The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (2 page)

Absently watching a young woman miss a step
in the dance and turn red as a strawberry, she sighed again. First
she compared him to an old, faded frock then to a dog. Truly, she
was dwelling on his shortcomings in a most unbecoming fashion.
How improper for the “Flower of Blackmore,”
she thought.

She straightened her spine and watched Sir
Barnabus give a shallow bow to his partner—shallow because his
girth did not allow much more. Unquestionably, Stickley was a prime
catch, and her reasons for agreeing to become his wife were still
as valid today as they had been a month ago. One: He was young,
fit, and handsome. Two: He was a marquess in his own right and heir
to a relatively new but certainly respectable dukedom. Three … oh,
what was the third reason, again? She occasionally lost track after
point number two.

She glanced to her right, expecting to find
him there, still rambling on about visiting various country estates
during hunting season. Her eyes widened when she found him absent.
Now, where had he disappeared to?

“Lady Victoria, I daresay I haven’t yet
mentioned how lovely that color is on you! What shade is that,
might I ask?” The sunny, familiar voice came from Victoria’s left.
“I must tell my modiste to acquire fabric in that precise shade of
blue. Why, it quite matches your eyes.”

The bubbly matron who had chaperoned Victoria
this evening was round in nearly every aspect: her face, her
figure, even her nose was a rounded pug. Shorter than Victoria by
several inches—though Victoria was only of average height—Meredith
Huxley, the Countess of Berne, resembled a plump, brown wren. But
her generous smile and cheerful humor made her one of Victoria’s
favorite people.

A childhood friend of Victoria’s mother, the
countess had become a surrogate mama after the Duke and Duchess of
Blackmore died three years earlier. As soon as Victoria emerged
from mourning, Lady Berne eagerly took up the mantle of
sponsorship, escorting her to a dizzying number of functions,
offering faultless direction through the London swirl. Thrilled by
her success as a sponsor, Lady Berne had now turned her full
attention toward finding husbands for the two oldest of her five
daughters.

“You are too kind, my lady,” Victoria replied
warmly, clasping the woman’s outstretched hands and squeezing them
affectionately. “I believe the shade is called aquamarine. My new
modiste, Mrs. Bowman, is most fond of it, and I quite agree.”

“Mrs. Bowman, you say? Perhaps I shall pay
her a visit. Now, where is that handsome gentleman you are soon to
marry, hmm?”

Before Victoria had a chance to be
embarrassed by the fact that she did not rightly know where her
fiancé was, Annabelle Huxley, the countess’s oldest daughter,
approached. The perky brunette was accompanied by two spindly,
identical blond girls, both wearing a shade of pink far too pale to
flatter their sallow complexions. The Aldridge twins. Oh, dear.
Stickley might be a less-than-stimulating companion, but she
suddenly longed for his return. This husband-hunting pair was
focused, relentless, and manipulative—and their quarry was related
to her by blood.

All three girls offered pleasant greetings to
Victoria, and without further ado, the twins launched their
assault. Miss Lucinda Aldridge—the one who always wore ear
bobs—struck first. “Lady Victoria, I did not notice the duke in
attendance this evening.”

“I am afraid he was unable to attend.”

The girl’s barely-there eyebrows rose in
feigned surprise. “Oh? What a pity.”

Her sister, Margaret, picked up the
conversational spear and sallied onward. “I do hope he’s not
feeling poorly.” The statement was phrased more as a question. One
she was expected to answer.

Resigned to what had become a familiar
interrogation, Victoria replied, “No, his grace is in excellent
health. With Parliament in session, his time is much in
demand.”

Lucinda pressed a gloved hand to her chest
and professed, “Only two days ago, we saw Blackmore riding in the
park, did we not, Margaret?”

An exaggerated nod of agreement was followed
by “He is a most commanding rider.”

“
Most
commanding.”

“Difficult to imagine anything could bring
him low.”

“Of course, when he marries, his wife could
care for him properly, should anything untoward occur.”

“Every man should have a wife to care for
him.”

“Indeed. Especially one so handsome and
distinguished.”

“Deserves someone exemplary, I daresay. Why,
I would even go so far as to suggest
you
might make a fine
candidate, dearest Lucinda.”

The girl’s ear bobs flashed in the
candlelight as she turned wide eyes to her sister. “Me? I was going
to say the same about you.”

Honestly,
Victoria thought, inwardly
rolling her eyes.
I have known four-year-olds with more
subtlety.
A year ago, when she made her debut, it had taken
weeks to realize why dozens of young misses swarmed around her.
Landing the Duke of Blackmore would be a coup of enormous
proportions. Eventually, she had noticed the threads of all her
conversations led back to her brother. What was his favorite color?
Did he prefer light or dark hair? What time of day did he prefer to
ride?

At first, it had been hurtful to realize her
“friends” were more interested in her brother than in her
companionship. But once she accepted the truth, it became simply
another fact of her life in London, albeit a tedious one. This
conversation was a perfect example: The Aldridge twins wanted
nothing from her other than a recommendation to her brother that he
marry one of them.
Which
one apparently did not matter.

“To my knowledge, he is not seeking a wife at
present,” Victoria answered. “Though, you are correct in saying he
deserves someone of exemplary character. Someone
genuine.
”
The small poke was as much as she would allow herself.

“Ooohhh, I was just saying the other day how
genuine
you are, was I not, Margaret? Utterly without
guile.”

“Indeed, dearest. You humbled me with such a
description.”

Exhausted by the display, Victoria allowed
her mind to drift away from the twins and their ludicrous exchange.
All around her, the crowd grew louder, a general buzz of interest
moving over them in a wave. Glancing left, she noted Lady Annabelle
returning after a brief absence. The girl placed a hand at her
mother’s elbow and whispered something close to her ear.

Lady Berne’s eyebrows rose to an alarming
height. “Really? He is
here
?” Her head swiveled toward the
entrance, and Victoria’s gaze automatically followed theirs. It
seemed whoever “he” was, his presence set off ripples of wide-eyed
stares and murmurs hidden behind gloved hands. Two of the dancers
stopped to take in the new arrival, resulting in a moment of chaos
on the dance floor.

Since the arched entrance was a few steps
higher than the ballroom, anyone entering could be seen easily from
everywhere in the room. Everywhere, that was, except where Victoria
was standing. A stooped-shouldered gentleman, who was thin as a
post and nearly as tall, blocked her view. Curious about who could
possibly cause such a sensation, worried that perhaps Harrison had
decided to attend after all, she moved to her right just a bit. And
saw him.

Time slowed. Voices faded into shadow. Her
breath stalled. He was … beautiful. Black hair that was truly ink
dark, with no hint of brown. Low brows over piercing eyes—she
couldn’t tell what color from this distance. A straight, refined
nose, square chiseled jaw, and perfectly proportioned chin with
just the barest hint of a cleft. Oh, but his mouth. It was surely
the most sensuous creation ever devised. A full lower lip, the
upper thinner and finely drawn, and the whole wearing a faint
sardonic smile that tilted one corner upward ever so slightly. Her
fingers itched to draw him. She had never felt such a compulsion.
He looked like an angel, only darker, more brooding.

Someone nudged her arm. It was Stickley,
returning to her side with a cup of lemonade. “Who is that
gentleman, Victoria?” he asked, handing her the glass.

She shook her head and murmured that she did
not know.

The countess turned to her with a surprised
expression, but upon noticing Lord Stickley, began chatting about
the unusually cold weather London was seeing. The crowd shifted and
again obscured her view. She wanted to stand on her toes, crane her
neck, catch another glimpse. Instead, she willed herself to remain
where she was beside Stickley. It would not do to ogle a
stranger.

A pair of elderly gentlemen joined their
circle, and Lady Berne was pulled away by Annabelle and the
Aldridge twins. Nearly ten minutes passed in which the men debated
the merits of abundant rainfall, the trials of falling crop
production in the north, and the need for more wool in London this
year. And that was
before
Stickley started in on Lord
Gattingford’s hunting hounds.

Gracious, she hadn’t imagined her boredom
could get worse. In desperation, she allowed her thoughts to
wander, and like a bee tempted by a showy bloom, her mind veered
back to the mysterious gentleman. His face. His tall, broad form.
Who was he? She had never seen him before. But, then, he was rather
extraordinarily handsome. If he was unattached, she could imagine
him wishing to avoid the voracious flock of husband huntresses and
matchmaking mamas that would descend upon him at every opportunity.
It was why Harrison resisted escorting her to events such as this.
The day she had agreed to marry Stickley, her brother had stopped
doing so altogether.

Her eyes surreptitiously sought the place
where the man had been, but he was gone. Of course, she chided
herself, he would not stand there posing for her, waiting for her
to fetch her sketchbook. Obviously, he would be circulating now
among the guests. She was surprised by her fascination. She adored
painting and drawing, but the consuming need to see him, to explore
his features and form in detail, went beyond all good sense.

A middle-aged woman jostled Victoria’s arm,
reminding her of the glass in her hand. She sighed and sipped her
lemonade, cringing at the tart, watery flavor. Lady Gattingford’s
ballroom was a masterpiece of pale marble, her musicians as fine as
any to be heard this season, but her lemonade left much to be
desired. Amid the heat of such a crush, a tolerable beverage would
not have gone amiss.
Why did I agree to attend this
evening?

Beside her, Stickley laughed, his white teeth
gleaming in the candlelight.
Oh, yes. I am to become the new
Marchioness of Stickley. Such appearances are required, of
course.

At the thought, she shifted subtly from one
foot to the other, unaccountably restless. She’d had ample practice
maintaining a serene mask for these types of ton fêtes, so she was
confident no one knew of her rising urgency to escape. But she felt
it. Oh, yes. Beneath her skin, flushed and itching. Inside her
stomach, tightening with the need to get away.

Air.
Her eyes scanned the room
longingly, landing on the glass-paned doors at the rear of the
ballroom. She desperately,
desperately
needed air.

Now deep in conversation with an elderly
baron who boasted about the astounding number of pheasants waiting
to be plucked at his hunting lodge, Stickley scarcely seemed to
notice when Victoria quietly excused herself.

“Of course, my dear,” he said, patting her
hand absently and turning immediately back to the baron and his
“obscenely plump” game birds. Sidling through the crowd as quickly
as decorum would allow, she soon reached the doors and slipped
outside into darkness.

It was shockingly frigid after the heat of
the ballroom, and she had forgotten a wrap. But here at least she
could feel something other than suffocating tedium, even if it was
shivers caused by unseasonably cold weather. She sighed and hugged
her arms to her chest, ambling toward the balustrade, seeing her
breath plume out before her in the faint light cast through the
glass.

She wondered, staring up at the half-moon
glowing softly in a dark sky, if perhaps this was as exciting as
her life would ever be. Engaged. Enjoying a season in London.
Looking forward to a wedding and then to marriage and then to
children and then to seasons for those children and then to
grandchildren and then to old age. Her stomach cramped at the
future that stretched out before her.

Not the family part. That was something she
had desired ever since a vicious storm had swallowed her parents’
ship, leaving Harrison and Colin and Victoria with only each other.
But, in truth, her heart ached at the thought of endless days and
nights with a husband who would never mean more to her than a
comfortable home, a title, and the knowledge that she had done what
was expected of her.

No fantasizing about some dark phantom who
appeared suddenly amidst a ball. No wondering what it might be
like, just once, to be kissed by such a man. Someone who made her
breathless. Someone who made her want … more.

She shook her head emphatically. Such was not
for her. She was the Flower of Blackmore, after all. Her future had
been written well before she’d come to London. Before she’d been
born, really. Whatever she might have dreamed for her life was
quite—oh, what was the word? Irrelevant. Yes, that was it.

A puff of air whooshed past the lump in her
throat in a humorless laugh at the absurdity of her despair. She
was being a ninny, that was all.

So Lord Stickley—
Timothy
, blast it—was
not the dark and dashing hero of art and poetry. So he had never
declared his love for her in a fit of passion, nor even spoken of
her with the same fervent affection as he did his horse. The fact
that he bored her to the point of unconsciousness actually boded
well, she assured herself. He was sensible—a good man and a solid
choice for marriage. That was all that mattered, surely.