The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (32 page)

Colin groaned and writhed in the green velvet
chair, the heels of his hands pressed into his temples, his hair
clutched between his fingers as he attempted to escape Victoria’s
interrogation. Eyes squeezed shut against the gray light from the
windows, he whined, “Must you shout, Tori? My head is killing
me.”

Victoria loomed over her brother, hands on
hips. “
Drink
is killing you. And if you do not answer my
question, I will gladly hasten the process.”

One blue eye popped open and peered up at
her. “What was the question?”

Exasperation burst from her lungs in a loud
hiss. “How many times has Harrison tried to see me at Wyatt
House?”

He sighed, slumping even further into the
chair, his thumb and finger pinching at the bridge of his nose.
“Not sure. Five or six.”

Five or six times. It was worse than she had
thought. More than letters. More than avoiding him at the
theater.

He had been turned away from Wyatt
House—
her
house, by God—five or six times.

Victoria stood up straight, turned on her
heel, and paced to the other end of the room. Picturing Harrison’s
proud face, imagining how he must have felt, thinking she was
deliberately cutting him from her life, she wanted to cry. To
scream. It swelled around her heart like a roiling cloud.

Striding back to stand before Colin, she
shoved hard at one of his shoulders. “Did
you?
” she demanded
fiercely.

He winced. “For Christ’s sake, Tori. Did I
what?”

“Did you try to see me?”

He shook his head. “I asked after you,
though.”

She gripped each side of his face, forcing
his squinting gaze up to her own. “When?”

He grasped her wrists and pulled her hands
away, unsteadily rising to his feet and pushing her gently to one
side. The action freed him from her grip, but agony must have
followed, for he moaned pitifully and dropped his head into his
hands.

“Perhaps we could discuss this another time,”
he muttered.

She crossed her arms and glared at the
wretched drunkard who had once been her charming brother. “Colin,
the moments when you are sober are few and far between. There
is
no other time. Now, answer me.”

He shot her a resentful look, but she was far
beyond caring. Stumbling toward a settee on the opposite side of
the room, he said, “Chatham and I saw Atherbourne at White’s a few
weeks ago.” He sat with an inelegant thump, his trembling hands
reaching for a cup of tea from a tray Digby had earlier placed on
the low table. “I asked after you.”

“What did he say?”

Colin took a careful sip then glanced at her
over the rim. “He didn’t. Just tossed some insults at Chatham and
me.” His grin looked more like a grimace, but it was edged with
satisfaction. “Chatham repaid him, though. Always does. Bloody
clever like that.”

Her hands twisted at her waist, and she
swallowed a lump of hurt. “You’ve asked after me once in all the
weeks since the wedding. He didn’t answer, and so you just … gave
up?”

China clinked as he set his cup on the table
and leaned forward to brace his elbows on his knees. His expression
was as serious as she had ever seen it. “He is your husband, Tori.
He was not about to let me or Harrison see you. Ever.”

“You could not have known—”

“He said as much.”

She frowned. “I thought he didn’t
answer.”

Colin scraped a hand over his face, then
dropped his head to stare at the floor. “It was later. He and
Tannenbrook were playing billiards. Chatham and I overheard them
discussing his plans for you.”

“You eavesdropped on them. Perhaps you
misunderstood.”

Eyes that were the same blue-green as her own
rose to search her face. They were sad, regretful. “Atherbourne
said he only married you to take you away from Harrison. His aim
was to ‘deprive Blackmore of the only thing he holds dear.’ It was
his plan all along, Tori. I’m sorry.”

A part of her had already known. That voice
she wished to silence whispered it over and over. She’d chosen to
ignore it, to believe Lucien’s plan was one of opportunity, rather
than design. Why it mattered, she wasn’t certain. But it did. Oh,
how it did. She slowly backed away from Colin. The air grew thin,
the light ashy. Eyes frantically darting about, she sought a
different answer, one that would allow her to breathe.

You never meant anything to him.

No, he cares for me, I know he does.

He used you, and he will toss you aside as
soon as his revenge grows cold.

No, please. Not that.

“… not going to swoon, are you?”

Colin’s voice drew her attention to her
brother’s concerned frown. Shaking her head, Victoria gripped the
back of a nearby chair and sucked in a stuttering breath. It
brought the room back into focus, but did nothing to staunch the
frantic internal quarrel.

“I don’t understand it,” she whispered
achingly. “What would cause him to go to such lengths?”

The silk of the settee rustled as Colin
shifted restlessly, then shrugged with studied casualness. “Must
still be vexed about losing his brother.”

“Did you know Gregory Wyatt?”

Tossing back the last of his tea in a swift
motion, Colin nodded and set the cup on the table with a clink.
“Met him a few times. Nice chap. Shame about the duel.”

She moved around the chair, plopping
gracelessly into the seat. “What—what was it all about, do you
know?”

Colin’s eyes glinted sharply, narrowing on
her. “Atherbourne didn’t tell you?”

She shook her head. “He refuses to discuss
his brother at all.”

Dropping his gaze from hers, Colin rose
unsteadily to his feet and paced to the windows, staring out at the
square, his arms folded over his chest. “Atherbourne—the last one,
that is—accused Harrison of dishonorable behavior.”

She glared at the back of her brother’s
tousled blond head. “Thank you, Colin,” she said tartly. “I had
deduced that much. What, precisely, was his accusation?”

“It is not for a lady’s ears.”

Victoria snorted disbelievingly. “You expect
me to believe Harrison—our brother, the Duke of Blackmore—was
accused of something so dastardly, you cannot even speak of it in
my presence? What poppycock. He is far from perfect—”

This time, it was Colin who released a
snort.

“As I was saying, Harrison is not without his
faults, but he is, above all things, honorable. Besides which, he
is a duke with considerable influence. For a peer to call him out,
there must have been a dreadful misunderstanding.”

Colin’s voice was thin and rather muffled,
but she heard him reply, “Atherbourne did not appear to think
so.”

Her patience teetering, Victoria threw up her
hands and cried, “What in heaven’s name could be a matter of honor
so dire that a man died over it?”

“That is an excellent question.”

The words whipped across the room from the
parlor entrance. Victoria stood, spun, and gasped, her hand
splaying across her midsection in a protective gesture.

“Lucien,” she whispered breathlessly.

He looked … explosive. Dark fury fired his
eyes, flexed his jaw, bristled through his taut form as he advanced
menacingly into the room.

“Shall I answer, my darling?”

She shook her head. “I—I don’t …”

His eyes refused to leave hers, burning
through her weak protest. He stopped directly in front of her, his
size and nearness overwhelming. “The most
honorable
Duke of
Blackmore seduced my sister then left her to suffer the
consequences alone. She was seventeen.”

Pain. So much pain shone in his eyes, it made
her throat tighten on the longing to soothe him, her arms aching to
hold him. What he was saying made little sense, but there was no
denying he believed it to be true.

“She could not bear it. The humiliation,” he
rasped. “He took her innocence. And she took her life.”

Again, Victoria whispered her husband’s name,
reaching for him. He reeled back several steps as though she had
tried to cut him.

“That is your paragon of virtue and honor,
Victoria. He caused my sister’s death. Then he shot Gregory without
so much as wrinkling his cravat.” Lucien stopped as though out of
breath. A muscle beside his mouth twitched with emotion. “Within a
fortnight, I lost all the family I had left. And your brother is
responsible.”

*~*~*

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“
Were we ever such fools when we were that age,
Meredith? I think not. Perhaps it is something in the water.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne upon spying a
young lord falling into the Serpentine.

For a full minute, Victoria struggled to
breathe, to absorb Lucien’s accusation. It couldn’t be true. It
was, quite simply, impossible. The Harrison she knew was strong,
intelligent, principled. He was also one of the most controlled
people she had ever met, especially when it came to women.

As the Duke of Blackmore, her brother
represented the ultimate catch—handsome, wealthy, and titled. She
had watched him over the past two seasons, fending off one boldly
flirtatious debutante after another, eluding and deflecting their
advances like a wily cat escaping capture.

The idea that he would involve himself with a
seventeen-year-old girl at all, much less ruin and then abandon
her, was so far out of character it was patently absurd.

But Lucien, who still stood broodingly
several feet away, clearly believed it, as had his brother,
Gregory. For Victoria, it was confusing, exasperating. She knew
almost nothing about the circumstances surrounding the duel, as
Harrison had never deigned to discuss it with her. She had not even
been aware Lucien
had
a sister, for heaven’s sake. Given the
unfortunate manner of the girl’s death, it was somewhat
understandable—one did not even whisper of such things in good
families. But how could Victoria be expected to unravel such a
tangle when it was shrouded in the secrecy of shame and infernal
male pride?

Taking a deep breath, Victoria eyed her
husband, steeling herself against the urge to simply accept his
version of events and wrap him in her arms. Unquestionably, her
foolish heart felt it belonged to him, wanting to forgive him for
its deep wounds, yearning to heal his.

“I can see you believe Harrison to be
responsible for your sister’s death—” she began hoarsely.

“Because it is the truth,” he interrupted,
his voice low and dark.

Victoria gritted her teeth and sighed.
“Honestly, Lucien, I did not even know you had a sister. Do you not
think you could have explained the situation a bit more fully? I am
your
wife,
after all.”

Brows lowered in a scowl, he took two long
steps toward her, causing her skin to prickle and her heart to thud
once. Twice.

“About that,” he said silkily. “The wishes of
your
husband
were perfectly obvious, my dear. How is it that
you are here?”

Righteous anger bloomed from deep within her,
outrage returning in a fiery surge. “You dare to ask me that? I am
here to see my brothers. And thank goodness I came, or I would not
have suspected Harrison had been turned away from
my home
five or six times!” By the last word, her voice had risen to a
full-on bellow.

Fuming and fixated on her dark-haired devil
of a husband, she only dimly noticed Colin edging toward the parlor
doorway. As he passed Lucien, he murmured, “Best take cover,
Atherbourne. Last time I saw her like this, I nearly lost a
toe.”

Without removing her eyes from Lucien’s
glowering face, she pointed toward the entrance and spoke one word
to her brother. “Leave.”

Brows raised and eyes wide, Colin held both
palms out in surrender and backed out of the room. “Leaving,” he
said.

By contrast, Lucien was not intimidated by
the threat of her unusually intense anger. Beyond mere vexation,
she was incensed that he could treat her so callously, profoundly
hurt that he did not care for her enough to alter his strategy.

He either did not realize or was not bothered
by the depth of her feelings. He propped his hands on his hips and
tilted his head almost casually. “Perhaps the promise to obey me
should have been removed from our marriage ceremony. It is clear
you never intended to keep it.”

She sucked in a breath, disbelief flooding
through her. “You—you insufferable—”

“I give you credit for cleverness—”

“—scurrilous, despicable—”

“—but it is time you returned to where you
belong.”

“—pompous, controlling ass.”

Unwisely, he smirked. “Now, now, my dear.
Language.”

That. Was. It.

She screeched straight through her boiling
point and, before she could stop herself, she charged him, her
straightened arms shoving hard at his chest. If she had not been so
blinded by fury, she might have laughed at his wide-eyed gape.

Much like a stone wall, Lucien was typically
unmovable. But taking him by surprise, her physical attack was a
shocking success, causing him to stumble backward. As she swung
wildly, pummeling his thick arms and chest, their feet tangled.
Lucien lost his balance, then his footing.

With a loud thump, he dropped hard onto his
backside, taking Victoria to the floor atop him where she soon
directed her blows to his face. He managed to grasp one of her
arms, but her right fist sailed straight into his left eye. Shards
of pain shot through her knuckles as they glanced off his brow
bone.

Simultaneous cries of “Ow!” echoed in the
room. Victoria scrambled to stand, hampered by her skirts, yanking
at the fabric where it was trapped beneath his boot. Meanwhile,
Lucien cupped his injured eye, uttering a foul curse.