The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (20 page)

Later, the incident would seem almost
predictable. Hugo entered behind Connell, the chestnut Thoroughbred
a gigantic presence coming alongside Victoria. Suddenly, the horse
whinnied, sidestepped, bumped hard into Victoria’s shoulder,
knocking her off balance. She yelped, jerked, and shrank into a
tight curl against the wall.

“Connell!” Lucien barked, running toward the
melee. “Get him under control.”

“Aye, m’lord.” The groom tugged at the
harness, making a tick-tick-tick sound as he tried to calm the
massive hunter. Eventually, he managed to persuade the prancing
Hugo to place all fours on the ground and walk steadily to his
stall.

“Victoria?” Lucien asked quietly, stroking
her shoulders, her back, her hair. She clutched her sketchbook to
her chest, her arms wrapped about herself. She was trembling and
would not look at him. But he was thankful she allowed him to draw
her close. “Are you well?”

She nodded. But he didn’t believe it. He
enfolded her in his arms, holding her tightly and feeling her
shudder roll through him as though it were his own. “It’s so
silly,” she said in a tiny voice. “Most horses do not frighten me
at all. He startled me.”

“Shh, love. Everything is fine. You are
safe.” At first, as her shaking subsided, he thought to release
her. But then she leaned into him as though she still needed his
strength to hold her up.

“I should not have gone riding that day,” she
whispered, laying her ear against his chest. “Papa warned me never
to ride his hunters. But I was bored. I had only ridden ponies and
the oldest, slowest gelding in Blackmore’s stable. Balthazar was
magnificent, a great, shining black beast. I knew that together, we
could fly.” She nuzzled her face further into his chest, the memory
clearly painful.

“And did you, angel?” His voice came out
oddly strangled.

She nodded. “It was wonderful. I had never
dreamed of going that fast. Then, he was no longer beneath me. Just
like that. Later, I discovered he had stepped in a hole and his leg
simply … cracked. That is why he disappeared. I kept going and
landed badly. We both broke our legs, can you imagine?” Her laugh
sounded dry and forced, trailing off into a long silence. “Papa had
to shoot Balthazar. He was quite furious. I was fortunate he did
not consider the same remedy for me.”

Lucien simply held her and stroked her back,
wondering about a father who showed more concern for his horse than
his daughter.

She sighed and stirred, slowly stiffening and
drawing away as she recovered from her fright. “You must think me
the veriest ninnyhammer—”

“I do not.” Sliding his palms around to her
back to prevent her escape, he held her in place. Where she
belonged. “You were just a girl.”

“Papa said that seven was old enough to know
better. And he was right. I should have known.”

He shook his head in disbelief. Seven. Truly,
he was beginning to see where Harrison Lacey’s stone-hearted nature
stemmed from.

“Ahem. M’lord, ’ugo’s been returned to ’is
stall,” Connell said from behind him. “If I may, sir, I would like
to ’umbly apologize to ’er ladyship.”

He turned to glare at the red-faced groom.
“Then do so.”

Connell nodded and removed his cap before
facing Victoria. “M’lady, I beg yer forgiveness. I did not see ye
there as we came in—”

“Nonsense,” she replied, her chin tilting up
at a proud angle.

“N-nonsense, m’lady?”

“You shall not apologize, as it was not your
fault in the slightest.”

Connell blinked, his hands wringing his cap
into a tight roll. “It weren’t?”

Lucien stared at his wife, who looked every
inch the viscountess, albeit a rumpled one. “It wasn’t?” he asked
dubiously.

“Certainly not. The horse jostled me
unexpectedly, and I was startled. It is not your fault or the
horse’s, but mine.” She gave them both a brave smile. “No harm
done.”

Simultaneously, Lucien and Connell protested,
but she held up a hand for silence. “I’ll hear no more about it.”
One arm clutching her sketchbook, she turned pertly on her heel and
walked away from him, her hips swaying in a way he was beginning to
suspect was designed to torture him.

Bloody hell,
he thought, his groin
clenching and hardening into an all-too-familiar ache.
If this
is an illness, then there is only one cure: I must seduce my
wife.
He watched her sweet, rounded backside taunting him from
across the courtyard. For his sanity’s sake, he must have her
again. And soon.

*~*~*

Chapter Fifteen

“
I can no more abide a rambling servant than I
can a squeaking carriage wheel. Both are intolerable and must be
either silenced or replaced. I prefer ‘replaced.’”
—The Dowager
Marchioness of Wallingham to her newest new lady’s maid, the sixth
in as many months.

The following morning, the invitation to Lady
Wallingham’s luncheon arrived. Nervousness quivered in Victoria’s
belly, echoing up through her fingers and causing the paper she
held to tremble. She had never attended one of the dragon’s
luncheons, had only heard about them from Lady Berne. This would be
her gauntlet, a test of her courage. By all accounts, the luncheons
were both subtle and brutal, a gaggle of pinch-faced matrons
passing judgment on everything from one’s choice of slippers to
one’s choice of husband. It made the presentation at Almack’s seem
like a warm embrace by comparison.
But it is necessary, and so I
shall do what must be done.
She took a bracing breath.

Lucien entered her sitting room as though he
owned it, which she supposed he did. Still, he had been acting
increasingly presumptuous of late, ignoring her formal demeanor,
deliberately brushing against her at every opportunity, saying
provocative things she only half-understood. It was most
disconcerting. He behaved for all the world as though they’d simply
had a minor tiff, and it was only a matter of time before she came
to her senses and let him back into her bed.

“Another invitation, my darling? It seems our
efforts are beginning to bear fruit.”

“Mmm. Lady Wallingham would like me to join
her for luncheon on Thursday. And please stop calling me your
darling. You know very well I do not like it.”

Ignoring her demand, he sauntered casually to
her chair and studied the note over her shoulder. “So, is this the
luncheon in which other women attempt to throw daggers at you, and
you attempt to evade them?”

“I believe so.”

Lucien paused, his eyes glittering, then
narrowing. “You should not put yourself through this,
Victoria.”

She stood and busied her hands with
straightening the papers on her desk. “It will be fine. Besides,
this is only the first step. After the luncheon, we should begin
receiving more invitations, which will allow us to reestablish
ourselves within society.”

Suddenly, she felt the heat and strength of
his body surround her from behind, his arms circling her waist. His
chin settled gently atop her head. “I shall go with you.”

Frozen in place, she soaked in his nearness
like a rose deprived of sunlight for too long. Why could he not
keep his distance? He seemed determined to break down her will to
resist, not with kisses and seduction, but with warmth, wit, and
husbandly concern. The first she might be able to defend against,
but nothing weakened her like Lucien’s strength and care.

Straightening away from his body, she braced
herself against the onslaught. “You were not invited, my lord. It
is a luncheon for ladies only.”

“Then I will wear a dress.”

She couldn’t help it. The unexpected
rejoinder caused her to snort with laughter.

Seizing the opening, his voice rose to a
falsetto. “My dears, where
do
you find your bonnets? I
daresay mine are sadly last season.”

Consumed by helpless giggles at the image of
Lucien Wyatt in a woman’s gown, taking tea and simpering over
fashion with the ton’s most notorious gossips, Victoria had tears
rolling down her cheeks before she managed to regain her composure.
By that time, Lucien’s hands were sliding over her hips, drawing
her back into his embrace, where his arms banded across the front
of her shoulders and waist, and he rocked them slowly side to side.
It was like dancing.

She wiped her cheeks, sighed, and shook her
head. In these kinds of moments, more than anything, she mourned
what she had lost. A husband who might love her. A family of her
own.

A fantasy, you mean. And how can you lose
something you never really had?

The thought was sobering. “Release me,” she
said quietly.

He stilled their swaying motion, but kept his
arms locked across her front. “Must we be enemies, Victoria?” he
whispered, his lips unnervingly close to her ear.

“We are what you have made us.”

“I am not the one who denies us the pleasure
of the marriage bed. I am not the one who pulls away when offered
comfort or affection.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, honesty forcing her
answer. “No.”

She felt his sigh at her back. “He killed my
brother, Victoria. Is it not natural that I would want nothing to
do with him?”

“Lucien—”

“You are angry. Understandably. But
you
are not my enemy, love.” His voice was low, persuasive.
Her heart ached for him, for what he had been through. Dear God,
how was she supposed to resist this man? “Can we not find a way to
at least be friends?” She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she
felt his lips brush her temple. “We live in the same house, after
all.”

Perhaps if he had pushed for more than
friendship, had demanded to reclaim his rights as her husband, she
could have continued to deny him. But she needed someone. She had
never felt lonelier in her life, cut off from her brothers,
isolated from most of polite society. At least Lucien offered the
comforts of companionship. And he was right: Like it or not, they
were married, and that would not change. Maintaining the wall of
hostility between them had already proven exhausting. Perhaps if
they could establish a kind of truce, it would ease her desire for
him, make lying next to him every night more bearable.

“Very well.”

Wrapped around her as he was, she could feel
tension harden every muscle in his body. “You agree?”

Her hands settled on his thick forearms. “I
agree that we needn’t be enemies.” Sliding her fingers to grip his
wrists, she gently pried them apart, stepped out of his embrace,
and turned to face him. “Are you …” She bit her lip and continued.
“Are you sincere in offering friendship, my lord?”

His expression unreadable, Lucien moved
closer but did not touch her. “I am.”

“And this is not a ruse to …?”

His half-grin finished the thought for her,
even before he replied, “A ruse, no. But if you expect me to stop
wanting you, to give up hope of being inside you again, I fear you
ask the impossible.” The bald statement and the flash of lust in
his dark eyes sent gooseflesh over her skin. Her tongue darted out
to moisten her lips. His gaze followed, his nostrils flaring on a
deep breath.

“I do not wish to fight with you, Lucien.”
Her voice, while thready, was strengthened by raw honesty. “Perhaps
we might put our differences aside—”

His full-scale grin spoke of triumph.

“—for the sake of peace between us. However,
I have not changed my mind about … certain … intimacies.” She
cleared her throat as his grin receded, although it did not
disappear entirely. “So long as you understand this, I see no
reason we shouldn’t behave … cordially toward one another.”

His grin returned, this time with a devilish
glint that made her slightly uneasy. He bowed formally and winked.
“It is my honor to begin a new,
cordial
path with you, Lady
Atherbourne.” He offered his hand. She stared at it for a long
moment before giving him her own. “May our friendship prove most
gratifying for us both.”

*~*~*

The heavy cleaver landed with a loud thunk,
embedding itself into the dense wood of the butcher block. Cook
wiped her hands on her apron and scowled at Mrs. Garner. “I’ve half
a mind to take a wooden spoon to his backside, I do.”

Mrs. Garner shook her head in disgust. “She
don’t deserve none of this, tha’ much is certain. Never known a
sweeter soul. Whatever her brother might’a done.”

“Hmmph.”

“A real shame, it is.”

Agnes entered with a basket of onions. She
was a haughty one, with her pretty face and buxom figure. But Mrs.
Garner knew working the kitchen would humble her in no time, the
lazybones. “What’s a shame?” the girl asked, setting the basket on
the floor.

“Just never you mind,” Cook barked in her
gravelly voice. “Fetch me a bundle of mint from the garden, and be
quick about it.”

Agnes huffed resentfully, but did as she was
told. Cook cast a glare at the girl’s flouncing exit, then turned
back to Mrs. Garner. “Regular Jezebel, that one. You sure you want
to keep her about?”

Mrs. Garner scoffed. “She couldn’t tempt his
lordship
before
he married. Think ye she could do it
now?”

Cook laughed roughly. “Not likely. Only one
woman’s got that boy’s breeches on a string, and that’s his wife.”
She lifted the lamb shank from the board and skewered it on the
spit. “Never thought I’d see it, either. After the sad business
with Master Gregory and all.”

Shuddering, Mrs. Garner felt a chill run over
her flesh. “She chose the blue room fer her paintin’. I tell ye
now, I’ll not go in there. Gives me the shivers jes’ thinkin’ about
it.”

Connell entered, arguing quietly with his
wife, Georgina. “It’s wha’ ’is lordship wants, Georgie. Think ye I
should thank Lord Atherbourne for making me ’is coachman by
disobeying ’im?” He dumped an armful of split wood next to the
fireplace.