The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (37 page)

As her eyes met his, blue-green and
unflinching, he realized she was sincere. Her honest assessment of
James was that he had been a stalwart friend to Lucien. And that
was true. But how would she know? “You’ve been meeting with him
regularly, have you?” he asked softly.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. Today
was the first time.” Her expression grew sad, sympathetic. “He
explained what happened last year.”

Dread, thick and paralyzing, flooded through
him. How much had James told her?

“Suffering so much loss all at once,” she
said, her voice gentle. “I cannot bear to imagine how you endured
it.”

The air fled his body, leaving his lungs to
struggle and burn. She knew. Oh, dear God. She knew about the
darkness. The madness.
No. No, no, no, no.
It was his
greatest shame, his inability to escape from the black pit. If she
knew …

“I understand better now, Lucien. You
believed Harrison was responsible. Vengeance became your purpose.
But now you must surely see this path can only end in further
destruction. For you. For me. Is that what Gregory or Marissa would
have wanted, do you suppose?”

Unable to hold her gaze, he drifted toward
the windows, staring out at the swirling gray fog. He braced his
hands on the sill. “It was not what anyone wanted,” he confessed
hoarsely. “Including me.” His head fell forward, bowing under the
strain of remembering. “At the time, it was the only thing that
would permit me to sleep.”

Her silence was filled with understanding.
Regret. The rustle of her dress as she moved about the room was the
only sound he heard for a long while. When she finally spoke, she
was but a few feet behind him. Closer than she had been in days. He
thought perhaps he caught a hint of her scent. Hyacinth. So
sweet.

“The Gattingford ball is this evening. Do you
still intend to accompany me?” Her voice, previously soft with
empathy, had returned to its normal, quiet cadence.

Thank God. The last thing he wanted was for
Victoria to witness him collapsing in grief or exploding in a fit
of anger. He could not bear her pity. Better she should hate
him.

But was that true? If she hated him, she
might leave him. Nothing could be worse than that.

“Lucien?”

His fingers curled into the painted wood of
the sill. His chest felt tight, the ache around his heart
intensifying.

Answer her, you bloody fool.

He felt her approach, felt tingles of
awareness run down his spine, curl around his hips and sink into
his groin. So close. Her hand settled gently against his biceps. It
scalded him through layers of wool and linen. Branded him as
hers.

“Lucien,” she whispered. “Are you …?”

“Yes,” he gritted. “Of course I will
accompany you.”

One heartbeat. Two.

Her hand fell away. He felt her draw back,
heard her footsteps whisper a retreat toward the door. “Thank you,”
she said, her voice thicker than before, as though she were having
trouble forming the words.

She must resent me so,
he thought.
And well she should.
Escorting her to the second Gattingford
ball of the season was the least he could do, as it would be the
final piece in restoring her reputation. He was not the husband she
deserved. But he could fulfill at least one promise he’d made to
her. It was a risk. She had only married him to resolve the
scandal. After tonight, that would no longer be a concern. She
would have no more need of him.

Clearing her throat, she drew his attention
once again. “We shall dine here, before we leave. Lady
Gattingford’s offerings are simply ghastly.” She paused. “Cook had
planned to serve haddock, I believe.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. Fish again. Well,
on the bright side, he supposed Victoria still cared enough to be
angry. It was a hopeful sign.

“However, I have asked her to prepare roasted
duck instead. Her brandy sauce is excellent.”

The door clicked as she exited the room.

Perhaps “hopeful” had been a bit premature,
he thought wryly. She had even given up on her transparent attempts
to punish him. He could only conclude one of two things: Either she
was beginning to forgive him, or she no longer gave a damn.

His head dropped as despair overwhelmed him.
He’d been asking himself for days how it was possible to keep her
in his life. He knew she would not divorce him—she would never
again invite such scandal—but with the duke’s help, she could live
separately in ease and comfort. Apart from him. Forever.

He was willing to stand and accept her anger,
ready to plead for her forgiveness. But if he had destroyed
whatever affections she had for him—if she could not love him—none
of that would matter.

He glanced around the room absently. Blue
walls. Bare wooden floors. The first time he had entered Victoria’s
studio, it had stunned him. Nothing of his sister remained here,
not the ormolu clock on the mantel or the bureau where she had
placed a vase of rosebuds. Not even the stain of her blood on the
floor. Now, the room was entirely Victoria’s.
That’s good,
he thought.
Better to remember Marissa elsewhere—perhaps in the
garden back at Thornbridge.

An unexpected smile tugged. She’d been a wild
thing, his sister. Her hem had always been stained by rainwater,
grasses, and the dirt of the places she loved to explore. She’d had
a habit of traipsing over acres of woods, ambling along the brook
that cut through their land. She had said it was the only time she
ever felt entirely at peace.

He blinked and felt something trickle down
his face.

Are you at peace now, little one?

It was a question he suspected he would ask
for the rest of his life. Even if Colin Lacey were punished. Even
if Blackmore suffered for killing Gregory. Somehow, he knew none of
it would ever be enough, because it could not undo what had been
done.

Swiping at his face, he slowly wandered about
the room. Yes, it was Victoria’s place, now. She had made it her
own.

His eyes fell on the chairs near the empty
fireplace.

Resentment rising, he recalled walking into
the room earlier, seeing her and Tannenbrook together. She had
asked James to sit for her. Not Lucien. James. Why? What was so
compelling about bloody James Kilbrenner that she simply had to
sketch the bloody giant?

Spotting her sketchbook resting on one of the
chairs, he snatched it up and flipped open the brown leather
cover.

His breath stopped, heart turning over
painfully. It was not James. It was … him. Lucien. He was seated
beside a window, his face shuttered and yet sad. Hollow. Lost.

He ran his fingers gently over the sketch,
tracing the path her hands had traced. She must have drawn him from
memory. The forms were excellent, her strokes bold and confident.
And yet, it was not simply technique. The portrait was sensitive
and nuanced, her empathy for her subject woven into the shading of
dark and light, the lowered tilt of his chin, the vulnerability of
his hand, lying open and empty on the arm of the chair. Such a
gifted artist, his wife.

He turned to the next page, his eyes flaring
in surprise.

It was him again. This time, he was lying in
their bed, his mouth curving slightly upward as he slept, the sheet
wrapped about his hips. She must have sketched him after they’d
made love.

Another page, another portrait of him. And
another. And another. Dozens, in fact.

She had drawn him in every conceivable
pose—nude and clothed, laughing and brooding, contemplative and
impassioned. She made studies of his entire form, detailed sketches
of his hands, his eyes, the contours of his chest. She seemed
especially fond of the lower half of his face—his lips and jaw.

He felt himself grinning like a fool. A fool
besotted with his wife, discovering that perhaps, just perhaps, she
felt the same for him. He swallowed, almost afraid to believe
it.

Coming to the last page, he saw the portrait
she had done today, the one of James. His friend’s craggy, blunt
features were far from handsome, but Victoria had managed to
capture the keen intelligence in the sharpness of his eyes, the
stubborn determination in the hardness of his jaw, the secretive
darkness in the shadows of his brow. It was a brilliant
representation of the man.

But one thing it did not show—the infatuation
of the artist with her subject. Every drawing of Lucien was
redolent with adoration. If nothing else, the sheer quantity
demonstrated that. Feeling more hopeful than he had in weeks, he
moved to set Victoria’s sketchbook on her work table. That was when
he spotted her easel, covered with a large cloth, presumably to
protect her painting from dust.

Curious, he lifted the linen, folding it
carefully back to reveal …

Himself.

Or, rather, a more magnificent version of
himself.

Heart thumping painfully inside his chest,
Lucien stared into his own eyes and suddenly understood.

The woman who painted this saw him.
Knew
him down to his very soul. And she loved him deeply. It
could not have been clearer.

Spinning and tilting, his world changed,
expanding to include this new knowledge. Joy—precious and
fragile—sprang from a part of himself he had thought lost.

She loved him.

But would she forgive him? For the first
time, he realized it might be possible. He
could
earn her
forgiveness. He
could
regain her trust.

It was far from guaranteed. Unlikely,
perhaps. But there was a chance. And nothing mattered more.

*~*~*

Chapter Thirty-Two

“
Lemons are sour. They require an equal amount of
sweet to be palatable. Perhaps you hadn’t heard, my dear.”
—The
Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Gattingford after
unintentionally imbibing said lady’s lemonade.

They arrived at the Gattingford ball amidst
an explosion of murmurs. Victoria clutched Lucien’s arm a bit
harder as they were announced, struggling against a sudden attack
of nerves.

She glanced down at her gown. The
peacock-blue silk shimmered in the candle glow, silver embroidery
along the bodice reflecting light. The neckline was squared and
lower than a day dress’s, but perfectly respectable for evening.
Nothing marred the fabric’s surface, thank heaven. For a moment,
she had wondered if that was the reason so many people were
staring.

A portly gentleman bumped her arm, forcing
her more tightly against her husband’s side. It was an absolute
crush, with barely enough room to breathe, and dozens of eyes were
upon her.

Lucien scanned the crowd with a commanding
glare as though daring the gawkers to offer insult. His arm slid
around her waist. “They must have noticed how lovely you are, my
dear,” he whispered close to her ear. “It does bear commenting
upon.”

She stared up at him, startled by the
intimacy. His eyes glittered in a way she had not seen in over a
week. A lock of black fell over his forehead, causing a squeeze of
longing to run down her arm and into her fingertips.

Dressed in finely tailored black, relieved
only by the stark white of his cravat, he was her dark angel once
again. She wanted to kiss him, right there before the eyes of the
ton.

Earlier in her studio, she had been almost
afraid to hope—too many questions yet remained unanswered. Would
Lucien seek retribution upon Colin? Would her love for him survive
if he harmed her brother? Did he truly care for her, or had he
simply been pleased with her and satisfied with his scheme?

As she had watched him at the window, looking
out at the fog, she had known two things: She wanted a real
marriage with Lucien. And if he did not love her, could not set
aside his animosity toward her family, there was very little chance
of it. She had teetered on a thin edge between hope and despair,
watching her husband battle his demons.

Now, feeling the connection to him spark
again … It was most encouraging. She sighed and tilted her lips up
toward his.

“Why Lady Atherbourne! And Lord Atherbourne.”
The shrill voice of Lady Gattingford intruded. “Splendid to have
you here.”

Blast.
Honestly, the woman had horrid
timing.

She approached them from the left, a tallish,
stout figure with a slight stoop about her shoulders, accompanied
by Lord Gattingford. He was equal in height, but considerably
leaner, pale and hawk-nosed, wearing an unfortunately vibrant
yellow waistcoat.

Victoria managed to work up a smile. “Lady
Gattingford, thank you for the invitation. I must say, the ball
appears a smashing success.”

The graying brunette scrunched her nose in an
oddly girlish gesture. “A mad crush, I daresay.”

As Lord Gattingford and Lucien engaged in a
gentlemanly discussion about the benefits of a well-sprung
carriage, Victoria allowed herself to be pulled away by Lady
Gattingford. “Now then,” the older woman said, her voice low and
confiding, as though they were long friends. “Lady Berne informs me
you have introduced her to a new modiste. Mrs. Bowman. You must
tell me about her.”

Victoria’s brows rose and her eyes widened in
surprise—not because Lady Berne had shared such a tidbit, but
because Lady Gattingford was being quite friendly. Considering the
last time she had seen her, the matron was regaling a crowd with
Victoria’s moral shortcomings, this was nothing less than
miraculous.

“I—well, yes. Certainly.” For several
minutes, they discussed the remarkable talents of a certain Italian
seamstress. Victoria remained nonplussed at the woman’s convivial
demeanor. Upon being invited to the Gattingford rout, she had
expected politeness, perhaps. Instead, it was as though the scandal
had never occurred.