The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (23 page)

Before she could think better of it, her
decision was made. Breathing deeply, she stood and moved swiftly—or
as swiftly as her skirts would allow—toward the darkened rear of
the box. A hard hand circled her upper arm almost immediately,
jerking her off balance and turning her to face her husband.
Correction—her imposing, obviously angry husband.

She swallowed hard, her mouth going dry.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked
quietly, his voice silky and menacing in a way she had never
heard.

She shrugged, though she felt anything but
casual. “Am I not allowed to visit the privy either, my lord?”

“Victoria, I told you I do not want you going
about this place unescorted. Now, either sit back down or I shall
assume you are bored and take you home.”

“You are being ridiculous!” she hissed. “Let
go of me.” She jerked at her arm, but to no effect. His grip, while
not painful, was quite firm.

He pulled her close and turned until her back
faced the wall. Stepping forward so that she could not help but
retreat, he loomed over her, his mouth inches from her own. They
were far enough from the lights of the stage that it was difficult
to see, and certainly others would not be able to see them in the
shadows. As she bumped against the wall, his white cravat and the
flash reflecting in his eyes filled her vision amidst the
darkness.

A nervous flutter in her belly grew and
caused her breath to quicken as his chest brushed the very tips of
her breasts. She drew in his scent, spicy and familiar and
delicious. His hot breath washed over her face, making her want to
sink her nails into the skin of his neck and pull him down into her
kiss.

“Apparently Mr. Kean could not hold your
interest, my darling,” he uttered hoarsely. “Perhaps I can do
better.” The hand that had held her arm now dropped to her waist,
slid around her hip to the small of her back, then lowered to
caress her backside.

“Lucien,” she sighed, her muscles meltingly
weak. “You agreed …”

“It appears this is a night for breaking
agreements, wife.” With one hand, he forced her hips to cradle the
rigid erection between his legs. With the other, he clasped her
neck and tilted her head back for a hard kiss, his tongue sleek and
searching, sliding against her own.

Her arms circled his neck, seemingly of their
own volition, and her fingers threaded through his hair, digging
into his scalp and pressing his lips harder against hers. She ate
at his mouth, hungrier for him than she had ever been. Volatile and
riotous, the excitement inside her combusted with lust and anger
and yearning.

Bending his knees and pressing upward against
her with his hips, he forced her legs to spread for him, forced her
onto her toes for him, held her pinned between his heat and the
unyielding wall. He ground the hard length of his cock against the
very center of her, sending curling waves of delight spinning from
her core to every part of her body. She groaned into his mouth.

Cool air wafted across the backs of her
thighs. Before she could protest, the hand that had inched up her
dress once again stroked her buttocks, but this time there was
nothing between his flesh and hers. His fingers trailed down the
crease, now splayed open for him, and found her wet and ready for
him. Two sank deep inside her womanly core, the path slick and easy
with her arousal.

She whimpered, her head falling back on her
neck, exposing her throat to his feasting mouth. Two fingers, then
a third stroked and pumped inside her, stretching her with the
slightest pinch of pain—just enough to keep her excitement at a
fever pitch.

“You will come for me now, love.” The
guttural statement rumbled in his chest, murmured next to her ear,
resounded in her core. “Then we will leave here, and I will take
you fully in the carriage. Would you like that?”

She licked her lips, tasting him there, the
scent of her own desire and his spice blending into an intoxicant.
She nodded frantically, her peak approaching in a rush as his words
played in her mind. Seizing around his fingers as they slid and
pressed, stroked and pleasured, her climax suddenly cascaded like
water over a fall, then crashed in paroxysms of radiant
pleasure.

He took her soft moans into his own mouth,
the sounds masked by the soaring strains of the orchestra and the
dramatic oratory of those on the stage below. All the while, as her
body slowly returned to earth, he held his fingers firmly inside
her, allowing her time to complete the journey. She tore her mouth
away from his and slumped against him, her cheek lying on his fine
woolen lapel. His chest heaved as he struggled for breath, jostling
her slightly.

He removed his hand and let her skirts drop
back into place. Inside, she felt molten—hot and liquid, yet still
somehow needy. Empty. She could barely stand as his hips drew away
from hers, requiring that she support herself on her own legs. She
wanted to tell him such a thing was impossible, as her legs were
now the consistency of softened butter, but she was having
difficulty speaking.

His big body, still rigid with tension,
shifted, and as though he had read her mind, he scooped her into
his arms. She began to protest, murmuring that others would
see.

“Not to worry. Hold on to me, Victoria.”

She obeyed, wrapping her arms tightly about
his neck and hiding her face in the comfortable notch between his
neck and shoulder. The scent of starch and spice filled her nose.
It was the scent of her husband, who carried her as though she
weighed nothing, who thrilled her and fulfilled her until she could
think of nothing else, indeed could not think at all.

Swiftly, he descended the stairs to the
lobby, pausing now and then to assure concerned passersby that his
wife was not feeling well, and he was taking her home. Within
minutes, he was setting her on the padded seat of their carriage
and climbing in beside her. Immediately, he tried to take her onto
his lap, but she refused, brushing his arms aside.

His darkly muttered “Victoria …” trailed into
a groan as she unbuttoned and lowered the fall on his breeches,
releasing his fully aroused cock.

Peeling the gloves from her arms, she stroked
him several times with a firm grip, just the way he had taught her.
The heat and satiny texture of his member fascinated her, the
veined flesh hard and thick, an instrument of ultimate pleasure.
Her head lowered as a bead of moisture rose to the tip.

Ah, yes. She loved this part.

Her tongue delicately flicked at him, taking
his essence into her mouth. His hips writhed, and he growled low in
his throat, his hands gripping the cushion.

“Stop,” he gritted.

She smiled up at him, savoring the stark
desire on his face. Her lips played with him, then she suckled
lightly on the tip, curling her tongue around the domed head like
the veriest treat.

His hands gripped her arms and hauled her
onto his lap. Before she could say a word, or even have time for
the world to stop spinning, she was on her back, her skirts flung
up around her waist, his cock stretching her sheath.

He shoved inside her forcefully, filling her
completely. They groaned together, the sense of rightness almost
unbearable.
This
was where he belonged, deep inside her
where she could surround him and caress him and ease him.

This was where
she
belonged, wrapped
in his arms, his mouth capturing hers, his body invading hers, his
heart pounding against hers in synchronized rhythm. He filled her
emptiness, and she welcomed him, consumed him in her heat.

To Victoria, their connection was so
profound, she wanted to weep. Her chest tightened, and she sobbed
against his neck. It was as though, with each thrust, her emotions
were forced to the surface until they lay bare and exposed.

Thrust.
The ache of longing.

Thrust.
The burn of frustration.

Thrust.
The sweetness of
adoration.

Thrust.
The spiraling of desire.

Taking his head between her palms, she
positioned him so she could stare intently into his eyes. He
resisted at first, but she gently stroked his cheeks with shaking
hands and waited.

It was dark inside the carriage, but muted,
broken light did shine through the curtains, playfully shifting
amidst the shadows. It was enough to see what was in his eyes, in
his face.

Desperate, desperate need.

For her.

She had never seen the like. But she had felt
it. Oh, yes. It was the twin of her own yearning. For him.

And it set her on fire.

Sobbing his name, she arched and squeezed her
eyes shut, clenching her teeth as her body surrendered everything.
She wrapped her legs around his furiously hammering hips, locked
her arms around his neck, and held him tightly as the world
exploded in a shattering burst. The muscles of her sheath seized
and gripped him almost painfully as her release hit.

Lucien’s mouth covered her scream as he
slammed into her and came in a violent frenzy. Low, animalistic
growls rumbled from his chest as his seed shot deep inside her
core. The spasms lasted seemingly forever, rippling pleasure
echoing through them both for long minutes. Eventually, their
breathing slowed, but he remained atop her, his head beside hers,
her thighs straddling his hips.

“This is how it should be, angel,” he rasped
next to her ear. “You can see that now, can’t you?”

For a moment, she considered agreeing, for
the same thought had occurred to her only moments earlier.
No.
How many times must you be hurt before you understand, Victoria?
How many ways must you be shown the truth? You’ve known since you
were seven. Such joy carries a price you cannot afford to
pay.

She stroked his hair and gently kissed his
jaw, the faint bristle of his whiskers chafing the tender skin of
her lips. “I wish it were that simple,” she said softly.

He stiffened and raised up to look into her
eyes. His were serious, searching. Then he dropped his gaze, a lock
of dark hair falling over his forehead as he nodded. “So do I,” he
whispered, almost soundlessly, as though saying it aloud might make
it true.

*~*~*

Chapter Eighteen

“
The nightmare is over? Foolish boy. One does not
exile such darkness. It must be extinguished beyond repair.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Duke of Wellington
one year before the Battle of Waterloo.

In the beginning, it was always the same—a
warm fire crackled in the hush of the library at Thornbridge.
Lucien was small, seated on the floor looking up at his father, who
was reading. Black hair much like his own gleamed amidst a bright
shaft of sunlight. A long, bold nose created a shadow on Papa’s
cheek. Gregory had inherited that nose, and Lucien knew he hated
it, even though Mama called it “distinguished.” But she was not
here and neither was Gregory. It was just him and Papa.

A frown wrinkled his brow, a bubble of
anxiety swelling in his chest like a black cloud on the horizon.
How could Papa be here? He was dead, long ago taken by a ravaging
fever. Lucien recalled watching him struggle through his last,
rattling breath. Presently, Papa gave him a smile, setting his book
aside and crouching in front of Lucien.

“I am here. Of course I am here,” he said,
grasping Lucien’s small hands in his own.

The anxious tightening in his chest did not
dissipate. The sound of footsteps behind him made him turn. There
was Gregory, who looked all of fifteen. He was followed by a
giggling, black-haired toddler. Marissa.

“Gregory, did you know Papa has returned?”
Lucien asked, a wave of relief surging through him. If Gregory
could see him, perhaps this was real. But Lucien’s brother shook
his head and gave him a whack on the arm.

“Another jest, Luc? Papa’s dead. You know
that.”

Lucien swung back to where his father had
been only moments before. Gone. He was gone. The light grew dimmer,
grayer. The carpet disappeared, the wood-paneled walls replaced by
trees and a curtain of rain.

Laughter sounded behind him. He now stood on
a rise overlooking the brook that cut through the center of their
land. In the distance, he could see the sprawling stone mass of
Thornbridge. Strangely, his mother’s voice sounded faintly in his
ears. “Take care of them, Lucien. They are all you have now.”

Rain soaked his shirt, the cloth clinging to
his skin, squeezing him. Drowning him. Choking him like a noose. “I
know, Mama. I tried.” Water poured down his face; he wiped his eyes
over and over, trying to see. At last, he was able to make out her
small form. She was so far away, he could not see her features, but
she was there. She had died giving birth to Marissa, he knew. But
his heart leapt upon seeing her again. Stumbling forward, he drew
closer, but for each step he took, she receded. Rain drummed
against his skin, chilling him. Light faded and hid behind iron
clouds. Wind battered the leaves of the willow trees.

His mother became a shadow, and he could not
stop the cry of grief that tore from his chest. She was gone, too.
Why must they all leave him?

“You never take anything seriously, Luc.” It
was Gregory, now a full-grown man seated on his bay, which snuffled
and munched the grass beside Lucien.

“I do now. I wish you were still with me,
brother.” His voice was thready, squeezed tight by the need to
wail. To cry and scream like a small babe.

The distinctive sound of girlish giggles came
from his left. He turned to see Marissa, probably no older than six
or seven, spinning beside the brook. She wore a white dress, her
long, black hair loosely tied with a blue ribbon. She beamed and
twirled, her arms thrown wide as she danced to music only she could
hear. A bright red poppy was clenched in one of her hands, the
bloom seeming bigger than she was.