The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (4 page)

There was no mistaking it: Her life had
changed inalterably this night. And not for the better.

“Lady Gattingford,” Lucien said as he turned,
his tone nonchalant, even mocking. “A fine night for a stroll on
the terrace, wouldn’t you say?”

The tall woman’s eyes narrowed on him, her
mouth a flat line. “Do not imagine I hold you blameless, my lord.
You are nothing less than a bounder!”

While Victoria had defined him with the same
term earlier, she found herself bristling at the insult toward
Lucien. They had experienced a moment of uncontrollable passion
together. She suspected he had felt as swept away as she had, blind
to their surroundings, and tossed amid a raging storm. There was no
need to paint him as a villain.

“My dear lady,” she began, “I do comprehend
your dismay at what you have seen. But, please understand we were
both caught up in the moment. It was simply a lapse of judgment.
If—if you could see your way clear to—”

“Lapse of judgment? While that may be one
acceptable description of your behavior, my lady, it in no way
excuses the shameful wantonness I witnessed.”

Other guests began taking notice of the
intriguing and heated conversation happening on the terrace, and
the two remaining sets of doors were opened. Soon, an alarming
number of people—perhaps twenty—crowded around Lady Gattingford,
including Lady Berne, her two daughters, the Aldridge twins, and
Lord Stickley.
Oh, heaven help me,
she thought, cold dread
clenching her insides.
Stickley does not deserve what is about
to happen.

Before she could say another word, Lady
Gattingford regaled the crowd with a summary of her observations.
Snippets of the matron’s monologue repeated in Victoria’s
mind—
kissing, shocking, inappropriate.
As though trapped in
a nightmare, Victoria froze, only able to watch and endure. The
woman appeared to savor each word, her descriptions growing ever
more detailed with each gasp from her audience.
Fondling, bosom,
exposed.
A flush of pure shame heated beneath Victoria’s skin,
burning and pulsing in her face and chest. The humiliation was
almost too much to bear.

Then, it got worse.

Lady Berne paled to a sickly white as her
eyes darted between Victoria, Lucien, and back to Stickley. Flags
of ruddy color signaled the marquess’s anger and embarrassment as
he glared at Victoria. When Lady Gattingford reached her triumphant
crescendo, and the shocked mutterings of the crowd burst forth, he
simply turned his back and walked away, charging through the doors
and out of the ballroom, shouldering several gentlemen aside as he
went. The din of the crowd’s chatter prevented her from calling out
to him, begging him to stop and listen so she could defend
herself.

Not that she had a defense. She was, in fact,
quite guilty.

Lady Berne, bless her, courageously
approached Victoria, risking much by further associating herself
with a ruined young woman. She took Victoria’s icy fingers in her
hands. “Are you well, Victoria?” she asked gently.

Victoria nodded, then looked down at the
flagstones, no longer able to hold her friend’s sympathetic gaze.
She swallowed hard, bothered by the tightness in her throat. She
refused to cry. She simply would not.

“He did not harm you, then? Force you?” The
softly spoken words were stunning, as Victoria had not imagined
anyone would reach such a conclusion.

“No. Why would you suggest …?”

“Because, my dear, he more than any other may
have reason to wish you and your family harm.”

She shook her head. “That makes little
sense.”

“Do you not yet know who he is, child?”

Victoria stared into Lady Berne’s kind,
steady brown eyes and knew she would not like this. Not at all.
“Who is he?” she whispered hoarsely.

The countess took a deep breath and squeezed
Victoria’s hands as though to brace her for a great shock. “He is
the new Viscount Atherbourne. He inherited the title after your
brother, the duke, killed his brother in a duel last season.”

Victoria reeled, the sounds of the crowd
dimming, her head spinning with the possible implications. She had
known about the duel, but Harrison had not explained why it had
happened, only informing her it was a matter of honor that had been
resolved, and had ended in the death of Viscount Atherbourne. He
had refused to discuss it further. The incident had generated a
shockwave among the aristocracy, but because it had occurred toward
the end of last season, just before most families departed London
for the country, the scandal had fizzled before it really began.
Few of her acquaintances had brought it up after that—a testament
to her brother’s considerable power—and she assumed the matter had
been largely forgotten.

But here stood a man who had every reason to
remember, every reason to seek retribution. Could he have planned
this? Was his impassioned embrace—she swallowed hard on a wave of
sickness—nothing more than a cruel charade designed to ruin her?
No, surely not. He must have felt the same tidal force sweeping
away all reason; she could not have been alone in that. She could
not have been such a fool.

She immediately sought reassurance in
Lucien’s gaze, shifting to look up at where he stood a few feet
away, listening to her conversation. “You …?”

The mocking smile and triumphant glint in his
eyes confirmed her worst suspicions. “Yes, my darling. I am Lucien
Wyatt, Viscount Atherbourne.” He swept a graceful bow, his
discarded glove now back in its proper place as though nothing
significant had occurred. “And I must tell you, making your
acquaintance has been the greatest of pleasures.”

*~*~*

Chapter Three

“
A single shot through the heart, you say? Well,
I suppose it is not entirely unexpected. Blackmore is nothing if
not a perfectionist.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham
upon news of Viscount Atherbourne’s untimely demise.

No one, but no one, intimidated through
silence more effectively than the Duke of Blackmore. If Victoria
had not been certain of it twenty minutes ago, she would be now,
after sitting with her hands folded neatly in her lap, staring at
the handsome blond head of her silent brother while he scratched
away at some missive. For nearly half an hour.

He was formidable on the best of days.
Consumed with propriety, duty, and family honor. Strict in his
adherence to—and enforcement of—societal dictates. She expected him
to lecture her with his sharpest aristocratic weapon: quiet,
clipped sentences that made one long for a January blizzard simply
to experience warmth. However, since the moment she had entered the
study and he had bluntly ordered her to sit, he hadn’t so much as
acknowledged her presence.

But then, what was there to say? She knew the
scandal had grown to epic proportions. Belaboring that
all-too-obvious fact with a scathing diatribe was unnecessary.
Duke’s sister or not, no self-respecting gentleman would now
willingly choose her—a wanton, reckless, ruined girl—to marry.
After all, her former fiancé had been thoroughly and quite publicly
humiliated. His only recourse had been to cast her aside and decry
her betrayal to all and sundry.

She was, not to put too fine a point on it,
notorious.

While she felt shame at this knowledge, she
had to admit it gave her the tiniest thrill to have overturned the
assumptions of so many members of the ton. Victoria had been
regarded since her debut as a paragon of quiet grace, perfect
comportment, and impeccable lineage—the ideal society miss. She was
not the most beautiful of women, nor the most charming, nor the
most interesting, but thanks in large part to Lady Berne’s efforts,
Victoria had become known as “The Flower of Blackmore,” applauded
by the patronesses of Almack’s as the example to which other
debutantes should aspire. The strategy resulted in three proposals
at the end of last season and two at the beginning of this, her
second season. Lord Stickley’s offer had come a mere fortnight
after they arrived in London.

She sighed and shifted in her chair, glancing
down at her hands, hearing the whisper of Harrison’s pen stroking
across the page. After their parents’ deaths, Harrison had been
driven to enshrine the family’s legacy, and she became a willing
participant in that effort. Being courted by and then married to
the season’s finest catch had been the pinnacle of the dreams both
he and her parents had for her. Those dreams had been utterly
dashed the moment she chose to remain on the terrace with Lucien,
rather than marching back inside the ballroom at the first sign of
impropriety.

Even knowing this, a part of her she seldom
acknowledged was relieved she would not be marrying Lord Stickley.
In truth, they had never suited. She winced inwardly. That being
said, there were more preferable ways to cry off an engagement than
being the center of the biggest scandal since … well, since her
brother shot the previous Viscount Atherbourne, she supposed.

Harrison began speaking without glancing up
at her. “You have left yourself few options, Victoria.” He dipped
his pen in the inkwell and continued scratching away at the page
before him. She wondered idly if he was writing a novel. Absurd,
that. Her staid, traditional brother doing something so frivolous
and romantic as penning fiction? The thought made a bubble of
nervous laughter rise in her throat. She held her breath and
pressed her lips together firmly to stifle it.

He finally ceased writing and looked up. Her
amusement died before it had really begun. She’d expected his gaze
to be cold, disapproving, remote. And it was. But beneath that was
a deep, resigned sadness. It fairly broke her heart.

“Harrison, I …”

“Despite the dishonor you have dealt the
family, I still care for you as my sister. Although I may
occasionally wish it otherwise, that shall never change. Therefore,
I will offer you two choices. You may live at Blackmore Hall until
I marry, at which point, you will transfer your household to our
western estate at Garrison Heath. It is smaller but perfectly
comfortable.”

“It is a half day’s ride from the nearest
village.”

His eyes narrowed in the first visible flash
of anger he had shown throughout the scandal. She suspected a great
deal of fury was being controlled beneath the surface.

“And yet, it is what I will offer you,” he
snapped. “If you cannot stomach the idea, then you may feel free to
choose your second option.”

She took a deep, bracing breath and clenched
her hands tightly in her lap, her thumb stroking her knuckles
soothingly. “Which is?”

“Our Aunt Muriel is in need of a companion.
You would go to live with her in Edinburgh. Whichever choice you
make, you will leave London as soon as I can arrange it.”

The air condensed around her, cold and sharp.
She was to be banished, then. Hardly unexpected. Really, she
supposed his offers were both rather generous, under the
circumstances. He was sending her away, but not so far that she
could not still see him and Colin occasionally.

In one case, she would be able to live as she
liked, painting and sketching and managing her own household, with
no one else to consider. She would be relatively independent and
free of others’ interference.
And lonely,
she thought.
Terribly lonely.

In the second option, she would be companion
to an elderly great-aunt she remembered fondly as eccentric but
witty and fun. As she recalled, Aunt Muriel loved to travel, so at
least that option might offer a chance for variety, if not true
adventure. However, Victoria would have no home of her own, living
instead on the whims and good graces of a woman she hadn’t seen in
over a decade.

But does that matter so much, since I am
unlikely now to ever marry? And if I do not marry, I will have no
children, presumably. It will always be just … me.

No chasing a giggling two-year-old around the
garden. No shopping on Bond Street for her daughter’s first season.
And definitely no knee-weakening kisses with a devilishly handsome
husband.

She felt a sob rise and gather in her chest.
Her hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into the soft
flesh of her palms. Blast it. She had cried for two days after that
humiliating night. She refused to start up again. She. Would. Not.
Everything would be fine, she assured herself. Just fine. Oh, not
what she had pictured her life to be, surely. But quiet and secure
and restful and serene …

A white square of fabric appeared in front of
her face, its edges blurred by the tears she couldn’t seem to
prevent. She took the handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth,
then tightly grasped Harrison’s strong, capable hand where it still
hovered next to her. They remained there for long minutes, he
holding her hand gently and stroking her hair while tears quietly
rolled down her cheeks in an unstoppable flow.

Rather than oppressive and disapproving, his
silence now felt as it had when she was six years old and mourning
the death of her first (and last) pet, an old tomcat she had named
Salty. As Harrison had sat with her then, holding her hand just
like this, his silence had fallen as a reassuring blanket around
her. He was ten years older than she, but had never given her a
moment’s doubt about his love, had rarely treated her with anything
other than steadfast affection.

A great deal of her regret over the incident
at the Gattingford ball was because of the blow it dealt to her
brother. For that alone, she could not forgive herself. The damage
to her life would forever change his.

When a polite knock intruded into the
silence, Harrison gave her hair one last stroke and pulled away to
sit once again behind his desk. “Yes?”