The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (24 page)

“Look, Luc!” she shouted in delight. “The
rain has stopped.”

“Be careful, Mary Sophia,” he shouted back.
He’d always used her full name when he wanted her attention. “You
don’t want to fall in the water and drown, do you?”

She glanced up at him, her expression
transforming from joy to sorrow in a blink. “But you’re here to
save me. Don’t you wish me to be happy?”

“Of course, little one,” he said, instantly
regretting his warning, which had been much too dire. She was just
a girl. She should be able to play and dance without fear of dying.
But they had already lost Mama and Papa.

The rain began again, falling softly at
first. He felt it, cold and damp. Soon, it wrapped around him in a
wet cloud. The wind picked up, creaking the branches of the trees.
A sudden gust rocked him from front to back. Clenching his eyes
closed, he waited for it to pass. When he opened them again,
Marissa was farther away, about fifty feet downstream. She was no
longer dancing. Instead, she walked slowly, somberly, the wilted
red poppy sagging in her loose fist.

She was too close to the edge. The need to
warn her burned in his throat. He shouted her name. Again. And
again. She didn’t respond.

Gregory’s horse crowded against Lucien’s
shoulder, pushing him off balance. “She can’t hear you, little
brother. You’re too far away.”

A peal of thunder boomed overhead. The horse
shied nervously, knocking Lucien sideways with its enormous bulk.
Lucien slipped, his feet going out from beneath him in the grasping
muck. He landed painfully on his side, then watched in horror as
the horse reared above him, one of its terrified eyes visible as it
folded its neck to the side. Falling. It was falling. Onto him.

Horrifying pain like nothing he’d ever
experienced ripped through his legs as a thousand pounds of
horseflesh landed, crushing him. Pinning him. He writhed, screamed.
The world went dark. Thunder cracked louder and louder. Men were
shouting, wailing. Dying all around him.

He waited for it to end. Prayed for it to
end.

Then, suddenly, it did.

“Wake up, Luc.”

It was his brother’s voice. The voice he’d
heard countless times in the early dawn, telling him he’d better
get up if he wanted to catch any fish. He opened his eyes. He was
lying on the bare wooden floor of an empty bedroom at Wyatt House.
It was quiet, but for the ticking of his mother’s ormolu clock.

“Are we going fishing?” Lucien asked, relief
flooding through him at the thought that it had all been a
nightmare. A terrible, awe-inspiring dream. Gregory was not dead.
Marissa was not in danger. It was a day like any other. Except that
he was lying on the floor. That part was unusual.

He stared up at the white paneled ceiling,
studying the ornate moldings along one edge where it met the blue
walls of the room. It was blessedly quiet. No booming thunder. No
rushing wind. No screaming horses or cries of agony. The ticking
clock only served to make the silence thicker. A chill ran through
him. Afraid to glance around, knowing he would find the room empty,
he focused intently on a shell-shaped plaster flourish, then closed
his eyes.

“It is time for me to leave, Lucien.” It was
her
voice, sweet and sad.

Tears leaked from his eyes, trailing down
along his temples. “No,” he whispered. “Please don’t go.”

Finally, although dread weighted his muscles
and made his movements stiff, he opened his eyes and looked at her.
She was older now, but still wearing white. The red poppy was
sodden, dripping crimson on the floor. “I must. It hurts too much
to stay,” she replied, her eyes both sorrowful and empty, her skin
as white as her dress.

“No,” he said again, repeating the word over
and over. As though that would make a difference. As though it
would change what happened. But it never did. Even as he said it,
he knew. It never did.

*~*~*

Victoria wasn’t certain what awakened her. It
could have been Lucien’s arm brushing her shoulder. Or the shifting
of the mattress as he tensed and rolled onto his back. But she
suspected it was the whimper. Such an unusual sound coming from her
strong, commanding husband. The quiet cry sent ice trilling across
her flesh.

“Lucien,” she queried softly, turning onto
her side so she might see him better in the early light. Propping
herself on one elbow, she shifted beneath the blankets and slowly
reached out to stroke his bare shoulder with her fingertips. Damp.
His skin was soaked with sweat.

He writhed and turned his head away as though
in terrible pain. “No,” he moaned. “No.” His breathing quickened
and every muscle tensed. Victoria’s chest squeezed around her
heart. She stroked his arm where it lay, seemingly pinned to his
side. His muscles were hard as stone. Pulling back the blankets,
she saw that his entire torso fairly vibrated with tension.

What on earth?
she thought, concern
gripping her hard. Victoria debated the wisdom of waking him. Being
awakened in the midst of a nightmare could be disorienting and
embarrassing, especially if he knew she had seen him in such a
vulnerable state. On the other hand, she could not bear to see
anyone suffer so, even if it was inside a dream. Abruptly, he
sighed, and as though a dam had broken, air surged out of him. His
forehead smoothed, and within minutes, his muscles fully
relaxed.

She murmured nonsensical reassurances,
continuing to stroke his shoulder. Hours earlier, they had arrived
home after making love in the carriage, both quiet and pensive. As
he had slipped into bed beside her, she had fully expected to feel
his arms slide around her waist, to have to explain why, after
letting him seduce her in a darkened theater, she would once again
deny him in their own bed. But he hadn’t touched her, had only
sighed and drifted off to sleep, his breaths deep and long.

She was not so fortunate. As she’d lain next
to him in the dark, she could not deceive herself: He was a
constant temptation, the finest nine-course supper imaginable
offered to a starving woman. Friendship had not eased her desire;
but then, neither had holding him at arm’s length.
So, what
would you like to do now, Victoria?
The answer came swiftly: To
be his wife in all ways. But that was far too costly. Wasn’t it?
The confusion had kept her awake well into the night. Finally,
sleep had come, only to be interrupted by the troubled man beside
her.

Slowly, she lowered her head back down onto
her pillow, but remained watchful, listening for any change. It
came minutes later with a whisper she almost missed. Immediately,
she sat up, staring closely at his face. His mouth was open,
working as though he were speaking, but no sound was coming out. It
looked as though he was saying “no” over and over and over. The
soundless plea amidst such stillness chilled her to the bone. It
spoke of pain so deep, it could not be healed. Instinctively, she
scooted closer to him, grabbing his arm and wrapping it around her,
then hugging his side with her body. She lay her cheek against his
chest, stroked his belly, and spoke his name gently. Again, and
again, and again.

She repeated it a dozen times before she
sensed him awaken. She knew because that airless whisper stopped.
But he did not move, instead lying in perfect stillness.

“Husband?” she murmured. “Are you all
right?”

When he didn’t answer, she lifted herself up
to sit beside him and searched his face with worried eyes. His arm
dropped onto the bed as though he had no strength. He was pale, but
perhaps that was the watery gray light coming through the
windows.

“Lucien, you were having a nightmare.”
Carefully, she reached out and stroked his cheek, needing the
contact probably more than he needed her touch. “It’s over now.
Please tell me you’re all right.”

Several moments passed, several beats of her
sluggish heart, before his dark, troubled eyes met hers. They were
unreadable, but gleamed in the weak light. He turned away for a
breath, then turned back but refused to meet her gaze, instead
reaching up to stroke the small of her back through her night
rail.

“I am fine. You should go back to sleep.”

She shook her head. “Your dream, it must have
been terrible.”

He pulled away, throwing back the covers and
sitting up on the edge of the bed. She watched as his strong, bare
back slumped and his head hung forward for a moment before he stood
and made his way toward the dressing room. He did not answer her
question. He did not say another word. He simply dressed in riding
clothes, came back to the bed to lay a gentle kiss on her forehead,
then left her alone, wondering what had just happened.

*~*~*

Chapter Nineteen

“
A woman has needs, Charles. Unfortunately for
you, the greatest ones are the most expensive.”
—The Dowager
Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Lord Wallingham, upon being
confronted with the bill from a day of extravagance at Mrs. Bell’s
shop on Upper King Street.

“Take a look at this one.” Victoria shoved
another fashion plate beneath Jane’s nose and watched her new
friend roll her eyes. “Come now, the waistline is perfect. It’s a
bit lower than most current styles, but I think for your
shape—”

“You mean the shape of a giant strawberry?”
came the wry response. “Please. Unless the cloth magically turns a
sphere into a cylinder, this dress would prove no more flattering
than every other gown in my wardrobe.”

Victoria sniffed. “Rubbish. You are not a
sphere. You are simply generously endowed with ample curves.”

Jane turned to face Victoria, who sat beside
her on a settee in Mrs. Bowman’s shop. She removed her spectacles
and promptly offered them up. “Here,” she said. “I fear you may
need these more than I do.”

Chuckling at her friend’s antics, Victoria
shook her head and resumed examining sketches of gowns and
accessories.

“You really do enjoy this, don’t you?” Jane
asked.

Victoria glanced up, seeing genuine
puzzlement on the young woman’s face. “It appeals to my love of
beauty,” she answered. “Fashion is color, shape, and texture. It is
an enhancement of one’s form.” She shrugged. “In some ways, it is
like painting.”

On the opposite side of the room, Mrs. Bowman
strode through with wide sweeps of her arms, rattling off
instructions in accented English, and leading two assistants behind
her like puppies. Abruptly, she stopped mid-sentence, her eyes
locking on Jane. Victoria looked over at her friend, who sat frozen
in place. Mrs. Bowman walked toward them, a slight frown settling
between her dark brows.

“
Spaventoso,
” the elegant woman
muttered, her gaze fixed on Jane’s gown. Victoria could not be
certain, as she knew only a smattering of Italian, but she thought
the modiste’s comment was something along the lines of “appalling.”
Mrs. Bowman reached forward and plucked at Jane’s pale yellow
sleeve, which puffed out from her shoulders, then sagged rather
sadly. “Hmmph,” the modiste grunted. “Who dresses you?”

Jane’s head jerked back a bit. “I—I beg your
pardon?”

Victoria decided to intervene before Jane’s
distaste for this outing grew any worse. “Mrs. Bowman, allow me to
introduce Lady Jane Huxley, the daughter of Lord and Lady Berne.
Lady Jane, this is Mrs. Bowman.”

Jane rose to her feet, her face flushing
slightly. She greeted the modiste, who still examined her with a
clinical, disapproving eye.

“I thought perhaps a new gown or two might be
just the thing—” Victoria began, only to be interrupted by a long
string of rapid-fire Italian. “Ah, pardon?”

Looking impatient, Mrs. Bowman turned to snap
her fingers at a mousy assistant. “Take her to the back. We must
measure first.”

“Oh, but I thought we were just going to look
at fashion plates,” Jane protested weakly, her voice fading as Mrs.
Bowman grasped her elbow and propelled her toward the curtained
doorway to the dressing area.

A half hour later, Jane emerged through the
same curtain, her face a study in misery, her hair slightly mussed,
her yellow gown wrinkled on one side. She looked as though she had
been caught up in a violent whirlwind.

“Oh, dear,” Victoria said, smothering an
inappropriate urge to laugh. “Was it terrible, then?”

Jane picked up her shawl from where she had
left it on the settee, sniffed, and pushed her glasses further up
on her little round nose. “That depends on one’s perspective,” she
replied matter-of-factly. “Do you enjoy torture by a thousand tiny
pins and abject humiliation whilst unclothed?”

Victoria shook her head.

“Then yes. I believe ‘terrible’ would be
accurate.”

Despite Jane’s resistance and numerous
protests, over the next hour Mrs. Bowman and her two assistants
drew up an order for a dizzying number of gowns, many in darker,
more dramatic colors than were typical for a girl in her first or
second season. The modiste commanded the effort like a conductor of
a grand symphony, her hands waving theatrically, Italian phrases
intermingling with English. In the end, the eight-page order was
presented to Jane, who took one glance and blanched to
approximately the color of chalk. Eyes wide as saucers, Jane shook
her head, first slowly, then adamantly. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, but Jane, you must at least consider the
bronze gown—” Victoria protested, only to be stopped by her
friend’s flat stare.

“There is perhaps a month left in the
season,” Jane said. “This kind of extravagance cannot be justified,
even for one’s debut. And I am well beyond that.”

It was true. Jane was in her second season,
and had yet to acquire a single suitor, much less a proposal. At
nineteen, she had time left before she was considered on the shelf,
but Victoria had hoped a new wardrobe might revitalize her friend’s
prospects and boost her confidence. As it was, Jane was the
quintessential wallflower—quiet, colorless, and invisible. And with
her refusal of Mrs. Bowman’s efforts, that appeared unlikely to
change.