She did not know if Lucien cared a whit for her. He had never said so. She was reasonably certain he wanted her, and perhaps enjoyed her company on occasion. But, was he concerned that she was unhappy? Clearly not. At least, not more than he hated her brother. She could understand his resentment, really she could. Harrison had shot someone Lucien held dear. It was natural to want to avoid such a person. But did he believe she would agree to this forever? The very idea was laughable.
She sniffed and swiped at a tear with her gloved hand.
On the stage below, Kean’s Richard knelt before Lady Anne, inviting her to stab him with his own sword rather than continue to rage at him, declaring her beauty the reason for his murderous impulses. Clever man, appealing to her mercy and her vanity in the same breath.
Lucien was every bit as clever, she thought, wooing and charming her into compliance. Was she, Victoria, similarly being played for a fool? In the darkness, she slid her gaze sideways and studied Lucien’s profile: Gentle lips that had sent her to heights of pleasure she hadn’t imagined possible. Strong, sculpted jaw that reflected his determination and stubbornness. Dark eyes, which could fill with storms of passion, light with twinkling humor, or soften with a lazy smile. Try as she might, she could not simply dismiss him as a villain and toss him aside.
He had offered friendship, and she had accepted, hoping that, in time, she might convince him to set aside his hatred, his need to punish Harrison. Obviously, at present, he had no such intentions. His stubbornness made her want to hit him. Scream at him, too. Force him to admit he was wrong. Her anger still burned in her stomach, her fists clenching in her lap.
But he simply sat there, stone silent. That was infuriating.
She glanced again at the blond head of her brother, just visible in the faint glow from the stage, now tilted slightly to hear what Mary Thorpe whispered to him. Harrison nodded, then he straightened and stilled, seeming to peer directly ahead at the box opposite his.
Her box, or at least, the one she was currently sitting in. Oh, God. Did he see her? Would he want to speak with her? If he made the journey across the theater to visit her, then Lucien could not prevent it from happening. It was the perfect solution, if only he would—
Harrison’s face angled back toward the stage, giving no sign of recognition or acknowledgement of her presence. Not so much as a wave or even a nod. Victoria’s heart fell. Either the duke did not see her—unlikely, considering she could see him and there was nothing wrong with his eyesight—or he was deliberately ignoring her. Whichever the case, it was difficult to swallow.
This is patently absurd, she thought, shaking off her despair. I should stop being a ninny and simply rise and go to his box. What can Lucien do, after all? Refuse to accompany me to a few ton functions? Well, yes, but perhaps he could be persuaded to relent if it was only this once. What else can he do to stop me—toss me over his shoulder? Remembering he had done almost that very thing on their wedding day, she bit her lip and glanced sideways. He was still watching the action on the stage below.
Before she could think better of it, her decision was made. Breathing deeply, she stood and moved swiftly—or as swiftly as her skirts would allow—toward the darkened rear of the box. A hard hand circled her upper arm almost immediately, jerking her off balance and turning her to face her husband. Correction—her imposing, obviously angry husband.
She swallowed hard, her mouth going dry.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked quietly, his voice silky and menacing in a way she had never heard.
She shrugged, though she felt anything but casual. “Am I not allowed to visit the privy either, my lord?”
“Victoria, I told you I do not want you going about this place unescorted. Now, either sit back down or I shall assume you are bored and take you home.”
“You are being ridiculous!” she hissed. “Let go of me.” She jerked at her arm, but to no effect. His grip, while not painful, was quite firm.
He pulled her close and turned until her back faced the wall. Stepping forward so that she could not help but retreat, he loomed over her, his mouth inches from her own. They were far enough from the lights of the stage that it was difficult to see, and certainly others would not be able to see them in the shadows. As she bumped against the wall, his white cravat and the flash reflecting in his eyes filled her vision amidst the darkness.
A nervous flutter in her belly grew and caused her breath to quicken as his chest brushed the very tips of her breasts. She drew in his scent, spicy and familiar and delicious. His hot breath washed over her face, making her want to sink her nails into the skin of his neck and pull him down into her kiss.
“Apparently Mr. Kean could not hold your interest, my darling,” he uttered hoarsely. “Perhaps I can do better.” The hand that had held her arm now dropped to her waist, slid around her hip to the small of her back, then lowered to caress her backside.
“Lucien,” she sighed, her muscles meltingly weak. “You agreed …”
“It appears this is a night for breaking agreements, wife.” With one hand, he forced her hips to cradle the rigid erection between his legs. With the other, he clasped her neck and tilted her head back for a hard kiss, his tongue sleek and searching, sliding against her own.
Her arms circled his neck, seemingly of their own volition, and her fingers threaded through his hair, digging into his scalp and pressing his lips harder against hers. She ate at his mouth, hungrier for him than she had ever been. Volatile and riotous, the excitement inside her combusted with lust and anger and yearning.
Bending his knees and pressing upward against her with his hips, he forced her legs to spread for him, forced her onto her toes for him, held her pinned between his heat and the unyielding wall. He ground the hard length of his cock against the very center of her, sending curling waves of delight spinning from her core to every part of her body. She groaned into his mouth.
Cool air wafted across the backs of her thighs. Before she could protest, the hand that had inched up her dress once again stroked her buttocks, but this time there was nothing between his flesh and hers. His fingers trailed down the crease, now splayed open for him, and found her wet and ready for him. Two sank deep inside her womanly core, the path slick and easy with her arousal.
She whimpered, her head falling back on her neck, exposing her throat to his feasting mouth. Two fingers, then a third stroked and pumped inside her, stretching her with the slightest pinch of pain—just enough to keep her excitement at a fever pitch.
“You will come for me now, love.” The guttural statement rumbled in his chest, murmured next to her ear, resounded in her core. “Then we will leave here, and I will take you fully in the carriage. Would you like that?”
She licked her lips, tasting him there, the scent of her own desire and his spice blending into an intoxicant. She nodded frantically, her peak approaching in a rush as his words played in her mind. Seizing around his fingers as they slid and pressed, stroked and pleasured, her climax suddenly cascaded like water over a fall, then crashed in paroxysms of radiant pleasure.
He took her soft moans into his own mouth, the sounds masked by the soaring strains of the orchestra and the dramatic oratory of those on the stage below. All the while, as her body slowly returned to earth, he held his fingers firmly inside her, allowing her time to complete the journey. She tore her mouth away from his and slumped against him, her cheek lying on his fine woolen lapel. His chest heaved as he struggled for breath, jostling her slightly.
He removed his hand and let her skirts drop back into place. Inside, she felt molten—hot and liquid, yet still somehow needy. Empty. She could barely stand as his hips drew away from hers, requiring that she support herself on her own legs. She wanted to tell him such a thing was impossible, as her legs were now the consistency of softened butter, but she was having difficulty speaking.
His big body, still rigid with tension, shifted, and as though he had read her mind, he scooped her into hi
s arms. She began to protest, murmuring that others would see.
“Not to worry. Hold on to me, Victoria.”
She obeyed, wrapping her arms tightly about his neck and hiding her face in the comfortable notch between his neck and shoulder. The scent of starch and spice filled her nose. It was the scent of her husband, who carried her as though she weighed nothing, who thrilled her and fulfilled her until she could think of nothing else, indeed could not think at all.
Swiftly, he descended the stairs to the lobby, pausing now and then to assure concerned passersby that his wife was not feeling well, and he was taking her home. Within minutes, he was setting her on the padded seat of their carriage and climbing in beside her. Immediately, he tried to take her onto his lap, but she refused, brushing his arms aside.
His darkly muttered “Victoria …” trailed into a groan as she unbuttoned and lowered the fall on his breeches, releasing his fully aroused cock.
Peeling the gloves from her arms, she stroked him several times with a firm grip, just the way he had taught her. The heat and satiny texture of his member fascinated her, the veined flesh hard and thick, an instrument of ultimate pleasure. Her head lowered as a bead of moisture rose to the tip.
Ah, yes. She loved this part.
Her tongue delicately flicked at him, taking his essence into her mouth. His hips writhed, and he growled low in his throat, his hands gripping the cushion.
“Stop,” he gritted.
She smiled up at him, savoring the stark desire on his face. Her lips played with him, then she suckled lightly on the tip, curling her tongue around the domed head like the veriest treat.
His hands gripped her arms and hauled her onto his lap. Before she could say a word, or even have time for the world to stop spinning, she was on her back, her skirts flung up around her waist, his cock stretching her sheath.
He shoved inside her forcefully, filling her completely. They groaned together, the sense of rightness almost unbearable. This was where he belonged, deep inside her where she could surround him and caress him and ease him.
This was where she belonged, wrapped in his arms, his mouth capturing hers, his body invading hers, his heart pounding against hers in synchronized rhythm. He filled her emptiness, and she welcomed him, consumed him in her heat.
To Victoria, their connection was so profound, she wanted to weep. Her chest tightened, and she sobbed against his neck. It was as though, with each thrust, her emotions were forced to the surface until they lay bare and exposed.
Thrust. The ache of longing.
Thrust. The burn of frustration.
Thrust. The sweetness of adoration.
Thrust. The spiraling of desire.
Taking his head between her palms, she positioned him so she could stare intently into his eyes. He resisted at first, but she gently stroked his cheeks with shaking hands and waited.
It was dark inside the carriage, but muted, broken light did shine through the curtains, playfully shifting amidst the shadows. It was enough to see what was in his eyes, in his face.
Desperate, desperate need.
For her.
She had never seen the like. But she had felt it. Oh, yes. It was the twin of her own yearning. For him.
And it set her on fire.
Sobbing his name, she arched and squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her teeth as her body surrendered everything. She wrapped her legs around his furiously hammering hips, locked her arms around his neck, and held him tightly as the world exploded in a shattering burst. The muscles of her sheath seized and gripped him almost painfully as her release hit.
Lucien’s mouth covered her scream as he slammed into her and came in a violent frenzy. Low, animalistic growls rumbled from his chest as his seed shot deep inside her core. The spasms lasted seemingly forever, rippling pleasure echoing through them both for long minutes. Eventually, their breathing slowed, but he remained atop her, his head beside hers, her thighs straddling his hips.
“This is how it should be, angel,” he rasped next to her ear. “You can see that now, can’t you?”
For a moment, she considered agreeing, for the same thought had occurred to her only moments earlier. No. How many times must you be hurt before you understand, Victoria? How many ways must you be shown the truth? You’ve known since you were seven. Such joy carries a price you cannot afford to pay.
She stroked his hair and gently kissed his jaw, the faint bristle of his whiskers chafing the tender skin of her lips. “I wish it were that simple,” she said softly.
He stiffened and raised up to look into her eyes. His were serious, searching. Then he dropped his gaze, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead as he nodded. “So do I,” he whispered, almost soundlessly, as though saying it aloud might make it true.
~~*
Chapter Eighteen
“The nightmare is over? Foolish boy. One does not exile such darkness. It must be extinguished beyond repair.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to the Duke of Wellington one year before the Battle of Waterloo.
In the beginning, it was always the same—a warm fire crackled in the hush of the library at Thornbridge. Lucien was small, seated on the floor looking up at his father, who was reading. Black hair much like his own gleamed amidst a bright shaft of sunlight. A long, bold nose created a shadow on Papa’s cheek. Gregory had inherited that nose, and Lucien knew he hated it, even though Mama called it “distinguished.” But she was not here and neither was Gregory. It was just him and Papa.
A frown wrinkled his brow, a bubble of anxiety swelling in his chest like a black cloud on the horizon. How could Papa be here? He was dead, long ago taken by a ravaging fever. Lucien recalled watching him struggle through his last, rattling breath. Presently, Papa gave him a smile, setting his book aside and crouching in front of Lucien.
“I am here. Of course I am here,” he said, grasping Lucien’s small hands in his own.
The anxious tightening in his chest did not dissipate. The sound of footsteps behind him made him turn. There was Gregory, who looked all of fifteen. He was followed by a giggling, black-haired toddler. Marissa.
“Gregory, did you know Papa has returned?” Lucien asked, a wave of relief surging through him. If Gregory could see him, perhaps this was real. But Lucien’s brother shook his head and gave him a whack on the arm.
“Another jest, Luc? Papa’s dead. You know that.”
Lucien swung back to where his father had been only moments before. Gone. He was gone. The light grew dimmer, grayer. The carpet disappeared, the wood-paneled walls replaced by trees and a curtain of rain.
Laughter sounded behind him. He now stood on a rise overlooking the brook that cut through the center of their land. In the distance, he could see the sprawling stone mass of Thornbridge. Strangely, his mother’s voice sounded faintly in his ears. “Take care of them, Lucien. They are all you have now.”
Rain soaked his shirt, the cloth clinging to his skin, squeezing him. Drowning him. Choking him like a noose. “I know, Mama. I tried.” Water poured down his face; he wiped his eyes over and over, trying to see. At last, he was able to make out her small form. She was so far away, he could not see her features, but she was there. She had died giving birth to Marissa, he knew. But his heart leapt upon seeing her again. Stumbling forward, he drew closer, but for each step he took, she receded. Rain drummed against his skin, chilling him. Light faded and hid behind iron clouds. Wind battered the leaves of the willow trees.
His mother became a shadow, and he could not stop the cry of grief that tore from his chest. She was gone, too. Why must they all leave him?
“You never take anything seriously, Luc.” It was Gregory, now a full-grown man seated on his bay, which snuffled and munched the grass beside Lucien.
“I do now. I wish you were still with me, brother.” His voice was thready, squeezed tight by the need to wail. To cry and scream like a small babe.
The distinctive sound of girlish giggles came from his left. He turne
d to see Marissa, probably no older than six or seven, spinning beside the brook. She wore a white dress, her long, black hair loosely tied with a blue ribbon. She beamed and twirled, her arms thrown wide as she danced to music only she could hear. A bright red poppy was clenched in one of her hands, the bloom seeming bigger than she was.
“Look, Luc!” she shouted in delight. “The rain has stopped.”
“Be careful, Mary Sophia,” he shouted back. He’d always used her full name when he wanted her attention. “You don’t want to fall in the water and drown, do you?”
She glanced up at him, her expression transforming from joy to sorrow in a blink. “But you’re here to save me. Don’t you wish me to be happy?”
“Of course, little one,” he said, instantly regretting his warning, which had been much too dire. She was just a girl. She should be able to play and dance without fear of dying. But they had already lost Mama and Papa.
The rain began again, falling softly at first. He felt it, cold and damp. Soon, it wrapped around him in a wet cloud. The wind picked up, creaking the branches of the trees. A sudden gust rocked him from front to back. Clenching his eyes closed, he waited for it to pass. When he opened them again, Marissa was farther away, about fifty feet downstream. She was no longer dancing. Instead, she walked slowly, somberly, the wilted red poppy sagging in her loose fist.
She was too close to the edge. The need to warn her burned in his throat. He shouted her name. Again. And again. She didn’t respond.
Gregory’s horse crowded against Lucien’s shoulder, pushing him off balance. “She can’t hear you, little brother. You’re too far away.”
A peal of thunder boomed overhead. The horse shied nervously, knocking Lucien sideways with its enormous bulk. Lucien slipped, his feet going out from beneath him in the grasping muck. He landed painfully on his side, then watched in horror as the horse reared above him, one of its terrified eyes visible as it folded its neck to the side. Falling. It was falling. Onto him.
Horrifying pain like nothing he’d ever experienced ripped through his legs as a thousand pounds of horseflesh landed, crushing him. Pinning him. He writhed, screamed. The world went dark. Thunder cracked louder and louder. Men were shouting, wailing. Dying all around him.
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