He leaned forward until his eyes were level with hers, bracing his hands on the desk behind her, enclosing her until she could see nothing but him. “That is where you are mistaken, my dear. You are my wife, an extension of me. He is my enemy, and you will have nothing to do with him.”
He could not mean it. “You cannot mean it,” she rasped.
“I assure you, I am most sincere.”
“But I must visit Clyde-Lacey House to retrieve my supplies—”
His face hardened further, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “No contact, Victoria, do you understand? None.”
“But—”
“Not letters. Not visits. Not chance encounters. Nothing.”
She stared at him, this stranger she had married. The man who had given her unspeakable pleasure for the past ten days. You should have known, she told herself bitterly. Such indulgences have only ever led to disaster. You must learn to control your desires, Victoria. Otherwise, they will control you. The admonition was a familiar one, though it had been years since she’d heard her father’s voice in her head. It reminded her of Harrison. Chin rising, eyes narrowing, she declared, “I will not abide by such an absurd demand.”
His head tilted in a most predatory way. “Then I fear you shall suffer the ravages of the gossips on your own.”
“You honestly mean to allow your wife to continue being the subject of such a scandal? No gentleman would do so.”
He gave her a single nod, the gesture slow and faintly mocking. “Now you’re catching on.”
The threat was real enough to feel like a sword piercing her stomach. The very purpose of marrying Lucien had been to restore her reputation. If he refused to cooperate, it would all have been for nothing. Oh, he was a skilled seducer. And, yes, perhaps she had begun to indulge in daydreams of making this marriage into something more than a convenience. But he obviously did not share her foolish sentiment. A husband who wanted a real marriage would not threaten to abandon his wife.
Victoria lowered her eyes and forced herself to think logically, as Harrison often encouraged. Admittedly, her options were limited. One: She could defy him, which meant any benefit gained from the marriage would be largely moot, and she’d be right back to where she had begun—disgraced and hopeless. Or, two: She could comply, gain his cooperation for however long it took, and then see about Harrison later.
“You are despicable,” she muttered.
He grinned. “So you have said.” He ran a finger down her cheek, which she promptly batted away. She could not bear for him to touch her.
“I will do as you ask in regard to Harrison.”
“Splendid.”
She shoved hard at his shoulder. He did not budge. “For now,” she said emphatically. “Assuming you are of use to me.”
His hand fell over his heart, his voice low. “I live to be used by you, my darling.”
Ignoring the innuendo, Victoria pushed away from the desk and sidled past him to pace the room briskly. The distance helped clear her mind, but it did nothing to ease the coldness inside her. “We’ll begin with Lady Berne’s dinner. I shall expect your full cooperation, my lord.”
“So long as you heed my wishes, I will aid you with your little project.”
Straightening her shoulders, Victoria faced him and nodded, clasping her fingers at her waist. “It is good we understand one another.” And it was. She would not be fooled again.
Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because he paused, searching her with his eyes, then slowly moved forward until he stood less than a foot away. “We needn’t be so at odds, love. There are many pleasures yet to be explored between us,” he said softly, sounding too much like the man she had begun to fall in …
No. That way lay disaster.
“Your position is entirely clear, my lord husband.” The starch of dignity gave her voice an icy snap that more resembled Harrison’s than her own. “Now allow me to explain mine. Whatever pleasures we may have once enjoyed are at an end. If it would not stoke damaging gossip among the servants, I would move into the guest chamber this very day. And you would never touch me again.”
Slowly, his eyes dropped to her bosom and made a leisurely return to her face. “You are angry now, but you will change your mind.”
Breathing around a gnawing ache at the center of her chest, Victoria wondered if she would ever be able to look at him and not want him so badly it made her fingers curl. Right now, she longed for that time to come as soon as possible, for she very much feared if it did not, he might prove correct.
“We shall see, my lord. We shall see.”
~~*
Chapter Twelve
“A scandal is like a wolf that has been too long without a meal. You must first feed it something other than yourself. Only then do you stand a chance of taming it.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne upon learning the unfortunate consequences of failing in one’s chaperone duties.
The brisk clack of Harrison’s Hessians on the steps of the Berne townhouse echoed along a relatively quiet stretch of Grosvenor Street. The afternoon was unusually crisp, the skies cloudless, the air promising warmth but not yet delivering. He’d thought perhaps the short walk from Berkeley Square would help clear his mind, ease the worry that plagued him. But as he raised his arm to knock on the oak door, his thoughts stubbornly circled the same point: He had failed her. His baby sister.
He paused, staring at his gloved fist where it hovered just shy of grasping the brass knocker, but seeing only her tight, pale features as she left his home with that conniving blackguard. Now her husband.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. He had been outmaneuvered—he, the Duke of Blackmore, a man so powerful, the Prince Regent once privately expressed envy for his influence. Atherbourne had gained more than the upper hand. The bastard had Harrison’s sister. God only knew what would come of that union, but he found it difficult to imagine anything good. Now, he was left to wonder, left to watch over her from a distance, to try to help repair what Atherbourne had broken. Because of him. Because of what he had done.
The door swung inward, startling Harrison out of his thoughts. He dropped his arm and gave Berne’s butler a blank stare. The middle-aged servant must have taken his look for disapproval, because he instantly bowed. “My deepest apologies, your grace. I did not hear your arrival.” He stepped back and waved Harrison inside, accepting the hat Harrison automatically handed him. “I shall alert Lord and Lady Berne straight away. Would you care to wait in the drawing room?”
Harrison gave a brief nod, barely glancing at the servant. “That will be fine.”
The butler escorted him upstairs to the small but elegant drawing room with its blue silk walls, oak floors, and tall windows. He departed, saying something about tea. Still distracted by his earlier thoughts, Harrison wandered toward the window in the far right corner of the room. With a single finger, he knuckled aside the gold striped draperies and glanced out at the street below. A high-perch phaeton rumbled past, the tow-headed buck at the reins recklessly pushing a pair of roans too fast. Harrison frowned. The man—or, to be more precise, boy—was tempting fate mightily. Did today’s youths not understand how irresponsible their behavior was? How it endangered others? And for what? A moment of exhilaration, of emotion. Shameful.
He shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back. Colin was the same, perhaps worse. He dove headlong into the brandy bottle, never thinking how his careless, foolhardy behavior might embarrass those who shared his name, his bloodline. Never wondering if it was right to subject others to his drunken idiocy.
Harrison’s inability to comprehend Colin’s lack of control had proven a barrier to correcting his behavior. He had tried everything—limiting his allowance, sending him abroad, scolding, cajoling, threatening. Nothing had worked. The drinking had only grown worse, especially in the past year. Victoria had suggested cutting Colin off completely. And for his gentle, softhearted sister to even hint at such a thing,
Harrison knew the situation had become critical. But he could not bring himself to do it. Colin and Victoria were his responsibility, and despite the fact that he appeared to be failing them both rather miserably, he would not abandon them. Ever.
A high-pitched squeal followed by the staccato thud of racing footsteps was muffled by the closed doors, but it drew his attention nonetheless. Loud peals of feminine laughter—young feminine laughter—reached his ears, generating an instant reaction. That of annoyance. He scowled at the doors, then reached into his waistcoat pocket to retrieve his watch. One fifteen. What the bloody hell was keeping Lord and Lady Berne?
“Genie, I swear to you,” another voice sounded through the doors, this one slightly deeper, though still feminine, and obviously vexed. “If you damage that book in any way, I will cut every hair ribbon you own into tiny, unrecognizable bits.”
“Oh, Mr. Darcy! You are my heeeeroooo. How could I not fall madly in looooove!” He could not be certain, but he suspected what followed the girlish, singsong voice was the sound of either smacking or exaggerated kissing noises. Either way, it ended in a shriek, as though the one who had produced the noise had been abruptly set upon.
“Give it back, you wretched brat. Do not force me to threaten your bonnets.”
Another shriek, a hard thud, more rapid footsteps, then the doors to the drawing room flew open. A dark-haired girl who could not be above twelve careened into the room, clutching a small brown book to her flat yellow bodice. She was immediately followed by a taller—though, by no means tall—considerably more buxom girl of perhaps eighteen or nineteen. This girl was also dark-haired, but was plump, bespectacled, and narrow-eyed with determination. She looked familiar, but it took him a moment to recognize her. She was one of the daughters who had attended Victoria’s wedding. Was it Joan? Anne? He couldn’t recall. That day had passed in a haze of red for him.
The younger girl rounded one of the sofas set in the middle of the room, placing it between her and the older girl. “I shall burn it, see if I don’t!” she pronounced, dramatically extending the book toward the fireplace. Which happened to be at least ten feet away.
The spectacled one narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice. “I shall burn you, see if I don’t.”
“Ha!” came the immediate reply. “You cannot even lift Katie any longer. How do you expect to throw me in the fireplace?”
Small, feminine hands landed on rounded hips. “Well, Genie, you have me there,” Joan/Anne/Whoever replied sarcastically. “I suppose I shall have to bring the fire to you.”
Genie’s expression grew mutinous. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
“Sisters should not threaten to burn one another.”
“Sisters should not make it necessary by pilfering one another’s possessions. Now give it back before I am forced to do something drastic.”
Genie pouted in a way that made him think she had practiced the expression in front of a mirror countless times. “I was only having a bit of fun. You are forever reading, Jane. It is so boring.”
The briefest shadow flashed over the spectacled one’s face. Jane. Now he remembered. Her name was Jane. His brows lowered and his jaw tightened. Heedless children, both of them. They threw hurtful words at one another, flailing wildly about without a thought to the damage they could do. Neither had stopped long enough to notice him standing in the corner of the room.
He cleared his throat. Loudly.
Two pairs of dark eyes swung his direction, flared comically wide, flew back to one another, then back to him. Genie’s mouth gaped. Jane’s face and throat flushed a mottled, unbecoming red.
“My … your … y-your grace,” Jane managed, stumbling on an awkward curtsy.
“He’s a duke?!” Genie hissed. Before her sister could reply, the girl shoved the book into Jane’s hands and ran pell-mell out of the room. Jane pressed the brown leather volume to her ample bosom, and Harrison’s eyes followed it automatically, watching the rapid rise and fall of her chest. His frown deepened.
“What book is so precious, I wonder, that it draws threats of burning one’s sibling?” He watched as her flush deepened and spread. Her mouth remained open as though she wanted to speak but could not.
“Nothing to say for yourself, then?” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded harsh. Cold. Before his vexation could get the better of him, he turned his back on her to gaze once again out the window. Minutes passed in silence. After a while, he glanced behind him to where she had stood, but she was gone. A pang of conscience struck. Perhaps he had not handled that well. He’d been angry with Colin and Atherbourne and, yes, even Victoria for their reckless behavior. Perhaps his reaction to what was likely routine sisterly squabbling had been a touch severe.
Lady Berne entered through the open door, her short, round frame bustling forward in a rolling, harried rush. Lord Berne, lean and distinguished, followed more sedately, a bemused smile on his face. Harrison acknowledged them both with a nod and a brief bow.
“Your grace, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting,” the countess began. “I’m afraid there was a bit of an … incident with the supper menu.” She held her hand up as though to stop him from interrupting. “No need to panic, however. The crisis has been averted. Lord Berne will have his pheasant, and domestic tranquility may resume uninterrupted.” This last bit she said with a wry grin and a twinkle.
He blinked, feeling as though he had missed something. First, the earl’s daughters chased one another through the halls like a couple of harridans, screeching and threatening all manner of bodily harm, then the countess admitted she was late to an appointment with him—a duke, no less—because she had not properly managed arrangements for the evening meal. Honestly, he’d had no idea the Berne household was in such disarray. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Lord Berne intervened. “Well,” the older gentleman said in his usual affable tone. “Perhaps we should sit.”
By the time they all took their seats and tea had been delivered, offered, and declined, the tension along the back of Harrison’s neck had crawled up inside his skull, gnawing its way forward in a vague, pounding ache.
“Now then,” Lady Berne began, a few strands of silver-laced brown hair peeking from beneath her ruffled cap. “I must first apologize, your grace. As a chaperone, it was my duty to ensure Victoria came to no harm while under my care. I failed her, and I failed you.” The matron stopped, apparently overcome by emotion. She pressed her lips together, her eyes welling with a sheen of tears. Reaching inside the cuff of her gown, she pulled out a handkerchief and held it to her nose.
He opened his mouth to speak, but she halted him by raising her palm and choking out, “No, no. Do not so hastily offer forgiveness.”
Lowering his brows, he felt the headache tighten and intensify. He had not been about to offer forgiveness. She was right. Her lack of vigilance was, in part, to blame for the disaster at the Gattingford ball. Before he could say as much, however, Lord Berne reached over and stroked his wife’s arm soothingly. “There, there, dearest. You cannot blame yourself. Atherbourne knew what he was about before he ever entered the ballroom. It’s likely if you had thwarted him there, he would have merely found another opportunity.”
“I should have warned the poor girl. She did not even know who he was,” Lady Berne murmured, then sniffed and met Harrison’s eyes. “Your mother was one of my dearest friends. I will do all in my power to restore Victoria’s good standing. It is what she would have wanted.”
Feeling as though his muscles had been shot full of mortar, Harrison could do little more than nod. Lord Berne squeezed the countess’s hand gently, and gave Harrison a small smile. “We may have an idea about that, actually.”
His eyes shifted back and forth between the earl and countess. “Yes?”
Lady Berne nodded, the lace on her cap bobbing as she scooted forward to perch on the edge of the sofa. “I am bosom friends with a certain marchioness,” she whispered loudly.
He b
linked. “Is that so?”
She wrinkled her short, rounded nose and grinned secretively. “I may be owed a small favor.” Ignoring what must be his puzzled expression—for he could not fathom what the blazes she was talking about—she rushed on, waving her handkerchief dismissively, then tucking it back inside her sleeve. “Unfortunately, even that may not be enough. The scandal is positively ghastly. Do you know what they are saying about your poor, dear sister?”
His frown became a scowl, his headache now a vise wielded by the devil himself. “No. Tell me.”
She cleared her throat delicately. “It is simply dreadful, your grace. But you must know the truth. Both last season and this, Victoria was heralded as a premier example of virtue and grace. While that made her quite successful in attaining honorable suitors, it also engendered a great deal of envy among other debutantes and, more to the point, among their mothers. Her fall from such a high pedestal, I fear, has invited viciousness on a scale I have seldom witnessed.”
“What, precisely, are they saying?” he asked softly.
Lady Berne glanced at her husband, who nodded and patted her wrist, encouraging her to continue. “The mildest of the accusations is that she is a hypocrite and a fraud. Others speculate she was Atherbourne’s mistress all along, and that the two of them planned to continue their liaison after her marriage to Stickley. The worst rumors suggest a conspiracy to do away with Stickley after he inherited, leaving Victoria a widowed duchess.”
“These rumors, are they widespread?” Harrison asked, his jaw tight, his stomach churning. He’d known it was bad. Lord Dunston and even Dunston’s sister, Mary, had warned him that the ton was gleefully digging its claws into the juicy carcass Atherbourne had served up. But he hadn’t realized just how far it had gone.
“I am afraid so,” Lady Berne replied. “It is much worse than I anticipated. Victoria’s marriage to Atherbourne has helped a bit, but Lord Stickley continues to accuse her of wanton faithlessness. He refuses to deny that she may have been carrying on an affair during their engagement. No, the scandal is still burning bright, I fear.”
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