The base of Lucien’s cue thumped against the floor. “That was the general idea, yes. If you have a better way to deprive Blackmore of the only thing he holds dear, short of outright killing her, I am eager to hear it.”
James held his palm out in surrender. “No, I understand. I have always understood. Just …”
Lucien scowled and snapped, “What?”
“Tread carefully, Luc. Sometimes getting what you want most is the worst thing that can happen.”
Lucien considered his longtime friend for several seconds, wondering at the man’s haunted expression. James Kilbrenner was three inches taller and about three stone heavier than Lucien—a strapping hulk with a face like a granite cliff. Seeing him exhibit any emotion that could not be explained by a bad meal, an obnoxious companion, or a stubborn mount was rare, indeed. That was just James. Seemingly rather uncomplicated and slow to boil. Of course, Lucien knew there was much more to him than that, but it did not often rise to the surface.
“Duly noted.” He moved forward to take his next shot, and continued casually, “On the other hand, getting what you want can be immensely satisfying.” With that, he banked off the cushion to pot the red and sent James a triumphant grin.
The Earl of Tannenbrook uttered a foul curse under his breath.
“Not to worry,” Lucien said affably as he clapped his friend on the shoulder. “A wise player is never truly out of the game.”
Tannenbrook’s serious green eyes met Lucien’s. “The game has to end sometime.”
“Yes,” he replied. “It ends when I win.”
~~*
Arriving home two hours later, Lucien handed his horse over to Connell, the coachman and head groom. Connell’s red hair and freckles gave him the look of a schoolboy, though he was, in fact, old enough to have married one of the upstairs maids and fathered three small children. Still, he was young for a position of such responsibility, but his gift with horses had earned first Gregory’s, then Lucien’s respect. Hugo, Lucien’s gelding, was both oversized and vigorous, requiring daily runs to keep him calm. But in Connell’s capable hands, the horse melted and all but simpered for affection. Today, the young man wore an apprehensive expression, eyes wide and face tight. He paused in taking the reins as though he wished to speak.
“What is it, Connell?” Lucien asked impatiently.
“It’s ’er ladyship, m’lord. She’s—she’s taken up residence in the stable.”
Lucien blinked. “Pardon?”
The groom nodded vigorously and pointed toward the two-story brick structure behind him. “I advised ’er ladyship it’s no fit place for—”
“And what did she say?” Lucien queried grimly, now stalking toward the stable.
“She laughed, m’lord.”
He stopped and stared back at Connell, who stopped as well, Hugo trailing after him like a giant lapdog. “Laughed?”
Connell nodded and rubbed the horse’s nose absently. “Said that was nonsense and I could be on my way, as she ’ad work to do.” The man’s eyes were round as coins, his alarm clearly rising at the notion of the lady of the house desiring to enter his domain, much less sullying her hands with work.
Lucien shared his dismay, but for slightly different reasons. She did not belong there, that much was certain. Further, he did not want her getting strange ideas about taking one of his horses out for a ride, perhaps to her former home. If he was to ensure she adhered to his command, he needed to control her movements while they were in London, and he couldn’t do that if she took it into her head to defy him. Fortunately, thus far, Victoria had proven to be a stickler for propriety—a product of Blackmore’s influence, no doubt—and never ventured out without her maid or another companion. She nearly always took the carriage into Mayfair, as one had to cross the crushing bustle of Oxford Street to reach it, and such was not a quick, carefree jaunt on foot. But it was not impossible that she would suddenly take a notion to stretch her proverbial wings, he well knew. She was a spirited one, his wife, beneath the dutiful surface.
“Take Hugo for a short walk. I shall speak with Lady Atherbourne.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Connell tipped his cap and led the horse away.
As Lucien entered the dim, dusty confines of the mews, he paused a moment to let his eyes adjust. Along one side, a row of stalls held six horses, placidly munching hay and snuffling and snorting to draw his attention. The last few stalls were empty. One belonged to Hugo. The others remained to be filled, as he had intended to leave London much earlier than this, and hadn’t thought it necessary. Of course, he also hadn’t anticipated taking a wife quite so suddenly. It was still a bit of an adjustment.
Wandering forward, he was now able to see into the depths of the malodorous space. Just past a row of saddles and tack, near the entrance to the coach house, a rounded swath of flower-dappled muslin bobbed and wriggled behind a wooden post.
“Here, now, my love,” a sweet, feminine voice cooed. “Don’t you wish me to stroke you? I promise you’ll enjoy it.”
Everything in his body halted—his heart, his breath, his feet. All came to a standstill as he realized what he was staring at, whom he was hearing speak those provocative words. Victoria. She was bent over, peering behind a crate. Her lush, rounded bottom gave another wiggle as she extended an arm toward her quarry.
“You are a shy one, aren’t you? Just let me touch your little head. I shall be gentle as a whisper. If you’re good, perhaps I will kiss it. Would you like that?”
He couldn’t help it—he groaned loudly, his body going from watchful to intensely aroused inside half a second. Bloody hell. I am demented with lust. Her delectable backside twitched fetchingly as she twisted around, trying to get a look at him over her shoulder. “Who is—?” She jerked upright, reeling backward. “Ow! That hurt, you little devil!”
She staggered back, off balance and shaking one hand madly as though she’d been burned. Before she could knock into the stall gate that splayed awkwardly into the aisle, he hurried forward and caught her around the waist. Her buttocks met his hardened staff with a momentous whump, causing him to groan again, this time in considerable discomfort. His back hit the wooden post between two stalls.
“Oh! For the love of heaven,” she squawked, tugging out of his suddenly limp arms and spinning to face him. Flushed and disheveled, she braced her hands on her hips and blew a puff of air upward to usher a wayward curl out of her eye. “Lucien?”
He grunted. Actual speech was not possible at the moment.
“What are you doing in here?”
Several deep breaths seemed to help the waves of pain recede, at least enough for him to form words. “I could ask you the same, wife. This is hardly an appropriate place for the Flower of Blackmore to wile away the hours.”
She flinched as though he had insulted her, then replied with quiet dignity, “Perhaps. But as you well know, that moniker has not carried the same meaning in a great while.”
“Since you met me, you mean.” The bitterness in his voice surprised even him. He was tired of her resentment, tired of not being able to touch her.
“If you expect me to deny your part in my ruination, you shall be disappointed.”
He sighed. “The constant reminders are—”
“It was not my intent to argue, Lucien,” she said calmly. “I would simply like to complete my task and be on my way.” Sweeping both hands down her skirt in a dusting motion, she soon winced and cradled her right hand in her left.
“Are you injured?” he asked, his own pain all but forgotten.
She shook her head and muttered, “It’s nothing.” But he straightened away from the post and grasped her wrist gently. A trio of bloody scratches marred the fleshy pad at the base of her thumb. “Really. It’s only a scratch.”
“What happened?”
Cheeks pinkening a bit, she sent him a sheepish look from beneath her lashes. “I made unwelcome advances and was given a decidedly harsh set-down.” She wrinkled her nose. �
��My fault entirely. The little devil is obviously quite particular about his suitors.”
Confused for a moment, he sidestepped her to look behind the crates. There, curled up on a bed of hay, was an orange striped kitten. It glanced up at him with alert, golden eyes. And hissed. He scowled and turned back to Victoria. “The damned thing is feral. What were you thinking?”
Her hands returned to her hips and she gave an exasperated shrug. “I want to sketch him, but he is determined to remain hidden. It is most vexing.”
Curls of blond hair that normally were perfectly disciplined had escaped her pins, causing her coiffure to slump a bit to one side. A small streak of dirt marred her chin. And her dress looked as though she had gone tromping through a stable. Which, in fact, she had. He coughed to disguise a chuckle.
“Are you laughing at me?”
Stiffening his lips, he mumbled, “No. Not at all.”
He watched her own lips tremble, one corner quirking helplessly into a grin. She shook her head. “I suppose I deserve it.” She brushed again at her dusty skirts. “I daresay I look a fright. Little wonder he rejected me.”
Moving close to her, he cupped her jaw and stroked his thumb across the small streak on her chin. “Even when you look a fright, you are still the loveliest woman I have ever seen.”
Eyes softening, lips parting, for a moment it looked as though Victoria might melt into his touch. Desire, fierce and insistent, snaked through him. But just as he moved to wrap an arm around her waist, her hands grasped his wrists and pushed him away. “Do not start with me, Lucien.”
“Start what?” he asked innocently.
Her chin tilted up, her mouth tightening into a disapproving pucker. “I have neither the patience nor the time for your nonsense. I must finish my sketch this afternoon while I still have sufficient light. It is a gift for Lady Berne. She adores cats, but cannot have one because they make Lord Berne sneeze most terribly.”
Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. “How long will this process take?”
She tapped a finger against her lips. “It depends.”
“Upon?”
“How cooperative my subject is. It took me fifteen minutes to get close enough to be scratched.” She gave her hand a resentful glare. “Sketching is the easy part.”
Without another word, he stripped out of his tailcoat and grabbed a nearby bucket, then purposefully approached the cat’s hiding place.
“What are you …?”
He signaled Victoria to be quiet with a finger to his lips. Slowly, carefully he placed the bucket to the left of the crates, blocking the kitten’s escape route. Then, he stretched his coat like a net along the right side and reached down to roust the little bugger out of his nest. Hissing and spewing, the kitten clawed mercilessly at Lucien’s hand, his orange fur standing on end, his tiny body writhing in protest. Nonetheless, Lucien was able to get the animal’s scruff between his thumb and fingers and hold it aloft long enough to retrieve his coat. He wrapped the kitten tightly inside, drawing the sleeves around the small bundle, so only its head poked out.
“A magnificent feat, my lord,” his wife said, her voice redolent with laughter. “Truly, one would suppose you had trekked the wilds of Africa hunting mighty beasts.” She was teasing him, but he could see she was pleased he had secured the tiny creature who had given her such trouble. His heart gave a peculiar flip.
“It is astonishing what a husband is capable of when given proper motivation.” His words drew her eyes back to his. Blue-green and luminous, they caught and held him in an unrelenting grip, suspended breathlessly inside a strange, frozen moment. A swirling sensation, rather like falling backward into water, swelled inside him. It was confusing, disorienting, exhilarating. It made him want to pick her up and carry her off to their bed. It made him want to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness. It made him want to shout triumphantly that she was his forever.
Good lord, he thought, not for the first time. What is this thing? It was like a foreign invader—a dangerous concoction of gratitude, guilt, and obsession, all centered on this one small woman. He had experienced stirrings of it before their marriage. But it only appeared to be growing worse.
She petted the furry head of the kitten he held for her, her fingers stroking gently, rhythmically.
Yes. Much, much worse.
“Thank you,” she said, her reluctance evident in her tone. “Now, if you will hold him steady—perhaps over here by the door.” She pointed to the entrance to the courtyard, which remained open. With her trademark efficiency, Victoria gathered her sketchbook from the top of another set of crates, picked up the bucket he had used earlier, and led him to the area she had indicated, just inside the door where daylight streamed in. She overturned the bucket and seated herself as though on a royal throne, pulling a pencil out of her sleeve and leafing through pages until she found a blank sheet.
“Do you need to see the rest of him?” he asked, watching her pencil fly over the page with quick, decisive strokes.
“Not just yet. The face is always the most difficult part for me.” Her eyes met his briefly, then slid to his mouth, a mysterious expression stealing over her gentle features. “Well. Perhaps not always. But for this piece, I am determined to give Lady Berne something she will treasure. It must be right.”
The kitten yowled plaintively. He rubbed a finger over its head to soothe it. “So, are you quite fond of animals, then?”
“Mmm. Not particularly.”
“What about horses? Many artists love to paint them. Or so I’ve heard.”
Her hand slowed, the pencil lifting for a moment. “Horses have their uses, I suppose.”
Lifting a brow at the tension in her voice, he replied, “Useful. Yes. You don’t enjoy riding?”
The sketching began again, her movements now almost ferocious. If she was not careful, she would tear the paper. “I don’t.”
“Why?”
Sighing loudly, she blew upward again, as she had done earlier, to drive her hair out of her eyes. He could see frustration wrinkling her brow. “If you must know, I was thrown once. I was quite small, and the accident broke my leg. Being confined to bed for months afterward was rather unpleasant. There is only one horse I will consent to ride, and that is my mare, Bitsy. She remained at Blackmore Hall this season, as she was due to foal.”
His heart twisted at the thought of Victoria in pain. She was a light, delicate woman. He found picturing her as a little girl, her leg broken and bent at an odd angle as she screamed in agony, difficult to bear.
“So, you see, I will not be taking one of your horses for a jaunt to Clyde-Lacey House. You may rest easy on that score, husband.” Her acerbic tone aside, he couldn’t help feeling some relief. Keeping her away from the duke while in London was not strictly necessary—he could have simply allowed events to play out and begun the bastard’s punishment after the end of the season—but he had decided early on that a more immediate dose of revenge was required, one he could witness personally. It sent Blackmore an unmistakable message: Victoria belonged to Lucien now. He controlled where she went, who she saw, what she did. She was at his mercy, and there was nothing his grace could do about it.
Now, if only he could persuade his wife of the same thing, all would be well. He had a plan for that, actually. Well, not a plan, precisely. More of an idea. Oh, very well, a recurring fantasy involving his mouth and Victoria’s eager surrender.
“He is purring.”
Blinking in confusion, he looked down, realizing she referred to the orange tabby. The creature was, indeed, emitting a quiet purr.
“I think he likes you,” she said. The light shifted over her face and, for a moment, lit her up in a glorious nimbus. The little furrow of concentration between her brows. The mischievous half-grin that tilted her lips. The golden glint in her disheveled curls. She stole his breath.
“Hmph,” he grunted, since anything more eloquent was beyond him. “Are you finished yet?”
�
�Patience, my lord. It is a virtue.”
“Never been fond of virtue. Frightfully boring.”
Her hand paused over the paper and her wide eyes met his as though he had said something profound. “Perhaps you are right.” Having seemingly come to some sort of conclusion, she dropped her gaze again to her sketch, slowly running her pencil back over the kitten’s whiskers. “But the alternative is worse.” A strange sadness shadowed her face, as though she had lost something precious.
Women, he thought in bafflement. Confounding creatures, all.
“There! That should do for his face.” Over the next ten minutes, Lucien unwrapped the kitten a bit at a time, first one leg, then two. Victoria sketched each part as it was revealed, filling in details such as the stripes and claws. Soon, the entire body was free of his coat, but the kitten was still purring. Finally, she finished the sketch and held it up for him to see.
“It is excellent. A perfect likeness.”
“Do you suppose Lady Berne will like it?” she asked anxiously.
“Of course,” he murmured, hurrying to place the kitten back in its nest behind the crate and shaking out his coat. Blast. The lightweight green wool was covered in orange fur. He draped it over his arm. “Now, I believe we were discussing virtue, or the joys of a lack thereof.” Turning to give her a wicked smile, he was dismayed to see Connell returning with Hugo. The groom drew up behind Victoria, who was lost in thought, absently tracing her finger over a page of her sketchbook.
Later, the incident would seem almost predictable. Hugo entered behind Connell, the chestnut Thoroughbred a gigantic presence coming alongside Victoria. Suddenly, the horse whinnied, sidestepped, bumped hard into Victoria’s shoulder, knocking her off balance. She yelped, jerked, and shrank into a tight curl against the wall.
“Connell!” Lucien barked, running toward the melee. “Get him under control.”
“Aye, m’lord.” The groom tugged at the harness, making a tick-tick-tick sound as he tried to calm the massive hunter. Eventually, he managed to persuade the prancing Hugo to place all fours on the ground and walk steadily to his stall.
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