bit her lip. She prayed
he was right. Soliciting Lady Wallingham’s assistance in resolving
the surprisingly severe scandal had been a stroke of genius on the
part of Lady Berne, who was friends with the “dragon,” as Lucien
accurately described her. Lady Wallingham was a rarely seen yet
inexplicably powerful figure within the ton. She arrived in London
each season approximately a month later than most other women of
her age and station, preferring the country for its “blessed
absence of cacophony and suffocating stench.”

When she finally came to town, it was with a
great deal of fanfare. Society matrons clamored for invitations to
the dowager marchioness’s weekly luncheons, in which only the
finest gossip was shared, discussed, and given final declarative
judgment by Lady Wallingham herself.

Her commentary was often tart, occasionally
cutting, and always incisive. By the mere lift of an eyebrow, she
could set a presumptuous matron in her place or revoke a
debutante’s good standing. Certainly, if anyone had the influence
necessary to recast a virulent scandal into a romantic triumph, it
was Lady Wallingham. The only question in Victoria’s mind was,
would soliciting a dragon’s help gain them a powerful ally or the
fire of the lady’s scorn?

As they arrived at the Earl of Berne’s white
stone townhouse, Victoria’s stomach tightened in dread. She
unconsciously reached for Lucien’s hand where it rested on the seat
between them, her gloved fingers brushing lightly over his before
she realized what she was doing and jerked her hand back.

But he noticed. How could he not? It was the
first time she had touched him in even the most casual way in seven
days. After ordering her to avoid all contact with Harrison, then
threatening to throw her to the proverbial wolves if she did not,
Lucien had dared to act as though nothing had changed. But to her,
everything had changed. He was using her to punish her brother.
Again. It was plain to see, now that the initial fog of lust had
dispersed.
Then why can you not simply accept the truth and
cease this infernal wanting?

In her weaker moments, before she could stop
herself, she would lean toward him for a kiss or reach out to
caress his jaw. Fortunately, thus far, she had been able to regain
her senses before he noticed her lapses. Until now. Seeking
reassurance, her hand had moved of its own accord to brush his, and
this time, she would not escape so easily. His hand chased after
hers and found it in her lap. The small contact sent alarming
tingles up her arm.

“Victoria,” he whispered.

She looked down at where their hands
entwined, his so much larger than hers. Her whole body was suffused
with the grinding ache of need. Perhaps more than her body. One
would have thought his callousness toward her would have made her
immune to the dangerous desire that filled her at his nearness. At
the very least, she had supposed withdrawing from him—refusing to
allow him to encroach upon her half of the bed at night, speaking
to him only when necessary, ensuring they were seldom alone
together—would dim the attraction between them.

But no. Quite the opposite, actually. She
craved
him.

Most compulsively.

Shaking her head, she gathered her strength
and pulled her hand from his. It made her feel tight, empty. “In
the presence of others, you may play the part of the devoted
husband, but in private, we both know I do not desire your
attentions, my lord.” Her voice sounded positively frosty.

Lucien was in no mood to heed the warning.
His hand—the same one that had cradled hers moments earlier—rose to
clasp the nape of her neck and turn her head from where it focused
out the window to face him and his descending mouth.

She squeaked in surprise at the hard kiss,
his sleek tongue invading and demanding her compliance. She pushed
at him weakly, but if she was honest, it was little more than a
token gesture. The rapturous pleasure that filled her whenever he
kissed her was simply too much to resist. He grasped her hands and
repositioned them around his neck, then snaked his arm about her
waist, pulling her snugly against him. She moaned into his mouth,
her breasts swelling against her stays, her gloved fingers digging
into his nape.

A dark growl came from deep within his chest,
the rumble sending a sharp thrill through her entire body. It felt
like it had been years, not days, since he had last touched her.
She was a desert and he a wild rainstorm. It wasn’t until she felt
his hand bunching her skirt at her knee that sanity began to worm
its annoying way back into her consciousness.

Just as she was preparing to break away from
the kiss—for surely that was what she intended at the earliest
opportunity—the carriage door opened and they both froze. The
footman cleared his throat, staring straight ahead. Blushing
furiously, Victoria jerked away from her husband, who looked
disheveled and hungry, his breathing fast. Swallowing hard against
a suddenly dry mouth, she cleared her throat and scooted to exit
the carriage, with Lucien following her after an oddly long
interval. The cool evening air eased the heat in her cheeks as they
both paused to gather themselves. Seconds later, Lucien offered his
arm to escort her inside, their kiss left behind in the confines of
the carriage.
As it should be,
she thought, sending a prayer
of thanks heavenward for the footman’s execrable—er,
excellent
—timing.

Victoria had visited the Berne townhouse on
several occasions, and it always struck her as a place of warmth,
comfort, and familiarity. Much of the house was clad in
medium-toned, golden oak, from the floors to the staircase to the
paneled walls in the entrance hall, parlor, and library. More than
that, it was a house redolent with the laughter, affection, and
bustling energy of family. She had long wondered whether having
sisters would have given Clyde-Lacey House and Blackmore Hall more
of the same feeling. Harrison was not known for an effusive nature,
after all.

She stole a glance at Lucien as they climbed
the stairs to the drawing room.
Blast.
He was even more
handsome to her now than he had been before their marriage, his
dark blue tailcoat perfectly tailored and fitted tightly over wide,
muscular shoulders. She sighed, feeling the embers of her earlier
arousal glow hot low in her belly.