Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  “Have a care,” Lucien warned silkily. “One who swings his sword incautiously is most likely to cut only himself.”

  Chatham opened his mouth to respond, then slid his gaze past Lucien’s shoulder. He raised a brow and grinned slowly. Lucien turned to see what had captured the viscount’s attention. Victoria, white and shaken, made a beeline to where they stood near the room’s entrance.

  He kept his expression carefully blank as he watched her approach, wondering what she and Jane had been discussing that had disturbed her so. He offered her his arm. She did not take it.

  Instead, her lips firm and flat, she aimed a frown at Chatham, seeming to notice him for the first time. He sketched an elegant bow, his turquoise eyes glittering. “Lady Atherbourne. We have not yet been introduced.”

  Much to Lucien’s dismay, Victoria responded by extending one gloved hand, which Chatham quickly grasped in his own. There was nothing inappropriate in the exchange, nothing he should object to. But his gut tightened and his jaw flexed as a now-familiar dark resistance rose inside him. Lucien did not want a man like this touching his wife, not even through two layers of gloves.

  Deciding the quickest way to end the contact and find out what was bothering Victoria—for surely something had badly rattled her—was to finish the introduction and get her alone, he said, “Benedict Chatham, Viscount Chatham. My wife, Lady Atherbourne.”

  Chatham bowed again over her hand and smiled appreciatively. Instantly, it transformed the man from a wastrel into a dashing gentleman wreathed in magnetic charm. Uncanny, really. And disturbing to watch. “What a pleasure to meet the woman who has stolen Lucien’s heart, my lady. I can certainly see what has him so … enchanted.”

  Lucien’s eyes narrowed. The snake may have slithered out of one skin and into another, but he was still a snake.

  Victoria returned his smile, appearing dazzled by the blackguard. “A pleasure to meet you, as well, my lord. Are you a friend of my husband’s?”

  Lucien’s emphatic “No” was drowned out by Chatham’s reply. “We were at Eton together. I am afraid after school, our paths diverged.” He glanced at Lucien, his eyes mocking. “We have only recently become reacquainted.”

  Intent on ending the exchange with all possible speed, Lucien kept his eyes on Chatham’s face as he addressed Victoria. “Lord Chatham was just about to search out his mother when you arrived, my dear. Most fortuitous for us.” He wrapped his arm around Victoria’s waist and pulled her into his body. She stiffened but did not resist. “Chatham, perhaps you will give Lady Rutherford our thanks for the invitation. Unfortunately, we must depart early, as Lady Atherbourne is suffering a headache.” He sensed the surprised swivel of Victoria’s head.

  Bowing again to Victoria, Chatham answered dryly, “Of course. I do hope you are feeling better soon, my lady.” He gave Lucien a knowing grin. “Atherbourne.”

  An hour later, Lucien and Victoria arrived at Wyatt House in tense silence. After several attempts to persuade his wife to tell him what had disturbed her, Lucien was ready to thrash someone. Preferably Chatham or Malby.

  Once inside the entrance hall, Victoria draped her long wrap over her arm and immediately climbed the stairs, saying not a word to him. Sighing, Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. It seemed the headache that had been his excuse for leaving was now real and throbbing behind his eyes.

  In the carriage ride home, he had demanded to know what was wrong, but her answer had been a persistent and infuriating, “Nothing is wrong. I am simply tired.” Which was rubbish. After their dance together, Victoria had been aglow with transparent joy. Jane Huxley had told his wife something, and it had upset her deeply.

  His fists curled. What could it have been, damn it all?

  He glanced up the staircase. Only one person knew the answer, and she was freezing him out. He hated it. He much preferred her anger. For several minutes, he debated following her up to their chamber and insisting she confess what Jane had shared.

  Skull pounding and frustration eating at his insides, he headed instead for the library, where he poured himself a brandy and sank into the chair near the fireplace, propping his feet on the hearth. By the time he poured his second glass, much of his earlier anger had uncoiled, and his headache had loosened its grip.

  Marriage was proving much more complicated than he had anticipated. No, he thought. Marriage to Victoria was more complicated. His feelings for her were …

  He took a large gulp of brandy, feeling it warm his throat.

  … unexpected.

  “Are you going to sit there drinking yourself into a stupor, then?”

  Lucien shot to his feet so quickly, the world wavered and spun for several seconds before righting itself. When it did, he was greeted by the sight of his wife standing inside the door, wearing only a thin, white night rail, her long curls swept over one shoulder. She looked like an angel, the firelight flickering and caressing her curves.

  Then, he met her gaze. An avenging angel, perhaps, he revised. She was angry, her body held stiffly, eyes hard and accusing.

  Bloody hell.

  “It would take far more than this,” he gestured with his glass, “to achieve a stupor.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she took two steps closer. “I will not have a drunkard for a husband.”

  “Victoria—”

  “Neither will I tolerate being played for a fool.”

  He froze. She now stood no more than three feet from him, her chin tilted pugnaciously, her body fairly bristling with outrage. It was worrisome. And inconveniently arousing.

  Setting his glass on the small table next to the chair, he took a cautious step toward her. Instantly, her hand flew up to stop him, hovering inches from his chest. Her eyes blazed up at him. He seemed to have a rare talent for making her angry, but even he had never seen her this furious.

  He shook his head. “You are not making sense.”

  “Who is Mrs. Knightley?”

  He blinked rapidly, disoriented by her question. “Mrs.—?”

  “Knightley,” she spat.

  Frowning, he frantically searched his mind for what to tell her. None of the responses seemed the slightest bit appropriate for his wife’s ears.

  Impatient with his hesitation, Victoria continued, “Shall I tell you, husband? Seeing that you appear at a loss for words at the moment. Mrs. Knightley is your mistress. And has been for the past four months.”

  Reeling in disbelief, his breath flew from his body. His lungs heaved three times before recovering enough to speak. “Who told you such a thing?”

  “Why should that matter?”

  His jaw cracked. “Oh, it matters.”

  Her chin rose and a militant gleam shone in her eyes. His wife might be nine parts angel and one part Valkyrie, but that one part had a will of fire-forged steel. “All you need to know,” she gritted out, “is that your plan to further humiliate me by flaunting this glorified trollop before all of society is doomed to failure.” She poked him in the chest to emphasize her words. “I will not.” Poke. “Be shamed.” Poke. “By you.” Poke.

  “Victoria—”

  “Ever again, do you understand?”

  “Victoria.”

  “You have no idea how miserable I can make you. I will not hesitate to do so if I should hear even a whisper of that whore’s name—”

  He grabbed her wrist and bellowed, “Victoria!”

  She yanked at her arm. “Do not touch me.”

  “Mrs. Knightley is not my mistress.”

  With a disbelieving snort, Victoria used her free hand to shove at his chest.

  “I am telling you the truth.”

  Flustered from her useless struggling, she stilled, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears, her throat working on a hard swallow. His heart twisted at the sight. She shook her head, then tilted it sarcastically. “I suppose Lady Rutherford invented a fanciful tale to tell Lady Colchester. For what purpose would she lie?”

  Lady R
utherford, eh? It seemed Chatham had found a way to cause mischief after all. Spreading false rumors through his mother was the least the man was capable of. Lucien would have to find a way to deal with him. But for now, all that mattered was repairing the damage with Victoria. Seeing her distraught was unbearable.

  “I don’t know. She enjoys stirring controversy, so perhaps that is it. Regardless, you must believe me when I say I have no mistress. I have not looked at another woman since the night I met you, much less taken one to my bed.”

  She scoffed and pushed at him. “You must think me an idiot—”

  He clutched her by the shoulders, shaking her gently. “I swear on my brother’s grave, Victoria.”

  Silenced by his declaration, her mouth fell open and her eyes widened, swimming with a sudden welling of fresh tears. “You—” she whispered.

  His own voice was ragged. “I swear you are the only woman I have touched since that night. Good God, angel, I am consumed with wanting you. There is nothing left for anyone else.”

  She searched his face, a tear trailing its way down to her delicate jaw. He rubbed it with his thumb, stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. So soft, he thought. His wife was as soft as a rosebud. And just as easily bruised.

  “Lucien, I …” She shook her head and swallowed.

  He drew her into his arms, wrapping her tightly against him. Her head settled against his chest, right over his heart. As it should be.

  “Perhaps I should not have believed them so willingly. It’s just that I …”

  With a finger beneath her chin, he tilted her head up so he could see her eyes. “What, love?”

  “We have not … well, you know … for many days.”

  He grunted his agreement. “Feels like an eternity.”

  Her gaze dropped to his chin, then his chest, hiding from him. “I do not like the idea of you having a mistress, Lucien.”

  His mouth quirked. “So I gathered.” In truth, her fury gladdened his heart. Perhaps she would come around sooner than he had hoped. He ran a hand down the silken fall of curls draped over her shoulder, sliding down over her breast. As his palm stroked across her beaded nipple, he heard her breath catch and quicken. Gently clasping her wrist, he drew her hand to the front of his breeches, letting her feel the hardness he was helpless to prevent. “You have nothing to fear in that regard,” he rasped, the familiar weakness invading his muscles at her touch. All muscles except one, it would seem. “I crave only you, angel.”

  Her beautiful eyes lifted to meet his. What he saw there made his breath catch. Desire. And determination. Her hand fell away. “I have never wanted anything as I want you,” she confessed in a whisper. “So much it frightens me.”

  Hope surged through his body with such force, he feared his heart might explode. “It is the same for me—”

  “But how am I to trust you, Lucien?” The question seemed to be dragged from her very soul, rasped past a tight throat. “You have used me to wage a battle against Harrison. You do so even now.”

  For a moment, he simply absorbed the impact of being confronted with the truth. “I am doing what I must. Harming you was never my goal. You have to know that.”

  “And yet, that is the result.” Her voice was small and quiet. It should not have sliced him open like a blade. But it did.

  For a moment, the pain of it made him reconsider. Could he find another way to punish Blackmore? A way that did not involve Victoria? Could she simply be … his? His wife. His angel. The mother of his children.

  There is no other way. You have already considered other strategies. No, if Blackmore is to answer for his crimes at all, you must follow through. Or else accept failure.

  For now, she needs me at her side. In time, she will understand. She has to.

  Fists clenching helplessly at his sides, he watched as she moved to the library entrance, then turned slowly, sadly to face him, her hand braced on the open door’s edge. “What we desire most always comes at a price, Lucien. What you must decide is whether it is worth it. I must do the same.” With those simple, devastating words, the door gently closed.

  And she was gone.

  ~~*

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Violence seldom resolves problems without spawning new ones. But men are inordinately fond of it, and I find that an endless source of amusement.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her nephew after a particularly bad day at Gentleman Jackson’s.

  Behind an innocuous red door of a quiet brick building in an obscure square off of St. James, Lucien stood admiring one of London’s most sumptuous hells. Rather than the hushed, understated luxury of White’s or Brooks’s, this place was a masterpiece of ostentation: gilt-framed mirrors, chandeliers dripping with crystal, silk-lined walls of deep jade, and wherever possible, candles whose light reflected off ornate surfaces to dazzling effect. In the center of the foyer stood a life-sized statue of the goddess Fortuna—she was holding a cornucopia overflowing with gold coins, a smiling siren luring men to their doom.

  To the left was the dining room where, rumor had it, a French chef named Gaspard could serve a divine version of any meal a man could imagine—and some he couldn’t. In front of him, the grand staircase rose to the upper floor, where gaming rooms were packed to the rafters with the dissolute, the unlucky, and the tragically optimistic. The proprietor of Reaver’s wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “My lord, may I take your hat?” The quiet, dark-skinned majordomo asked. Though the man spoke flawless English and was dressed formally in a black tailcoat and trousers, gold waistcoat, and white cravat, his exotic features bespoke perhaps Turkish or Indian origins.

  “No,” Lucien replied. “I don’t plan to stay long. I am meeting with an old friend.”

  The man bowed his head. “Very good, my lord. Right this way.”

  He had begun his search hours earlier with a visit to the Marquess of Rutherford. The old man, while intent on discussing the proposed purchase of his “damned fine” hunting property, assured Lucien he hadn’t a clue where Viscount Chatham might be, as “my son and I do not frequent the same establishments, nor do we discuss such things.” From the Rutherford townhouse, Lucien had ridden to St. James, where he combed every room at every reputable club. Still nothing.

  Only then did he move on to the less respectable establishments. Reaver’s was the third he had entered, and easily the most exclusive of the lot. It was not well known outside of elite circles because few could afford the stakes. Thousands of pounds were won and lost each day on a single turn of a card or roll of dice. Not for the faint of heart or light of pocket.

  Presently, the majordomo led him up the stairs to the primary gaming room. He swept open the doors and gestured Lucien through into a bustling scene. The room was opulently furnished, three large chandeliers casting brilliant light upward onto a frescoed barrel ceiling and downward along richly paneled walls. While the corridor had been quiet, this room was filled with dozens of gentlemen, their voices scrambling over each other in a boisterous din. Excited murmurs vied with sudden, triumphant shouts as the men crowded around green baize tables to watch their fortunes turn and tumble.

  Scanning the crowd methodically, Lucien’s gaze snagged on a lean, elegant hand playing idly with a stack of chips at the faro table. The man himself was not visible, hidden behind a pudgy, balding mass wearing too small a coat. But Lucien would recognize the gesture anywhere.

  “Chatham,” he muttered under his breath, a wave of heated anger warring with satisfaction at having finally found his quarry. He rounded a set of chairs to approach the viscount from behind. Reclining indolently in his seat, Chatham appeared at ease, but as Lucien drew alongside, he could see subtle signs of strain around his mouth and eyes.

  “Still charging headlong for disaster, I see.”

  Chatham’s fingers paused, hovered. It was the only acknowledgement of Lucien’s presence. The dealer called the final turn.

  Lucien continued in a low, bored
voice. “If you wished me to end you, you had only to say so.”

  A fresh pile of chips was shoved toward Chatham as the bets were settled. He pushed away from the table and stood to face Lucien. “Am I to guess what you’re nattering on about?”

  Stepping closer, Lucien tilted his head and gave a slow smile. “Perhaps you should ask your mother. Or your benefactress.”

  Chatham’s dark brows drew together over turquoise eyes, their contrast with his paper-white complexion somewhat startling. “Look, Atherbourne, if your intent is to provoke me into a duel or something equally tedious, you’ve got the wrong chap. I am rarely awake at dawn, and if it happens that I am, the last place I would be is forty paces from you.” He grinned. “You are pretty, but not that pretty.”

  Someone cleared his throat pointedly. An older gentleman, tall and whiskered, nodded at Chatham’s vacated seat. “Beg pardon. Are you to play another round?”

  Signaling to a club employee, who promptly exchanged chips for pounds, Chatham pocketed his take and clapped the man’s shoulder. “Have at it, Sir Giles.”

  Lucien trailed Chatham as the viscount blithely turned and began weaving through the crowd to the doorway. As they exited into the corridor, Lucien gripped Chatham’s sharp-boned shoulder and shoved. Hard. It caused the other man to spin sideways until they faced one another.

  For a moment, black fire blazed from inside turquoise eyes, and Chatham’s lean frame took on a fighter’s posture—aggressive, provoked. A heartbeat later, the starch left as though it had never been, his expression resuming its customary devil-may-care cynicism.

  Interesting, Lucien thought. For all his vices and hedonism, Benedict Chatham was always in command of himself. Always. This reaction was yet another sign that the future Marquess of Rutherford was wearing at the seams. So much the better.

  “You have gone too far this time, Chatham. I do not know what demon has hold of you, but you will soon learn the depth of your error.”

  Chatham shrugged. “So call me out.”

  Lucien stood silent, gauging the lord’s expression.