The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (13 page)

“How do you mean?”

She poked at a baked egg as though testing
its texture. “For example, I now know you do not care for fish. But
what would you say is the dish you like best?”

“Trifle. Simply delicious.” He raised a brow.
“Anything else you’re curious about?”

She swallowed a bite, seemingly surprised by
his willingness to answer.

Damn, he should not have snapped at her
earlier. It set a bad precedent, made her hesitant when he wanted
her receptive. Eager.

“Do you have a house in the country?” she
asked tentatively.

“Of course. Several, in fact. Thornbridge
Park is the primary estate. It’s in Derbyshire.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

He nodded, taking a sip of coffee. “You’ll
quite like it, I think.” For several minutes, he described the
estate, with its graceful green hills, surrounding patches of
woodlands, the brook winding through the center of the property,
and Thornbridge Hall, which had been rebuilt and expanded by his
grandfather forty years earlier.

Her eyes took on a dreamy quality, and she
sighed. “It sounds … oh, just lovely, Lucien. I cannot wait to see
it.”

There she was—the glowing angel from earlier
this morning. Her face was once again luminous with happiness. And
Victoria’s happiness was pure aphrodisiac to Lucien: intoxicating,
arousing, and addictive. He pictured all the ways he could cause
her to remain in such a state for extended periods of time. Most of
them involved his tongue.

She shifted and another flash of discomfort
briefly shadowed her brow.

An idea, wicked and delicious, formed in his
mind. A way to make her very happy and perhaps a bit more
comfortable. If he could control himself, that was.

Of course I can,
he scoffed.
I am
no longer an adolescent youth, at the mercy of every prurient
impulse. I will simply indulge in a little play, but stop before it
goes too far.

“My lord, my lady. I trust everything is
satisfactory?” Billings bellowed, abruptly intruding on Lucien’s
thoughts.

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Victoria replied. “Please
tell Cook breakfast was delightful. I am particularly fond of the
rolls.”

“Pardon me, my lady. I do believe those are
irises.”

She appeared puzzled, glancing around in
confusion. Upon spying the silver vase of flowers on the sideboard,
her brow cleared. “Yes, you are right, of course. How silly of
me.”

“Billings,” Lucien shouted.

“Yes, my lord?”

“You may leave us now. Please close the doors
on your way out. And make sure we are not disturbed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

As the doors closed behind Billings and the
footman who had been assigned to breakfast duty, Lucien eyed his
wife across the expanse of the table. The distance was a mere six
feet, so he could easily watch as Victoria’s eyes darted to the
doors and back to him.

“Lucien. Was that strictly necess—”

“Come here, Victoria.”

Her eyes widened and her lips remained open
in a small “O.” She did not move, however.

“Victoria, you are my wife, are you not?”

“Well, yes, I—”

“And did you not just yesterday promise to
obey me?”

“Oh. Um. About that, I suppose it is true in
the strictest sense—”

His stare turned predatory. “Then, when I say
‘come here,’ I expect you will do so.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, her lips
tightening. Finally, she huffed out a “very well.” Tossing her
napkin on her plate, she rose to her feet and flounced over to
stand before him. He turned his chair to the side so his knees
brushed against her skirt.

“May I ask why you so urgently require my
proximity, my lord?”

“Certainly,” he said softly, his hands now
circling her waist and tugging her between his legs. He grinned
wickedly. “But it is better if I show you.”

He stared at her bosom, rising and falling in
an increased rhythm as she sensed what he was about. By God, she
had magnificent breasts—round and full and tipped by sweet little
rosebud nipples that now poked pleadingly at the white muslin of
her bodice.

“Lucien?”

He ran his hands over her buttocks
soothingly, calming her as he would a nervous mare.

“I don’t think I can …” she began in a
whisper.

“Shh. I know, angel.” His hands worked their
way beneath her skirts. One trailed up between her legs to stroke
her inner thigh while the other gently massaged the taut muscles of
her backside. Using his middle finger to brush her damp curls, he
then explored further to find her soft folds already slick with
desire. His thumb found and delicately circled her swollen
clitoris. When his exploring finger stroked her tight opening, she
jumped and tried to pull away.

“No, love. Stay with me. You are sore here,
are you not?”

Her eyes tightly shut and a fierce frown on
her face, she bit her lower lip and nodded emphatically.

“And do you know why?”

She hesitated before nodding again, this time
less assuredly.

“It is because I was deep inside you so many
times I lost count, stretching this secret place over and over. I
could not help myself, Victoria. I could not stop.”

He had intended the words as seduction, but
they were nothing more than the raw, unvarnished truth. The effect
they had on her was instant and galvanizing. She squirmed against
his thumb, grasped at his shoulders and leaned into him, whimpering
in desire.

“Now, what is a husband to do after he has
been such a brute?” he rasped, nuzzling her breast with his cheek.
“It is his duty to soothe his bride, to ease her.”

Leaving his hand in its warm nest between her
thighs, he removed the other from beneath her skirts to push all
the dishes from his side of the table. The clinking and rattling of
china, crystal, and silver being shoved aside startled open her
glorious, sea-blue eyes. He wrapped his arm about her waist and
lifted her bottom onto the edge of the table, pressing her to lie
back.

She panted and looked at him uncertainly but
did not resist.

He quickly slid her skirts over her knees and
up her thighs to rest above her waist, then grasped her legs and
spread them wide, falling to his knees to worship at her altar. And
the masterpiece that was her feminine core deserved to receive his
tribute, he thought. Golden curls served more as a frame than a
mask for dark pink folds, ripe and juicy-sweet. At the center, her
hard little bud, swollen and straining after the dance of his
thumb, begged to be caressed.

He lightly ran two fingers from her clitoris
to where she parted at the entrance of her channel, flushed an
angry red and weeping for him. Barely pausing to spread her lips
for his kiss, he stroked his tongue over that hard little bud, and
immediately trailed down to where she was so tender, repeating the
journey several times.

She moaned his name and clutched at his hair,
writhing against the hard surface of the table. Lapping at her
delicately, he bathed and soothed her with his tongue, letting his
fingers lightly squeeze and tug at her sweet bud. As a reward for
his efforts, he inhaled her scent—wildflowers and a storm at
sea—and consumed her honeyed nectar until he was drunk on it. The
finest ambrosia, it was.

As he felt her climax draw closer, he thrust
his tongue deep inside the tightly clenching little mouth, giving
her needy sheath what it demanded—a firm presence to cling to. She
exploded and rippled around his tongue, arching up against his
mouth and hands while yanking at his hair.

And she screamed. She screamed
his
name. No one else’s.

No other man would ever see her like this,
eyes hooded, expression dreamy and replete, skin misted and
blushing. No other would ever taste her the way he had. The way he
could whenever he desired. Which would be often.

It was almost as good as coming himself.

Suddenly, the ragingly hard cock he had
managed to ignore while tending to Victoria decided to make its
demands known. Vociferously.

He groaned as he rose between her legs,
bracing his fists next to her hips and dropping his head as he
leaned over her. Teeth clenched against the need to take her fully,
he drew shuddering breaths and tried to think of terribly
un
arousing things. Like the Prime Minister. Or coal dust.
Anything, for the love of God.

A small, gentle hand stroked his forearm.
“Lucien, you can … I mean, I want you to …”

He laughed humorlessly and shook his head.
“No, angel. You are too tender. I must give you a day or two to
recuperate.”

In a swift, unexpected motion, Victoria
shifted and pushed herself up to sit before him, her eyes meeting
his, her hands cupping either side of his neck, and her knees
straddling his hips.

“But, I
want
you to be fulfilled, as
well. It is not enough for me to experience such pleasure alone.
You must be with me.” She kissed him passionately, tenderly,
stroking his cheeks with her thumbs.

Breathing heavily and feeling the blood
pulsing in his cock, he wrapped his arms tightly around his wife
and let himself savor her kiss, her soft lips, her slick
tongue.

She broke away and drew his forehead down to
touch hers. “Is there not some way I can do for you what you have
done for me?”

He stared into her eyes, telling himself she
deserved so much better than someone like him. She deserved to be
cosseted and pampered, handled gently and treated with reverence.
Not reduced to servicing his uncontrollable lust.

But right then, the darkness beckoned,
proving irresistible.

He nodded, swallowed hard, and took her hands
in his. “I’ll show you,” he whispered.

And then he did.

*~*~*

Chapter Eleven

“
Just when you begin to think a man worthy of
admiration, he suffers a moment of candor, and your misapprehension
is corrected at once.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham
upon overhearing the Prince Regent’s marital advice to the Duke of
Wellington.

“Trifle, my lady?” Mrs. Garner exclaimed.
“Twice a week, you say?”

Victoria nodded, still perusing the list of
servants the good-natured housekeeper had provided a week ago. A
few of them would travel to Thornbridge Park with her and Lucien
when the season ended, but she was still debating over the precise
number. Since she was not familiar with Lucien’s country estate,
she could only make an educated guess. Her new lady’s maid, Emily,
was a delight and would certainly be among them.

She tapped a finger against her lips
absently. Oh, bother. Did Thornbridge already have a full
contingent of footmen? Perhaps she should leave most of them
here.

“Cook is known to say she’s better with
savory than sweet. Jes’ yesterday, she says, ‘Mrs. Garner, now, ye
knows I’m a mite better with ham than honey cakes.’ Tha’s true
enough, my lady. But if ye wants trifle, twice a week no less, Mrs.
Garner will make certain-sure it gets served.”

Victoria turned to the housekeeper with a
wide smile. “Of course you will, Mrs. Garner. No doubt you can
persuade Cook to create trifle that will cause Lady Reedham’s new
French cook to weep with envy.”

The ruddy-faced woman stood taller with each
word, her gap-toothed smile beaming with pride. “Consider it done,
my lady.”

Victoria nodded. “Now,” she said, folding her
list and slipping it inside her sleeve. She glanced around the
sitting room, her eyes landing on the trunk near the window. “Let’s
discuss my painting studio.”

The ruffled edge of Mrs. Garner’s white cap
fluttered as she bobbed her head. “Ye mentioned ye might need
furniture moved about, so I told Geoffrey and Donald to be
prepared.”

“Excellent. I will need a room with the best
possible light.”

“Aye, my lady. The yellow room on the second
floor is quite nice—”

“Oh, but I was thinking the one at the front
of the house.”

Mrs. Garner’s face froze, her expression
bordering on horror. “The—the blue room, my lady?”

“Yes. I noticed it is already cleared of
furniture. And the windows face south, which allows much better
light throughout the day. London has little enough as it is.”
Noting that the normally animated servant had gone pale and
terribly still, Victoria asked, “What is it, Mrs. Garner?”

The woman shuddered as though a ghost had
passed through her. “P-perhaps ye should speak wif Lord Atherbourne
first, my lady.”

Victoria blinked in puzzlement. “He has given
me leave to choose any room in the house.”

“He—he did?
Any
room?”

“Is there a problem with the blue room?”

“Ah, no, my lady. It’s been cleaned, top to
bottom.”

Baffled by the housekeeper’s bizarre
reaction, Victoria gave the woman a confused smile. “Of course it
has. The whole of Wyatt House is pristine.”

“I jes’ meant …” She swallowed visibly and
took a deep breath. “Pay no mind to silly old Mrs. Garner, my lady.
If it’s the blue room ye be wantin’ for yer studio, tha’s the one
ye shall have. Geoffrey and Donald will move yer easel and supplies
within the hour.”

A thrill of anticipation ran through her at
the thought of having a brush in her hand again. Standing before a
fresh canvas was like being washed clean, the world newly born. At
Clyde-Lacey House, she had set up her studio in a guest bedchamber,
but the eastern light had meant fewer hours to paint. While in
London, social demands did not allow much time for solitude, but
ah, those few stolen hours when she was alone with her art. To
savor a swirling stroke of crimson or bold slash of ochre, to
witness the vision only she could see, now pouring through her
mind, down her arm, out her fingers, and onto cloth. Becoming
real
. It was almost mystical, a conjuring of powerful
sorcery.