The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (36 page)

Victoria’s eyes flew to meet Tannenbrook’s.
“You mean the deaths of Marissa and Gregory.”

“Yes. But also before that. Waterloo. Lucien
was a Dragoon captain—heavy cavalry. During a charge on Napoleon’s
forces, his horse was shot from beneath him. He was pinned,
unconscious for hours. Much of his unit was decimated. Later, he
was able to rejoin the battle, and he fought as though his life
meant nothing. Wellington reportedly said Lucien either possessed
extraordinary courage or wished to die.”

Cold settled over her skin, causing a
sickening shiver. She had known he’d been a soldier, knew he’d been
at Waterloo, knew he’d fought bravely. But to realize he had almost
died, that many of his men had fallen around him, and he’d been
unable to do anything about it … She pressed her lips together and
stared down at her hand where it lay clasping the pencil above her
sketch.

She felt sadness for the men who had been
lost, wounded. She wanted to weep at the guilt that must have
driven Lucien to risk himself so recklessly. But, most of all, she
felt grateful.

That he had survived. That she had been
granted the opportunity to love him.

Tannenbrook’s voice intruded once again. “I
knew him before he was either a captain or a viscount, merely
Lucien Wyatt. He was good, like his brother. Laughed all the time.
Couldn’t stop him, in fact.” One side of his mouth quirked in a
half-smile. “Gregory tried a few times. Said Luc would have to take
life seriously at some point.” The smile faded. “Then Waterloo. I
think if that had been the only blow, he might have borne it. But
he returned to England broken, only to discover his sister and
brother were both dead. It was …” He halted, seemingly unable to
continue.

“It was too much for anyone to endure,” she
ventured softly.

Tannenbrook’s eyes, the dark green of a
forest after sundown, became echoing caverns of past pain. “Yes,”
he said hoarsely. “Luc was lost. The grief ate him whole.”

Victoria firmed her trembling lower lip and
swallowed hard against the tears that burned to be released. Now
was not the time to crumble. She returned her attention to
completing the sketch.

“How—” She cleared her throat. “How did he
recover? Find his way back to—how should I phrase it—himself, I
suppose?”

Again, the chair creaked as Tannenbrook
repositioned himself. She glanced up briefly, but he did not meet
her eyes.

He seemed most uncomfortable.

“My lord?”

This time, it was Tannenbrook who cleared his
throat. “He did not.”

“What do you mean?”

After a long hesitation, he sighed, appearing
resigned. “Luc was in a very bad way.”

She opened her mouth to ask for further
details, but he stopped her with a stern, “It is best to leave it
at that.”

Sensing he was likely to be stubborn about
protecting Lucien’s privacy, she nodded and gestured for him to
continue.

“I did what I could to help him. Spent a good
deal of time at Thornbridge. Occasionally, it seemed he was
improving. We would ride together. Discuss the estate. But then he
would disappear again. I grew a bit desperate, I’m afraid.” He
turned his head to watch the wisps of fog float past the windows.
“Did you know I was Gregory’s second?”

She shook her head, but he didn’t see. Her
hand flew over the paper, shading and reshading as the light
shifted over the man’s face.

“Luc is my friend. I refused to lose him,
too. So I suggested he consider who would gain justice for Gregory
and Marissa if he was … gone.” His gaze returned to hers. “It was
the only thing that seemed to revive him. I have never seen him
more fired with determination.”

Victoria understood. “You gave him a reason
to continue on. To live. For them.”

Big hands curled into fists on the arms of
the chair. “For the better part of a year, this bid for revenge has
been the only thing keeping him upright. I have worried a great
deal. It is why I remained in London.”

She stared down at her sketch, wondering if
the Earl of Tannenbrook knew how transparent he was when one
bothered to study his face with the eye of an artist. It was all
there—strength, loyalty, compassion. Secrets.

“My estate in Derbyshire is in the midst of
considerable repair. After he married you, and I saw how you were
together, I thought perhaps I could return there. I made plans to
leave this afternoon. Then I received your note.”

Her eyes flew to his face once again. “Why
would seeing us together ease your worry, my lord?”

He blinked twice, appearing puzzled. “You do
not know?”

She released an exasperated sigh. “Why do you
suppose I have asked you here? I have no idea how he feels.”

He sat back, seeming discomfited by her
outburst. “Perhaps you should speak to Lucien.”

“Lord Tannenbrook, if I could obtain such
information from my husband, I would have done so before today. He
will not speak to me.”

The earl now appeared distinctly
uncomfortable, fingers flexing, one hand fussing with his cravat
where it wrapped about his thick neck. His eyes darted toward the
door.

“Now then,” she continued firmly. “Let us
address the reason for my note. Lucien wanted vengeance upon my
brother, so he generated a scandal and coaxed me into marriage. He
then attempted to cut me out of Harrison’s life entirely, thus
simultaneously humiliating the duke and depriving him of his
sister. Do I have that about right?”

Tannenbrook went still, his fingers now
gripping the arms of the chair. He nodded.

She smiled tightly. “Good. I have only one
question. Does Lucien care for me, or was this always about revenge
and nothing more?”

This was it. Better to know the truth,
surely. Her palms dampened, making her grip on her sketchbook and
pencil slick. His answer might change everything. Her marriage, her
very life. And he was taking an awfully long time. Blood rushed
loudly in her ears, her stomach clenching, her skin chilled.
It
is better to know,
she repeated.
If he will simply tell
me—

Finally, he sat forward, opened his mouth to
speak, closed it, then replied, “He has not said that he loves
you.”

Her heart tore. Blood drained away from her
skin, causing a flush of ice.

I was wrong,
she thought.
Knowing
is much worse than not knowing. It is agony, in fact.

“However—”

At that one word, her entire being paused.
Without thinking, she reached forward and gripped the man’s wrist,
her pencil falling to the floor with a quiet clack. “However?”

He glanced to where her fingers attempted to
circle his wrist. They could not even manage half the
circumference. “However, I will say this: I have never seen Lucien
happier than he has been since your marriage. Not in all the years
I have known him.”

The revelation sent her heart—broken only
moments earlier—thumping and twirling and positively
leaping.
“Truly?” she asked breathlessly.

A grudgingly full smile transformed
Tannenbrook’s face. “Truly.” He patted her hand where it still
grasped his wrist, gently pried her fingers loose, and set it back
in her lap.

She scarcely noticed.

“Rest assured, the man has been a bloody
mooncalf for weeks now. I daresay if he does not care for you, not
only is he daft, he should be treading the boards at Drury
Lane.”

The sun had burst through the clouds. Music
had broken a long and desolate silence. Rain had come to parched
earth. Hope. There was hope again.

Victoria beamed at the earl, just barely
restraining herself from jumping into the man’s arms. “Lord
Tannenbrook, this has been … I cannot express …” She struggled
against tears. “Well, perhaps simpler is better. Thank you, my
lord. You have been
most
helpful.”

He bowed his head and said, “You are quite
welcome, Lady Atherbourne.”

She rose to see him out, and he stood, his
massive form towering over her. His eyes landed on her sketchbook.
“Are you finished, then?”

She looked at the leather cover then at him.
“With the sketch? Yes, actually, I am.”

“May I see it?”

Though she had to crane her neck to do so,
she looked up into his eyes. Something there resembled the look of
a shy boy. She grinned. “Of course.” Quickly flipping to the page
with his portrait, she handed him the open book. He took it
carefully in his big hands, his face shadowed and inscrutable as he
examined her work. A slight frown furrowed his forehead.

“Is—is something wrong?” She stepped closer,
moving to his side so she could see the page herself. “I had
trouble with your brow, but I thought I got it right in the
end.”

“No, nothing is wrong,” he said. “It’s fine.
Quite the best I have ever seen, in fact.”

A thrill ran through her at the unexpected
praise. It was not often she heard such things from anyone apart
from Harrison or Lady Berne. Rising onto her tiptoes, she gave a
little bounce of happiness, beaming up at the kind and obviously
discerning Lord Tannenbrook.

The chamber door slammed loudly, echoing in
the room.

“Well, isn’t this a cozy picture,” her
husband said sardonically. “My best friend and my wife.”

*~*~*

Chapter Thirty-One

“
Do not glower at me, dear boy. I am not the one
keeping secrets.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the
Earl of Tannenbrook during a particularly vexing discussion.

Lucien had never enjoyed killing. As a
soldier, it had been necessary at times, but he took no pleasure in
it. Until now. He pictured dispatching Tannenbrook with the same
brutal efficiency he had employed against the French. It was …
satisfying.

Seeing Victoria standing bare inches from
James, smiling up at him in radiant joy, her petite curves all but
embraced by the much larger man—it was acid eating away his veins.
It made his hands clench in longing for a sword, a pistol, anything
to snap the connection between them.

That look belonged to Lucien.
He
was
the cause of her angelic smile.
He
made her laugh and dance
on her toes. No one else.

“Lucien,” his wife exclaimed. A sweep of pink
flared in her cheeks as she stepped back, adding several feet of
space between her and James.

Better, he thought grimly. But not nearly
enough.

“I—we … That is, Lord Tannenbrook and I …”
Victoria stammered, her voice a bit higher than usual. Something in
his expression brought her explanation to a halt.

Looking annoyed, James placed the book he was
holding on the chair behind him and moved toward Lucien, his
shoulders squared as though preparing for a bout at Gentleman
Jackson’s. “Don’t be a damned fool, man,” his friend warned. “She
asked to sketch my portrait. The door was open.”

Lucien’s lips flattened. “You sat for her.
Nothing more?”

Tilting his head slightly, James sniffed.
“Bit of conversation.”

“Conversation.” Lucien’s tone was deadly.

“Perhaps I should take my leave.”

“Perhaps you should have left long ago,”
Lucien retorted.

James nodded, a dry half smile emerging on
his face. His steps rang loudly in the room as he slowly approached
Lucien standing in front of the closed door. As he passed, he
paused, clapping a large hand heavily onto Lucien’s shoulder.

“Have a care, my friend,” James murmured so
only Lucien could hear. “You would be wise to recognize the jewel
that rests in your palm, even if the reason you possess it is less
than noble.”

With a final bruising pat, James exited, the
door closing with a quiet click.

Eyes fixed on Victoria, Lucien watched as she
puttered about the room, first to her work table, then to her
easel, then back to the table. Reaching behind her back, she untied
and removed the paint-smudged apron, revealing a pale pink,
long-sleeved gown of simple muslin.

His eyes dropped to her breasts, full and
lush. They were modestly covered, but he could not help wondering
if James had noticed them.
How could he do otherwise?
Lucien
thought, his stomach tightening.
She is exquisitely
made.

He missed her skin. Her sweet floral smell.
The feel of her lips on his body. The wave of peace as he lay his
head over her heart, his cheek cushioned by her pleasure-flushed
breasts.

He nearly groaned at the memory.

She capped a glass bottle of blue pigment and
placed it carefully in a wooden case. Tendrils of hair escaped the
simple coil at the back of her head, falling along the frame of her
jaw.

He felt his own jaw clench.
What did you
expect her to do?
he asked himself bitterly.
How was she to
feel, knowing you schemed to keep her from her family, that you
used her for your own purposes—and only repented when you
discovered you had targeted the wrong brother?

Angry. She should feel angry. And she had
made it plain that she did.

He felt a wave of sickness. She had served
fish every night since the confrontation at Clyde-Lacey House.
First, she had fled to her sitting room without a word. Then she
had fallen asleep without him. Then she had communicated her
displeasure through the dinner menu.

Perceiving she desired a bit of distance, he
had retreated. They slept apart, spent most of each day apart,
essentially lived apart. They barely spoke. Outside of the dark
months after Waterloo, it had been the worst week of his life.

“You are quite fortunate, you know,” she said
quietly, swishing a paintbrush in a small cup of solvent. “Lord
Tannenbrook is a most devoted friend.”

Lucien folded his arms across his chest,
irritation making him bristle. “What does that mean?”

She wiped the brush clean with a cloth, then
laid it neatly next to a row of others. “Simply that he appears to
have been an anchor for you amidst great storms.”