Damn Atherbourne to hell. Harrison had half a mind to make his sister a widow just as soon as he could locate a new dueling pistol. He had sold his pair shortly after shooting the previous Lord Atherbourne. “I will take care of Stickley,” Harrison said, his tone flat.
Lord Berne sat forward. “With all respect, Harrison, I think in this case, you may be better off staying clear of the fray.” Every instinct rose up with the need to shout his refusal at the older man, but before he could take a breath, Berne continued, “I know you want to protect Victoria. That is only right. But solving this particular malady requires a specialist.”
“Specialist?” he asked, still unsure about this vague plan they kept referring to.
Lady Berne nodded emphatically. “In matters of gossip and rumor, her authority is unmatched. Victoria will be in excellent hands.”
Harrison met Lord Berne’s sympathetic eyes, wishing like hell he did not have to place his sister’s welfare in the care of these well-meaning but somewhat exasperating people. However, Lord Berne was correct in saying Harrison was not the best person to combat the scandal. Because of his feud with Atherbourne, his direct involvement would serve only to inspire the viscount’s resistance. As much as he despised the man—now his brother-in-law—Harrison knew they could not possibly succeed without Atherbourne’s cooperation. It was the only reason he had agreed to Victoria’s marriage, the only reason he hadn’t bloody well killed the blackguard outright.
Besides, the women of the ton were the ones driving this scandal. In their jealousy, they were eager to tear Victoria apart. The best person to reverse the damage was probably a female, one who knew how to navigate the gossip circles, one who might even have sufficient power to change perceptions. As he generally tried to remain far removed from such circles, he hadn’t a clue who such a figure might be.
His consternation must have shown in his expression, because Lady Berne smiled reassuringly and said, “Not to worry, your grace. If anyone is capable of dousing this fire, it is Lady Wallingham.”
Good God, he thought. Wallingham? It was like using a hammer to catch a butterfly. That woman was both a termagant and a tyrant. She was powerful, yes, but also blunt, tactless, and at times outrageous. Such a solution was fraught with risk, which was unacceptable.
“Lady Berne,” Harrison said, his voice deliberately patient. “I am most appreciative of your efforts on my sister’s behalf. However, I fear involving Lady Wallingham will do more harm than good. I must ask that you allow me to handle the matter.”
Lord Berne began to speak, probably to offer reassurances, but the countess suddenly stood, appearing agitated. It forced Harrison to his feet, where he remained, stiff and wary, as she came around the low table to stand directly in front of him. At not even five feet tall, Lady Berne was well over a foot shorter than he, and it was most marked when she stood next to him. He was reminded of a scene from one of his favorite boyhood stories, Gulliver’s Travels. As she gazed up at his face, the awkwardness of the moment grew, causing him to want to fidget like the boy who had devoured that book in one day.
She reached out slowly and took his hands in her own. Startled at the gesture, he could only stand, speechless, as she squeezed his gloved fingers. Other than the occasional impulsive hug from Victoria or clap on the shoulder from Dunston, no one touched him without his permission. Ever. And while his parents had been close with the earl and countess, he was not, though he valued the connection to such a well-respected family.
“Ah, my lady,” he began gently, wondering how to extricate himself without giving offense.
She did not waver, her large brown eyes filled with some indefinable emotion. He would almost describe the look as maternal, but that was ridiculous. He was the Duke of Blackmore, not some poor weakling in need of mothering.
“Dear boy,” she said softly, almost sighing the words. “You are so like your father.”
It was hardly the first time he had heard the sentiment. Such comparisons were inevitable—and only partially accurate. Harrison was considered by many to be cold through and through, as his father had been. But he had never managed more than a fair imitation of it.
“Allow me to pose a question,” she continued, seemingly unfazed by his rigid posture. “Do you wish Victoria to be happy?”
He frowned, wondering if the woman was bloody daft. “Of course.”
She smiled, squeezed his fingers one last time, then stepped back as though satisfied with his answer. “Good. Then you will permit me and Lady Wallingham to proceed.”
Opening his mouth to refute her claim, he was halted when she pressed on, her voice harder, more emphatic. “Otherwise, your grace, there is very little chance of her recovering her standing within society. The scandal may eventually fade in its significance, but frankly, without Lady Wallingham, it will never completely disappear.”
Reluctantly, he mulled her statement over in his mind. It was a risky plan. The old woman was unpredictable. Furthermore, she lived by her own set of rules, which did not include reverence for anyone else’s authority. However, perhaps because of her formidable nature, when she chose, Lady Wallingham could wield an astounding degree of influence. Although it pained him to place his sister’s welfare in the hands of someone so volatile, he had to admit Lady Berne was likely correct—it was the best option available if they wanted to reverse the damage, rather than simply weather the storm.
Bloody hell. He felt like a bull that had been neatly herded into a stall. It was becoming an all-too-familiar sensation. “Very well,” he said after a long silence. “You may solicit Lady Wallingham’s assistance.”
Lady Berne gave him a delighted grin and clapped her hands excitedly. “Splendid!”
“However,” he said repressively, “You will alert me should any problems arise. Immediately and without hesitation. If Lady Wallingham becomes more of a hindrance than a help, I shall take action, and she will not enjoy the consequences. Feel free to advise her so.”
Lady Berne waved her hand as though unconcerned. “You worry needlessly. When she puts her mind to a task, Lady Wallingham is positively a force of nature.”
That, he thought grimly, is precisely why I should worry.
~~*
Chapter Thirteen
“Have a care, my dear. Others may dabble. I wage war.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Duchess of Rutland upon her grace’s stated desire to host a competing weekly luncheon.
“Do you think she will agree to help us?” Victoria asked nervously a week later.
Seated beside her in the carriage, Lucien replied, “Probably. Lady Wallingham may be a dragon, but her influence allows her many eccentricities. I imagine she will help, if only to amuse herself for the remainder of the season.”
Victoria nodded and bit her lip. She prayed he was right. Soliciting Lady Wallingham’s assistance in resolving the surprisingly severe scandal had been a stroke of genius on the part of Lady Berne, who was friends with the “dragon,” as Lucien accurately described her. Lady Wallingham was a rarely seen yet inexplicably powerful figure within the ton. She arrived in London each season approximately a month later than most other women of her age and station, preferring the country for its “blessed absence of cacophony and suffocating stench.”
When she finally came to town, it was with a great deal of fanfare. Society matrons clamored for invitations to the dowager marchioness’s weekly luncheons, in which only the finest gossip was shared, discussed, and given final declarative judgment by Lady Wallingham herself.
Her commentary was often tart, occasionally cutting, and always incisive. By the mere lift of an eyebrow, she could set a presumptuous matron in her place or revoke a debutante’s good standing. Certainly, if anyone had the influence necessary to recast a virulent scandal into a romantic triumph, it was Lady Wallingham. The only question in Victoria’s mind was, would soliciting a dragon’s help gain them a powerful ally or the fire of the lady’s scorn?
As they ar
rived at the Earl of Berne’s white stone townhouse, Victoria’s stomach tightened in dread. She unconsciously reached for Lucien’s hand where it rested on the seat between them, her gloved fingers brushing lightly over his before she realized what she was doing and jerked her hand back.
But he noticed. How could he not? It was the first time she had touched him in even the most casual way in seven days. After ordering her to avoid all contact with Harrison, then threatening to throw her to the proverbial wolves if she did not, Lucien had dared to act as though nothing had changed. But to her, everything had changed. He was using her to punish her brother. Again. It was plain to see, now that the initial fog of lust had dispersed. Then why can you not simply accept the truth and cease this infernal wanting?
In her weaker moments, before she could stop herself, she would lean toward him for a kiss or reach out to caress his jaw. Fortunately, thus far, she had been able to regain her senses before he noticed her lapses. Until now. Seeking reassurance, her hand had moved of its own accord to brush his, and this time, she would not escape so easily. His hand chased after hers and found it in her lap. The small contact sent alarming tingles up her arm.
“Victoria,” he whispered.
She looked down at where their hands entwined, his so much larger than hers. Her whole body was suffused with the grinding ache of need. Perhaps more than her body. One would have thought his callousness toward her would have made her immune to the dangerous desire that filled her at his nearness. At the very least, she had supposed withdrawing from him—refusing to allow him to encroach upon her half of the bed at night, speaking to him only when necessary, ensuring they were seldom alone together—would dim the attraction between them.
But no. Quite the opposite, actually. She craved him.
Most compulsively.
Shaking her head, she gathered her strength and pulled her hand from his. It made her feel tight, empty. “In the presence of others, you may play the part of the devoted husband, but in private, we both know I do not desire your attentions, my lord.” Her voice sounded positively frosty.
Lucien was in no mood to heed the warning. His hand—the same one that had cradled hers moments earlier—rose to clasp the nape of her neck and turn her head from where it focused out the window to face him and his descending mouth.
She squeaked in surprise at the hard kiss, his sleek tongue invading and demanding her compliance. She pushed at him weakly, but if she was honest, it was little more than a token gesture. The rapturous pleasure that filled her whenever he kissed her was simply too much to resist. He grasped her hands and repositioned them around his neck, then snaked his arm about her waist, pulling her snugly against him. She moaned into his mouth, her breasts swelling against her stays, her gloved fingers digging into his nape.
A dark growl came from deep within his chest, the rumble sending a sharp thrill through her entire body. It felt like it had been years, not days, since he had last touched her. She was a desert and he a wild rainstorm. It wasn’t until she felt his hand bunching her skirt at her knee that sanity began to worm its annoying way back into her consciousness.
Just as she was preparing to break away from the kiss—for surely that was what she intended at the earliest opportunity—the carriage door opened and they both froze. The footman cleared his throat, staring straight ahead. Blushing furiously, Victoria jerked away from her husband, who looked disheveled and hungry, his breathing fast. Swallowing hard against a suddenly dry mouth, she cleared her throat and scooted to exit the carriage, with Lucien following her after an oddly long interval. The cool evening air eased the heat in her cheeks as they both paused to gather themselves. Seconds later, Lucien offered his arm to escort her inside, their kiss left behind in the confines of the carriage. As it should be, she thought, sending a prayer of thanks heavenward for the footman’s execrable—er, excellent—timing.
Victoria had visited the Berne townhouse on several occasions, and it always struck her as a place of warmth, comfort, and familiarity. Much of the house was clad in medium-toned, golden oak, from the floors to the staircase to the paneled walls in the entrance hall, parlor, and library. More than that, it was a house redolent with the laughter, affection, and bustling energy of family. She had long wondered whether having sisters would have given Clyde-Lacey House and Blackmore Hall more of the same feeling. Harrison was not known for an effusive nature, after all.
She stole a glance at Lucien as they climbed the stairs to the drawing room. Blast. He was even more handsome to her now than he had been before their marriage, his dark blue tailcoat perfectly tailored and fitted tightly over wide, muscular shoulders. She sighed, feeling the embers of her earlier arousal glow hot low in her belly.
“I see now what you meant, Meredith,” an old woman’s voice trilled. “He’s as handsome as Lucifer himself. Had he but winked at me, I would have dragged him out to the terrace, no doubt.”
The declaration from the front of the drawing room was unmistakably that of Lady Wallingham. The woman’s arch manner and trumpeting voice had always disconcerted Victoria. It was odd coming from such a diminutive person.
The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham was a towering figure in society, but in form, she was several inches shorter than Victoria, her thin face and triangular nose giving her the appearance of a fragile bird. This evening, she wore a dark purple velvet gown and a plumed turban. The lavender feather bobbing to one side of her white coiffure added to the avian resemblance.
“Oh, dear,” Lady Berne muttered. She bustled forward to make the formal introductions.
Lucien’s bow over Lady Wallingham’s hand was impeccable, but his smile was mischievous. “I daresay an assignation between us would have set the patronesses of Almack’s on their ears, would it not, my lady?”
The dowager marchioness arched a single white brow and pursed her thin lips. “Atherbourne, I am too old and not nearly fluff-brained enough to fall prey to your flimflammery.” Her chin rose slightly and a glint of humor entered her jewel-green eyes. “Besides, a shallow curtsy is enough to send those clucking hens running for their smelling salts, so that is no great measure.”
She turned her dagger-sharp gaze to Victoria. Several seconds ticked by while Lady Wallingham seemingly assessed Victoria’s very soul. Or, at least, it felt so.
“Your mother was a saint of propriety, girl. I find it difficult to imagine the duchess behaving in such a fashion.”
Lady Berne turned surprised eyes to Lady Wallingham. “But you always said the Duchess of Blackmore should wear brighter colors so one did not mistake her for a piece of furniture, did you not?”
Lady Wallingham sniffed. “I did not say I found her interesting, Meredith. Merely that she would not have been caught up in such a scandal. Which is true.”
“I understand, my lady,” Victoria said quietly, a flush of shame washing over her.
“And?” Lady Wallingham queried imperiously.
Victoria blinked. “My lady?”
The dowager marchioness huffed and shook her head. “Gracious, child, you will be eaten alive if you do not show some spine. How am I to help you if you cower at the merest challenge?”
“Oh, er. You—You wish to help me, then?” Victoria’s heart thumped with hope.
Lady Wallingham turned to meet Lady Berne’s eyes, her lavender plume bobbing slowly. “You did not mention she was dim.”
Lady Berne shook her head and cast her eyes heavenward as though seeking patience. “That is because she is not, Dorothea. Perhaps we should go in to dinner. You are always more reasonable after a meal.”
An hour later, it was clear Lady Wallingham did, indeed, wish to help Victoria restore her reputation, and she intended to command the effort herself. While they dined, the dowager marchioness, from her honored position at Lord Berne’s right, handed out marching orders like a battlefield general.
Her first directive was for her son, the Marquess of Wallingham. A quiet, scholarly gentleman of perhaps forty years, he
had been widowed young shortly after gaining his title. From all Victoria heard, he had so adored his wife that even now, fifteen years after her death, he behaved as though in perpetual mourning.
“Charles, seeing as you refuse to remarry,” Lady Wallingham declared, “your usefulness in hosting a ball or any other amusement is minimal. But you can certainly silence Stickley. Offer to sell the man one of your horses if he will retreat to his country estate.”
Lord Wallingham, owner of one of the finest stables in England, almost never parted with his prized horseflesh. Victoria recalled Harrison’s unsuccessful efforts to purchase a new hunter from the marquess, and his rare frustration at the man’s “infernal stubbornness.” Nevertheless, in this instance, Lady Wallingham’s son nodded complacently, much accustomed to his mother’s authoritarian ways.
“Tannenbrook,” she barked next, causing Lucien’s giant, blunt-featured friend to straighten in his seat and lower his brows. “Everyone will expect you to be in Atherbourne’s confidence. Put it about that he is besotted.”
“Put it about, my lady?” Tannenbrook asked calmly.
Lady Wallingham waved her fork in the air like a scepter. “At the clubs and such. Use your colossal head for more than hammering stone, boy. Must I think of everything?”
Eyes narrowing, Tannenbrook stared intently at her for several moments. Victoria watched as the earl, who had always seemed as solid and stoic as a great mountain, took on a dangerous, volatile air. Lady Wallingham sniffed and raised one brow, holding his gaze unflinchingly. As though reaching a decision, Tannenbrook mockingly inclined his head in her direction.
“Excellent. That takes care of the male portion of our problem. Always the simplest to resolve, I daresay.”
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