The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (7 page)

James sighed and took a drink. “If only he
had called you out over the Gattingford incident. You could have
shot him, and the scales would have been balanced.”

Shaking his head, Lucien moved to sit in the
chair opposite James, sinking down into its well-worn comfort and
draining the last of his brandy in a quick motion. He felt its mild
sting as it slid down his throat and settled warmly in his stomach.
He had never been much for drink, but right now, he was willing to
try many uncharacteristic things to dampen the rage that had burned
inside for the better part of a year.

Inside of a blink, his mind flashed back
nearly nine months. He stood at the graves of his brother and
sister on a sodden, strangely chilled August morning, wondering how
it could have happened, how they could have both died within days
of one another. He recalled glancing over to where his parents were
buried and thinking he was cursed to survive while all those around
him died. It had happened on the battlefield, and now here. The
stark truth of it was an endless black pit. No air, no light, no
escape.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the
memories. James had been there, bullying, nudging.
What could
possibly be worth living for without so much as a cousin left for
kin?
Lucien had asked. It was then, perhaps in desperation,
that James had offered him a torch for his darkness: vengeance.

Brought back to the present when his friend
rose to stare down at the fire, Lucien picked up the thread of
their conversation. “Blackmore loathes scandal. The odds of him
escalating matters by calling me out were always rather slim.” He
sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Besides, the scales can
never be truly balanced. Taking his sister from him is the best I
can do, under the circumstances.”

“Yes, but haven’t you already done that? The
scandal means she will have to be shipped off to some distant
estate or sent abroad. Let it be enough, Luc.”

The fury that rose inside Lucien in that
moment was as unexpected as it was uncontrollable. Like a black,
sulfurous cloud, it filled him and spilled out in a volcanic
explosion. In one swift move, he stood and threw his glass against
the far wall, the splintering crash barely registering before he
roared, “It is
not
enough!”

James jerked when he heard the glass break
apart, then slowly turned to face Lucien, a look of wariness and
alarm on his face.

“
Enough
will be when he remembers her
as she was at seven years, all ribbons and gap-toothed smiles, and
misses her as he would a severed limb. Enough will be when he
reaches for a pen to write her and realizes she will never read his
words. Enough will be when he understands that she is
mine
,
by God, and I have taken her from him.”

“You are still grieving. Think about this.”
James’s voice grew rough with concern. He reached out to place a
hand on Lucien’s shoulder, but Lucien shrugged him off and stalked
across the room to stand with his back turned, his hands on his
hips, breathing harshly.

He despised what was inside him, a monster of
hatred and pain and fury. But he could do nothing other than try to
appease it. “It’s what I have to do, James,” he rasped.

After a moment, he felt James’s hand at his
back, his friend’s solid presence helping him regain his composure.
“I know.”

“If there was another way …”

“I know,” James repeated. “It is better than
leaving her to the ton’s tender mercies.”

Lucien nodded.

“What do you plan to tell her?”

It was a good question. “Nothing.”

A single, shaggy eyebrow lifted. “And you
think that will work?”

Lucien mimicked the gesture and added a small
smile. “She fancies me.” The look that emerged on the Earl of
Tannenbrook’s face sent an unexpected burst of laughter through
him. “That hard to believe, eh?”

“No. But you’re mad if you think you can tup
a lass into forgetfulness. Might work for a night, but not
forever.”

Lucien crossed the room and sank into the
chair James had vacated. “Not forever. Until we leave London?” He
shrugged. “Eminently achievable.”

James grunted and propped his hands on his
hips. “You don’t think you’re overestimating your charms just a wee
bit?”

Chuckling, he replied, “It’s clear you do.
But, then, your judgment is flawed. You are not a woman.”

His friend snorted and shook his head. “Thank
God for that. I’d be an ugly one, no doubt.”

Hours later, after James had left and quiet
had settled over the house that once belonged to his brother,
Lucien stood at the rear window of the library, contemplating the
garden his sister had loved. Modeled after the gardens at their
country estate, Thornbridge, but on a smaller scale, the shapes
were less orderly, more curved and natural than current fashion
would dictate. Still, they were lovely with winding paths, lush
plantings, and a small fountain with a stone bench at the
center.

Three days. In only three days, he could
claim victory. Then Blackmore’s true punishment could begin. While
grim satisfaction seized Lucien, knowing his goal was within sight,
it did not blind him to the longer-term implications of his plan.
For days now, James had been trying to help him see past the moment
of triumph and point out there was a marriage after the wedding, a
woman who would be a permanent part of his life, the mother of his
children.

He knew it well. Could not stop thinking
about it, in fact. Twinges of guilt mixed with no small measure of
lust filled him each time he contemplated having Victoria all to
himself for the remainder of his days. By God, when the duke had
thought to deny him, Lucien had very nearly lost his head and
attacked the man full on. Fortunately, Victoria had interrupted at
just the right time. Her knack for falling rather neatly into his
hands was one of her more endearing qualities.

At the thought, his mind veered immediately
to Victoria as she had been on Lady Gattingford’s terrace that
night, her breasts covered by nothing more than moonlight and his
mouth. He recalled her taste (milky and sweet), her smell (lightly
floral; hyacinth, he thought), and the breathless moan she’d
uttered when she reached her peak. He gripped the window sill, let
his forehead rest against the cold glass, and gritted his teeth
against a wave of longing.

His desire for her was entirely out of
proportion. Despite his flowery words to her that night, she was no
grand beauty. Oh, she was pretty enough in a way many young women
were: golden hair, big blue-green eyes, a soft mouth, and creamy
skin. Her features were even and balanced, her demeanor calm and
serene. In truth, one could find nothing to fault in her
appearance, but neither would many consider her a diamond of the
first water.

Then what is it you find so enthralling?
This girl who fades into the background has you twisted up with
lust.

He had wondered more than once since first
seeing Victoria at the Gattingford ball if his passion for revenge
had somehow transmuted into this rather unseemly preoccupation with
her. Perhaps, he thought, his hatred had begun to infect his
dalliances with women. Even if that were so, however, it did not
alter his plans for her.

After months of research into Blackmore’s
life—everything from his finances to his politics to his bloody
valet—Lucien and James had found nothing more damaging than
disgruntled former servants complaining about the duke’s terribly
exacting standards of cleanliness and thrift. Fortunately, they
also discovered how deep and abiding was his connection with his
sister. And so Lucien had continued investigating, but his target
had become Lady Victoria Lacey. With the aid of the duke’s
ex-servants, Lucien was able to glean a great deal about Victoria’s
character. She was known as the Flower of Blackmore, her pristine
reputation fiercely guarded by both Blackmore and her sponsor, Lady
Berne. But, he soon learned, beneath the mannerly mask, she was a
hopeless romantic. As one maid had put it, “At heart, her ladyship
is as sweet and fanciful as a pot of honey.”

It had presented the ideal opportunity: All
he had to do was sweep her off her feet and directly into the path
of scandal. From there, he reasoned, events should fall into place
of their own accord—the engagement Blackmore had manufactured would
be finished, the duke would be humiliated, his beloved sibling so
tainted that he would have to distance himself from her
permanently. Everything had gone precisely as Lucien had
envisioned—better, even.

Except for one small problem: It had not been
satisfying. Not even a little. He still did not entirely understand
why. The idea of making her separation from her brother permanent
by marrying her himself had only occurred to him a day later.
Instantly, he had known it was the answer.

Now, the marriage was poised to happen, and
all he could think about was her. It made no sense at all. This was
not about gaining a wife, it was about punishing Blackmore. But,
then, he had not anticipated Victoria.

Recalling how she had rather boldly taken the
reins of his conversation with Blackmore and proceeded to interview
him for the position of husband, he shook his head and felt himself
smiling. It had been shocking enough to hear her consent to marry
him, but after shooing him out the door, she had somehow managed to
persuade Blackmore to allow it. That had been astounding.

Hell, Lucien had been prepared to seduce her
into eloping to Gretna Green. But it had not been necessary.
Blackmore had paid him a visit yesterday to repeatedly threaten his
life if “so much as the hem of her dress is harmed in any way.”
They had negotiated the terms of the marriage settlement for less
than a quarter of an hour, with Lucien conceding nearly every
point. The marriage itself gave him full control of her, which was
all that mattered. What she would be paid in allowance or how his
family’s secondary properties would be distributed to their
children were of no importance to him.

What mattered was that she would be his. In
the window’s reflection, he watched his private smile turn grim,
determined.

In three days, she would be his.

*~*~*

Chapter Six

“
Love? What rubbish. Grandchildren for your poor,
beleaguered mother. Now, there is a sound reason to marry.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her only son, Charles,
upon his refusal to enter Almack’s.

The dress was even more beautiful than she
had imagined it, Victoria thought as she gazed at the vision before
her. It was white silk, overlaid with the sheerest muslin, rich
with tiny embroidered flowers in a vivid peacock blue and leaves of
pale spring green. On the short sleeves and just beneath the
scooped bodice, tiny pleats in the muslin formed panels bordered by
ornate silver ribbon. The overall effect was dreamy and
exquisite.

She wanted to cry.

“My dear, you are enchanting in that gown,”
said Lady Berne, currently seated on the sofa behind where Victoria
stood gazing at herself in the full-length mirror of the Bond
Street dressmaker’s shop. “Mrs. Bowman is a marvel. And to have it
finished so quickly! I can hardly credit it.”

Victoria swallowed and gave the countess a
weak smile over her shoulder. “Yes, she is extraordinary.
Fortunately, I had already arranged to have the dress made last
month. So, no rush was necessary.”

A long pause followed this statement as Lady
Berne realized the gown would have been Victoria’s wedding dress
for her marriage to Lord Stickley and now instead would be worn for
her rather precipitate nuptials with Lord Atherbourne.

“Oh,” Lady Berne finally responded. “Well,
that is, indeed, fortunate.”

Victoria sniffed and straightened her spine.
“Yes, I thought so.”

She turned as Mrs. Bowman came back into the
room and knelt at her feet, pinning the hem for one final
adjustment. “Mrs. Bowman, what do you recommend for my headdress? I
have heard some ladies choose to wear turbans for their
weddings.”

The sable-haired dressmaker glanced up at her
with a look of disgust. “No, no, no!” She waved a hand wildly in
the air above her elegant coiffure, her light Italian accent
evident even in those three short words. “You must wear flowers, my
lady. The, eh,
mughetto
. Lily of the Valley. It is a dress
of delicate beauty. It deserves flowers, not a turban.” She spat
the last word as though it were particularly repugnant.

Victoria hid a smile. Opinionated and
headstrong when it came to fashion, Renata Bowman was perhaps the
most talented clothier in London. However, while she was married to
an English textile merchant, she was Italian rather than English—or
even French. To make matters worse, she struggled greatly with
showing proper deference to her titled clientele. In Victoria’s
opinion, this was the sole reason Mrs. Bowman was not the ton’s
most sought-after modiste.

“Well, I must say I quite agree. Flowers
would, indeed, be lovely, my dear,” the countess interjected
brightly.

“Then flowers it shall be,” Victoria said
with forced cheer, glancing once again at her reflection. Even to
herself, her face appeared pale, her eyes pensive.

Rising beside her and examining the gown with
a fierce frown, Mrs. Bowman nodded sharply. “Mm. It is good.” She
met Victoria’s gaze in the mirror. “I have it finished for you and
delivered today. The rest is ready, too. That will be sent to the
duke’s house as well, yes?”

“The rest?” Victoria blinked.

“
Sì
, your …” The woman gestured toward
Victoria’s bosom and down to her knees. “… nightwear. And the day
dresses and ball gowns you requested.”

“Oh!” Victoria had completely forgotten the
expansive trousseau she had ordered before the incident, when she
had planned to marry Stickley and needed something to look forward
to, even if it was a carriage load of new frocks.