The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (8 page)

Of course, her mind had been a muddled bowl
of porridge since she had agreed to marry Lucien, so it was no
surprise she had forgotten a shopping excursion from over six weeks
ago. It seemed an entirely separate existence, the life of a young
woman on the verge of a well-planned if not terribly thrilling
future. Now, she felt years older. Decades, even.

“Yes, thank you,” she replied finally. “The
duke’s house will be fine.”

As the modiste ushered Victoria into the
dressing area and helped her out of her wedding gown and into the
walking dress she had arrived wearing, she couldn’t help thinking
that, as of tomorrow, Clyde-Lacey House would no longer be her
home. Instead, she would be married to Viscount Atherbourne. She
didn’t even know where he lived.

“Is not so bad, you know.” The dusky,
accented voice of Mrs. Bowman interrupted her thoughts. The modiste
stood behind Victoria, fastening the buttons at the back of her
pale pink, long-sleeved cambric dress and helping her into her rose
sarcenet pelisse.

Victoria frowned in confusion.

“Marriage. You are afraid, yes?” Mrs. Bowman
gave Victoria’s skirts one last sweep to remove the wrinkles and
came to stand in front of her, hands on hips and a knowing look in
her intelligent brown eyes. “You should not fear. Women have much
power.”

Victoria glanced down at her hands where they
tangled at her waist. She consciously relaxed her fingers,
embarrassed to have her emotions so visible to someone who was
little more than an acquaintance. Although the conversation was
disconcerting, Mrs. Bowman’s statement made her curious. “What
power do we have? I do not even have rights to my own funds.”

“You are to marry Atherbourne?”

Victoria hesitated before nodding. How did a
modiste know such things?

She seemed to read Victoria’s question in her
face. “Ladies talk much here at Bowman’s,” she began cryptically.
“They say he is … well, you will not find marriage as trying as you
imagine.”

“But you said we have power. What power?”
Curiosity burned inside Victoria. She
needed
to know.

Mrs. Bowman gave her a piercing look. “You
will soon discover a husband’s happiness cannot be complete without
his wife’s happiness. If he is reminded of this at the right moment
…” She snapped her fingers and waved them with an Italian flourish.
“… he is yours.” She held up one finger in front of Victoria’s
nose. “But you must not let him
know
you know you have the
power. That is the key.”

Victoria frowned. This was distinctly
unhelpful. And confusing. “But how shall I know when is the right
time?”

Mrs. Bowman pursed her lips and arched a
brow, considering Victoria with an elevated tilt of her head. “You
will know.”

Dash it all, the woman was full of mysterious
information, and yet offered nothing. It made her want to stamp her
foot in vexation.

“Lady Victoria, perhaps we should be off,”
Lady Berne said from the other side of the dressing room curtain.
“We have much to arrange before tomorrow.”

Victoria quickly tied the ribbon of her
bonnet, stepped past the curtain, and smiled into the countess’s
round face. “Yes, let’s be off.”

As they strolled south along Bond toward
Bruton Street and Berkeley Square, Victoria considered what the
modiste had said and wondered if it could be true. The idea that a
wife might have influence and power of her own within the confines
of marriage had not occurred to her, but then, that wasn’t too
surprising. She had been raised in a proper household, her parents
content with one another but rarely openly affectionate. Her mother
had died when Victoria was but seventeen, and before that had never
spoken of what a relationship with a man entailed, much less shared
such valuable secrets as how to wield actual power over her
husband.

When she had agreed to marry Lucien, standing
in the drawing room gazing into his eyes, Victoria had known it was
the only decision she could have made, for Harrison’s sake and for
her own future. But ever since, she had felt adrift on a sea of
uncertainty. Would he be kind to her? Did he wish to use
her—again—as leverage against Harrison? She did not know how he
might do so without her cooperation, but she could hardly rule it
out. Would he seek to further humiliate her? Swallowing hard, she
acknowledged that it was her greatest fear. As her husband, he
would hold absolute domain over her person, her assets, her life.
If so inclined, he could torment her in numerous ways, both public
and private. Harrison had made that very argument when she had told
him of her decision. Now, however, with little more than an
offhanded comment, Mrs. Bowman had given her a glimmer of hope. If
she could, in fact, retain some power within the marriage, at least
she would not be helpless.

“What do you think, dear?”

Victoria absently glanced at Lady Berne.
“Hmm?” The countess smiled, and Victoria knew she had been caught
woolgathering. “I beg your pardon, my lady. It seems my thoughts
refuse to settle today.”

The dear woman hooked her arm through
Victoria’s and patted her hand understandingly. “It’s to be
expected. Tomorrow is your wedding day, after all. So many changes
all at once. It is exhilarating, and yet I daresay I remember
feeling much trepidation myself before I wed Lord Berne.” She
smiled fondly, her eyes clouding with nostalgia. “He was terribly
handsome, you know. Could have chosen any of a dozen beauties that
season. But he landed on me, and that was that.”

Victoria smiled, momentarily caught up in the
countess’s happy recollection. “What drew you together?”

“It was the horrid punch at the Duchess of
Harrington’s summer ball.”

Victoria laughed. “Indeed?”

The lady’s warm brown eyes sparkled merrily,
and she leaned closer as though imparting a delicious bit of
gossip. “Oh, yes. The duchess was a vain, haughty woman whose wig
was always rather precariously set upon her head. I have no notion
as to why. One would have thought she would take greater care, but
…” She shrugged. “In any event, Sir Albon Throckmorton—a more
addlepated gollumpus I’ve never met—was having a heated exchange
with a potted plant which had imposed upon his posterior. He
collided with the duchess, and her wig did not survive the
tussle.”

Giggling and shaking her head at the absurd
image, Victoria asked, “It fell off?”

“Directly into the punch bowl.”

“How embarrassing for her.”

Lady Berne grinned wickedly. “Mortifying,
yes. But, as I stood very near the refreshment table, the incident
proved providential. Lord Stanton Huxley, the dashing first son of
the Earl of Berne, was just behind me, intending to fetch a cup of
that wretched punch, presumably. When the wig landed in the bowl,
he quickly pulled me to safety.”

Victoria grinned and nodded. “Lord Berne is a
true gentleman.”

“Oh, I suspect it wasn’t so much that he was
trying to rescue me as that he wished to ensure I remained between
himself and the splash. But that was neither here nor there. I said
something about how the good Lord had answered my prayer in smiting
both her grace’s dignity and her dreadful punch in one fell swoop.
I believe I referenced the miracle of Moses and the Red Sea.”

“You made him laugh,” Victoria said
fondly.

“So loudly we began attracting attention. I
was forced to dance with him just to get him to quiet down.”

Several minutes of companionable silence fell
between them, filled only with the din of the street—clacking
carriage wheels, clopping horses’ hooves, the shouts of coachmen,
and the buzz of shoppers—as Lady Berne seemed lost in reminiscence
and Victoria contemplated what tomorrow would bring. Quietly, she
leaned toward the older woman and asked, “Is that the secret, then,
to a good marriage?”

The countess’s surprise was evident in her
raised eyebrows. “What, dear? Humor?”

Victoria nodded.

She frowned gently and pursed her lips as
though trying to puzzle through the answer. “Well, I suppose it
plays a role.” She nodded to confirm. “It certainly makes the
thorny patches easier to bear. But I must say marriage is not so
simple as one secret ingredient.”

“No, of course not,” Victoria murmured. “I
was just wondering …” Her voice trailed off as she debated how to
ferret out the information she wished to know without invading the
countess’s privacy or the bounds of propriety. Deciding simply to
ask the question directly, she glanced around the bustling street
to be certain no one was near enough to overhear. “I have heard
there are ways a wife might wield power within her marriage. Is
this true?”

Clearly startled by the question, Lady Berne
stiffened and slowed her stride, stopping to face Victoria for a
moment before realizing they were apt to draw attention if they
remained halted. Grasping Victoria’s elbow again and resuming their
strolling pace, the countess murmured, “My dear, did your mother
never explain … er … matters beyond the wedding?”

Victoria shook her head, a flush heating her
cheeks.

“Oh, my.” The countess cleared her throat and
opened her mouth to say something, then appeared to reconsider.

“You needn’t answer, my lady. It was an
impertinent question, and I should not have asked.”

“No, no.” Lady Berne squeezed her arm
reassuringly. “I was simply collecting my thoughts.” She chuckled.
“I have not yet had this little talk with my daughters, so didn’t
realize …” She waved her hand in dismissal. “No matter. A young
woman should have some idea what to expect before she is married. I
daresay, your dear mother was probably waiting until you’d made a
match, much as I have been waiting with my own girls. I am certain
she would wish for me to inform you of your wifely duties.”

Victoria could feel the blood burning her
face and wondered if the air around her fair shimmered with the
heat. “Duties?” she squeaked.

“Yes, dear. Your husband will expect you to
lie with him in the marriage bed. You must do so in order to have
children, of course.”

“Of course,” she replied hoarsely.

“Most men desire children. Oh, that reminds
me, you must maintain quiet, my dear.”

“Qu-quiet?”

“Well, not absolute silence, naturally, but I
can think of no gentleman who would prefer a great deal of
caterwauling and carrying on rather than a state of blessed peace
and quiet.”

Cringing at the memory of how she had
“carried on” during her embrace with Lucien on the Gattingford
terrace, Victoria tried to imagine being still and quiet while
Lucien touched and kissed her as he had that night. She was
determined to be a good wife, but in light of this new information,
it might prove an even greater challenge than she had
anticipated.

“If you manage his house well, provide him
with children, and do all in your power to bring him comfort and
ease, you should do splendidly as his viscountess.” Lady Berne
beamed at Victoria. “There. Now do you feel better?”

Victoria pasted a smile on her face and
nodded, eager for the excruciating conversation to end. “Thank you
for your gracious advice. You have been most kind.”

The countess nodded and they continued into
Berkeley Square. The neat, orderly row of town houses was a
familiar comfort. Just as they arrived at Clyde-Lacey House, a
grand brick structure spanning double the width of the other
houses, Lady Berne tugged Victoria to a stop. “Oh! My dear girl, I
almost forgot the most important thing.”

Inwardly, Victoria winced, hoping this nugget
of wisdom would prove less embarrassing than the rest. “Yes?”

“As soon as you are able, discover what his
favorite dish and his least favorite are. When you are well pleased
with him, ensure the meal he loves most is served at least once a
week.”

Blinking in surprise, Victoria absorbed the
advice and nodded. Then she asked, “And I should learn his least
favorite dish so the cook may avoid serving it?”

“Oh, no dear. You should learn it so you may
serve it whenever he displeases you.” She squeezed Victoria’s hand
as they climbed the front steps. “For his sake, I do hope that
occasion is a rarity.”

*~*~*

Chapter Seven

“
While I agree men fancy a good meal, Meredith, I
daresay the stomach is not the most direct route to a man’s heart.
That organ lies a good bit lower.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of
Wallingham to the Countess of Berne upon learning of said lady’s
supper menu.

Lucien’s wedding day began with a crack of
thunder and a torrent of rain, the deluge washing the London
streets and battering the windows of Blackmore’s drawing room
throughout the small, quiet ceremony.

Even now, amidst the clink and chatter of the
wedding breakfast, it had not let up, a backdrop of constant
whooshing punctuated by the occasional ominous rumble. With fewer
than a dozen guests in attendance, the voices of Victoria’s family
and friends failed to drown out the sounds of the storm.

A hard hand thumped Lucien between the
shoulders just as he was about to take a bite of spinach and ham
torte. “Well, old friend, it appears no one else is prepared to
congratulate you, so allow me to be the first,” Lord Tannenbrook
said evenly.

Lucien coughed on a wave of wry laughter and
shook his head at his sole ally, who was seated on his right at the
long dining table. “I expect you may be the only,” he murmured,
glancing around at those who conveyed their disapproval of him
quite effectively through barren politeness. “But it matters
little. What’s done cannot be undone, regardless of how the duke or
anyone else may feel about it.”

James took a bite of toast and nodded his
agreement.

Since his arrival at Clyde-Lacey House, the
atmosphere had been chilly. Far from unexpected, but uncomfortable
nonetheless. The duke had barely spoken to him. Colin Lacey had
arrived drunk and worked at getting drunker as the morning wore on.
Lord and Lady Berne had greeted him with tight reserve, even while
embracing and coddling Victoria as though they were hens and she
their lone chick. Clearly sensing the tension in the room, the
priest had scowled and asked Victoria repeatedly if she was certain
she did not wish to reconsider. All in all, he felt fortunate she
had not planned a larger affair.