Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  With that, he rose from the table and strode to Victoria’s side, shocking the others into quiet gasps, then silence. His bride refused to look at him, her hands tightly folded in her lap, her shoulders stiff and head bowed. He held out his hand before her.

  “Shall we take our leave, my dear?” he asked quietly, knowing she would have little choice but to comply without seeming churlish.

  “But, my lord,” Lady Berne protested, “we haven’t yet had cake! Certainly you will want your bride to taste her own wedding cake before—”

  “You must forgive me, my lady,” he interrupted, glancing around the table and meeting the eyes of those who, he knew, fervently wished him to Hades. “The morning has grown … cold. I wouldn’t want my bride to take a chill.”

  A crack of thunder chose that moment to sound outside. He felt a delicate hand slip into his own and turned to help Victoria to her feet. She paused briefly and met his gaze with a solemn one of her own, then turned to the guests as the gentlemen rose from their seats.

  Her voice tight and quiet, she said, “I thank you all for coming today. Lord Atherbourne and I shall take our leave now, but please stay and enjoy the breakfast and cake. It has been my privilege to have you here to help us celebrate our”—she stopped and cleared her throat delicately—“marriage.”

  Colin, listing to one side as he struggled to remain on his feet, squawked a protest and said, “Aw, Tori, come now. I bloody well know Harrison’s got the sense of humor of a mossy boulder, but I didn’t think you’d take offense. It was all in good fun.”

  Victoria’s hand tightened where it rested in Lucien’s, and her quiet dignity seemed to tremble like a leaf in a storm. Good God. Is she going to weep? The thought sent a surge of anger through him. And perhaps a small dose of panic.

  “Colin, please,” she said, her voice rippling with restrained emotion. “Don’t.”

  That was it. While Lucien’s hatred for the duke ran bone-deep, he now had good reason to dislike both of Victoria’s brothers. If he could find a way to shut Lacey’s mouth with his fist, and do so without making everything worse, he would leap across the table without a moment’s hesitation.

  Instead, he urged Victoria forward, eager to spirit her away with all speed. At the dining room entrance, he turned back to the guests and bowed mockingly. “Your grace. My lords. Ladies. It has been a pleasure, as always.”

  Minutes later, the ever-efficient servants of Clyde-Lacey House had wrapped their mistress in a hooded cape of silver velvet and ensured his carriage was brought round to the front. Holding an umbrella above both of them, Lucien lightly curled his arm around Victoria’s small waist and led her through the downpour into the plush confines of his coach. Immediately settling onto the bench seat, she smoothed her skirts and turned her head to stare out the opposite window.

  He handed the umbrella to his footman and climbed in beside her, making sure his shoulder brushed hers, his thigh mere inches away. She was a graceful thing, her movements efficient and smooth. If he had not been watching her closely, he would not have perceived her nervousness. But he had been watching. Wanting. Since the moment he arrived and saw her in her wedding gown.

  “You have not asked where we are going. Aren’t you curious about your new home?” In point of fact, she had not said much of anything to him that morning. A brief, polite greeting, then her vows. Little else.

  Reacting to his voice, her head turned slightly in his direction. Her hood hid all but a hint of her profile from him. He could see the slope of her dainty nose, the curve of her full lips. “Does it matter? We shall be there soon enough.”

  A frown tugged at his brows. He disliked her listless tone, her muted light. The Victoria he had encountered on the Gattingford terrace and again the day he had proposed did not hesitate to meet his eyes, to engage him in a lively debate, to interrogate him or castigate him or bloody well tempt him beyond all reason. The more he thought on it, the more he hated whatever had caused her to go quiet and resigned. “Wait until you see the dungeon,” he whispered next to her ear.

  His blatant provocation worked. Instantly, her head swiveled to face him, her eyes wide and shocked. He laughed and winked. She blushed. “Is there a moat as well, my lord?”

  As parries went, it was reasonably tart and clever. But he had not finished teasing the real Victoria out of her shell. “If the rain keeps on like this,” he said, gesturing to the unending sheet of water beyond the window, “then I daresay it grows more likely by the minute.” That drew a small smile. He felt inexplicable satisfaction at the sight.

  Just then, the coach took a sharp turn, causing Victoria to sway toward him. Her gloved hand reached out instinctively to brace itself.

  On his thigh.

  He nearly groaned aloud. Dear God, this was torturous. He glanced down past the top of her hood to where her bosom would have been visible if not for that infernal velvet shroud.

  “… apologies, my lord.” She sounded flustered. Good. So was he.

  Her hand disappeared as she struggled to scoot away, but his arm about her waist locked her to his side. “Worry not, sweet. Life is filled with unexpected turns. It is a husband’s privilege to serve as ballast.” He wasn’t entirely sure what he had just said. Blood was pounding through his body louder than a great, towering drum played by a mythical giant. It was most distracting.

  She wriggled against him, gaining nearly half an inch of space, but also managing to forge the iron inside his trousers into steel. This time, he did groan aloud. She stilled. “Are you ailing, my lord?” He breathed through the ache. Perhaps additional space was best. Loosening his arm, he allowed their bodies to separate and moved a small distance away. Giving her a strained smile, he joked, “If you’re hoping for imminent widowhood, I fear you will be disappointed. Mine is a highly … robust constitution.”

  She blinked up at him, a tiny frown above the bridge of her nose. “I do not wish for your death.”

  “Well,” he said, unable to keep the laughter out of his voice. “That is a relief.”

  At last catching on to his teasing, she dropped her eyes, biting her lower lip as a grin emerged. “Perhaps I should.”

  “Nonsense. Trust your instincts, I always say. Murdering one’s spouse is a messy business. Could tie up the estate for years.” She giggled, the sound light and sweet. It was the first time he had heard her laugh, he realized. Now that he had, he wanted more. “Much better to spend a decade or two forcing me to pay exorbitant sums to the modiste and milliner.”

  Laughing harder, she shook her head and gave him a mischievous look from beneath her lashes. “Sound advice, my lord. But you should be far more concerned about my canvas supplier and colorist.”

  “Enjoy painting that much, do you?” He already knew it was true. Blackmore’s former servants had been both chatty and eager to share their affectionate observations about their mistress. It had made his task easier, to say the least. But she didn’t need to know that.

  She sighed and relaxed further into the seat, leaning toward him. “It is wondrous. One of my favorite things, actually.”

  The heat he had felt burning through him earlier had eased, and now became a gentle, glowing warmth emanating from his midsection. It was almost … comforting. “You shall require a studio, then.”

  Suddenly looking a bit shy, as though he were a stranger offering her a confectionary treat, she demurred, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask …”

  “You didn’t. I offered. Besides, Wyatt House is not lacking for rooms, as you will soon see. Take whichever one strikes your fancy.” She eyed him for a long moment as though weighing his sincerity. He leaned forward to bring his face level with hers. “You want a studio, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she murmured, glancing at his mouth. “I do. Want …”

  He waited, watching her eyes dilate, her breathing quicken. “A place to paint,” he finished for her.

  She nodded, appearing a bit off balance, then gathered her composure. “I shall—
” She cleared her throat. “I shall survey the house and give you a list of possibilities.”

  “No need. As I said, you may have any room you like.”

  “It is a most generous offer, my lord. Thank you.”

  He waved dismissively. “Wyatt House will be your home. You are my wife now, after all.”

  “Yes.” Her voice grew quiet, and she turned to stare out at the buildings of Oxford Street. She looked forlorn. Lost. “I am your wife now.”

  ~~*

  Chapter Eight

  “An excellent servant is always present, yet rarely seen or heard. Much like a specter who happens to enjoy cleaning.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her butler.

  Entering Lucien’s brick town house in Portman Square a half-hour after leaving Clyde-Lacey House, Victoria marveled that one’s life could change so radically within a matter of weeks that it was nigh impossible to remember oneself from before. Before the mistake. Before the scandal. Before the transformation from duke’s sister to marquess’s fiancée to viscount’s wife.

  Glancing down at her left hand, where a filigreed band of gold nestled a flower-shaped cluster of diamonds and aquamarine stones, her belly flipped and clenched with a peculiar pain. She was his wife. He was—she swallowed hard—her husband. He now had certain … rights.

  Breathing deeply and reaching for calm, she instead focused on her surroundings. The entrance hall alone was opulently beautiful, with sky-blue walls, a pale gray marble floor, and a stunningly grand, curved double staircase rising in the center like two great arms reaching out in an embrace. She was struck by how much light filled the space, despite the gloom of the storm outside. Drawn forward to solve the mystery, she gaped four floors up at a magnificent glass dome ceiling.

  “Simply incredible,” she murmured.

  Truly, she’d had no idea Atherbourne’s pockets were so deep. His town residence was one of the largest houses—a mansion, really—in a quietly elegant square filled with narrow townhouses. Located in the district of Marylebone, just north of Mayfair, it was an address slightly less fashionable, though no less luxurious, than Clyde-Lacey House.

  “Seems a trifle ostentatious, does it not?” Lucien’s smooth voice observed wryly mere inches behind her.

  She jerked in surprise and spun to face him. “No!” she squeaked. Good heavens, her voice was high and a bit loud. Cringing, she tried again. “I—I mean, no, my lord. Actually, I find it quite beautiful. You have a lovely home.”

  The familiar half-grin curved his wicked mouth, and light flashed in his dark eyes. Dressed in a formal black coat with a silver silk waistcoat and charcoal trousers, Lucien resembled the dark angel she had previously labeled him. The stark white cravat merely emphasized it. Gracious, he was a handsome man. And with him standing so close, she was having trouble keeping her thoughts together.

  “It’s your home as well, now, my dear. So perhaps you should say, ‘We have a lovely home.’”

  Unsettled by the notion, she turned to stare at a set of closed double doors just off the foyer. The parlor or morning room, perhaps? “Yes, well. I suppose that is true. Though it hardly feels that way.”

  The butler, a stooped, wizened man of terribly advanced years who shuffled slowly and spoke loudly, returned to announce, “My lord, the servants are ready to be presented to Lady Atherbourne. They are in the dining room.”

  Lucien winced as the man’s overloud voice echoed in the open space. “Very good, Billings.”

  Billings, who had taken their gloves and her cloak when they first arrived, nodded his snowy-white head and shuffled toward the second set of doors off the entrance hall.

  “Shall we, Lady Atherbourne?” Lucien presented her with his arm, and together they entered a sumptuous room dominated by an enormously long mahogany table, which was flanked on either side by a dizzying number of chairs—easily two dozen in all. The vermilion damask on the walls was relieved by the soft white of the wainscoting and ornate moldings. A white marble fireplace along the wall opposite the entrance was topped by a lovely green landscape. The painting was English, but with the soft, dreamy quality of the French style. A Turner, she thought.

  In front of the tall bank of windows at one end of the room stood a long line of servants. Billings and a sturdy, ruddy-faced woman who must be the housekeeper, judging from her dress, stood nearest the entrance. Billings cleared his throat. “My lady,” he croaked. “May I present to you the housekeeper, Mrs. Garner.”

  The woman beamed warmly, revealing a wide gap between her two front teeth, and dipped a curtsy, her ring of keys jangling against her waist. “Welcome to Wyatt House, my lady. Whatever ye need, don’t hesitate to call on Mrs. Garner. We’re all jes’ over the moon about Lord Atherbourne gettin’ himself married up proper. Why, jes’ the other day, I was sayin’ to Cook, ye won’t find a happier housekeeper in London than Mrs. Garner, I says.”

  Momentarily flummoxed by the effusive greeting, after a few seconds, Victoria answered with a quiet but sincere, “Thank you for your kind welcome, Mrs. Garner.” To which the housekeeper responded like an excited pup, her smile growing wider and her keys once again clinking as she curtsied several more times.

  The responses of the remaining staff, though less loquacious, were equally warm and courteous. Rattled by memories of the disastrous wedding breakfast, as well as the stresses of moving into a new home and—oh, dear heaven—thoughts of the night to come, Victoria knew she was unlikely to recall many of the staff’s names. Certainly, she would remember Mrs. Garner—the woman repeated her own name enough times to assure that. Perhaps she would ask the housekeeper to make a list of the servants and their roles in the household, she thought absently.

  Simply coping with the devil’s own scandal and arranging a rushed wedding had occupied all of Victoria’s attention of late, so she’d had little time to consider the task now before her: Becoming the Viscountess Atherbourne meant fully managing the households of her husband’s various properties. While she knew herself to be more than capable, having done the same for the Blackmore properties since her mother’s death, it was bound to take time and effort before she felt like the mistress, rather than a stranger, in her new home.

  As the last of the footmen bowed and acknowledged Victoria with a final “my lady,” she felt the large, strong hand of her husband take her elbow.

  Not one but several tingles emanated from where his palm gently cupped her arm, causing her to shiver. How silly that she had once wished for such a thing. To be so affected by a casual touch was most disconcerting, especially considering a layer of fabric separated his skin from hers.

  As though hearing her thoughts and wanting to tease her, Lucien leaned close to her ear, his clean, spicy scent surrounding her, and murmured, “Dismiss them, and I shall show you to our chambers.”

  Her stomach swooped and curled like a bird on a sudden gust of wind. She felt her skin heat with a wretched flush and her mouth grow dry. “But it is barely past noon, my lord,” she whispered, refusing to look at either him or the servants.

  He was silent for several seconds, his head remaining bent intimately close to hers. She could almost feel him willing her to do as he had demanded. Then his fingers flexed slightly where they held her arm. He straightened to his full imposing height, but did not release her.

  “Billings!” he boomed loudly, causing Victoria to jerk and glare up at him. Really, she thought. Presumably, he raised his voice so the ancient butler could hear him across the long expanse of the room, but the least he could do was warn her.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Were Lady Atherbourne’s belongings delivered this morning?”

  “Yes, my lord. All of the trunks were unloaded, and her ladyship’s effects have been unpacked and placed in her chambers.”

  Lucien turned his commanding gaze on the housekeeper. “Mrs. Garner, Lady Atherbourne and I will take luncheon and dinner in our rooms. You may leave the trays outside the door. We are not to be disturbed unti
l morning, is that understood?”

  Victoria’s eyes whipped back and forth between Mrs. Garner’s raised brows and Lucien’s hard-edged profile. Surely he did not just say what she thought he said. He could not have simply … announced such a thing.

  “In fact,” he continued, “deliver a bath to our chamber no earlier than ten tomorrow morning, and delay breakfast until half past.”

  She felt embarrassment wash over her, buzzing like angry bees in her ears and rushing through her veins, both hot and cold at the same time. Several gasps and what was clearly a smothered giggle could be heard from the line of maids and footmen.

  How dare he shame her like this? In front of the entire staff, no less. Did he think the servants would believe they were playing chess until half past tomorrow morning? Of course not. The implication was obvious, and their reactions suggested they had received the message. It was impossible to miss. He had bloody well shouted it across the room.

  After Colin’s drunken display that morning, it was positively the last straw. She wanted to hit him right in his ridiculously handsome face.

  “Ah—Aye, my lord,” Mrs. Garner replied.

  He nodded briskly. “Excellent. You all may resume your usual duties.”

  The entire line bobbed and bowed before exiting. The moment the last of them left the room, Victoria jerked her arm from Lucien’s grasp. In a low, fierce voice, she hissed, “You, my lord, are despicable.”

  He turned toward her slowly, even nonchalantly, and arched one brow. “But you knew that already, my sweet.”

  “I have never been treated so in all my life—”

  “Yes, and what a long life it has been. Twenty years, is it? Give yourself time, darling.”

  “—and I will not be shamed in such a way again. Especially before servants. Dear heavens, have you any idea how quickly the gossip will spread—”

  “Had it been up to you, our wedding night might have waited until Michaelmas—”

  “I am trying to repair the damage the scandal has done, not set a new fire ablaze with servants bandying it about that their mistress abides being treated as little more than a common tr—”