Read The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) Online
Authors: Elisa Braden
Tags: #historical romance, #marriage of convenience, #viscount, #sensual romance novel, #regency 1800s, #revenge and redemption, #rescued from ruin
The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One)
The
Madness of Viscount Atherbourne
Copyright 2015 by Elisa Braden
Smashwords Edition
Cover design by Kim Killion
Excerpt from
The Truth About Cads and
Dukes
copyright 2015 by Elisa Braden
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used
or reproduced in any form by any means—except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written
permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment
only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
If you would like to share this book with another person, please
purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this
book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use
only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase
your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the
author.
For more information about the author, visit
www.elisabraden.com
.
Dedication
This one is for Mom and Dad:
Because when I said I wanted to write books for a
living, you didn’t so much as snicker.
Because Mom volunteered to be my first reader, and
Dad volunteered to pose for the cover.
Because you still look at each other as though
happy-ever-after is the obvious conclusion.
Because you are my very best friends.
I thank God every day that I was born your
daughter.
*~*~*
Contents
Bonus: Excerpt from
The Truth About Cads and Dukes
(coming soon!)
Prologue
June 12, 1815
London
As the heat of her bath soaked into Marissa
Wyatt’s skin, a single thought drifted through her mind, the words
like acid dripping a constant stream.
He never loved me.
She should have known when he didn’t respond
to her letters, four in the past two weeks, each more urgent than
the last. Her fifth and final letter she’d written not to him, but
to her brothers. It lay on the bureau next to a vase of roses she
had cut from the garden the day before. Still tightly furled buds,
nothing more than promises of later beauty, really. The weather of
late had been oddly cold, hostile for full blooms.
She glanced toward the open window where the
curtain fluttered helplessly in the light breeze.
Why could he not love me?
But then, perhaps the reasons did not matter,
only the truth of it. In fact, one might be forgiven for thinking
none of it mattered at all. Not the day they met, when his blue
eyes had seized upon hers as though charged with some strange
magic. Not the heat of his mouth the first time she had let him
inside. Not the squeeze of her heart when he had smiled as though
he saw the same future she did.
No. It meant nothing.
The tinkling drip of liquid sounded loud in
the hushed room.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Powdery blue sky and wispy white clouds were
all she could see from where she lay in the tub. Soon, even that
faded and glowed in an iridescent mist. Such a lovely day, she
thought dreamily, a tear tickling her cheek as it slid down, down,
down.
A lovely day. It made her want to fly like a
sparrow out that window and into the yellow sun, let it burn away
this unbearable, bottomless pain. Let it burn away her flesh until
not even ashes remained. All she had to do was let go. Sighing, she
allowed her eyelids to fall.
Yes. Just let go.
On the heels of her whispered thought, the
gentle lap of the water grew dimmer, the roar of the wind rose up
to carry her, and Marissa Wyatt spread her wings and flew.
*~*~*
June 18, 1815
Hampstead Heath
The pistol dropped from the Duke of
Blackmore’s hand with a thud on the grassy ground, smoking from the
shot that still echoed in his head.
This should not have happened. How had this
happened?
“You—you shot him, your grace. I do believe
…” stuttered his second, Henry Thorpe, the Earl of Dunston, his
dark eyes wide in the pink, pre-dawn light. They both approached
the body lying in the grass a dozen or so yards away. “Harrison, I
believe he may be dead.”
“I only meant to wing the man,” Harrison
uttered hoarsely as he eyed the haphazardly splayed form of Gregory
Wyatt, Viscount Atherbourne. “He moved suddenly to his left. I
haven’t a clue as to why.”
Lord Tannenbrook, a strapping blond man with
blunt features and a grim demeanor, whom Atherbourne had introduced
as his second, looked up at Harrison from where he knelt next to
the viscount’s sprawled, bleeding form. “Indeed, he is dead,” he
said tightly. “A heart shot.”
The words reached Harrison from a great
distance. He stepped back slowly and stared at the vile pool of
dark blood growing beneath Atherbourne’s torso. It was nearly
black.
Strange, that,
he thought distantly.
When there is
so much blood all at once, it appears black instead of red.
Harrison had never killed a man—in a duel or
otherwise—before this day. This awful, bloody day. He scraped a
hand over his face and shook his head to clear it. He had taken a
life. He, the eighth Duke of Blackmore, was … a murderer.
Bile rising in his throat threatened to spew
forth in violent rebellion against his control. He turned
instinctively from the sight of the other man’s body, staggering
several paces away to where brambles grew between looming trees.
Great, heaving breaths filled his lungs with the smell of crushed
grass and moist earth, a respite from the metallic tang of blood,
the foul odor of death.
A hand gripped his shoulder. Henry’s mellow
voice muttered reassuringly, “Not to worry, old friend. Atherbourne
challenged you, and all was conducted properly. Prosecutions for
this sort of thing are rare as virgins at Madame DeChatte’s. Which
is to say, quite.”
Harrison had always enjoyed his friend’s
droll sense of humor, but found nothing amusing about these
circumstances. “He is—” His jaw clenched as he stared at the
ground. “He
was
a viscount. You think his death will be so
easily dismissed?”
“Yes, he was a viscount. And you are a duke.
Privileges of rank and all that.”
A hiss left his lungs and he jerked away in
disgust. Henry caught his arm. While the man was smaller than
Harrison, both shorter and slighter, his grip was oddly strong,
urgent. “I wouldn’t have thought you harbored such naiveté,
Blackmore. This distasteful situation has come to a natural, albeit
unexpected, conclusion. I suggest you accept what has happened and
consider the cause of honor as having been satisfied.”
Rarely had he heard the affable Earl of
Dunston use such a forceful tone. His friend obviously feared
Harrison would follow his conscience into self-destruction. But
that would be reckless. And if there was one thing Harrison was
not, it was reckless.
In point of fact, he was generally regarded
as rather emotionless—a cold fish, and a stuffy one at that. His
brother, Colin, had told him on numerous occasions his mere
presence in a room lowered the temperature to below freezing. While
that was something of an exaggeration, Harrison knew his personal
standards of control and strict adherence to propriety could be
intimidating to some. Stuffy he might be, and yes, perhaps others
would see him as cold. But that was because they knew nothing of
what true coldness was.
Reluctantly, he turned to where Atherbourne
lay, still and lifeless. Tannenbrook stood over the man, looking
bleak as the surgeon knelt next to the body, nodding in
confirmation. It settled in then, the truth of what he’d done.
Dunston was right. The law would probably never come for him, but a
man could not kill without consequences.
He felt a wave of ice unfurl and spread
through his insides.
It might take months, or even years. But one
day, he thought, pivoting toward the rising sun. One day, the devil
would come to claim his due.
*~*~*
Chapter One
“
Bah! The London season has become little more
than an exhibition of vapidness. One may choose to tolerate such a
display, but only a halfwit enjoys it.”
—The Dowager
Marchioness of Wallingham at her weekly luncheon, a mere five days
after arriving in town.
April 20, 1816
Mayfair
If it were possible to swoon from boredom,
Victoria Lacey expected she would now be lying on the gray marble
floor of Lady Gattingford’s ballroom, succumbed to a fit of the
vapors.
“My dear, we will have to arrange a visit at
Lord Gattingford’s country estate after the wedding. Capital
fellow. Has a pair of hounds he assures me are the finest in all
England. Well, I can tell you I simply must see that for
myself.”
Victoria gazed at her fiancé’s handsome
features—light brown hair with a bit of charming curl, sweet blue
eyes with long lashes, and nice, even teeth revealed when he
smiled, which was frequently. She so wished she felt something more
than mild affection.
A single, solitary tingle, dash it all.
Perhaps even two or three.
But no. He was comfortable. Much
like a wash-worn dress, the fabric dulled in color but soft and
familiar.
“Since we will be in the area, Dunston
invited us to join him at Fairfield Park. His annual hunt is in
November, I believe.”
She murmured agreement and glanced toward the
whirling dancers at the center of the room. A quadrille. The sight
made her smile. The ladies in their pastel dresses, the gentlemen
in their dark evening finery. Perhaps she should have accepted Sir
Barnabus Malby’s invitation to dance this round. He was a portly
gentleman with the unfortunate tendency to emit offensive odors
when moving vigorously. Still, it would have been more enjoyable
than standing here discussing hounds and hunting, of all
things.
“… lemonade, my dear?”
Again, she nodded absently. Over the past
month as her engagement wore on, she had adopted a strategy of
compliance—just nod, murmur, or in some way indicate agreement, and
actual listening was (thankfully) all but unnecessary. Feeling a
twinge of guilt at her unkind thoughts, she nevertheless found the
Marquess of Stickley—
Timothy;
she must remember to call him
Timothy—a dreadful bore. She sighed. And he was hers for a
lifetime. Handsome, tedious, considerate, bland, gentle,
boring
Timothy.
He’d been her brother’s favorite of all her
suitors. And who could disagree with Harrison’s assessment? As a
man whose greatest passions in life revolved around horses, hounds,
and hunting, Stickley was unlikely to spend his fortune on
gambling, drink, and other nefarious pursuits. He was dependable.
Much like a well-bred hound. And very nearly as stimulating.