The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (17 page)

“I see now what you meant, Meredith,” an old
woman’s voice trilled. “He’s as handsome as Lucifer himself. Had he
but winked at
me
, I would have dragged
him
out to the
terrace, no doubt.”

The declaration from the front of the drawing
room was unmistakably that of Lady Wallingham. The woman’s arch
manner and trumpeting voice had always disconcerted Victoria. It
was odd coming from such a diminutive person.

The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham was a
towering figure in society, but in form, she was several inches
shorter than Victoria, her thin face and triangular nose giving her
the appearance of a fragile bird. This evening, she wore a dark
purple velvet gown and a plumed turban. The lavender feather
bobbing to one side of her white coiffure added to the avian
resemblance.

“Oh, dear,” Lady Berne muttered. She bustled
forward to make the formal introductions.

Lucien’s bow over Lady Wallingham’s hand was
impeccable, but his smile was mischievous. “I daresay an
assignation between us would have set the patronesses of Almack’s
on their ears, would it not, my lady?”

The dowager marchioness arched a single white
brow and pursed her thin lips. “Atherbourne, I am too old and not
nearly fluff-brained enough to fall prey to your flimflammery.” Her
chin rose slightly and a glint of humor entered her jewel-green
eyes. “Besides, a shallow curtsy is enough to send those clucking
hens running for their smelling salts, so that is no great
measure.”

She turned her dagger-sharp gaze to Victoria.
Several seconds ticked by while Lady Wallingham seemingly assessed
Victoria’s very soul. Or, at least, it felt so.

“Your mother was a saint of propriety, girl.
I find it difficult to imagine the duchess behaving in such a
fashion.”

Lady Berne turned surprised eyes to Lady
Wallingham. “But you always said the Duchess of Blackmore should
wear brighter colors so one did not mistake her for a piece of
furniture, did you not?”

Lady Wallingham sniffed. “I did not say I
found her interesting, Meredith. Merely that she would not have
been caught up in such a scandal. Which is true.”

“I understand, my lady,” Victoria said
quietly, a flush of shame washing over her.

“And?” Lady Wallingham queried
imperiously.

Victoria blinked. “My lady?”

The dowager marchioness huffed and shook her
head. “Gracious, child, you will be eaten alive if you do not show
some spine. How am I to help you if you cower at the merest
challenge?”

“Oh, er. You—You wish to help me, then?”
Victoria’s heart thumped with hope.

Lady Wallingham turned to meet Lady Berne’s
eyes, her lavender plume bobbing slowly. “You did not mention she
was dim.”

Lady Berne shook her head and cast her eyes
heavenward as though seeking patience. “That is because she is not,
Dorothea. Perhaps we should go in to dinner. You are always more
reasonable after a meal.”

An hour later, it was clear Lady Wallingham
did, indeed, wish to help Victoria restore her reputation, and she
intended to command the effort herself. While they dined, the
dowager marchioness, from her honored position at Lord Berne’s
right, handed out marching orders like a battlefield general.

Her first directive was for her son, the
Marquess of Wallingham. A quiet, scholarly gentleman of perhaps
forty years, he had been widowed young shortly after gaining his
title. From all Victoria heard, he had so adored his wife that even
now, fifteen years after her death, he behaved as though in
perpetual mourning.

“Charles, seeing as you
refuse
to
remarry,” Lady Wallingham declared, “your usefulness in hosting a
ball or any other amusement is minimal. But you can certainly
silence Stickley. Offer to sell the man one of your horses if he
will retreat to his country estate.”

Lord Wallingham, owner of one of the finest
stables in England, almost never parted with his prized horseflesh.
Victoria recalled Harrison’s unsuccessful efforts to purchase a new
hunter from the marquess, and his rare frustration at the man’s
“infernal stubbornness.” Nevertheless, in this instance, Lady
Wallingham’s son nodded complacently, much accustomed to his
mother’s authoritarian ways.

“Tannenbrook,” she barked next, causing
Lucien’s giant, blunt-featured friend to straighten in his seat and
lower his brows. “Everyone will expect you to be in Atherbourne’s
confidence. Put it about that he is besotted.”

“Put it about, my lady?” Tannenbrook asked
calmly.

Lady Wallingham waved her fork in the air
like a scepter. “At the clubs and such. Use your colossal head for
more than hammering stone, boy. Must I think of everything?”

Eyes narrowing, Tannenbrook stared intently
at her for several moments. Victoria watched as the earl, who had
always seemed as solid and stoic as a great mountain, took on a
dangerous, volatile air. Lady Wallingham sniffed and raised one
brow, holding his gaze unflinchingly. As though reaching a
decision, Tannenbrook mockingly inclined his head in her
direction.

“Excellent. That takes care of the male
portion of our problem. Always the simplest to resolve, I
daresay.”

With that, Lady Wallingham proceeded to
charge every person at the table—Lord and Lady Berne, Lucien and
Victoria, even Annabelle and Jane Huxley—with specific instructions
and tasks. Of everyone present, only one dared to object, and it
was the most unlikely of the lot.

“My lady,” Jane began, her rounded cheeks
coloring a blotchy red. “I—I should warn you …”

“Eh? Speak up, girl. I cannot abide
mealy-mouthed mumbling. And at my age, I should not have to.”

Jane cleared her throat. “What I mean to say
is I will do whatever I can to help, b-but you’ve asked that I
spread the story amongst my friends, and …” Her voice trailed off
as she glanced around the table, clearly embarrassed.

“I see you have the gist of it. What is the
problem?”

Annabelle, seated next to her sister, placed
her hand briefly over Jane’s and said, “It might be best if I
handle this part of the plan, my lady. I am friends with not only
Lord Aldridge’s twin daughters, but also Miss Matilda Bentley.”

Lady Wallingham’s eyebrows rose at the
mention of three of the season’s busiest young gossips. She eyed
Jane’s bowed head piercingly for a few seconds, then said, “Fine. I
don’t care who does the gossiping, I simply want it done. Jane!”
Her voice was a loud crack in the room, startling the girl’s head
up, eyes wide behind her spectacles.

“Lady Atherbourne will need allies
surrounding her. If your only useful purpose is to be present and
visible at her side, then that is what you will do.”

“Yes, my lady,” the young woman said
hoarsely.

“And if I should see a book in your hand at
one of these functions, Lady Jane Huxley, you will have nowhere to
hide from me. Understood?”

Jane nodded, clearly regretting she had drawn
such attention.

Although Victoria considered Lady Berne a
good friend, and she was fond of Lord Berne, she had never spent
much time with their daughters. Her impression of Annabelle was
that she was bubbly, popular, and good-humored. While Victoria
liked the girl—her personality being similar to Lady Berne’s—they
tended to gravitate toward different circles, and so remained
little more than acquaintances. Jane was quite the opposite of her
sister: painfully shy, quiet, and unassuming. On that basis alone,
Victoria had not formed much of a connection with her, either. It
was hard to become friends with someone who did not speak.

However, Victoria’s estimation of the young
woman’s character rose several notches this evening—standing up to
the dragon was brave for anyone to attempt, but especially for meek
little Jane Huxley.

“Lady Atherbourne,” the dragon said, drawing
Victoria’s attention, “I do believe we have a plan. If everyone
executes their roles properly, before season’s end, the scandal
shall disappear like a foul odor exiting an open window.”

Victoria smiled at Lady Wallingham and
thanked her sincerely for her generosity.

“No need to thank me, girl,” she said,
turning a rather pointed gaze to meet Lucien’s. “Gifts will
suffice. Send them to the Park Lane house.”

Lucien half-grinned and chuckled. He
acknowledged the request—although, command was perhaps a more apt
description—with a dip of his head.

Later, as they entered the carriage to return
home, Lucien’s big, warm body settled next to Victoria, leaving her
no space and no time to draw a proper breath. His arm slid behind
her shoulders and pulled her against his hard frame. “Now, where
were we?” he whispered, his wicked tongue taking a turn around the
shell of her ear, causing shivers to run across her skin and settle
in her breasts.

“Lucien,” Victoria protested weakly.

“Mmm?” He nuzzled her neck, his lips playing
havoc with her good sense.

“Surely you do not expect …”

“Oh, but I do,” he rasped, his hands finding
their way inside her bodice.

You must not give in, Victoria. You must
resist him. He has done nothing but betray you, use you.
She
knew it was the voice of reason, a voice she should heed. But it
had been so long since she had felt this way. Hours, at least.

His thumb stroked her nipple, his fingers
squeezing gently. Victoria moaned and met his mouth with her own.
The man was a sorcerer, beguiling her senses with repeated strokes
of his tongue and little nips at her lower lip. Minutes later, he
had his trousers unfastened and she straddled his hips, poised
above him, dripping wet and ready to take him inside.

“This does not mean what you think it means,
Lucien.” Breathing so heavily she could barely get the words out,
she nevertheless knew she must be clear about who was in
control.

He groaned, then panted, “Of course not.”

She hovered over him, her thumb tracing his
beautiful mouth. “I want you now. But it is just this once.”

“Whatever you prefer, angel.” His fingers
curled and squeezed her backside. “All I ask is that you proceed
with haste.”

Slowly, she lowered her hips and felt his
thick, hard cock slide into her. They gasped simultaneously, the
friction and heat and fit of him inside her feeling like a fire
burning in a hearth: welcome, relieving, and right. The thought was
vaguely alarming. No. This could not be so perfect. She could not
bear to be offered heaven and have it torn away, made impossible by
his hatred for her family, by his willingness to use her. Not
again.

Hiding her face in the crook of his shoulder,
she paused, savoring the stretch of her body around his. She
breathed once, twice, then schooled her features before
straightening away from him, laying her hands flat against his
chest. “Do not assume this will happen again,” she said, her voice
hoarse but resolute. “Or that you are forgiven.”

Lucien’s hands rose to her waist and
tightened. His chest heaved with each labored breath; the muscles
on either side of his jaw flexed. Flashing eyes met hers in the
darkness of the carriage. All hints of his earlier teasing
fled.

“You are my wife. Nothing will change that,”
he growled. His fingers bit into her hips as he gave a sudden, deep
thrust, forcing a gasp of pleasure from her throat. Stroking deep
and hard into her core, he demanded, “Say it.”

Surprised by his sudden anger, her body still
ecstatically welcomed each relentless thrust. The roughness of his
movements only heightened her pleasure.

“Damn it, Victoria,” he gritted. “Say
it!”

Her mind fogged by exquisite sexual
excitement, it took a few moments to decide what he so desperately
needed to hear, longer to grant it. But, in the end, the words were
pulled from her, a truth that scared her senseless.

“I am your wife,” she panted.

“Yes,” he hissed.

“And nothing will change that.”

Her words sent them both tumbling over the
precipice into a release that seized every muscle in her body,
spinning her out to the edge of the ether and back again.

Afterward, her head lolling on his shoulder,
she pressed against his neck, breathing in starch and spice and
sex, delectable and achingly familiar. Steeled arms held her as
though fearful she might escape. To where, she could not imagine.
They were in his carriage, headed to his townhouse. For all that
she might pretend to hold the higher ground in their battle, the
truth was she was very much at his mercy. The thought did not sit
well with her.

“Victoria,” he began softly.

She shook her head, slowly withdrawing from
him, untangling herself from his embrace, letting him slide out of
her as she rose up and pushed away to sit on the opposite bench.
Why does it feel as if I am leaving a part of myself
behind?

“Look at me,” he demanded.

She squeezed her eyes closed, the sticky
wetness between her thighs a reminder of her weakness. “This was a
mistake,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

“No.” His voice had gone raw. “The mistake
was letting you keep us apart for the past week. We are married.
There is no reason we should not enjoy each other—”

“Oh? Have you decided to change your mind
about Harrison, then?”

Even in the dark, she could see his
glower.

“I thought as much.”

A long, assessing pause came from his side of
the carriage. “How long do you suppose it will be until that sweet
little body of yours once again demands what is rightfully yours?
Another seven days, perhaps?”

That very question had burned inside her from
the moment she had allowed her hand to drift instinctively toward
his. It was terrifying to contemplate how desperately she wanted
him. Enough to sacrifice her pride, to risk the disaster that would
surely follow. “We had an agreement. What just happened doesn’t
change anything.”