The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (18 page)

“I never agreed not to touch you, wife. In
fact, it is well within my rights to do so.”

The breath she had just managed to catch flew
from her at his statement. “You … you would force your attentions
…”

“Bloody hell, Victoria.” He sounded genuinely
vexed. “Of course not.”

Well, that is a relief. I think.

She could scarcely see more than an outline
of his large form, but it was enough to note how he slowly lounged
back into the seat, one ankle propped on his knee—an arrogant pose
if ever there was one. “I will not have to. As evidenced by
tonight’s … adventures.”

His presumptuousness irritated her. “Did you
enjoy yourself, my lord husband?”

He sat upright, suddenly quite alert. “Oh,
yes, angel. Being inside you is pure splendor.”

She leaned forward, allowing the upper swells
of her bosom to catch the dim light coming through the window.
“Then might I suggest you hold the memory close, for it shall be
the only splendorous thing keeping you company in the long, lonely
weeks ahead.”

*~*~*

Chapter Fourteen

“
Ah, the gentleman’s club. A fine and venerable
institution. Quite useful for removing irritants from a lady’s
presence for several glorious hours each day.”
—The Dowager
Marchioness of Wallingham to her son, Lord Wallingham, after he
reluctantly shared information found in White’s betting book.

“I bloody well despise the clubs,”
Tannenbrook muttered as he and Lucien sat in the coffee room at
White’s.

Lucien raised a brow and took a sip of rich
brew as he set his copy of
The Times
on the table. “Best not
let any other members hear you say such a thing. Considered
blasphemy, you know.”

James grunted and wrapped his too-large hand
around a too-small cup.

“Besides,” Lucien continued, “your efforts
here and at Brooks’s are a smashing success.”

His friend glared at him from beneath heavy
brows. “The old woman has me gossiping like a schoolroom chit. It’s
a bloody disaster.”

“Alvanley stopped by the table before you
arrived.”

Tannenbrook’s brow smoothed. “And what did
the prince of dandies have to say?”

Lucien took another sip and sent him an
amused look over the rim. “He expressed disappointment.”

James wore his usual deadpan expression,
waiting patiently for elaboration.

Setting his cup on the table, Lucien obliged.
“He implied behaving like a swain devoted to one’s fair Juliet is
certain to end in premature death, the only question being whether
it will be by poison, stabbing, or plummeting from a balcony.”

James snorted.

“It seems, Lord Tannenbrook, you have a
gift.”

His friend’s face tightened in a grimace of
disgust as he sat back in his chair and folded his massive
arms.

Lucien grinned. “In any event, the current
arbiter of all things fashionable among gentlemen of the
beau
monde
believes I am a calf-eyed fool distastefully enamored of
his wife. Impressive after a mere five days.”

Clearly uncomfortable being praised for his
adept manipulation of the rumor mill, James shrugged off the
compliment and changed the subject. “Stickley left London.”

“When?” Lucien demanded.

“Yesterday. Wallingham bought his absence
with a yearling, or so I heard.”

Lucien sat back, satisfaction surging through
him. The pompous worm had carried his outrage at Victoria to
disgraceful lows, mewling to all who would listen about her
betrayal. He deserved a sound thrashing, but disappearing to the
country would have to do.

Loud guffaws came from the hall, probably
some young lord deep in his cups too early in the day. Moments
later, Lucien’s conclusions were confirmed when Colin Lacey
stumbled into the room. He was followed by Lord Chatham, tall,
lean, dark-haired, and almost certainly drunk, though he hid the
fact remarkably well. A third man, bleary-eyed and decidedly less
jocular, shook his head and headed for the stairs.

Must have lost a fair bit at the
tables
, Lucien thought, noting the trio had come from the
direction of the card room.

Spying Lucien and Tannenbrook sitting near
the window, the two men approached. Lacey’s bow was sloppy, his
greeting slurred. Lord Chatham’s bow, by contrast, was the picture
of elegance, executed to perfection.

“I sssay, Atherbourne,” Lacey said, “where’ve
you been hiding Tori? Haven’t seen her sh-since the wedding.”

Annoyed at the question, Lucien answered,
“Such a thing might be of consequence if you could recall one way
or the other, Lacey. As it is, I am surprised you remember even
having a sister.”

Before the younger man could answer, Chatham
clapped his companion on the shoulder and advised drolly, “Not to
worry. I’m sure your sister is in good hands with Lord Atherbourne.
Most
exceptional
hands, if Mrs. Knightley is to be
believed.”

Colin Lacey, too drunk to understand
Chatham’s quip, much less respond to it, listed to his right and
caught himself on the back of an empty chair.

Lucien met Chatham’s flat turquoise gaze with
a sharp one of his own. So Benedict Chatham, the current Viscount
Chatham and future Marquess of Rutherford, was servicing the widow
Knightley. Exhausting work, that.

Lucien arched a brow. “Long night, eh,
Chatham?” he asked softly.

The man’s cynical smirk faded to dead
nothingness.

Warning apparently received—good
. The
subject of Mrs. Knightley was not one Lucien wished to have bandied
about, and if rumors of her relationship with Chatham were true,
then the dissolute lord almost certainly would share the sentiment.
He did have to wonder how his own amorous past had come to be a
topic of conversation between the two, and why Chatham was choosing
to bring it up now.

He had been two years behind Lucien at Eton,
and they had been fast friends early on—games of cricket, chasing
petticoats, pranks on the older boys. Chatham was astoundingly
clever, had a devilish sense of humor, and, even at fourteen, had
taught the older boys a thing or two about wooing the fairer sex.
Women utterly craved him, even thin and pale with the ravages of
drink, as he was now.

Their friendship had waned as Chatham had
begun his descent into disgrace and debauchery, but Lucien had
always wished the man well. Given his jab about Lucien’s prior bed
sport with the depraved and tireless Mrs. Knightley, however,
perhaps the feeling was not mutual.

Frowning, he glanced from Chatham to Lacey
and back again, a connection clicking in the back of his mind.
Chatham had always had a talent for influence. Other males—older,
younger, it mattered little—loved to follow and emulate him. It
seemed Colin Lacey was no exception.

Lucien turned to Victoria’s poor excuse for a
brother. “Lacey, I suggest you return home before you do the
furniture here serious damage.”

“You sh-sound juss like Harrison.”

A dark, curling rage seeped into his bones,
working its way outward from a frighteningly familiar place. Lucien
did not like being compared to Blackmore. Not for any reason. They
were nothing alike, and even the implication fired the hatred he
kept banked, yet never dormant. Finally noticing the dangerous
glint in Lucien’s eye, Lacey wisely backed up a step. Chatham
interjected coldly, “Perhaps we will take our leave, then. My
lords.”

As they left the room, Lacey protested
drunkenly that he thought they were to have coffee, to which
Chatham replied he’d suddenly developed a taste for something
stronger.

“Never liked the shape of the spoons here,
anyway.”

Startled by James’s quietly amused statement,
Lucien glanced at his friend, who casually gestured to Lucien’s
hand. It lay fisted on the table, having bent a silver spoon in
half. Immediately, he felt sick inside, opening his hand wide and
letting the bit of metal thunk onto the linen-covered wood. Damn
it. He hadn’t had one of his episodes in weeks. Not since his
wedding.

“He was drunk. And a bloody imbecile besides.
You shouldn’t pay him any mind.”

Lucien nodded. James always made sense. After
an episode, it helped a great deal to hear sound reason and calm
patience. He breathed slowly, allowing the residual anger to flow
out of him. It was a trick he had learned after deciding to leave
Thornbridge and pursue justice. Picture the dark, endless well of
poison running like a river out of his veins, out of his body, just
like the air expelled from his lungs. Sometimes, like today, it
worked.

When he met James’s eyes, he was even able to
smile. “It is fortunate I do not plan to spend much time in his
company.”

A short while later, Lucien and Tannenbrook
entered the billiard room and began a quick game. James, who had
been silent since they left the coffee room, asked quietly, “How is
your wife, Luc?”

His muscles tightened and something squeezed
hard in his chest. He glanced at James over his shoulder, wondering
how he should answer.
She is beautiful. She is mine. She is much
more than I thought she would be. Better than I deserve.

He leaned forward to take his shot. “She is
well.”

James nodded. “She hasn’t tried to see
Blackmore?”

He watched as James calmly potted Lucien’s
cue ball and left him double-baulked. Bloody hell. Tannenbrook had
a killer instinct when it came to billiards.

“Victoria understands my wishes.”

Surprise lifted James’s brows. “And she has
agreed?”

Clearing his throat, Lucien replied, “For the
time being.” He glanced over at his friend. “Your skepticism is
unwarranted. I’ve taken precautions. Once the scandal settles, we
will leave for Thornbridge, and the matter should be easily
managed.”

“You still plan to keep her from him, then.
For the rest of her life.”

The base of Lucien’s cue thumped against the
floor. “That was the general idea, yes. If you have a better way to
deprive Blackmore of the only thing he holds dear, short of
outright killing her, I am eager to hear it.”

James held his palm out in surrender. “No, I
understand. I have always understood. Just …”

Lucien scowled and snapped, “What?”

“Tread carefully, Luc. Sometimes getting what
you want most is the worst thing that can happen.”

Lucien considered his longtime friend for
several seconds, wondering at the man’s haunted expression. James
Kilbrenner was three inches taller and about three stone heavier
than Lucien—a strapping hulk with a face like a granite cliff.
Seeing him exhibit any emotion that could not be explained by a bad
meal, an obnoxious companion, or a stubborn mount was rare, indeed.
That was just James. Seemingly rather uncomplicated and slow to
boil. Of course, Lucien knew there was much more to him than that,
but it did not often rise to the surface.

“Duly noted.” He moved forward to take his
next shot, and continued casually, “On the other hand, getting what
you want can be immensely satisfying.” With that, he banked off the
cushion to pot the red and sent James a triumphant grin.

The Earl of Tannenbrook uttered a foul curse
under his breath.

“Not to worry,” Lucien said affably as he
clapped his friend on the shoulder. “A wise player is never truly
out of the game.”

Tannenbrook’s serious green eyes met
Lucien’s. “The game has to end sometime.”

“Yes,” he replied. “It ends when I win.”

*~*~*

Arriving home two hours later, Lucien handed
his horse over to Connell, the coachman and head groom. Connell’s
red hair and freckles gave him the look of a schoolboy, though he
was, in fact, old enough to have married one of the upstairs maids
and fathered three small children. Still, he was young for a
position of such responsibility, but his gift with horses had
earned first Gregory’s, then Lucien’s respect. Hugo, Lucien’s
gelding, was both oversized and vigorous, requiring daily runs to
keep him calm. But in Connell’s capable hands, the horse melted and
all but simpered for affection. Today, the young man wore an
apprehensive expression, eyes wide and face tight. He paused in
taking the reins as though he wished to speak.

“What is it, Connell?” Lucien asked
impatiently.

“It’s ’er ladyship, m’lord. She’s—she’s taken
up residence in the stable.”

Lucien blinked. “Pardon?”

The groom nodded vigorously and pointed
toward the two-story brick structure behind him. “I advised ’er
ladyship it’s no fit place for—”

“And what did she say?” Lucien queried
grimly, now stalking toward the stable.

“She laughed, m’lord.”

He stopped and stared back at Connell, who
stopped as well, Hugo trailing after him like a giant lapdog.
“Laughed?”

Connell nodded and rubbed the horse’s nose
absently. “Said that was nonsense and I could be on my way, as she
’ad work to do.” The man’s eyes were round as coins, his alarm
clearly rising at the notion of the lady of the house desiring to
enter his domain, much less sullying her hands with
work
.

Lucien shared his dismay, but for slightly
different reasons. She did not belong there, that much was certain.
Further, he did not want her getting strange ideas about taking one
of his horses out for a ride, perhaps to her former home. If he was
to ensure she adhered to his command, he needed to control her
movements while they were in London, and he couldn’t do that if she
took it into her head to defy him. Fortunately, thus far, Victoria
had proven to be a stickler for propriety—a product of Blackmore’s
influence, no doubt—and never ventured out without her maid or
another companion. She nearly always took the carriage into
Mayfair, as one had to cross the crushing bustle of Oxford Street
to reach it, and such was not a quick, carefree jaunt on foot. But
it was not impossible that she would suddenly take a notion to
stretch her proverbial wings, he well knew. She was a spirited one,
his wife, beneath the dutiful surface.