Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  Atherbourne’s ever-present half-grin faded for a moment, face hardening and eyes flashing before his expression became one of calculating intent. He dropped his hand from where it pressed his jaw gingerly. “Very well. I have come with an offer.”

  “Does it involve you lying in a bloody heap on the floor?” Harrison inquired politely.

  That infernal smile was back. “I’m afraid not, your grace.”

  “Then I cannot see where I would be interested.”

  “Oh, I believe you will be. After all, you do care for Lady Victoria, yes?”

  Harrison ground his teeth and held his fury in check by the merest thread. How dare this blackguard even speak Victoria’s name after all he had done to injure her? “You would do well to guard your tongue where my sister is concerned, Atherbourne.”

  The quiet statement was met with a moment’s pause, a hint of wariness that seemed to dampen some of the man’s arrogance. “Your sister is at the center of my offer, your grace. Therefore, I must mention her, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What the deuce are you talking about?”

  “Lady Victoria, to put it bluntly, is ruined. The damage done by Lady Gattingford’s rather dramatic recounting has only been worsened by Stickley’s attempts to salvage his vanity and pride.” The last point seemed to annoy Atherbourne, his nostrils flaring in a moment of anger—puzzling for a man who had intentionally brought about this very result.

  “Yes, you certainly accomplished your aim,” Harrison said dryly. “Congratulations on deceiving a naive girl into trusting you and then destroying her chances at a proper match. Quite a courageous act, that.”

  Under normal circumstances, such a blatant accusation of cowardice and scurrilous behavior might have ended in another dawn appointment between the Duke of Blackmore and Viscount Atherbourne. However, the man seemed quite focused on his mission, ignoring the insults and, instead, tilting his head and holding Harrison’s gaze with a predatory one of his own. “Whatever you may think of me or my actions, the fact remains any hope of a respectable marriage for your sister has been dashed.”

  “Did I not mention a lack of tolerance for preamble?”

  “No peer would have her,” Atherbourne continued, “and indeed, even should one be persuaded to accept her, the scandal would forever plague both her and her husband. There is, however, one exception: If she were to swiftly marry the man with whom she was caught, and the story were handled carefully, the scandal might be recast as merely a romantic intrigue, and the gossip would pass by next season. As I am that man, I propose she and I marry. Immediately.”

  Harrison waited in stunned silence for the too-handsome, vindictive viscount to laugh or in some way reveal his “proposal” as a cruel jest. Atherbourne’s motives could not have been clearer, and were even understandable: He wanted Harrison punished for killing his brother. His seduction of Victoria was a revenge play, pure and simple. Which made today’s proposal, at best, bizarre. Why on earth would he wish to rescue Victoria from social ruin, an affliction he himself had delivered?

  “Just what is your angle, Atherbourne?”

  “I wish to make Lady Victoria my wife. It is as simple as that.”

  Harrison shook his head. “Nothing is simple where you are concerned. Why should I trust you with my sister’s welfare? You have proven yourself unworthy to mind my horse for an hour, let alone a member of my family for a lifetime.”

  “Perhaps because, while I may have administered the poison, I can also provide the antidote,” he replied quietly. “Do you honestly believe she will be content to live in disgrace?” The viscount paused and glanced up at a painting perched above the fireplace. It depicted Harrison’s mother as she had been just after her marriage to the seventh Duke of Blackmore. She was the very image of Victoria.

  Atherbourne met Harrison’s gaze and continued, “Of course, should you refuse my offer, she could never return to London, at least not for many years, nor with the status she once enjoyed. You would be forced to banish her to the country, or perhaps the Continent or America. Your family has suffered scandals before, but those were yours and your brother’s. Society forgives men their failings far more readily than they do women. You know this to be true.”

  Harrison clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing slowly, occasionally glancing up at the blackguard across from him. He stopped, stared intently for a moment, then said, “I am well aware of the advantages such a union would offer Victoria. But what do you get out of this, Atherbourne? And do not say Victoria herself, because that is patently absurd. She is your pawn, not your queen.”

  The viscount’s response was a slow smile and a subtle nod as though to acknowledge, if not concede, Harrison’s point. “What is any gentleman seeking when he makes an offer of marriage?”

  Acid burned in Harrison’s stomach as his patience with the man’s game grew thin. “A dowry, social connections, a mother for his children, and in rare cases, love,” he snapped, each point on the list firing like a bullet at this villain who would choose to harm his sister and, indeed, his entire family. It was not to be borne. “None of which apply in this situation. You are not in need of funds. Victoria’s dowry equates to less than a month’s income for the Atherbourne estate. Hardly enough to consider incentive.”

  A full minute of silence preceded Atherbourne’s reply. “I see you are keeping a close watch on things. I had no idea you’d taken an interest in the financial production rates of my family’s holdings.”

  “One thing you will learn about me is that I leave very little to chance.”

  Atherbourne nodded calmly, then picked up their earlier discussion. “She is the sister of a duke. Perhaps I want her to ensure my children a greater legacy than they would otherwise enjoy.”

  “Perhaps. But you and I know that is not why you wish to marry this sister of a duke. You wish to marry her because she is my sister. And for that reason alone, I cannot agree to this match. Once you were wed, you could abuse her in the most grievous fashion—”

  Atherbourne’s eyes narrowed and grew deadly, his voice as quiet and biting as Harrison’s own. “I would never lay hands upon a woman in such a way.”

  “I cannot take the chance. Should I allow you to marry, and should you harm her, I would be forced to kill you. And I would hate to be responsible for the death of two Viscount Atherbournes.”

  For a moment, Harrison was certain the man would charge him. Atherbourne’s face hardened intensely, his tall form coiled as though poised to leap. Harrison was more than ready. He relished the thought of pummeling his enemy into a fine paste. The drawing room furniture might require some repair afterwards, but it would be well worth the expense.

  The tension shattered as a crash sounded just outside the doors to the hall. Both men frowned and swiveled their heads to stare as the noise was followed by a feminine squeak and sudden silence. Then Harrison heard Digby’s hushed voice. Annoyed by the interruption, he marched to the door and yanked it open. There stood Victoria, who halted her heated, whispered conversation with the butler immediately and gazed up at Harrison with sheepish eyes.

  “I was just … ah … moving a vase from here to the table in the library. Unfortunately, it slipped and … um …” Her words slowed to a stop as her eyes shifted past his shoulder and landed on Atherbourne. Her mouth gaped slightly and her eyes widened.

  His jaw tightened as he realized that—although it should have been impossible—this day was about to get worse.

  ~~*

  Chapter Four

  “In the art of gossip, eavesdropping is a tool most would consider both crude and amateurish. However, one does what one must.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Rumstoke upon receiving her report of scandalous statements overheard at the Pennywhistle musicale.

  She had thought perhaps she’d imagined him as more handsome, more wickedly sensual than he’d actually been—that in justifying her own wanton behavior, she had drawn an irresistible portrait in her mind un
warranted by reality.

  She was so very, very wrong.

  He was magnificent. The full light of day only enhanced his attractiveness, as did the splendid midnight-blue tailcoat, gold embroidered waistcoat, and buff riding breeches he wore. Aside from the odd darkening along one side of his jaw, he was a vision of masculine perfection.

  Having learned a bit more about his background over the past few days, Victoria now understood why Lucien was more muscular and fit than many other men of the ton, his shoulders wider, his waist narrower, and his thighs … oh, his thighs. Ladies should never notice such things, but she could not help herself. In any event, she now recognized these physical attributes as evidence of his service as a captain in the army. According to Lady Berne, he had performed quite heroically at Waterloo, earning commendations from Wellington himself. Not that he flaunted it. Most gentlemen returning from battle wore their uniforms proudly and chose to be addressed by their military rank, as was proper. Not him. Lucien Wyatt refused to answer to his well-earned title of Captain, and at formal events where men in crimson uniforms became objects of celebration and admiration, he instead wore plain civilian black. Precisely why this was so, no one knew.

  Just then, she became painfully aware of the thick silence, feeling a flush of embarrassment wash over her as both Harrison, who had not moved out of the doorway, and Lucien waited expectantly for her to explain herself. Finally, not knowing what else to do, she resorted to politeness, greeting Lucien with a curtsy and a “my lord.”

  At first he blinked, his eyebrows arching in surprise. But swiftly, he adopted his signature expression: mild amusement blended with sardonic sensuality. He executed a perfect bow and answered softly, “Lady Victoria.”

  She felt dizzy as a wave of longing swept through her body. Oh, this was not good.

  He is a bounder, she reminded herself. A scoundrel of the highest order. Or would that be lowest order? She mentally shook her head. No matter. The point remained, he had done her irreparable harm. Deliberately and cold-bloodedly.

  Stiffening her spine at the reminder, she asked in what she hoped was a stern tone, “Does your purpose in being here include a lengthy apology, Lord Atherbourne?”

  “Victoria, you would do well to stay out of this,” Harrison warned.

  She glanced up at him and said, “I’m afraid I am already very much in this, Harrison.” Pushing past her brother and stepping farther into the drawing room, she met Lucien’s eyes again, noting that his smile had faded a fair bit. “Well?”

  “No, my lady. I came with an offer—”

  “Which I have declined,” Harrison interrupted. “Lord Atherbourne was just leaving.”

  Keeping her eyes fixed on Lucien’s face, Victoria reached behind her to place a staying hand on her brother’s arm. “I would like to hear what the offer was,” she said softly.

  “It was nothing worth—” Harrison began.

  “Lord Atherbourne?” she prompted, watching his expression as he moved his gaze between hers and her brother’s. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, he appeared far more serious than she had yet seen him.

  “I came to offer marriage.”

  It was as though a horse had kicked her in the chest. How she wished she had been able to hear more of what was being said from where she had stood eavesdropping behind the drawing room doors. At least then the shock of his proposal would have been tempered a bit. Unfortunately, all she had heard was low, masculine mumbling. Hardly helpful in preparing her for … well, this.

  “You—” She gasped to catch her breath. “You wish to marry me? After all you’ve done?”

  The faintest flicker of something—guilt, perhaps? mild chagrin?—passed through his eyes but was gone before she could identify it. “As I explained to your brother, it is the only way to ensure the scandal is contained and the consequences to your future are minimized.”

  She stared at him silently for a long while, trying to understand this beautiful, dastardly, confounding man. Altruism hadn’t brought him here today—that much was clear. But what could his motivation be? And did it matter? He had put her in a rather desperate position. By definition, that meant her choices were few and undesirable.

  She felt Harrison’s hands on her shoulders and his tall form hovering behind her. “Victoria, I do comprehend why this might seem a convenient solution to a difficult problem,” he murmured close to her ear. “But this man is dangerous. He has already shown an appalling lack of conscience where you are concerned, and I cannot allow—”

  Reaching up to pat Harrison’s hand where it rested on her shoulder, she nodded to indicate she understood. Quietly, she asked if she might speak with Atherbourne alone for a moment. Harrison naturally resisted quite vehemently at first, but after a few minutes of discussion, in which she pointed out it was her life and her future at stake, he conceded. “Five minutes,” he bit out. “Not one second more. And the doors remain open.”

  She nodded, then thanked him as he strode out into the hall to speak with Digby. Crossing the room, she gestured toward a pair of chairs in front of the fire. “Shall we sit, my lord?” she said, then moved to the right chair and sank down into it, happy to give her jittery legs a rest.

  As Lucien settled his muscular form into the opposite chair, she almost laughed at the contrast of such a large, overtly masculine body seated awkwardly in an ornate, Louis XV chair. Perhaps it was the gilt that did it. Stifling her wandering thoughts, she began, “Now then, why should I consider marrying you, my lord?”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but she waved her hand and immediately clarified, “Aside from rather neatly resolving the scandal you used as a weapon against my brother.”

  He blinked and paused, clearly surprised by her bluntness. “You have preempted my most persuasive argument, Lady Victoria.” The wicked smile slowly returned. He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, giving her an assessing look. “Are you asking what it would be like to be my wife?”

  His voice had gone low and a bit suggestive, just as it had been on Lady Gattingford’s terrace. Unfortunately, knowing he was doing it deliberately to get under her skin did not prevent her shiver of pleasure. “We … we haven’t time for games, my lord.”

  “Who said I was playing?”

  Her breathing grew faster. His eyes were so beautiful—a dark, stormy gray, lighter toward the center with black rings around the irises. She finally knew the color of his eyes. That seemed important, somehow.

  Shaking her head to dispel the sudden fog of sensual awareness, she swallowed hard and said, “I am asking why marriage to you would be better than other alternatives, Lord Atherbourne. I am not without options, you know.”

  “Oh, yes. Your options. Banishment to the Continent or America, perhaps? An isolated life as a country spinster? Was that what you dreamed of as a girl when you imagined your future?”

  “You know very well it was not,” she snapped.

  He sat forward, leaning toward her with his hands on his thighs, all traces of indolence gone as the full intensity of his personality came to the fore. “And what about being the Marchioness of Stickley, hmm? Did you imagine yourself the wife of a man who could not even be bothered to kiss you properly?”

  “Leave Lord Stickley out of this.”

  “Very well. You asked what being my wife would entail. The answer is much the same as what being Stickley’s wife would have entailed. Except that, as my wife, you will never for one moment doubt that I want you.”

  Shocked by his declaration, she felt herself panting, the air sawing in and out at an embarrassing rate. But she could not hear it over her pounding heart, the sound as loud in her ears as the ocean on a rocky shore. “You w-want me?” she asked faintly.

  Ignoring her response, he continued, “I would never choose to spend time hunting or regaling the gents at Boodle’s about my hounds when I could spend it making love to my new wife.”

  “Oh, that’s not … you … making … oh.”

  “Furthermore, sh
ould you marry me, you would never again be vulnerable to the kind of scandal you were caught up in several nights ago.”

  Her hands, moist and shaking, tightened where they rested on the arms of the chair. “I believe we’ve already established that this would help lessen the scandal.”

  He grinned. “Oh, but that is not why it would never happen again. As your husband, it would be my duty to see you so well pleasured that no other man could possibly have anything to offer you. Therefore, you would not be lured into any illicit rendezvous or stolen moments of passion. Except with me, of course.”

  Flustered and breathless, she rose and paced across the carpet to a spot between a settee and a low, marble-topped table. He is a devil, she thought. A devil with the face of an angel. And I am a fool—worse, utterly mad—to fall prey to his intoxicating words. Because she did not simply feel drawn to him, this conductor of her destruction. She longed for him, yearned for the right to trace his lips with her bare fingers, to stroke his injured cheek, to feel his tongue slide wickedly inside her mouth, the way it had before.

  Turning to face him, she was startled to find him no more than a foot away. He was so tall, he fairly loomed over her, close enough to touch. Breathe, Victoria. Despite the inner admonition, it took her a moment to respond to his litany of contrasts between what marriage to Lord Stickley would have been and what it would mean to be Lady Atherbourne. His bride. “And if I were caught with another man, my lord?” she asked, not because she thought it a real possibility, but simply to see what he would say.

  He didn’t appear to like the question. Not at all. His face grew hard and shuttered, his smile fading, his lips settling into a grim line. “I think it best not to contemplate what I would do in that instance.”

  For a moment, her entire being paused, waiting for the answer to her next question. “Would … would you hurt me?”

  His response was immediate and emphatic: “No. Never.”

  She believed him. She didn’t know why, but it was true. Something in his face—a flash of outrage, as if the very thought was abhorrent—gave her the answer his words could not. It appeared he did not mean to harm her, at least not physically.