Lady Darnham introduced the others. The sideways ladies actually managed to turn three-quarters toward Victoria, nodding as they were named. It was a good sign, she supposed. At least they acknowledged her presence. Lady Underwood, however, was not so easily swayed. When she finally pivoted to face them, her cold black eyes stared over Victoria’s shoulder, her silence a firm condemnation.
Lucien squinted and tapped his chin. “Underwood, Underwood. Ah, yes. I remember now. I met your husband on several occasions. Fine fellow. Never knew anyone with a better nose for good brandy and a favorable game of hazard.”
The ladies shifted nervously. Victoria hoped her suddenly rapid blinking was the only outward sign of alarm. Lucien, please don’t do this, she thought. But he failed to receive her frantic unspoken message. God help her, he charged forth like a warring knight armed with razor-sharp innuendo.
“His appreciation for the pleasures of life was nigh unparalleled, in my estimation. Now, some would say he appreciated himself into an early grave, but not I. Those rumors are nothing but conjecture.”
Red-faced and narrow-eyed, Lady Underwood spat, “You are a vile liar, sir.”
“Liar? Oh, no, I assure you I don’t believe a word of it. What kind of shriveled, dishonorable wretch would I be if I credited every sensational accusation that made the rounds?” He gave a mocking chuckle. “A sad excuse for a gentleman, I daresay. And a painfully dull one, at that.”
“Lucien,” Victoria muttered beneath her breath. Make him stop, Lord. Please.
Lady Darnham cleared her throat, but before she could intervene with some polite redirection, Lady Underwood turned on her heel and stalked away, a stiff, gray figure striding alone down the path toward Park Lane.
“Well,” Lucien said cheerfully, giving them all a broad, dashing smile. “I do hope you enjoy the rare bit of blue sky we are graced with today, ladies.” He sent Victoria a glance of smoldering adoration. “Of course, when I am with Lady Atherbourne, the splendors of fine weather fade into insignificance. For her beauty outshines even the sun on a cloudless day.”
Victoria thought she heard Miss Clarissa Meadows sigh with longing. But perhaps that was herself. After they bid their farewells, and she managed to recover from the wave of heat and melting weakness, she muttered to Lucien, “Was that really necessary?”
His smile had faded, his expression now hard and resolute. “No one turns their back on you without paying the price.”
Oh, dear, she thought, gripping his arm a bit tighter. There goes that weakness again. It was difficult to say which was worse: Watching him pretend to be in love with her or wanting more than anything for it to be true.
~~*
Chapter Twenty-One
“Jealousy can be tiresome but useful. And, occasionally, humorous.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Colchester, upon her complaint that Lady Reedham had attempted to lure away her new French cook.
I really should stop staring at my wife, Lucien thought. No fewer than four gentlemen had approached him since he and Victoria arrived at Lady Rutherford’s rout. Each had felt it necessary to mention the rumors of his infatuation, one citing tales of Lucien whisking her out of the theater, another teasing him about being “tangled in a woman’s skirts,” and two others noting his reluctance to take his eyes off of her as she crossed the Rutherford ballroom to chat with Jane Huxley.
True, this had been part of the plan to restore her reputation, he reminded himself. As it happened, he found it rather easy to play the part of a besotted suitor. He had not even tried very hard. Perhaps not at all, he thought with a frown.
But it would not do to become a laughingstock.
Look at her, though, a voice whispered inside his head. Is she not exquisite? The way she lights up when she laughs, the way her hips sway when she walks, the way her eyes soften and melt for me alone.
A man would have to be daft not to be enthralled with such a creature.
Tonight, she wore a gown the color of a sunset—bright, blushing pink with a hint of orange in a sheer, shimmering overlay. Decorated with ruffles and rosettes at the hem, he supposed it was not terribly different than what other ladies wore. But the vibrant color, the way the dress seemed to move and cling to this curve or that, and—most of all—the woman inside it, drew his eye with hypnotic intensity.
The thump of a cane striking the floor next to him jerked his attention away. “Lord Rutherford,” he said, greeting the old man with a polite bow. “I was given to understand you would not be attending this evening’s revelry.”
At nearly seventy years, the Marquess of Rutherford was almost entirely bald, save the long, pointed set of whiskers flanking his cheeks. It was a startling contrast to his much younger, remarkably beautiful wife, who stood ten paces away flirting with a buck fresh from the schoolroom. In her prime, Lady Rutherford had been compared to a goddess, and indeed, her blond perfection was rather Venus-like, even now that she was nearing fifty. Her morals also mirrored those of the Roman goddess of love, as she was legendary for her many liaisons. Her desire for stimulation was tinged with desperation, and when her beauty had begun to fade, she had turned to hosting salacious events attended by the most virulent gossips and scandalous figures within the aristocracy. All for the titillation of stirring the pot, as it were.
Lord Rutherford was said to despise the entertainments his wife enjoyed hosting. But, then, he was said to despise his wife, as well. The man now harrumphed and leaned on his cane, squinting at the crowd, a look of disgust on his wrinkled, age-spotted countenance. “Distasteful things must occasionally be tolerated, Atherbourne. For a proper cause, you understand.”
Lucien murmured a noncommittal reply and let his eyes settle where they most wanted to be: on Victoria. She was laughing at something Lady Berne was saying, her gently curved chin tilting upward. Jane Huxley touched her arm and pointed toward a set of doors on the opposite side of the room, just past where he stood. She glanced toward them and collided with his gaze. Even from this distance, he could see her breath quicken, her lips parting, her lashes fluttering. One of her hands settled over her midsection as though trying to contain herself.
He knew the feeling.
“I say, Atherbourne, did your brother, by chance, mention his desire to purchase one of my properties in Sussex?” The crackling voice of Lord Rutherford forced Lucien’s attention back to the old man.
Lucien shook his head, partially to clear it and partially to answer Rutherford. The man’s eyes—a deep turquoise that was faded and milky with age—still reflected wily intelligence.
“Superior wooded parkland. Excellent for hunting.” Droning on for several minutes about the sixteenth-century house and its grounds, Rutherford managed to hold Lucien’s interest, but only because he was curious why the marquess was so intent on selling.
In need of funds? Lucien wondered.
“… your brother had all but taken possession of the place before he—” The old man stopped mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing on someone standing near the tall statue of Poseidon positioned between two columns at one end of the room. Lucien followed his gaze and spotted Benedict Chatham, one lean arm propped on Poseidon’s knee, looking decidedly bored and a bit more rumpled than usual.
Rutherford immediately excused himself and made his way toward his son.
Trouble there, Lucien thought, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. As before, his gaze soon gravitated back to where he’d last seen Victoria—like a billiard ball following a rut.
She wasn’t there. He searched the crowd, finding Jane Huxley sitting along one wall, staring down at her hands. Next, he saw Lady Berne and Annabelle Huxley talking animatedly with a group of young ladies. No Victoria.
He straightened away from the wall and scanned the ballroom. Where the hell was she?
Out of the corner of his eye, a flash of pink silk whipped by amid twirling dancers. She was … dancing? Yes, he realized as her golden head dipped and rose again in the
movements of a lively reel.
Frowning fiercely, he sidestepped a group of young lords guffawing over a recent mishap with a phaeton, and quickly made his way to the edge of the dance floor.
So, it was Malby, he thought. She was partnered with Sir Barnabus Malby, a fat, smelly little toad who, even now, panted after her lasciviously. Of course, it could just be that the weighty man was out of breath as he tried to keep up with the steps of the energetic dance.
Grinding his back teeth, Lucien felt rage uncoil in his gut. No, the toad’s bulging eyes were glued to her breasts, which jiggled delightfully as she moved and bobbed in time with the music.
What the bloody hell was she doing dancing with Malby? With anyone, really? She was married. To him. If he were not certain it would earn him her utmost outrage, he would toss her over his shoulder and haul her immediately to Wyatt House. Or, better yet, to Thornbridge. Just he and Victoria, alone at his country estate. Yes, that would be ideal.
But, first, he would choke Sir Barnabus Malby until the toad’s eyes bulged for a very different reason. Lucien’s fists clenched and his nostrils flared in anticipation.
Victoria pivoted, and he could see her face again. She was smiling brightly, clearly having a great deal of fun. Good God, he was fantasizing about killing a man simply for dancing with his wife. Taking a deep breath to regain a sense of calm, he slowly, deliberately loosened his fingers. The black anger receded as he watched the delight on her lovely face.
Patience, he thought. Time enough to kill the toad later. First, he must reclaim what was his. And no one else’s.
~~*
Curtsying prettily to Sir Barnabus at the conclusion of the reel, Victoria thanked him for the dance. The man was breathing heavily from exertion, his somewhat protruding eyes widening alarmingly as they darted past her shoulder.
“Sir Barnabus, is something ami—”
“Appears you could use a rest, Malby.” The low, gritted statement came from behind her. She swung around to see Lucien, tall and imposing, glaring at the shorter, considerably more portly gentleman. “Breathing is a precious thing. Perhaps you will remember that next time you contemplate ogling another man’s wife.”
Shocked at his bizarre reaction, Victoria cried, “Lucien! What on earth …?”
Sir Barnabus pressed a handkerchief to his dampened forehead and stammered, “I—I say, Atherbourne—”
Lucien moved around Victoria to stand less than a foot from Sir Barnabus. His aggressive posture conveyed an unmistakable threat. Sir Barnabus paled and stumbled back, mumbling, “Positively stifling in here. Perhaps I will take my leave.”
The man disappeared into the crowd, and Victoria tugged Lucien’s sleeve to gain his attention. “Don’t you think you’re carrying the possessive husband charade a bit far, my lord?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“A woman dances with a man for only two reasons, Victoria. She is seeking a husband or she is seeking to make one jealous.” His expression was an odd blend of indignation, self-satisfaction, and typical, Lucien-like arrogance.
“That, as you well know, is utter nonsense. I can name at least one more reason a woman might accept a gentleman’s invitation to dance.”
He arched one brow in inquiry.
Victoria stepped close to him. “She enjoys dancing.”
His mouth quirked in a wry smile. “Perhaps. But she should choose her partners more wisely.”
“Perhaps better partners should offer,” she replied pertly.
As the first strains of a waltz began, Lucien responded wordlessly by stepping back, bowing elegantly, and holding out his hand for hers. Victoria hesitated only a moment before she grinned, slid her fingers into his, and dipped a curtsy. He swept her into his arms and moved them gracefully into the steps of the dance, his body breathlessly close, his face within kissing distance.
The size and heat of him engulfed her as they spun and swayed. It was the first time they had danced together, so she should have been surprised by the flawless way he moved. But she was not. This was the Lucien she knew—his confidence, his strength as he guided her, almost as though he were carrying her in his arms. Indeed, it felt like floating. The intoxicating joy of dancing with her husband filled her veins like champagne, making her long to laugh aloud and brush his beautiful lips with her own. Knowing such a thing was impossible caused a bittersweet wave to sweep through her. But as he met and held her gaze, the room around them disappeared until they moved alone together. When the final notes of the waltz faded, she sighed and murmured, “That was lovely, Lucien.”
Before he could answer, they both spied Jane waving frantically from beside the refreshment table. The young woman’s expression, typically either shuttered or placid, was now animated by urgency.
“I do believe you are being summoned,” Lucien remarked dryly.
After excusing herself, she quickly crossed the room to where Jane stood. “What is it?” she asked in hushed tones.
Jane swallowed, grasped Victoria’s hands, and pulled her to a quiet corner where they both sat on an empty chaise. “I—I heard them talking. About you. And … and Lord Atherbourne.”
Victoria frowned. “Who was discussing us?”
“Lady Colchester told Lady Rutherford that you and Lord Atherbourne should never have been invited, that it would only bring further shame upon the Rutherford name.”
“And Lady Rutherford’s response?”
Jane glanced nervously about, then tucked her chin down and whispered, “She said that was the point precisely. She invited you because of the scandal.”
Relieved, Victoria inhaled deeply and huffed out a mild chuckle. “Oh, Jane. You had me worried.” She patted her friend’s hand soothingly. “We knew that was the reason for the invitation.”
Victoria’s smile soon turned into a puzzled frown as Jane shook her head frantically and said, “That is not—not the terrible part. I mean, it is awful, but …”
Seeing the deep concern and turmoil in her dark eyes, Victoria swallowed. “Tell me.”
Jane’s teeth worried at her lower lip, her eyes drifting away from Victoria’s. “Per—perhaps I shouldn’t.”
“Jane.” Victoria’s firm tone caused her friend’s gaze to snap back to meet her own. “Tell me.”
Flushing, Jane answered with a question. “What do you know of Mrs. Knightley?”
~~*
Chapter Twenty-Two
“A lie is most effective when it is planted in the soil of truth.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne upon news of Lord Tannenbrook’s hidden talent for spreading gossip.
“The rumors are true, I see.”
At the sarcastic comment, Lucien turned away from watching Victoria across the ballroom where she huddled in intense conversation with Jane Huxley.
He raised a brow. “Chatham. What rumors are those, precisely?”
Thin and pale, the jaded lord leaned negligently against a white column, his cravat rumpled, his arms crossed over his chest. He glanced at Lucien. “When Alvanley suggested you got yourself leg-shackled out of some misguided infatuation with Blackmore’s sister, I thought him rather amusingly gullible. The Lucien Wyatt I knew was no woman’s fool. It seems I was mistaken.” Chatham’s lips quirked. “Rare. But it does happen.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“Ah. So, Malby owes you money, perhaps? A much better reason to nearly come to blows with the man than his fondness for your wife’s breasts. Lovely as they are.”
Lucien’s earlier anger, tight and coarse and dark, returned in a rush. He moved closer to Chatham, using his larger, heavier frame to intimidate. While similar in height, the man’s body was lean to the point of frailty after years of dissolution. He was near enough that the fumes of whatever he’d been drinking wafted to Lucien’s nose. Whisky, perhaps.
“Mention any part of my wife again, and I will put you out of your misery.”
At the gritted threat, Chatham’s expression went blank, his blood
shot eyes flat and cold. “Many have tried, Atherbourne. I should warn you, I am strangely hard to kill. Besides, I have no interest in your wife or her parts. I do, however, find it fascinating that both seem to be the object of your fervent … regard, shall we say.”
Lucien eyed Viscount Chatham narrowly. With his unfathomable intelligence and charisma, he could have been the darling of the ton. Instead, the younger lord was consumed by old hatreds, self-destructive habits, and a profound lack of shame. In large measure, Lucien was more saddened than offended at so much wasted potential.
But the fact that Chatham took any sort of interest in Victoria, enough to discuss her with Lucien in a provocative fashion, gave him pause. Then there was the man’s friendship with Colin Lacey. How much of Lacey’s drunken carelessness was due to Chatham’s influence? At one time, the viscount had been Lucien’s friend, too, and remnants of that old bond still remained. But he did not want Benedict Chatham anywhere near Victoria or her brother, not in his present state.
Lucien sighed deeply and ran a hand over his mouth, then crossed his arms. Eyeing Chatham, he spoke in a low voice. “There are better options than the ones you’ve chosen, old friend.”
Surprise, then resentment, then coldness flashed swiftly over the other man’s face. “Oh? Perhaps I could run off to the glories of war. Ravaging the French in exchange for medals sounds like a jolly good time. Unfortunately, being my father’s only living heir does have its downside. Wait! I know. I could ruin my enemy’s sister, then trap her into marriage to punish him in perpetuity.” His face fell mockingly. “But, then, I have no particular enemy. And I would not wish to be accused of rank imitation.”
Lucien’s head snapped back. How does he know? It’s bloody well impossible. But even as he thought it, he knew better. Chatham was not simply clever, he was dangerous. Capable of ferreting out secrets from the unlikeliest of sources, he should have been working in the clandestine services. Instead, he used his talents to manipulate and stir trouble.
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