The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (12 page)

She winced as he continued to prod her. “Oh.
Well, it’s just that you look so strained, and I thought it might
be painful for you, as well.”

He dropped his head and shook with surprised
laughter. “No. Not in the way you mean.” He repositioned himself so
one hand could stroke her gently, rhythmically just above where
they were joined. “I want to be all the way inside you so badly, it
is killing me. But if I move too quickly, I might hurt you more
than necessary.”

She huffed and wriggled against the bed. “It
hurts a lot, husband. How much would you consider ‘necessary’?”

He was silent for a moment, then answered,
“We haven’t yet breached your maidenhead. It will be painful for a
time, then it will get better.”

That was all the warning she had before he
thrust forward and the aching pressure and burning stretch was
joined by the sharp, knifing pain of something tearing inside her.
She screamed and arched against him, but he would not let up,
pressing forward, inch by long inch, sinking deep inside her.

“There,” he gasped. “It’s done. Now for the
good part.”

She sobbed out a laugh at the absurd
statement and slapped his shoulder in outrage. “It
hurts
,
Lucien.”

“I know, love,” he whispered. He brushed his
mouth gently above her ear, then tenderly across her lips. “Bear
with me.”

Then he began to move, slowly at first. When
he started the steady, patient thrusting, she simply endured. The
pain was not quite as bad as it had been when he first breached
her, but he was so large, the pressure on her internal muscles and
the flesh at her opening was a fiery ache that made the earlier
pleasure seem like a fanciful fever dream.

Soon, however, as he nibbled her neck and his
thumb stroked in tiny circles around that secret little nubbin, her
passage grew slick with new arousal, smoothing his way as he
stroked in and out.

In and out.

In and out.

Her nipples, hard again and eager to be
stroked, were sweetly pleasured as well, since his chest with its
crisp hair chafed them with every thrust of his hips. She kissed
his neck and moaned as he quickened his motions. Before long, the
pace was rather bruising, his hips slamming against hers as the
coiling tension rose inside her. Her body paradoxically loved every
bit of it—the burning friction, the slap of his flesh against hers,
the grip of his hands, one beneath her neck and the other at her
hip as he held her at his mercy.

When the pleasure transformed from a
tightening spiral into a giant, rapidly filling bubble, she dug her
heels into Lucien’s buttocks and her nails into his back, sobbing,
“Please, Lucien. Oh, please. I can’t take it.”

It seemed to spur him to a lustful frenzy, a
deep growl emanating from his chest. “You will. Take all of me.
Now.” He thrust his manhood even deeper inside her, all the way to
the root, tightening his grip on her neck and hip so she couldn’t
possibly resist.

Her body responded to his ferocity by
bursting into flames. She screamed his name as the starburst of
unbelievable pleasure exploded, seizing her muscles and rippling
over her skin in wave after wave of ecstatic shivers. Her woman’s
core seized around him in a fierce grip, spasming and milking him
where he continued the deep, unrelenting thrusts.

Within four strokes, he gave a loud shout of
“Christ. Victoria!” before every muscle in his body grew
stone-hard, and she felt a gush of warmth surge deep inside,
filling her as he groaned in climactic pleasure.

Minutes later, as he lay atop her, his
manhood still inside her, now softer, and yet not entirely soft,
his lips played with hers, and one of his hands stroked her hair
gently, almost soothingly. Limp with lethargic bliss, she felt like
a cat who had just eaten a bowl full of cream and lazed in a patch
of warm sunlight. But her husband did not want to let her nap.

“Lucien?” she murmured.

“Hmm?”

“Aren’t we finished yet?”

He smiled against her mouth and grew harder,
larger inside her. “Oh, no, my angel,” he said, shaking his head in
a gently chiding way as her eyes widened and she gasped. “We’re
just getting started.”

*~*~*

Chapter Ten

“
If you value either your position or your life,
pray do not speak to me before breakfast.”
—The Dowager
Marchioness of Wallingham to her newest lady’s maid, the fifth in
as many months.

The distinct scent of kippers wafting from
the sideboard mere feet from where he sat alone in the morning room
was perhaps the only sour note in an otherwise glorious day. Even
the mild fishy odor was not enough to dampen his appetite.

For food or anything else.

Lucien grinned at the thought, recalling his
inexhaustible ardor of the previous day. And evening. And
throughout the night.

But, really, what red-blooded male could
blame him? Victoria was … He paused to consider, taking a sip of
coffee and popping a warm piece of buttered roll into his
mouth.

Extraordinary. Yes, that was it. She was an
innocent in many ways, starting with her virginity, or rather,
former virginity. But it was more than that. The way she had
admired his house upon arriving, her wide-eyed appreciation of
elements he took for granted—a splendid staircase or a painting
that, for him, had long since become background—demonstrated how
she viewed her surroundings with fresh eyes, unjaded by her wealth
and privileged upbringing. She loved and honored beauty in all its
forms, but with, it seemed to him, a pure heart rather than
avarice.

Her public behavior, notwithstanding her
vulnerability to his sexual advances, was beyond reproach. She
treated him with far more graciousness than he deserved, was kind
and courteous to servants, and within society comported herself
with exemplary decorum.

On the other hand—and he fervently thanked
the Maker for this—she was also an enchantingly sensual, passionate
creature, her body lush and highly responsive, her need to touch
and be touched obvious in her reactions to him.

The memory of those reactions slithered like
a curl of intoxicating vapor from his head directly down to his
cock, stirring him to a hardness baffling in its intensity, given
the activities of the previous twenty hours and the fact that
Victoria was not presently in the room. Honestly, his body’s
obsessive preoccupation with bedding her was a trifle concerning.
He had never reacted so to another woman. And there had been many
other women.

Gregory had long teased him about his
“supernatural luck” when it came to attracting the fairer sex. In
truth, gaining access to a wide variety of females had always been
easy. When he was young, country maids in the village near
Thornbridge had sighed over his face and form, readily encouraging
his randy proclivities. Later, as a member of the cavalry, women
swooned over the uniform and flocked around his regiment from Spain
to Brussels and back to England.

He
liked
women, loved sex, and since
the age of fourteen, had made a grand effort to be exceptionally
skilled at wooing the first and performing the second. However,
this did not explain his ever-present need for Victoria. Even for
him, it was just this side of unseemly to be so fixated on one
female.

Especially his wife.

“My lord, is something amiss?” Billings
bellowed as he entered the room with a fresh pot of tea.

Lucien winced and cleared his throat. “Why do
you ask, Billings?” he inquired, his voice raised to reach the
man’s mostly deaf ears.

“You appear most displeased with the
marmalade. Shall I remove it for you, my lord?”

Confused, and thinking perhaps the ancient
butler had finally achieved full senility, Lucien glanced around to
determine what the deuce the man was talking about. When he spotted
the silver dish of marmalade directly in front of him, he realized
he’d been scowling at it while pondering his lust for Victoria.

“No, the marmalade is fine. Perhaps you might
remove the kippers, however. When did we begin serving those vile
things, anyway?”

“Cook wondered if perhaps Lady Atherbourne
might care for them, my lord. I believe she wished to give her
ladyship the opportunity to partake.”

“Well, I cannot abide them. Take the dish
away, if you please.”

Billings nodded and moved to do so, but his
“Very well, my lord” was interrupted by the arrival of Victoria,
who paused in the doorway to get her bearings. Lucien immediately
rose to his feet.

Standing, as she was, in a shaft of light
from the windows, she fairly glowed in her white morning gown. The
softly curling hair that had given him such fierce pleasure when
wrapped around her body like so much silk, was once again coiled
high on the back of her dainty head. It shone like a halo.

Having obviously not heard her entrance,
Billings turned while holding the dish of kippers and let out a
loud, startled, “My lady!” Quickly regaining his composure, the
butler bowed deeply and croaked, “Good morning, Lady Atherbourne. I
do hope you find breakfast to your liking.”

Victoria beamed at the white-haired Billings
as though he were a handsome beau delivering a bouquet, rather than
an aged butler bearing a platter of dead fish. “Good morning to you
as well, Billings,” she said brightly, her voice elevated so he
could hear her, but not so loud as to be shouting. “It looks
positively lovely. I am certain I will adore it.”

The old man blinked several times as though
dazzled by her brilliance, then the wrinkles in his face formed
what appeared to be an answering smile. He nodded and shuffled out
of the room.

She turned her smile on Lucien, and he felt a
bit dazzled, himself. She curtsied prettily and greeted him with a
twinkle. “My lord husband. ’Tis a fine morning, is it not?”

It took him several seconds to answer, and
when he did, his voice was gruff, even to his own ear. “Wife,” he
greeted her simply. In truth, the single word was all he could
manage.

When had he decided she wasn’t beautiful,
precisely? It had been the conclusion of a fool.

He eyed her backside as she bent slightly
over the sideboard while filling her plate. It was softly,
generously rounded, her hips a luscious curve flaring out from a
trim waist.

A bloody blind, addlepated fool.

“I was not aware you didn’t care for kippers,
my lord,” she said, turning around and seating herself at the
table.

As her bottom came to rest on the seat, she
winced and her shoulders tightened in discomfort before she
relaxed, her face again smoothing into pleasant serenity. It was
but a brief flinch, her reactions subtle. Most people would never
have noticed.

But, then, he was watching her quite closely.
Much as a cat’s gaze follows a plump, juicy mouse. The feelings
that flooded him in that moment were so inappropriate, so
powerfully dark, he reeled under the weight of them. He sat and
tore his eyes away from her by force of will.

She was sore. It was obvious to him. He
should feel guilt. Husbandly concern.

He did not.

Instead, what he felt was a deep, thrumming
possessiveness.
She is mine
, his body insisted.
I must
have her again
. This was not mere lust—that old, familiar
friend. Lust was pleasurable, even playful. An itch that was
rollicking good fun to scratch.
This
was something else
altogether.

“Husband?” the object of his thoughts
queried.

“Yes,” he said, his voice rasping past a
suddenly constricted throat.

“Is it fish you don’t like? Or kippers in
particular?”

He cleared his throat. “Fish.”

“Not even cod or haddock? There are some
delicious preparations for both that the cook at Clyde-Lacey House
is fond of making. He is French, you know. They are so delicate,
they don’t even taste like fish—”

“Victoria,” he snapped chillingly. “If I want
to eat something that does not taste like fish, I have only to eat
that which is not, in fact, fish. Wouldn’t you say?”

All traces of her earlier smile were gone, as
though a cloud had covered the sun. She swallowed hard and dropped
her eyes to her plate. “Oh. Well, yes, I suppose that is true.”

A cold shaft of remorse knifed through him.
I am a wretched husband
, was all he could think. First, he
lured her into a ruinous scandal, then virtually forced her into
marriage. As if that were not enough, on their wedding night, he
showed his virginal bride all the patience and restraint of Viking
marauders upon an unguarded monastery.

Adding insult to injury was perhaps not an
ideal way to begin their first morning together.

“I was sick on it,” he said in a milder tone.
“As a child. I haven’t been able to stomach it ever since. Even the
smell is offensive to me.”

The vivid blue-green of her eyes rose and
held his for several seconds before a small, gentle smile lifted
the corners of her mouth. She nodded understandingly. “My brother
Colin had a similar experience with cherries. Although, I must say,
a bit too much brandy may have had something to do with it.”

He grinned at her and chuckled.

Her lashes lowered as she took a delicate
bite of ham. Her plump lips slid over the tines of the fork, and
his smile faded. As she sipped her tea, a sheen of liquid remained
behind on those lips. They were lush. Inviting. Wet.

Good God, this was like a sickness. Did other
men feel such … absorption with their wives? Such barbaric
impulses? He had never heard of such a thing. Now and then, there
would be talk of some poor chap becoming excessively attached to a
mistress, but never a wife.

“My lord, I was thinking that since we did
not have a terribly …” She paused to search for the right word. “…
conventional
courtship, we may need to do some catching up,
as it were.”