The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (27 page)

His smile had faded, his expression now hard
and resolute. “No one turns their back on you without paying the
price.”

Oh, dear,
she thought, gripping his
arm a bit tighter.
There goes that weakness again.
It was
difficult to say which was worse: Watching him pretend to be in
love with her or wanting more than anything for it to be true.

*~*~*

Chapter Twenty-One

“
Jealousy can be tiresome but useful. And,
occasionally, humorous.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham
to Lady Colchester, upon her complaint that Lady Reedham had
attempted to lure away her new French cook.

I really should stop staring at my
wife,
Lucien thought. No fewer than four gentlemen had
approached him since he and Victoria arrived at Lady Rutherford’s
rout. Each had felt it necessary to mention the rumors of his
infatuation, one citing tales of Lucien whisking her out of the
theater, another teasing him about being “tangled in a woman’s
skirts,” and two others noting his reluctance to take his eyes off
of her as she crossed the Rutherford ballroom to chat with Jane
Huxley.

True, this had been part of the plan to
restore her reputation, he reminded himself. As it happened, he
found it rather easy to play the part of a besotted suitor. He had
not even tried very hard.
Perhaps not at all,
he thought
with a frown.

But it would not do to become a
laughingstock.

Look at her, though,
a voice whispered
inside his head.
Is she not exquisite? The way she lights up
when she laughs, the way her hips sway when she walks, the way her
eyes soften and melt for me alone.

A man would have to be daft
not
to be
enthralled with such a creature.

Tonight, she wore a gown the color of a
sunset—bright, blushing pink with a hint of orange in a sheer,
shimmering overlay. Decorated with ruffles and rosettes at the hem,
he supposed it was not terribly different than what other ladies
wore. But the vibrant color, the way the dress seemed to move and
cling to this curve or that, and—most of all—the woman inside it,
drew his eye with hypnotic intensity.

The thump of a cane striking the floor next
to him jerked his attention away. “Lord Rutherford,” he said,
greeting the old man with a polite bow. “I was given to understand
you would not be attending this evening’s revelry.”

At nearly seventy years, the Marquess of
Rutherford was almost entirely bald, save the long, pointed set of
whiskers flanking his cheeks. It was a startling contrast to his
much younger, remarkably beautiful wife, who stood ten paces away
flirting with a buck fresh from the schoolroom. In her prime, Lady
Rutherford had been compared to a goddess, and indeed, her blond
perfection was rather Venus-like, even now that she was nearing
fifty. Her morals also mirrored those of the Roman goddess of love,
as she was legendary for her many liaisons. Her desire for
stimulation was tinged with desperation, and when her beauty had
begun to fade, she had turned to hosting salacious events attended
by the most virulent gossips and scandalous figures within the
aristocracy. All for the titillation of stirring the pot, as it
were.

Lord Rutherford was said to despise the
entertainments his wife enjoyed hosting. But, then, he was said to
despise his wife, as well. The man now harrumphed and leaned on his
cane, squinting at the crowd, a look of disgust on his wrinkled,
age-spotted countenance. “Distasteful things must occasionally be
tolerated, Atherbourne. For a proper cause, you understand.”

Lucien murmured a noncommittal reply and let
his eyes settle where they most wanted to be: on Victoria. She was
laughing at something Lady Berne was saying, her gently curved chin
tilting upward. Jane Huxley touched her arm and pointed toward a
set of doors on the opposite side of the room, just past where he
stood. She glanced toward them and collided with his gaze. Even
from this distance, he could see her breath quicken, her lips
parting, her lashes fluttering. One of her hands settled over her
midsection as though trying to contain herself.

He knew the feeling.

“I say, Atherbourne, did your brother, by
chance, mention his desire to purchase one of my properties in
Sussex?” The crackling voice of Lord Rutherford forced Lucien’s
attention back to the old man.

Lucien shook his head, partially to clear it
and partially to answer Rutherford. The man’s eyes—a deep turquoise
that was faded and milky with age—still reflected wily
intelligence.

“Superior wooded parkland. Excellent for
hunting.” Droning on for several minutes about the
sixteenth-century house and its grounds, Rutherford managed to hold
Lucien’s interest, but only because he was curious why the marquess
was so intent on selling.

In need of funds?
Lucien wondered.

“… your brother had all but taken possession
of the place before he—” The old man stopped mid-sentence, his eyes
narrowing on someone standing near the tall statue of Poseidon
positioned between two columns at one end of the room. Lucien
followed his gaze and spotted Benedict Chatham, one lean arm
propped on Poseidon’s knee, looking decidedly bored and a bit more
rumpled than usual.

Rutherford immediately excused himself and
made his way toward his son.

Trouble there,
Lucien thought,
crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. As before, his
gaze soon gravitated back to where he’d last seen Victoria—like a
billiard ball following a rut.

She wasn’t there. He searched the crowd,
finding Jane Huxley sitting along one wall, staring down at her
hands. Next, he saw Lady Berne and Annabelle Huxley talking
animatedly with a group of young ladies. No Victoria.

He straightened away from the wall and
scanned the ballroom. Where the hell was she?

Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of pink
silk whipped by amid twirling dancers. She was … dancing? Yes, he
realized as her golden head dipped and rose again in the movements
of a lively reel.

Frowning fiercely, he sidestepped a group of
young lords guffawing over a recent mishap with a phaeton, and
quickly made his way to the edge of the dance floor.

So, it was Malby, he thought. She was
partnered with Sir Barnabus Malby, a fat, smelly little toad who,
even now, panted after her lasciviously. Of course, it could just
be that the weighty man was out of breath as he tried to keep up
with the steps of the energetic dance.

Grinding his back teeth, Lucien felt rage
uncoil in his gut. No, the toad’s bulging eyes were glued to her
breasts, which jiggled delightfully as she moved and bobbed in time
with the music.

What the bloody hell was she doing dancing
with Malby? With anyone, really? She was
married
. To him. If
he were not certain it would earn him her utmost outrage, he would
toss her over his shoulder and haul her immediately to Wyatt House.
Or, better yet, to Thornbridge. Just he and Victoria, alone at his
country estate. Yes, that would be ideal.

But, first, he would choke Sir Barnabus Malby
until the toad’s eyes bulged for a very different reason. Lucien’s
fists clenched and his nostrils flared in anticipation.

Victoria pivoted, and he could see her face
again. She was smiling brightly, clearly having a great deal of
fun. Good God, he was fantasizing about killing a man simply for
dancing with his wife. Taking a deep breath to regain a sense of
calm, he slowly, deliberately loosened his fingers. The black anger
receded as he watched the delight on her lovely face.

Patience,
he thought.
Time enough
to kill the toad later.
First, he must reclaim what was his.
And no one else’s.

*~*~*

Curtsying prettily to Sir Barnabus at the
conclusion of the reel, Victoria thanked him for the dance. The man
was breathing heavily from exertion, his somewhat protruding eyes
widening alarmingly as they darted past her shoulder.

“Sir Barnabus, is something ami—”

“Appears you could use a rest, Malby.” The
low, gritted statement came from behind her. She swung around to
see Lucien, tall and imposing, glaring at the shorter, considerably
more portly gentleman. “Breathing is a precious thing. Perhaps you
will remember that next time you contemplate ogling another man’s
wife.”

Shocked at his bizarre reaction, Victoria
cried, “Lucien! What on earth …?”

Sir Barnabus pressed a handkerchief to his
dampened forehead and stammered, “I—I say, Atherbourne—”

Lucien moved around Victoria to stand less
than a foot from Sir Barnabus. His aggressive posture conveyed an
unmistakable threat. Sir Barnabus paled and stumbled back,
mumbling, “Positively stifling in here. Perhaps I will take my
leave.”

The man disappeared into the crowd, and
Victoria tugged Lucien’s sleeve to gain his attention. “Don’t you
think you’re carrying the possessive husband charade a bit far, my
lord?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“A woman dances with a man for only two
reasons, Victoria. She is seeking a husband or she is seeking to
make one jealous.” His expression was an odd blend of indignation,
self-satisfaction, and typical, Lucien-like arrogance.

“That, as you well know, is utter nonsense. I
can name at least one more reason a woman might accept a
gentleman’s invitation to dance.”

He arched one brow in inquiry.

Victoria stepped close to him. “She enjoys
dancing.”

His mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Perhaps.
But she should choose her partners more wisely.”

“Perhaps better partners should offer,” she
replied pertly.

As the first strains of a waltz began, Lucien
responded wordlessly by stepping back, bowing elegantly, and
holding out his hand for hers. Victoria hesitated only a moment
before she grinned, slid her fingers into his, and dipped a curtsy.
He swept her into his arms and moved them gracefully into the steps
of the dance, his body breathlessly close, his face within kissing
distance.

The size and heat of him engulfed her as they
spun and swayed. It was the first time they had danced together, so
she should have been surprised by the flawless way he moved. But
she was not. This was the Lucien she knew—his confidence, his
strength as he guided her, almost as though he were carrying her in
his arms. Indeed, it felt like floating. The intoxicating joy of
dancing with her husband filled her veins like champagne, making
her long to laugh aloud and brush his beautiful lips with her own.
Knowing such a thing was impossible caused a bittersweet wave to
sweep through her. But as he met and held her gaze, the room around
them disappeared until they moved alone together. When the final
notes of the waltz faded, she sighed and murmured, “That was
lovely, Lucien.”

Before he could answer, they both spied Jane
waving frantically from beside the refreshment table. The young
woman’s expression, typically either shuttered or placid, was now
animated by urgency.

“I do believe you are being summoned,” Lucien
remarked dryly.

After excusing herself, she quickly crossed
the room to where Jane stood. “What is it?” she asked in hushed
tones.

Jane swallowed, grasped Victoria’s hands, and
pulled her to a quiet corner where they both sat on an empty
chaise. “I—I heard them talking. About you. And … and Lord
Atherbourne.”

Victoria frowned. “Who was discussing
us?”

“Lady Colchester told Lady Rutherford that
you and Lord Atherbourne should never have been invited, that it
would only bring further shame upon the Rutherford name.”

“And Lady Rutherford’s response?”

Jane glanced nervously about, then tucked her
chin down and whispered, “She said that was the point precisely.
She invited you
because
of the scandal.”

Relieved, Victoria inhaled deeply and huffed
out a mild chuckle. “Oh, Jane. You had me worried.” She patted her
friend’s hand soothingly. “We knew that was the reason for the
invitation.”

Victoria’s smile soon turned into a puzzled
frown as Jane shook her head frantically and said, “That is not—not
the terrible part. I mean, it is awful, but …”

Seeing the deep concern and turmoil in her
dark eyes, Victoria swallowed. “Tell me.”

Jane’s teeth worried at her lower lip, her
eyes drifting away from Victoria’s. “Per—perhaps I shouldn’t.”

“Jane.” Victoria’s firm tone caused her
friend’s gaze to snap back to meet her own. “Tell me.”

Flushing, Jane answered with a question.
“What do you know of Mrs. Knightley?”

*~*~*

Chapter Twenty-Two

“
A lie is most effective when it is planted in
the soil of truth.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to
Lady Berne upon news of Lord Tannenbrook’s hidden talent for
spreading gossip.

“The rumors are true, I see.”

At the sarcastic comment, Lucien turned away
from watching Victoria across the ballroom where she huddled in
intense conversation with Jane Huxley.

He raised a brow. “Chatham. What rumors are
those, precisely?”

Thin and pale, the jaded lord leaned
negligently against a white column, his cravat rumpled, his arms
crossed over his chest. He glanced at Lucien. “When Alvanley
suggested you got yourself leg-shackled out of some misguided
infatuation with Blackmore’s sister, I thought him rather amusingly
gullible. The Lucien Wyatt I knew was no woman’s fool. It seems I
was mistaken.” Chatham’s lips quirked. “Rare. But it does
happen.”

“You know nothing about me.”

“Ah. So, Malby owes you money, perhaps? A
much better reason to nearly come to blows with the man than his
fondness for your wife’s breasts. Lovely as they are.”