“Victoria?” Lucien asked quietly, stroking her shoulders, her back, her hair. She clutched her sketchbook to her chest, her arms wrapped about herself. She was trembling and would not look at him. But he was thankful she allowed him to draw her close. “Are you well?”
She nodded. But he didn’t believe it. He enfolded her in his arms, holding her tightly and feeling her shudder roll through him as though it were his own. “It’s so silly,” she said in a tiny voice. “Most horses do not frighten me at all. He startled me.”
“Shh, love. Everything is fine. You are safe.” At first, as her shaking subsided, he thought to release her. But then she leaned into him as though she still needed his strength to hold her up.
“I should not have gone riding that day,” she whispered, laying her ear against his chest. “Papa warned me never to ride his hunters. But I was bored. I had only ridden ponies and the oldest, slowest gelding in Blackmore’s stable. Balthazar was magnificent, a great, shining black beast. I knew that together, we could fly.” She nuzzled her face further into his chest, the memory clearly painful.
“And did you, angel?” His voice came out oddly strangled.
She nodded. “It was wonderful. I had never dreamed of going that fast. Then, he was no longer beneath me. Just like that. Later, I discovered he had stepped in a hole and his leg simply … cracked. That is why he disappeared. I kept going and landed badly. We both broke our legs, can you imagine?” Her laugh sounded dry and forced, trailing off into a long silence. “Papa had to shoot Balthazar. He was quite furious. I was fortunate he did not consider the same remedy for me.”
Lucien simply held her and stroked her back, wondering about a father who showed more concern for his horse than his daughter.
She sighed and stirred, slowly stiffening and drawing away as she recovered from her fright. “You must think me the veriest ninnyhammer—”
“I do not.” Sliding his palms around to her back to prevent her escape, he held her in place. Where she belonged. “You were just a girl.”
“Papa said that seven was old enough to know better. And he was right. I should have known.”
He shook his head in disbelief. Seven. Truly, he was beginning to see where Harrison Lacey’s stone-hearted nature stemmed from.
“Ahem. M’lord, ’ugo’s been returned to ’is stall,” Connell said from behind him. “If I may, sir, I would like to ’umbly apologize to ’er ladyship.”
He turned to glare at the red-faced groom. “Then do so.”
Connell nodded and removed his cap before facing Victoria. “M’lady, I beg yer forgiveness. I did not see ye there as we came in—”
“Nonsense,” she replied, her chin tilting up at a proud angle.
“N-nonsense, m’lady?”
“You shall not apologize, as it was not your fault in the slightest.”
Connell blinked, his hands wringing his cap into a tight roll. “It weren’t?”
Lucien stared at his wife, who looked every inch the viscountess, albeit a rumpled one. “It wasn’t?” he asked dubiously.
“Certainly not. The horse jostled me unexpectedly, and I was startled. It is not your fault or the horse’s, but mine.” She gave them both a brave smile. “No harm done.”
Simultaneously, Lucien and Connell protested, but she held up a hand for silence. “I’ll hear no more about it.” One arm clutching her sketchbook, she turned pertly on her heel and walked away from him, her hips swaying in a way he was beginning to suspect was designed to torture him.
Bloody hell, he thought, his groin clenching and hardening into an all-too-familiar ache. If this is an illness, then there is only one cure: I must seduce my wife. He watched her sweet, rounded backside taunting him from across the courtyard. For his sanity’s sake, he must have her again. And soon.
~~*
Chapter Fifteen
“I can no more abide a rambling servant than I can a squeaking carriage wheel. Both are intolerable and must be either silenced or replaced. I prefer ‘replaced.’” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her newest new lady’s maid, the sixth in as many months.
The following morning, the invitation to Lady Wallingham’s luncheon arrived. Nervousness quivered in Victoria’s belly, echoing up through her fingers and causing the paper she held to tremble. She had never attended one of the dragon’s luncheons, had only heard about them from Lady Berne. This would be her gauntlet, a test of her courage. By all accounts, the luncheons were both subtle and brutal, a gaggle of pinch-faced matrons passing judgment on everything from one’s choice of slippers to one’s choice of husband. It made the presentation at Almack’s seem like a warm embrace by comparison. But it is necessary, and so I shall do what must be done. She took a bracing breath.
Lucien entered her sitting room as though he owned it, which she supposed he did. Still, he had been acting increasingly presumptuous of late, ignoring her formal demeanor, deliberately brushing against her at every opportunity, saying provocative things she only half-understood. It was most disconcerting. He behaved for all the world as though they’d simply had a minor tiff, and it was only a matter of time before she came to her senses and let him back into her bed.
“Another invitation, my darling? It seems our efforts are beginning to bear fruit.”
“Mmm. Lady Wallingham would like me to join her for luncheon on Thursday. And please stop calling me your darling. You know very well I do not like it.”
Ignoring her demand, he sauntered casually to her chair and studied the note over her shoulder. “So, is this the luncheon in which other women attempt to throw daggers at you, and you attempt to evade them?”
“I believe so.”
Lucien paused, his eyes glittering, then narrowing. “You should not put yourself through this, Victoria.”
She stood and busied her hands with straightening the papers on her desk. “It will be fine. Besides, this is only the first step. After the luncheon, we should begin receiving more invitations, which will allow us to reestablish ourselves within society.”
Suddenly, she felt the heat and strength of his body surround her from behind, his arms circling her waist. His chin settled gently atop her head. “I shall go with you.”
Frozen in place, she soaked in his nearness like a rose deprived of sunlight for too long. Why could he not keep his distance? He seemed determined to break down her will to resist, not with kisses and seduction, but with warmth, wit, and husbandly concern. The first she might be able to defend against, but nothing weakened her like Lucien’s strength and care.
Straightening away from his body, she braced herself against the onslaught. “You were not invited, my lord. It is a luncheon for ladies only.”
“Then I will wear a dress.”
She couldn’t help it. The unexpected rejoinder caused her to snort with laughter.
Seizing the opening, his voice rose to a falsetto. “My dears, where do you find your bonnets? I daresay mine are sadly last season.”
Consumed by helpless giggles at the image of Lucien Wyatt in a woman’s gown, taking tea and simpering over fashion with the ton’s most notorious gossips, Victoria had tears rolling down her cheeks before she managed to regain her composure. By that time, Lucien’s hands were sliding over her hips, drawing her back into his embrace, where his arms banded across the front of her shoulders and waist, and he rocked them slowly side to side. It was like dancing.
She wiped her cheeks, sighed, and shook her head. In these kinds of moments, more than anything, she mourned what she had lost. A husband who might love her. A family of her own.
A fantasy, you mean. And how can you lose something you never really had?
The thought was sobering. “Release me,” she said quietly.
He stilled their swaying motion, but kept his arms locked across her front. “Must we be enemies, Victoria?” he whispered, his lips unnervingly close to her ear.
“We are what you have made us.”
“I am not the one who deni
es us the pleasure of the marriage bed. I am not the one who pulls away when offered comfort or affection.”
Her eyes squeezed shut, honesty forcing her answer. “No.”
She felt his sigh at her back. “He killed my brother, Victoria. Is it not natural that I would want nothing to do with him?”
“Lucien—”
“You are angry. Understandably. But you are not my enemy, love.” His voice was low, persuasive. Her heart ached for him, for what he had been through. Dear God, how was she supposed to resist this man? “Can we not find a way to at least be friends?” She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she felt his lips brush her temple. “We live in the same house, after all.”
Perhaps if he had pushed for more than friendship, had demanded to reclaim his rights as her husband, she could have continued to deny him. But she needed someone. She had never felt lonelier in her life, cut off from her brothers, isolated from most of polite society. At least Lucien offered the comforts of companionship. And he was right: Like it or not, they were married, and that would not change. Maintaining the wall of hostility between them had already proven exhausting. Perhaps if they could establish a kind of truce, it would ease her desire for him, make lying next to him every night more bearable.
“Very well.”
Wrapped around her as he was, she could feel tension harden every muscle in his body. “You agree?”
Her hands settled on his thick forearms. “I agree that we needn’t be enemies.” Sliding her fingers to grip his wrists, she gently pried them apart, stepped out of his embrace, and turned to face him. “Are you …” She bit her lip and continued. “Are you sincere in offering friendship, my lord?”
His expression unreadable, Lucien moved closer but did not touch her. “I am.”
“And this is not a ruse to …?”
His half-grin finished the thought for her, even before he replied, “A ruse, no. But if you expect me to stop wanting you, to give up hope of being inside you again, I fear you ask the impossible.” The bald statement and the flash of lust in his dark eyes sent gooseflesh over her skin. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. His gaze followed, his nostrils flaring on a deep breath.
“I do not wish to fight with you, Lucien.” Her voice, while thready, was strengthened by raw honesty. “Perhaps we might put our differences aside—”
His full-scale grin spoke of triumph.
“—for the sake of peace between us. However, I have not changed my mind about … certain … intimacies.” She cleared her throat as his grin receded, although it did not disappear entirely. “So long as you understand this, I see no reason we shouldn’t behave … cordially toward one another.”
His grin returned, this time with a devilish glint that made her slightly uneasy. He bowed formally and winked. “It is my honor to begin a new, cordial path with you, Lady Atherbourne.” He offered his hand. She stared at it for a long moment before giving him her own. “May our friendship prove most gratifying for us both.”
~~*
The heavy cleaver landed with a loud thunk, embedding itself into the dense wood of the butcher block. Cook wiped her hands on her apron and scowled at Mrs. Garner. “I’ve half a mind to take a wooden spoon to his backside, I do.”
Mrs. Garner shook her head in disgust. “She don’t deserve none of this, tha’ much is certain. Never known a sweeter soul. Whatever her brother might’a done.”
“Hmmph.”
“A real shame, it is.”
Agnes entered with a basket of onions. She was a haughty one, with her pretty face and buxom figure. But Mrs. Garner knew working the kitchen would humble her in no time, the lazybones. “What’s a shame?” the girl asked, setting the basket on the floor.
“Just never you mind,” Cook barked in her gravelly voice. “Fetch me a bundle of mint from the garden, and be quick about it.”
Agnes huffed resentfully, but did as she was told. Cook cast a glare at the girl’s flouncing exit, then turned back to Mrs. Garner. “Regular Jezebel, that one. You sure you want to keep her about?”
Mrs. Garner scoffed. “She couldn’t tempt his lordship before he married. Think ye she could do it now?”
Cook laughed roughly. “Not likely. Only one woman’s got that boy’s breeches on a string, and that’s his wife.” She lifted the lamb shank from the board and skewered it on the spit. “Never thought I’d see it, either. After the sad business with Master Gregory and all.”
Shuddering, Mrs. Garner felt a chill run over her flesh. “She chose the blue room fer her paintin’. I tell ye now, I’ll not go in there. Gives me the shivers jes’ thinkin’ about it.”
Connell entered, arguing quietly with his wife, Georgina. “It’s wha’ ’is lordship wants, Georgie. Think ye I should thank Lord Atherbourne for making me ’is coachman by disobeying ’im?” He dumped an armful of split wood next to the fireplace.
Georgina, a slight, flaxen-haired chambermaid—one of Mrs. Garner’s best—took on a challenging posture as he turned back, brushing his hands down the front of his coat. She swatted his arm, sending dust pluming up from the cloth. “After you let Hugo knock the poor lady sideways, she could have demanded you be sacked, Connell O’Malley. If anyone should be thanked, it should be her.”
The coachman looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Now, don’t go gettin’ in a dither. It’s not good fer the babe.”
Georgina cast a skittish glance over her shoulder at Mrs. Garner, probably wondering if the housekeeper overheard. She needn’t have worried. Mrs. Garner knew everything that went on in Wyatt House, including that her best chambermaid was expecting her fourth child. The truth was, the lass should have been sent home after the first one. But she begged to be allowed to continue her work, said that her mother was happy to care for the wee ones while she and Connell saved up for a house of their own.
Their situation was unusual, but that was true of many of the servants working for Lord Atherbourne. Billings was mostly deaf and well past the age when he should have been shuffled off to retirement. Connell, an Irishman who’d grown up in Whitechapel, was too young to be considered for any position other than a lowly groom. Cook had spent a spell in Newgate after a nasty disagreement with her not-so-dearly-departed husband. And then there was Mrs. Garner, herself. Try as she might, she could not manage the decorum demanded of most housekeepers in the finer households of London. She talked too much, had the wrong accent, and as a former employer once said, exhibited “an abundance of energy which is taxing to witness.”
Lucien Wyatt, and his brother before him, did not care a whit for appearances. They had kept Billings on because the dear old man loved being a butler, and despite his deficient hearing and painfully slow gait, he was one of the best she had ever seen—efficient, proper, discreet, and a firm but fair manager of the male servants. Similarly, Connell and Cook had been elevated to their positions upon demonstrating excellence in their tasks. Very few employers took any interest whatever in their servants’ lives. Most would prefer to hire new, rather than rewarding their staff with greater responsibility and increased wages. But both Wyatt boys were a different breed. They were reasonable in their demands, generous, and loyal, which had, in turn, earned the undying loyalty of Mrs. Garner and the others.
That sentiment was being challenged, however, with Lord Atherbourne’s latest mandate. When he had first introduced his new viscountess, none of them had known what to expect. They had all heard tales of new mistresses turning into monsters after the honeymoon. But they soon discovered their new mistress was as sweet as a sugar cone, listening to Mrs. Garner blather on, patiently repeating herself so Billings could hear, and insisting Connell’s mistake with Hugo be forgotten. In a thousand tiny ways, she had shown herself to be rather extraordinarily kind. Mrs. Garner could not fathom how Lord Atherbourne could gaze into those big, blue-green eyes and see the man he hated, rather than the wife he should love. Why, just this afternoon, she had longed to hug the young woman, herself. But even Mrs. Garner knew so
me overtures were beyond the pale.
Agnes sauntered back into the kitchen, placed the requested herbs on the work table, and planted her hands on her hips. Cook glanced at the maid over her shoulder. “Mint’s taking an awfully long time these days.”
Unfazed, her chin rose. “Some bloke came by the mews gate. Curious one, he was.”
Mrs. Garner frowned. “What ’ave I told ye about flirtin’ with all and sundry—”
She snorted. “Wouldn’t flirt with that one. Ragged as a dog’s forgotten bone. He was asking about her ladyship.”
Lady Atherbourne’s new lady’s maid, Emily, spoke from behind Mrs. Garner. “Dark-haired, bit like a wolfhound about the face?”
Mrs. Garner turned to stare at the young, blond girl, who had worked as one of the upstairs maids before being reassigned by the new viscountess. “Ye seen this gentleman, Em?” she asked. It was one thing for saucy, disobedient Agnes to engage a stranger in conversation while working, but Emily was a good girl.
Nodding, Emily answered, “Aye. Week before last, at Covent Garden. Claimed he worked for her brother.”
“And he ain’t no gentleman, you ask me,” Agnes muttered.
Alarm rang a peal down Mrs. Garner’s spine. “Ye didn’t tell ’im nothing, did ye?” The two maids looked at each other, then back at Mrs. Garner sheepishly. It told the housekeeper all she needed to know.
“Seemed harmless enough, Mrs. Garner,” Emily said abashedly. “All he said was her brother, the duke, wanted to know she was well.”
Coming back through the doorway with another armload of wood, Connell stopped mid-stride. “You talkin’ about the runner?” he asked.
They all blinked at the coachman. “Runner?” three of them said in unison.
He dumped his burden on the previous pile and dusted his hands. “Aye. One o’ them Bow Street blokes. Me cousin Davey works in ’is grace’s stables. ’E said the duke ’ired the runner straight away after the weddin’.”
Well, well. It seemed the duke was determined to look after his sister, even from a distance. And she deserves looking after, thought Mrs. Garner. Shaking her head and planting her hands on her hips in a posture the others knew meant business, she announced, “I’ve heard enough. It’s time to get back to yer tasks, not stand about gossiping.” She gave them all a stern glare. “If I hear ye all are talkin’ to tha’ Bow Street fellow, tellin’ him of his lordship’s private doings, ye can be certain-sure ye’ll be missin’ a day’s wages fer that week, as ye’ll not be workin’ on Saturday. Now, off with ye.”
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