The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (9 page)

Lucien’s eyes slid past James to the head of
the table where his pale, subdued bride sat in quiet conversation
with the Earl of Berne. He hadn’t previously thought her beautiful,
but in spite of her withdrawn demeanor today, she was strikingly
lovely. Her gown, a diaphanous confection of white, silver, blue,
and green, made her eyes and skin fairly glow. Her golden tresses
had been swept artfully upon her head, dappled with tiny white
flowers and green leaves. A few stray curls played about her face
and touched the strand of pearls around her delicate white neck. He
imagined unfastening the necklace and tracing his tongue along its
path. Then lower, he thought as his eyes settled on her sweet,
lushly rounded breasts, and lower still.

A hard, sudden thrust of desire surged
through his body, tightening his groin and quickening his breath.
Like a bolt of lightning, it was swift and frighteningly powerful.
Bloody hell.
The last thing he needed was a distraction of
this magnitude. Forcing his attention away from Victoria, he
collided with James’s knowing gaze.

Damn. Apparently, his lust was obvious, at
least from Tannenbrook’s perspective. His fixation on bedding his
new wife, while understandable in different circumstances, was
unseemly and unwise here in enemy territory. He could only hope
others at the table hadn’t noticed him staring at her like a
desperate youth mooning over a buxom milkmaid.

“I say, Atherbourne, p’rhaps we should bring
these festivities to a close. You’re looking rather eager to move
on to a more private celebration, what?” The slurred voice of Colin
Lacey, overloud and followed by a drunken snicker, arrived from
directly across the table. “Or, here’s a thought. Why not just take
her out on the terrace? Seemzh you like that sort of thing.”

Silence fell hard over the table, broken only
by the protest of wind and rain against the dining room windows, as
the group wrestled with the discomfort of the inappropriate
outburst. Seated on Lacey’s left, Lord Berne, a
distinguished-looking man of roughly fifty years with thinning
pewter hair and a jovial demeanor, coughed into his napkin. To
Lacey’s right, the earl’s second oldest daughter, a plump,
painfully shy girl with dull brown hair, a round pug nose, and
large eyes now wide behind her spectacles, sat with her mouth
agape.

The man between them took no notice of the
tumult he had caused, grinning blearily at Lucien and chuckling.
His pale blond hair, a shade lighter than his sister’s, was cut a
bit long on top, where it curled in charming disarray. His features
were finely drawn and boyishly handsome, bordering on feminine, but
years of dissolution had made his blue eyes dull, his skin pale,
and his expression distastefully cynical.

“Colin,” Blackmore rebuked frostily from the
foot of the table. “That is quite enough.”

His eyes resting briefly on his bride’s wild
flush, Lucien felt irritation itch along his spine.
Bloody
whelp.
It was one thing for Lacey to make an ass of himself, or
even to try to embarrass Lucien. It was another to humiliate his
sister on her wedding day.

“For once, your grace, you and I agree,”
Lucien remarked with a cold smile. “That is, indeed, quite
enough.”

With that, he rose from the table and strode
to Victoria’s side, shocking the others into quiet gasps, then
silence. His bride refused to look at him, her hands tightly folded
in her lap, her shoulders stiff and head bowed. He held out his
hand before her.

“Shall we take our leave, my dear?” he asked
quietly, knowing she would have little choice but to comply without
seeming churlish.

“But, my lord,” Lady Berne protested, “we
haven’t yet had cake! Certainly you will want your bride to taste
her own wedding cake before—”

“You must forgive me, my lady,” he
interrupted, glancing around the table and meeting the eyes of
those who, he knew, fervently wished him to Hades. “The morning has
grown … cold. I wouldn’t want my bride to take a chill.”

A crack of thunder chose that moment to sound
outside. He felt a delicate hand slip into his own and turned to
help Victoria to her feet. She paused briefly and met his gaze with
a solemn one of her own, then turned to the guests as the gentlemen
rose from their seats.

Her voice tight and quiet, she said, “I thank
you all for coming today. Lord Atherbourne and I shall take our
leave now, but please stay and enjoy the breakfast and cake. It has
been my privilege to have you here to help us celebrate our”—she
stopped and cleared her throat delicately—“marriage.”

Colin, listing to one side as he struggled to
remain on his feet, squawked a protest and said, “Aw, Tori, come
now. I bloody well know Harrison’s got the sense of humor of a
mossy boulder, but I didn’t think you’d take offense. It was all in
good fun.”

Victoria’s hand tightened where it rested in
Lucien’s, and her quiet dignity seemed to tremble like a leaf in a
storm.
Good God.
Is she going to weep?
The thought
sent a surge of anger through him. And perhaps a small dose of
panic.

“Colin, please,” she said, her voice rippling
with restrained emotion. “Don’t.”

That was it. While Lucien’s hatred for the
duke ran bone-deep, he now had good reason to dislike both of
Victoria’s brothers. If he could find a way to shut Lacey’s mouth
with his fist, and do so without making everything worse, he would
leap across the table without a moment’s hesitation.

Instead, he urged Victoria forward, eager to
spirit her away with all speed. At the dining room entrance, he
turned back to the guests and bowed mockingly. “Your grace. My
lords. Ladies. It has been a pleasure, as always.”

Minutes later, the ever-efficient servants of
Clyde-Lacey House had wrapped their mistress in a hooded cape of
silver velvet and ensured his carriage was brought round to the
front. Holding an umbrella above both of them, Lucien lightly
curled his arm around Victoria’s small waist and led her through
the downpour into the plush confines of his coach. Immediately
settling onto the bench seat, she smoothed her skirts and turned
her head to stare out the opposite window.

He handed the umbrella to his footman and
climbed in beside her, making sure his shoulder brushed hers, his
thigh mere inches away. She was a graceful thing, her movements
efficient and smooth. If he had not been watching her closely, he
would not have perceived her nervousness. But he had been watching.
Wanting. Since the moment he arrived and saw her in her wedding
gown.

“You have not asked where we are going.
Aren’t you curious about your new home?” In point of fact, she had
not said much of anything to him that morning. A brief, polite
greeting, then her vows. Little else.

Reacting to his voice, her head turned
slightly in his direction. Her hood hid all but a hint of her
profile from him. He could see the slope of her dainty nose, the
curve of her full lips. “Does it matter? We shall be there soon
enough.”

A frown tugged at his brows. He disliked her
listless tone, her muted light. The Victoria he had encountered on
the Gattingford terrace and again the day he had proposed did not
hesitate to meet his eyes, to engage him in a lively debate, to
interrogate him or castigate him or bloody well tempt him beyond
all reason. The more he thought on it, the more he hated whatever
had caused her to go quiet and resigned. “Wait until you see the
dungeon,” he whispered next to her ear.

His blatant provocation worked. Instantly,
her head swiveled to face him, her eyes wide and shocked. He
laughed and winked. She blushed. “Is there a moat as well, my
lord?”

As parries went, it was reasonably tart and
clever. But he had not finished teasing the real Victoria out of
her shell. “If the rain keeps on like this,” he said, gesturing to
the unending sheet of water beyond the window, “then I daresay it
grows more likely by the minute.” That drew a small smile. He felt
inexplicable satisfaction at the sight.

Just then, the coach took a sharp turn,
causing Victoria to sway toward him. Her gloved hand reached out
instinctively to brace itself.

On his thigh.

He nearly groaned aloud. Dear God, this was
torturous. He glanced down past the top of her hood to where her
bosom would have been visible if not for that infernal velvet
shroud.

“… apologies, my lord.” She sounded
flustered. Good. So was he.

Her hand disappeared as she struggled to
scoot away, but his arm about her waist locked her to his side.
“Worry not, sweet. Life is filled with unexpected turns. It is a
husband’s privilege to serve as ballast.” He wasn’t entirely sure
what he had just said. Blood was pounding through his body louder
than a great, towering drum played by a mythical giant. It was most
distracting.

She wriggled against him, gaining nearly half
an inch of space, but also managing to forge the iron inside his
trousers into steel. This time, he did groan aloud. She stilled.
“Are you ailing, my lord?” He breathed through the ache. Perhaps
additional space was best. Loosening his arm, he allowed their
bodies to separate and moved a small distance away. Giving her a
strained smile, he joked, “If you’re hoping for imminent widowhood,
I fear you will be disappointed. Mine is a highly … robust
constitution.”

She blinked up at him, a tiny frown above the
bridge of her nose. “I do not wish for your death.”

“Well,” he said, unable to keep the laughter
out of his voice. “That is a relief.”

At last catching on to his teasing, she
dropped her eyes, biting her lower lip as a grin emerged. “Perhaps
I should.”

“Nonsense. Trust your instincts, I always
say. Murdering one’s spouse is a messy business. Could tie up the
estate for years.” She giggled, the sound light and sweet. It was
the first time he had heard her laugh, he realized. Now that he
had, he wanted more. “Much better to spend a decade or two forcing
me to pay exorbitant sums to the modiste and milliner.”

Laughing harder, she shook her head and gave
him a mischievous look from beneath her lashes. “Sound advice, my
lord. But you should be far more concerned about my canvas supplier
and colorist.”

“Enjoy painting that much, do you?” He
already knew it was true. Blackmore’s former servants had been both
chatty and eager to share their affectionate observations about
their mistress. It had made his task easier, to say the least. But
she didn’t need to know that.

She sighed and relaxed further into the seat,
leaning toward him. “It is wondrous. One of my favorite things,
actually.”

The heat he had felt burning through him
earlier had eased, and now became a gentle, glowing warmth
emanating from his midsection. It was almost … comforting. “You
shall require a studio, then.”

Suddenly looking a bit shy, as though he were
a stranger offering her a confectionary treat, she demurred, “Oh, I
couldn’t possibly ask …”

“You didn’t. I offered. Besides, Wyatt House
is not lacking for rooms, as you will soon see. Take whichever one
strikes your fancy.” She eyed him for a long moment as though
weighing his sincerity. He leaned forward to bring his face level
with hers. “You want a studio, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she murmured, glancing at his mouth.
“I do. Want …”

He waited, watching her eyes dilate, her
breathing quicken. “A place to paint,” he finished for her.

She nodded, appearing a bit off balance, then
gathered her composure. “I shall—” She cleared her throat. “I shall
survey the house and give you a list of possibilities.”

“No need. As I said, you may have any room
you like.”

“It is a most generous offer, my lord. Thank
you.”

He waved dismissively. “Wyatt House will be
your home. You are my wife now, after all.”

“Yes.” Her voice grew quiet, and she turned
to stare out at the buildings of Oxford Street. She looked forlorn.
Lost. “I am your wife now.”

*~*~*

Chapter Eight

“
An excellent servant is always present, yet
rarely seen or heard. Much like a specter who happens to enjoy
cleaning.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her
butler.

Entering Lucien’s brick town house in Portman
Square a half-hour after leaving Clyde-Lacey House, Victoria
marveled that one’s life could change so radically within a matter
of weeks that it was nigh impossible to remember oneself from
before
. Before the mistake. Before the scandal. Before the
transformation from duke’s sister to marquess’s fiancée to
viscount’s wife.

Glancing down at her left hand, where a
filigreed band of gold nestled a flower-shaped cluster of diamonds
and aquamarine stones, her belly flipped and clenched with a
peculiar pain. She was his wife. He was—she swallowed hard—her
husband. He now had certain … rights.

Breathing deeply and reaching for calm, she
instead focused on her surroundings. The entrance hall alone was
opulently beautiful, with sky-blue walls, a pale gray marble floor,
and a stunningly grand, curved double staircase rising in the
center like two great arms reaching out in an embrace. She was
struck by how much light filled the space, despite the gloom of the
storm outside. Drawn forward to solve the mystery, she gaped four
floors up at a magnificent glass dome ceiling.

“Simply incredible,” she murmured.

Truly, she’d had no idea Atherbourne’s
pockets were so deep. His town residence was one of the largest
houses—a mansion, really—in a quietly elegant square filled with
narrow townhouses. Located in the district of Marylebone, just
north of Mayfair, it was an address slightly less fashionable,
though no less luxurious, than Clyde-Lacey House.

“Seems a trifle ostentatious, does it not?”
Lucien’s smooth voice observed wryly mere inches behind her.