The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (19 page)

“Take Hugo for a short walk. I shall speak
with Lady Atherbourne.”

“Aye, m’lord.” Connell tipped his cap and led
the horse away.

As Lucien entered the dim, dusty confines of
the mews, he paused a moment to let his eyes adjust. Along one
side, a row of stalls held six horses, placidly munching hay and
snuffling and snorting to draw his attention. The last few stalls
were empty. One belonged to Hugo. The others remained to be filled,
as he had intended to leave London much earlier than this, and
hadn’t thought it necessary. Of course, he also hadn’t anticipated
taking a wife quite so suddenly. It was still a bit of an
adjustment.

Wandering forward, he was now able to see
into the depths of the malodorous space. Just past a row of saddles
and tack, near the entrance to the coach house, a rounded swath of
flower-dappled muslin bobbed and wriggled behind a wooden post.

“Here, now, my love,” a sweet, feminine voice
cooed. “Don’t you wish me to stroke you? I promise you’ll enjoy
it.”

Everything in his body halted—his heart, his
breath, his feet. All came to a standstill as he realized what he
was staring at, whom he was hearing speak those provocative words.
Victoria. She was bent over, peering behind a crate. Her lush,
rounded bottom gave another wiggle as she extended an arm toward
her quarry.

“You are a shy one, aren’t you? Just let me
touch your little head. I shall be gentle as a whisper. If you’re
good, perhaps I will kiss it. Would you like that?”

He couldn’t help it—he groaned loudly, his
body going from watchful to intensely aroused inside half a second.
Bloody hell. I am demented with lust.
Her delectable
backside twitched fetchingly as she twisted around, trying to get a
look at him over her shoulder. “Who is—?” She jerked upright,
reeling backward. “Ow! That hurt, you little devil!”

She staggered back, off balance and shaking
one hand madly as though she’d been burned. Before she could knock
into the stall gate that splayed awkwardly into the aisle, he
hurried forward and caught her around the waist. Her buttocks met
his hardened staff with a momentous
whump
, causing him to
groan again, this time in considerable discomfort. His back hit the
wooden post between two stalls.

“Oh! For the love of heaven,” she squawked,
tugging out of his suddenly limp arms and spinning to face him.
Flushed and disheveled, she braced her hands on her hips and blew a
puff of air upward to usher a wayward curl out of her eye.
“Lucien?”

He grunted. Actual speech was not possible at
the moment.

“What are you doing in here?”

Several deep breaths seemed to help the waves
of pain recede, at least enough for him to form words. “I could ask
you the same, wife. This is hardly an appropriate place for the
Flower of Blackmore to wile away the hours.”

She flinched as though he had insulted her,
then replied with quiet dignity, “Perhaps. But as you well know,
that moniker has not carried the same meaning in a great
while.”

“Since you met me, you mean.” The bitterness
in his voice surprised even him. He was tired of her resentment,
tired of not being able to touch her.

“If you expect me to deny your part in my
ruination, you shall be disappointed.”

He sighed. “The constant reminders are—”

“It was not my intent to argue, Lucien,” she
said calmly. “I would simply like to complete my task and be on my
way.” Sweeping both hands down her skirt in a dusting motion, she
soon winced and cradled her right hand in her left.

“Are you injured?” he asked, his own pain all
but forgotten.

She shook her head and muttered, “It’s
nothing.” But he straightened away from the post and grasped her
wrist gently. A trio of bloody scratches marred the fleshy pad at
the base of her thumb. “Really. It’s only a scratch.”

“What happened?”

Cheeks pinkening a bit, she sent him a
sheepish look from beneath her lashes. “I made unwelcome advances
and was given a decidedly harsh set-down.” She wrinkled her nose.
“My fault entirely. The little devil is obviously quite particular
about his suitors.”

Confused for a moment, he sidestepped her to
look behind the crates. There, curled up on a bed of hay, was an
orange striped kitten. It glanced up at him with alert, golden
eyes. And hissed. He scowled and turned back to Victoria. “The
damned thing is feral. What were you thinking?”

Her hands returned to her hips and she gave
an exasperated shrug. “I want to sketch him, but he is determined
to remain hidden. It is most vexing.”

Curls of blond hair that normally were
perfectly disciplined had escaped her pins, causing her coiffure to
slump a bit to one side. A small streak of dirt marred her chin.
And her dress looked as though she had gone tromping through a
stable. Which, in fact, she had. He coughed to disguise a
chuckle.

“Are you laughing at me?”

Stiffening his lips, he mumbled, “No. Not at
all.”

He watched her own lips tremble, one corner
quirking helplessly into a grin. She shook her head. “I suppose I
deserve it.” She brushed again at her dusty skirts. “I daresay I
look a fright. Little wonder he rejected me.”

Moving close to her, he cupped her jaw and
stroked his thumb across the small streak on her chin. “Even when
you look a fright, you are still the loveliest woman I have ever
seen.”

Eyes softening, lips parting, for a moment it
looked as though Victoria might melt into his touch. Desire, fierce
and insistent, snaked through him. But just as he moved to wrap an
arm around her waist, her hands grasped his wrists and pushed him
away. “Do not start with me, Lucien.”

“Start what?” he asked innocently.

Her chin tilted up, her mouth tightening into
a disapproving pucker. “I have neither the patience nor the time
for your nonsense. I must finish my sketch this afternoon while I
still have sufficient light. It is a gift for Lady Berne. She
adores cats, but cannot have one because they make Lord Berne
sneeze most terribly.”

Running a hand through his hair, he sighed.
“How long will this process take?”

She tapped a finger against her lips. “It
depends.”

“Upon?”

“How cooperative my subject is. It took me
fifteen minutes to get close enough to be scratched.” She gave her
hand a resentful glare. “Sketching is the easy part.”

Without another word, he stripped out of his
tailcoat and grabbed a nearby bucket, then purposefully approached
the cat’s hiding place.

“What are you …?”

He signaled Victoria to be quiet with a
finger to his lips. Slowly, carefully he placed the bucket to the
left of the crates, blocking the kitten’s escape route. Then, he
stretched his coat like a net along the right side and reached down
to roust the little bugger out of his nest. Hissing and spewing,
the kitten clawed mercilessly at Lucien’s hand, his orange fur
standing on end, his tiny body writhing in protest. Nonetheless,
Lucien was able to get the animal’s scruff between his thumb and
fingers and hold it aloft long enough to retrieve his coat. He
wrapped the kitten tightly inside, drawing the sleeves around the
small bundle, so only its head poked out.

“A magnificent feat, my lord,” his wife said,
her voice redolent with laughter. “Truly, one would suppose you had
trekked the wilds of Africa hunting mighty beasts.” She was teasing
him, but he could see she was pleased he had secured the tiny
creature who had given her such trouble. His heart gave a peculiar
flip.

“It is astonishing what a husband is capable
of when given proper motivation.” His words drew her eyes back to
his. Blue-green and luminous, they caught and held him in an
unrelenting grip, suspended breathlessly inside a strange, frozen
moment. A swirling sensation, rather like falling backward into
water, swelled inside him. It was confusing, disorienting,
exhilarating. It made him want to pick her up and carry her off to
their bed. It made him want to drop to his knees and beg her
forgiveness. It made him want to shout triumphantly that she was
his forever.

Good lord,
he thought, not for the
first time.
What
is
this thing?
It was like a foreign
invader—a dangerous concoction of gratitude, guilt, and obsession,
all centered on this one small woman. He had experienced stirrings
of it before their marriage. But it only appeared to be growing
worse.

She petted the furry head of the kitten he
held for her, her fingers stroking gently, rhythmically.

Yes. Much, much worse.

“Thank you,” she said, her reluctance evident
in her tone. “Now, if you will hold him steady—perhaps over here by
the door.” She pointed to the entrance to the courtyard, which
remained open. With her trademark efficiency, Victoria gathered her
sketchbook from the top of another set of crates, picked up the
bucket he had used earlier, and led him to the area she had
indicated, just inside the door where daylight streamed in. She
overturned the bucket and seated herself as though on a royal
throne, pulling a pencil out of her sleeve and leafing through
pages until she found a blank sheet.

“Do you need to see the rest of him?” he
asked, watching her pencil fly over the page with quick, decisive
strokes.

“Not just yet. The face is always the most
difficult part for me.” Her eyes met his briefly, then slid to his
mouth, a mysterious expression stealing over her gentle features.
“Well. Perhaps not always. But for this piece, I am determined to
give Lady Berne something she will treasure. It must be right.”

The kitten yowled plaintively. He rubbed a
finger over its head to soothe it. “So, are you quite fond of
animals, then?”

“Mmm. Not particularly.”

“What about horses? Many artists love to
paint them. Or so I’ve heard.”

Her hand slowed, the pencil lifting for a
moment. “Horses have their uses, I suppose.”

Lifting a brow at the tension in her voice,
he replied, “Useful. Yes. You don’t enjoy riding?”

The sketching began again, her movements now
almost ferocious. If she was not careful, she would tear the paper.
“I don’t.”

“Why?”

Sighing loudly, she blew upward again, as she
had done earlier, to drive her hair out of her eyes. He could see
frustration wrinkling her brow. “If you must know, I was thrown
once. I was quite small, and the accident broke my leg. Being
confined to bed for months afterward was rather unpleasant. There
is only one horse I will consent to ride, and that is my mare,
Bitsy. She remained at Blackmore Hall this season, as she was due
to foal.”

His heart twisted at the thought of Victoria
in pain. She was a light, delicate woman. He found picturing her as
a little girl, her leg broken and bent at an odd angle as she
screamed in agony, difficult to bear.

“So, you see, I will not be taking one of
your horses for a jaunt to Clyde-Lacey House. You may rest easy on
that score, husband.” Her acerbic tone aside, he couldn’t help
feeling some relief. Keeping her away from the duke while in London
was not strictly necessary—he could have simply allowed events to
play out and begun the bastard’s punishment after the end of the
season—but he had decided early on that a more immediate dose of
revenge was required, one he could witness personally. It sent
Blackmore an unmistakable message: Victoria belonged to Lucien now.
He
controlled where she went, who she saw, what she did. She
was at his mercy, and there was nothing
his grace
could do
about it.

Now, if only he could persuade his wife of
the same thing, all would be well. He had a plan for that,
actually. Well, not a plan, precisely. More of an idea. Oh, very
well, a recurring fantasy involving his mouth and Victoria’s eager
surrender.

“He is purring.”

Blinking in confusion, he looked down,
realizing she referred to the orange tabby. The creature was,
indeed, emitting a quiet purr.

“I think he likes you,” she said. The light
shifted over her face and, for a moment, lit her up in a glorious
nimbus. The little furrow of concentration between her brows. The
mischievous half-grin that tilted her lips. The golden glint in her
disheveled curls. She stole his breath.

“Hmph,” he grunted, since anything more
eloquent was beyond him. “Are you finished yet?”

“Patience, my lord. It is a virtue.”

“Never been fond of virtue. Frightfully
boring.”

Her hand paused over the paper and her wide
eyes met his as though he had said something profound. “Perhaps you
are right.” Having seemingly come to some sort of conclusion, she
dropped her gaze again to her sketch, slowly running her pencil
back over the kitten’s whiskers. “But the alternative is worse.” A
strange sadness shadowed her face, as though she had lost something
precious.

Women,
he thought in bafflement.
Confounding creatures, all.

“There! That should do for his face.” Over
the next ten minutes, Lucien unwrapped the kitten a bit at a time,
first one leg, then two. Victoria sketched each part as it was
revealed, filling in details such as the stripes and claws. Soon,
the entire body was free of his coat, but the kitten was still
purring. Finally, she finished the sketch and held it up for him to
see.

“It is excellent. A perfect likeness.”

“Do you suppose Lady Berne will like it?” she
asked anxiously.

“Of course,” he murmured, hurrying to place
the kitten back in its nest behind the crate and shaking out his
coat. Blast. The lightweight green wool was covered in orange fur.
He draped it over his arm. “Now, I believe we were discussing
virtue, or the joys of a lack thereof.” Turning to give her a
wicked smile, he was dismayed to see Connell returning with Hugo.
The groom drew up behind Victoria, who was lost in thought,
absently tracing her finger over a page of her sketchbook.