The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (28 page)

Lucien’s earlier anger, tight and coarse and
dark, returned in a rush. He moved closer to Chatham, using his
larger, heavier frame to intimidate. While similar in height, the
man’s body was lean to the point of frailty after years of
dissolution. He was near enough that the fumes of whatever he’d
been drinking wafted to Lucien’s nose. Whisky, perhaps.

“Mention any part of my wife again, and I
will put you out of your misery.”

At the gritted threat, Chatham’s expression
went blank, his bloodshot eyes flat and cold. “Many have tried,
Atherbourne. I should warn you, I am strangely hard to kill.
Besides, I have no interest in your wife or her parts. I do,
however, find it fascinating that both seem to be the object of
your fervent …
regard,
shall we say.”

Lucien eyed Viscount Chatham narrowly. With
his unfathomable intelligence and charisma, he could have been the
darling of the ton. Instead, the younger lord was consumed by old
hatreds, self-destructive habits, and a profound lack of shame. In
large measure, Lucien was more saddened than offended at so much
wasted potential.

But the fact that Chatham took any sort of
interest in Victoria, enough to discuss her with Lucien in a
provocative fashion, gave him pause. Then there was the man’s
friendship with Colin Lacey. How much of Lacey’s drunken
carelessness was due to Chatham’s influence? At one time, the
viscount had been Lucien’s friend, too, and remnants of that old
bond still remained. But he did not want Benedict Chatham anywhere
near Victoria or her brother, not in his present state.

Lucien sighed deeply and ran a hand over his
mouth, then crossed his arms. Eyeing Chatham, he spoke in a low
voice. “There are better options than the ones you’ve chosen, old
friend.”

Surprise, then resentment, then coldness
flashed swiftly over the other man’s face. “Oh? Perhaps I could run
off to the glories of war. Ravaging the French in exchange for
medals sounds like a jolly good time. Unfortunately, being my
father’s only living heir does have its downside. Wait! I know. I
could ruin my enemy’s sister, then trap her into marriage to punish
him in perpetuity.” His face fell mockingly. “But, then, I have no
particular enemy. And I would not wish to be accused of rank
imitation.”

Lucien’s head snapped back.
How does he
know? It’s bloody well impossible.
But even as he thought it,
he knew better. Chatham was not simply clever, he was dangerous.
Capable of ferreting out secrets from the unlikeliest of sources,
he should have been working in the clandestine services. Instead,
he used his talents to manipulate and stir trouble.

“Have a care,” Lucien warned silkily. “One
who swings his sword incautiously is most likely to cut only
himself.”

Chatham opened his mouth to respond, then
slid his gaze past Lucien’s shoulder. He raised a brow and grinned
slowly. Lucien turned to see what had captured the viscount’s
attention. Victoria, white and shaken, made a beeline to where they
stood near the room’s entrance.

He kept his expression carefully blank as he
watched her approach, wondering what she and Jane had been
discussing that had disturbed her so. He offered her his arm. She
did not take it.

Instead, her lips firm and flat, she aimed a
frown at Chatham, seeming to notice him for the first time. He
sketched an elegant bow, his turquoise eyes glittering. “Lady
Atherbourne. We have not yet been introduced.”

Much to Lucien’s dismay, Victoria responded
by extending one gloved hand, which Chatham quickly grasped in his
own. There was nothing inappropriate in the exchange, nothing he
should object to. But his gut tightened and his jaw flexed as a
now-familiar dark resistance rose inside him. Lucien did not want a
man like this touching his wife, not even through two layers of
gloves.

Deciding the quickest way to end the contact
and find out what was bothering Victoria—for surely
something
had badly rattled her—was to finish the
introduction and get her alone, he said, “Benedict Chatham,
Viscount Chatham. My wife, Lady Atherbourne.”

Chatham bowed again over her hand and smiled
appreciatively. Instantly, it transformed the man from a wastrel
into a dashing gentleman wreathed in magnetic charm.
Uncanny,
really. And disturbing to watch.
“What a pleasure to meet the
woman who has stolen Lucien’s heart, my lady. I can certainly see
what has him so … enchanted.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. The snake may have
slithered out of one skin and into another, but he was still a
snake.

Victoria returned his smile, appearing
dazzled by the blackguard. “A pleasure to meet you, as well, my
lord. Are you a friend of my husband’s?”

Lucien’s emphatic “No” was drowned out by
Chatham’s reply. “We were at Eton together. I am afraid after
school, our paths diverged.” He glanced at Lucien, his eyes
mocking. “We have only recently become reacquainted.”

Intent on ending the exchange with all
possible speed, Lucien kept his eyes on Chatham’s face as he
addressed Victoria. “Lord Chatham was just about to search out his
mother when you arrived, my dear. Most fortuitous for us.” He
wrapped his arm around Victoria’s waist and pulled her into his
body. She stiffened but did not resist. “Chatham, perhaps you will
give Lady Rutherford our thanks for the invitation. Unfortunately,
we must depart early, as Lady Atherbourne is suffering a headache.”
He sensed the surprised swivel of Victoria’s head.

Bowing again to Victoria, Chatham answered
dryly, “Of course. I do hope you are feeling better soon, my lady.”
He gave Lucien a knowing grin. “Atherbourne.”

An hour later, Lucien and Victoria arrived at
Wyatt House in tense silence. After several attempts to persuade
his wife to tell him what had disturbed her, Lucien was ready to
thrash someone. Preferably Chatham or Malby.

Once inside the entrance hall, Victoria
draped her long wrap over her arm and immediately climbed the
stairs, saying not a word to him. Sighing, Lucien pinched the
bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. It seemed the
headache that had been his excuse for leaving was now real and
throbbing behind his eyes.

In the carriage ride home, he had demanded to
know what was wrong, but her answer had been a persistent and
infuriating, “Nothing is wrong. I am simply tired.” Which was
rubbish. After their dance together, Victoria had been aglow with
transparent joy. Jane Huxley had told his wife
something,
and it had upset her deeply.

His fists curled.
What could it have been,
damn it all?

He glanced up the staircase. Only one person
knew the answer, and she was freezing him out. He hated it. He much
preferred her anger. For several minutes, he debated following her
up to their chamber and insisting she confess what Jane had
shared.

Skull pounding and frustration eating at his
insides, he headed instead for the library, where he poured himself
a brandy and sank into the chair near the fireplace, propping his
feet on the hearth. By the time he poured his second glass, much of
his earlier anger had uncoiled, and his headache had loosened its
grip.

Marriage was proving much more complicated
than he had anticipated. No, he thought. Marriage to
Victoria
was more complicated. His feelings for her were
…

He took a large gulp of brandy, feeling it
warm his throat.

… unexpected.

“Are you going to sit there drinking yourself
into a stupor, then?”

Lucien shot to his feet so quickly, the world
wavered and spun for several seconds before righting itself. When
it did, he was greeted by the sight of his wife standing inside the
door, wearing only a thin, white night rail, her long curls swept
over one shoulder. She looked like an angel, the firelight
flickering and caressing her curves.

Then, he met her gaze.
An avenging angel,
perhaps,
he revised. She was angry, her body held stiffly, eyes
hard and accusing.

Bloody hell.

“It would take far more than this,” he
gestured with his glass, “to achieve a stupor.”

Her eyes narrowed and she took two steps
closer. “I will not have a drunkard for a husband.”

“Victoria—”

“Neither will I tolerate being played for a
fool.”

He froze. She now stood no more than three
feet from him, her chin tilted pugnaciously, her body fairly
bristling with outrage. It was worrisome. And inconveniently
arousing.

Setting his glass on the small table next to
the chair, he took a cautious step toward her. Instantly, her hand
flew up to stop him, hovering inches from his chest. Her eyes
blazed up at him. He seemed to have a rare talent for making her
angry, but even he had never seen her this furious.

He shook his head. “You are not making
sense.”

“Who is Mrs. Knightley?”

He blinked rapidly, disoriented by her
question. “Mrs.—?”

“
Knightley,
” she spat.

Frowning, he frantically searched his mind
for what to tell her. None of the responses seemed the slightest
bit appropriate for his wife’s ears.

Impatient with his hesitation, Victoria
continued, “Shall I tell you,
husband?
Seeing that you
appear at a loss for words at the moment. Mrs. Knightley is your
mistress. And has been for the past four months.”

Reeling in disbelief, his breath flew from
his body. His lungs heaved three times before recovering enough to
speak. “Who told you such a thing?”

“Why should that matter?”

His jaw cracked. “Oh, it matters.”

Her chin rose and a militant gleam shone in
her eyes. His wife might be nine parts angel and one part Valkyrie,
but that one part had a will of fire-forged steel. “All you need to
know,” she gritted out, “is that your plan to further humiliate me
by flaunting this glorified trollop before all of society is doomed
to failure.” She poked him in the chest to emphasize her words. “I
will not.”
Poke.
“Be shamed.”
Poke.
“By you.”
Poke.

“Victoria—”

“
Ever
again, do you understand?”

“Victoria.”

“You have no idea how miserable I can make
you. I will not hesitate to do so if I should hear even a whisper
of that whore’s name—”

He grabbed her wrist and bellowed,
“Victoria!”

She yanked at her arm. “Do
not
touch
me.”

“Mrs. Knightley is not my mistress.”

With a disbelieving snort, Victoria used her
free hand to shove at his chest.

“I am telling you the truth.”

Flustered from her useless struggling, she
stilled, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears, her throat working on
a hard swallow. His heart twisted at the sight. She shook her head,
then tilted it sarcastically. “I suppose Lady Rutherford invented a
fanciful tale to tell Lady Colchester. For what purpose would she
lie?”

Lady Rutherford, eh?
It seemed Chatham
had found a way to cause mischief after all. Spreading false rumors
through his mother was the least the man was capable of. Lucien
would have to find a way to deal with him. But for now, all that
mattered was repairing the damage with Victoria. Seeing her
distraught was unbearable.

“I don’t know. She enjoys stirring
controversy, so perhaps that is it. Regardless, you must believe me
when I say I have no mistress. I have not looked at another woman
since the night I met you, much less taken one to my bed.”

She scoffed and pushed at him. “You must
think me an idiot—”

He clutched her by the shoulders, shaking her
gently. “I swear on my brother’s grave, Victoria.”

Silenced by his declaration, her mouth fell
open and her eyes widened, swimming with a sudden welling of fresh
tears. “You—” she whispered.

His own voice was ragged. “I swear you are
the only woman I have touched since that night. Good God, angel, I
am consumed with wanting you. There is nothing left for anyone
else.”

She searched his face, a tear trailing its
way down to her delicate jaw. He rubbed it with his thumb, stroked
her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
So soft,
he
thought. His wife was as soft as a rosebud. And just as easily
bruised.

“Lucien, I …” She shook her head and
swallowed.

He drew her into his arms, wrapping her
tightly against him. Her head settled against his chest, right over
his heart. As it should be.

“Perhaps I should not have believed them so
willingly. It’s just that I …”

With a finger beneath her chin, he tilted her
head up so he could see her eyes. “What, love?”

“We have not … well, you know … for many
days.”

He grunted his agreement. “Feels like an
eternity.”

Her gaze dropped to his chin, then his chest,
hiding from him. “I do not like the idea of you having a mistress,
Lucien.”

His mouth quirked. “So I gathered.” In truth,
her fury gladdened his heart. Perhaps she would come around sooner
than he had hoped. He ran a hand down the silken fall of curls
draped over her shoulder, sliding down over her breast. As his palm
stroked across her beaded nipple, he heard her breath catch and
quicken. Gently clasping her wrist, he drew her hand to the front
of his breeches, letting her feel the hardness he was helpless to
prevent. “You have nothing to fear in that regard,” he rasped, the
familiar weakness invading his muscles at her touch. All muscles
except one, it would seem. “I crave only you, angel.”

Her beautiful eyes lifted to meet his. What
he saw there made
his
breath catch. Desire. And
determination. Her hand fell away. “I have never wanted anything as
I want you,” she confessed in a whisper. “So much it frightens
me.”

Hope surged through his body with such force,
he feared his heart might explode. “It is the same for me—”