The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (26 page)

As was customary when he was like this, she
went hot and weak, sighing and leaning back against the door. Only,
the door was not there. It brushed her back then disappeared behind
her. She stumbled awkwardly into her studio, and he leapt forward
to catch her, his chin grazing her forehead. Laughing, she braced
her hands on his arms and steadied them both, saying, “I forgot I
unlatched it earlier.”

Feeling him tense unexpectedly, she’d
wondered if perhaps he had hurt himself. But that made no sense; he
was as strong as a Thoroughbred—hardly prone to turned ankles and
such. Her laughter had tapered and died as she got a look at his
face. He paled to stark white, his eyes vacant as they stared
fixedly over her shoulder.

“What is it, Lucien?” she had asked, twisting
around to look about the room, wondering what had him so riveted.
All seemed in order. Unable to find any obvious cause, she turned
back to her husband, who remained frozen just inside the doorway,
the muscles in his face rigid.

For long minutes, he had simply stared at the
walls of the room. She spoke his name several times, but he did not
seem to hear. His eyes brushed over her face without recognition,
then returned to a spot on the wooden floor just in front of the
fireplace. Ice bloomed beneath her skin as she watched him. This
man was a stranger. Not her Lucien.

It had so terrified her that she immediately
grasped his hands and yanked as hard as she could. “Lucien!” she
shouted. “Answer me.” She mimicked the voice her soft-spoken mother
had used when particularly vexed with Colin’s antics—firm and
authoritative. It appeared to work, as his face snapped back toward
her, and something sparked in his turbulent eyes. “You must tell me
what is wrong.”

A full-body shudder had run through him,
similar to the trembling she had witnessed during his nightmares.
Was this simply grief? she wondered. Had the loss of his brother
damaged his mind such that these episodes of—what? Shock?
Despair?—came on like a sudden squall, random and disquieting? She
did not know. All she knew was that he hid a great deal from
her.

“What is it?” she’d demanded again.

He had stiffened and pulled away from her,
stepping slowly back toward the door. Her hands remained
outstretched, colder as he retreated. “It’s nothing,” he whispered,
then shook his head briskly, his hair falling down over his
forehead. He pulled in a stuttering breath like a man who had
nearly drowned. Clearing his throat, he repeated without meeting
her eyes, “Nothing at all.” And then, like they followed a script
only he had read, but which must be repeated each time she drew too
close to the source of his pain, he backed away and left her alone.
Later, he would return to normal, acting as though the incident had
never happened.

Brought back to the present when a bird
swooped in front of them, she released the memory with a deep
sigh.

“That was rather wistful. What are you
thinking about?”

Plastering a smile on her face, she looked up
at Lucien where he walked beside her and shook her head. “Nothing,
particularly. Just that I prefer the country.”

His gaze brushed over her. “We’re to depart
for Thornbridge at the end of June, but we can leave sooner if you
like. I have no special love for town, myself.”

A part of her longed to say yes, to leave as
soon as possible. To forget London existed. He assumed she would
travel with him to his country estate after the season was over,
continue living together as husband and wife. She, on the other
hand, was sure of nothing. “I wish we could,” she said softly.

“Why can’t we?”

“You know why. We must dance the dance
society demands. The more we are seen this season, the less the
scandal will matter next year and the year after.”

He was quiet for a long time, seemingly
content with her answer. They had passed several groups of
acquaintances earlier, when they first entered the park, but now
they were alone on this stretch of pathway. As they arrived at a
bench beside a pair of tall linden trees, Lucien gestured toward
it. “Shall we?”

She nodded and sat, gazing across the green
expanse of lawn toward the water of the Serpentine. “Do you miss
it?” she asked, feeling the light breeze play across her cheek, the
heat of his body next to her on the bench. “Thornbridge, I
mean.”

Sensing his hesitation, she glanced up at his
face. He was frowning. “It is beautiful. You will love it, I
suspect.”

She smiled gently. “So you’ve said.” Folded
in her lap, her hands refused to be still, her fingers clasping and
loosening, fidgeting and twisting.

Why is this so difficult?
she
wondered.
Just ask him.

“Does it remind you of—of your brother?”

As expected, the mere mention of Gregory
caused Lucien to stiffen. He did not look at her, but stared
straight ahead. “Most things do. Wyatt House was his, as well.”

She waited for him to continue, but he
didn’t. “That must pain you, to live in the same places, to be
called by the same title.” Hesitating only a moment, she laid one
hand on his arm. He looked hard at where she touched him, saying
nothing. The furrow between his brows might be sadness or
irritation—she could not be certain.

But she was determined to have this
conversation, and so forged ahead. “When my parents … when they
died, I pictured them everywhere. I even thought I saw Mama once in
the morning room at Blackmore Hall. I turned and realized it was
merely a shadow.” Her voice grew wispy. Remembering was difficult,
and she knew it was worse—more recent and raw—for Lucien. “You were
close to Gregory, were you not?”

He appeared captivated by the sight of her
hand resting on his forearm. “As close as brothers ever are, I
suppose. I was away a good deal.”

“With the cavalry.”

“Yes.”

Silence fell between them. His reluctance to
discuss his past, his brother’s death, was palpable, a force
pressing her to retreat. She would not. She refused to give in.
“But you miss him.”

Slowly, his eyes rose to meet hers. Terrible,
hollow pain filled the charcoal depths. “Yes,” he rasped. “I miss
him.”

Sliding her hand down his arm to clasp his
fingers, she squeezed tightly and leaned into him, placing her face
inches from his. “That is as it should be. When such a connection
has been severed, it is as though a part of yourself is gone.”

His throat worked visibly, and his gaze
dropped to where her hands now grasped his, holding him in place.
Sensing she was reaching beyond a barrier that had been between
them since the beginning, she continued, “Don’t you suppose I would
feel much the same?”

Tension suffused his body. “Victoria …”

“I am your wife, Lucien. He was your brother.
And, yes, it is true Harrison was involved in his death—”

“I do not wish to discuss this.”

“—but can you not see how your insistence on
keeping me from
my
brother—”

He extricated his hands from hers and stood
abruptly. “I said I do not wish to discuss it. We should return
home.”

She stood as well, vexation with his
stubbornness causing her to stamp her foot and glare up at him.
“What if I am with child? Have you considered that?”

His eyes widened to an alarming degree,
dropping to her belly and flying back to her face. “You aren’t
…?”

She crossed her arms, gratified to finally
have a reaction from the great lummox. “The babe would be part
Lacey, would he not?”

Lucien appeared both appalled and
thunderstruck, as though she had taken a trout by the tail and
struck him across the face with it. He grasped her shoulders. “Are
you with child, Victoria?”

“No. I do not believe so.” She watched him
slump then turn wary. “I was simply pointing out that you are bound
to Harrison through me. And through any children we would have
together.”

He snorted, seemingly regaining his
equilibrium. “Perhaps you are not aware, my dear, but certain
activities are necessary to beget children.”

“Are you saying you would like to resume …
said activities?”

Brows arched, he crossed his arms over his
chest, mimicking her own posture. “Are you?”

Suddenly uncomfortable with the public
setting, Victoria glanced around the park, mollified that no one
was near enough to overhear. “You were right. We should make our
way home. The hour grows late.”

Lucien grinned wickedly and bent his head
down to hover near hers. “So eager, love. Not to worry. I am ever
at your disposal.”

Blushing, she lightly slapped his arm and set
off along the path. “I meant we shall be late for the Rutherford
affair.”

An amused “hmm” from beside her was the only
response she received. They strolled in silence for long minutes
until they reached the more populated area of the park, where she
felt his hand slip into hers and wrap it securely in the crook of
his arm. Startled, she shot him a questioning look. He answered
with a subtle nod toward the small crowd of matrons gathered near
the park’s entrance.

Oh, yes. We are supposed to be in
love,
she thought, a small sigh of disappointment escaping.
Odd how one forgets such things.

As they approached the group, the ladies eyed
them and whispered behind their hands. One of them—Lord Underwood’s
widow, if Victoria was not mistaken—wore a disapproving expression
and an ugly gray pelisse buttoned up to her pointed chin. It was
rather surprising to see Lady Underwood puckering more than usual,
but such had been the reaction of many ladies since the
scandal.

Lucien slowed as though he intended to stop
for a chat. Victoria tugged at his arm. “Let us continue on,
husband,” she murmured.

Raising a brow, he glanced between her and
Lady Underwood, who now tilted her nose in the air and deliberately
turned her back to them. A tic appeared along his jaw. Beneath her
fingers, his muscles turned hard as stone. “Not just yet.”
Propelling them forward, his strides became purposeful.

Victoria whispered, “What are you about?”
Truly, the look in his eyes was worrisome.

He grinned. It did nothing to comfort
her.

“Lucien?” she hissed.

He did not answer. By then, they were a few
feet from the women, most of whom were chatting with one another,
pretending not to see them. “Ladies!” he said jovially. “A fine
afternoon, is it not?”

Two of them—a younger woman in a blue gown
and a lady with a cheerfully wrinkled countenance and a sparkle in
her eyes—turned to greet them, but the rest of the group acted as
though they hadn’t heard him. “Lord Atherbourne, isn’t it?” the
older one queried. Victoria did not recognize her but immediately
wanted to sketch her; even the woman’s wrinkles appeared to be
smiling.

He bowed. “Lady Darnham, it has been too
long.”

The younger woman, who stared at Lucien in a
most disconcerting way stood mute and wide-eyed. Lady Darnham
introduced her as her granddaughter, Miss Clarissa Meadows. In
turn, Lucien introduced Victoria. Lady Underwood’s back remained a
gray woolen wall behind the two women, although the three others in
the group stood sideways, casting glances at Victoria, apparently
undecided whether greeting her constituted a breach of moral
cleanliness.

“And who are your companions?” her husband
asked innocently. Inside, Victoria cringed. Oh, dear. This was not
going to end well.

Lady Darnham introduced the others. The
sideways ladies actually managed to turn three-quarters toward
Victoria, nodding as they were named. It was a good sign, she
supposed. At least they acknowledged her presence. Lady Underwood,
however, was not so easily swayed. When she finally pivoted to face
them, her cold black eyes stared over Victoria’s shoulder, her
silence a firm condemnation.

Lucien squinted and tapped his chin.
“Underwood, Underwood. Ah, yes. I remember now. I met your husband
on several occasions. Fine fellow. Never knew anyone with a better
nose for good brandy and a favorable game of hazard.”

The ladies shifted nervously. Victoria hoped
her suddenly rapid blinking was the only outward sign of alarm.
Lucien, please don’t do this,
she thought. But he failed to
receive her frantic unspoken message. God help her, he charged
forth like a warring knight armed with razor-sharp innuendo.

“His appreciation for the pleasures of life
was nigh unparalleled, in my estimation. Now, some would say he
appreciated himself into an early grave, but not I. Those rumors
are nothing but conjecture.”

Red-faced and narrow-eyed, Lady Underwood
spat, “You are a vile liar, sir.”

“Liar? Oh, no, I assure you I don’t believe a
word of it. What kind of shriveled, dishonorable wretch would I be
if I credited every sensational accusation that made the rounds?”
He gave a mocking chuckle. “A sad excuse for a gentleman, I
daresay. And a painfully dull one, at that.”

“Lucien,” Victoria muttered beneath her
breath.
Make him stop, Lord. Please.

Lady Darnham cleared her throat, but before
she could intervene with some polite redirection, Lady Underwood
turned on her heel and stalked away, a stiff, gray figure striding
alone down the path toward Park Lane.

“Well,” Lucien said cheerfully, giving them
all a broad, dashing smile. “I do hope you enjoy the rare bit of
blue sky we are graced with today, ladies.” He sent Victoria a
glance of smoldering adoration. “Of course, when I am with Lady
Atherbourne, the splendors of fine weather fade into
insignificance. For her beauty outshines even the sun on a
cloudless day.”

Victoria thought she heard Miss Clarissa
Meadows sigh with longing. But perhaps that was herself. After they
bid their farewells, and she managed to recover from the wave of
heat and melting weakness, she muttered to Lucien, “Was that really
necessary?”