Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  The carriage rocked to a stop outside the Berne residence. Before the footman opened the door, Victoria took Jane’s small hand in her own and squeezed affectionately. “I don’t know what I have done to deserve such a dear friend, but I am ever so grateful,” she said quietly. “If you should decide it prudent to keep your distance, I will think no less of you.”

  “Well, I would,” Jane retorted. “Come now, let’s have luncheon. I find a good meal does much to calm one’s nerves.”

  They stepped out of the carriage onto the walkway in front of the Berne townhouse, and again, Victoria felt that strange tingle along the back of her neck. It was a small, localized shiver at the top of her spine, the sensation of hairs rising away from her skin. Immediately, she spun around in a circle, her eyes searching the quiet street.

  There! It was a man, dark-haired, wearing a greatcoat and a tall hat pulled low over his brow. The brim made it difficult to see his face, but his clothes looked somewhat worn and rumpled. Something about his demeanor, his shuffling stride, suggested he did not belong on this street, among these houses. He stared at her a moment, then looked away, strolling casually in the opposite direction to disappear down a set of stairs into the area below one of the houses.

  Must be a servant or a deliveryman. She shook her head, wondering if perhaps her imagination was getting the better of her.

  “Victoria, are you coming?” Jane called from the doorway.

  She plastered on a smile and ascended the steps to link arms with her friend as they walked inside. “So, let’s discuss this bookshop you would have me visit.”

  ~~*

  Chapter Twenty

  “I have said it before, and I shall say it again: Intelligent men are dangerous men. It is good there are so few of them.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Berne after meeting privately with the Prime Minister.

  The runner slouched in the seat across the desk from Harrison, his expression wary and haggard, his dark clothes rumpled.

  “Atherbourne is also preventing her receiving my letters, then?” Harrison asked softly.

  “Near as I can tell, your grace. The servants don’t like it much, but what can they do?”

  Harrison nodded, his thoughts churning. He had known Atherbourne had something planned. All considered, it was better than he had feared. According to the Bow Street runner he paid to keep an eye on Victoria, his sister had not been harmed since her marriage, aside from being commanded to keep her distance from Harrison. After he’d spotted her at the theater, he had asked the runner to make further inquiries, thinking perhaps her refusal to see him or answer his letters stemmed from Atherbourne’s interference. He’d been right.

  The runner shifted and cleared his throat. Harrison raised a brow. “Eager to depart, Drayton?”

  Pinned under Harrison’s gaze, the other man squirmed. “N-no, sir. Er—your grace. It’s just that it’s been three days since I’ve seen a bed—”

  “Are you saying you’d prefer I hire someone else for this task?”

  That perked the scruffy creature up directly. “Not at all. I’ll do the job, for certain, your grace.”

  Harrison stared at the man wordlessly for a full minute. He had always found silence useful. Others often attempted to fill it, which tended to benefit him. “Excellent. I shall expect another report in three days’ time.” With that, Harrison dismissed the man from his mind. Drayton, accustomed by now to the duke’s manner, departed with a brief bow. Harrison heard the door click as he turned his attention to the most recent figures from Blackmore Hall’s household accounts. It appeared the cook Victoria had hired last fall was rather profligate with the spices. He’d have to put a stop to that.

  Victoria.

  His hand tightened on the paper, causing the numbers to wrinkle and fold in on themselves. She had always been a romantic sort, soft as thistledown beneath a composed surface. Her practical decision to marry Stickley had misled him into forgetting that fact. But somehow Atherbourne had seen it, exploited it. Damn him to hell.

  Harrison spent most of his time lately trying to keep Colin from complete destruction, and the rest dealing with the vast assortment of problems and decisions related to running the Blackmore properties. Victoria had managed the households, and when she married, those tasks fell to him. He did not have time for a brother-in-law with a grudge and a devious agenda.

  Glaring at the crumpled paper in his fist, he forced his fingers to relax, then smoothed the page with his palm. This was precisely the reaction the blackguard wanted, he thought. He refused to give Atherbourne the satisfaction of missing her, of resenting the severed connection to his sister. Besides, if he thought too much about her absence, a peculiar ache settled in his chest. It was most unpleasant.

  No, rather than dwelling on these things, he would keep a watchful eye on her and await his opportunity to set things right. At some point, Atherbourne would assume he had triumphed, assume Victoria would allow herself to be cut off from her family permanently.

  A subtle grin tugged at the corner of Harrison’s mouth.

  Such assumptions were foolish, indeed.

  ~~*

  Dappled sunlight wove a dazzling spell as Victoria strolled on her husband’s arm. Hyde Park was not as lovely as the lands around Blackmore Hall, but it had its own kind of beauty—green, open, and orderly amidst the stone, brick, and grime of London. She suspected she would always prefer the country, but walking in the park was a treat, especially on a rare sunny day.

  It would be a shame to ruin such a peaceful interlude, but something must be done. In the weeks since the confrontation at the theater, Lucien had withdrawn from her, behaving for all the world as if she were a houseguest—he was polite, even gentlemanly. Most unsettling.

  Then there were the nightmares. While he was careful not to touch her, he continued to sleep beside her. Three times now, she had awakened to find him frozen inside a dark hell. Nothing she did seemed to help, and he ignored her attempts to soothe him, often disappearing from their bed well before dawn. She knew precious little about the secrets that weighed on Lucien’s mind, and the last thing she wanted to do was cause him pain, but patiently waiting for him to broach the subject had proved fruitless.

  Why, just yesterday he had returned from riding with Lord Tannenbrook, robust and flushed, smelling of brisk morning air as he passed her in the hall outside her studio.

  “It is early to be so filled with vigor, my lord husband,” she had teased, wanting to see the grin that was so much a part of him.

  For the first time in too long, he obliged, his eyes twinkling as they dropped to her bodice. “Remarkable what a little fresh air can do for a man.”

  As was customary when he was like this, she went hot and weak, sighing and leaning back against the door. Only, the door was not there. It brushed her back then disappeared behind her. She stumbled awkwardly into her studio, and he leapt forward to catch her, his chin grazing her forehead. Laughing, she braced her hands on his arms and steadied them both, saying, “I forgot I unlatched it earlier.”

  Feeling him tense unexpectedly, she’d wondered if perhaps he had hurt himself. But that made no sense; he was as strong as a Thoroughbred—hardly prone to turned ankles and such. Her laughter had tapered and died as she got a look at his face. He paled to stark white, his eyes vacant as they stared fixedly over her shoulder.

  “What is it, Lucien?” she had asked, twisting around to look about the room, wondering what had him so riveted. All seemed in order. Unable to find any obvious cause, she turned back to her husband, who remained frozen just inside the doorway, the muscles in his face rigid.

  For long minutes, he had simply stared at the walls of the room. She spoke his name several times, but he did not seem to hear. His eyes brushed over her face without recognition, then returned to a spot on the wooden floor just in front of the fireplace. Ice bloomed beneath her skin as she watched him. This man was a stranger. Not her Lucien.

  It had so terrifie
d her that she immediately grasped his hands and yanked as hard as she could. “Lucien!” she shouted. “Answer me.” She mimicked the voice her soft-spoken mother had used when particularly vexed with Colin’s antics—firm and authoritative. It appeared to work, as his face snapped back toward her, and something sparked in his turbulent eyes. “You must tell me what is wrong.”

  A full-body shudder had run through him, similar to the trembling she had witnessed during his nightmares. Was this simply grief? she wondered. Had the loss of his brother damaged his mind such that these episodes of—what? Shock? Despair?—came on like a sudden squall, random and disquieting? She did not know. All she knew was that he hid a great deal from her.

  “What is it?” she’d demanded again.

  He had stiffened and pulled away from her, stepping slowly back toward the door. Her hands remained outstretched, colder as he retreated. “It’s nothing,” he whispered, then shook his head briskly, his hair falling down over his forehead. He pulled in a stuttering breath like a man who had nearly drowned. Clearing his throat, he repeated without meeting her eyes, “Nothing at all.” And then, like they followed a script only he had read, but which must be repeated each time she drew too close to the source of his pain, he backed away and left her alone. Later, he would return to normal, acting as though the incident had never happened.

  Brought back to the present when a bird swooped in front of them, she released the memory with a deep sigh.

  “That was rather wistful. What are you thinking about?”

  Plastering a smile on her face, she looked up at Lucien where he walked beside her and shook her head. “Nothing, particularly. Just that I prefer the country.”

  His gaze brushed over her. “We’re to depart for Thornbridge at the end of June, but we can leave sooner if you like. I have no special love for town, myself.”

  A part of her longed to say yes, to leave as soon as possible. To forget London existed. He assumed she would travel with him to his country estate after the season was over, continue living together as husband and wife. She, on the other hand, was sure of nothing. “I wish we could,” she said softly.

  “Why can’t we?”

  “You know why. We must dance the dance society demands. The more we are seen this season, the less the scandal will matter next year and the year after.”

  He was quiet for a long time, seemingly content with her answer. They had passed several groups of acquaintances earlier, when they first entered the park, but now they were alone on this stretch of pathway. As they arrived at a bench beside a pair of tall linden trees, Lucien gestured toward it. “Shall we?”

  She nodded and sat, gazing across the green expanse of lawn toward the water of the Serpentine. “Do you miss it?” she asked, feeling the light breeze play across her cheek, the heat of his body next to her on the bench. “Thornbridge, I mean.”

  Sensing his hesitation, she glanced up at his face. He was frowning. “It is beautiful. You will love it, I suspect.”

  She smiled gently. “So you’ve said.” Folded in her lap, her hands refused to be still, her fingers clasping and loosening, fidgeting and twisting.

  Why is this so difficult? she wondered. Just ask him.

  “Does it remind you of—of your brother?”

  As expected, the mere mention of Gregory caused Lucien to stiffen. He did not look at her, but stared straight ahead. “Most things do. Wyatt House was his, as well.”

  She waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. “That must pain you, to live in the same places, to be called by the same title.” Hesitating only a moment, she laid one hand on his arm. He looked hard at where she touched him, saying nothing. The furrow between his brows might be sadness or irritation—she could not be certain.

  But she was determined to have this conversation, and so forged ahead. “When my parents … when they died, I pictured them everywhere. I even thought I saw Mama once in the morning room at Blackmore Hall. I turned and realized it was merely a shadow.” Her voice grew wispy. Remembering was difficult, and she knew it was worse—more recent and raw—for Lucien. “You were close to Gregory, were you not?”

  He appeared captivated by the sight of her hand resting on his forearm. “As close as brothers ever are, I suppose. I was away a good deal.”

  “With the cavalry.”

  “Yes.”

  Silence fell between them. His reluctance to discuss his past, his brother’s death, was palpable, a force pressing her to retreat. She would not. She refused to give in. “But you miss him.”

  Slowly, his eyes rose to meet hers. Terrible, hollow pain filled the charcoal depths. “Yes,” he rasped. “I miss him.”

  Sliding her hand down his arm to clasp his fingers, she squeezed tightly and leaned into him, placing her face inches from his. “That is as it should be. When such a connection has been severed, it is as though a part of yourself is gone.”

  His throat worked visibly, and his gaze dropped to where her hands now grasped his, holding him in place. Sensing she was reaching beyond a barrier that had been between them since the beginning, she continued, “Don’t you suppose I would feel much the same?”

  Tension suffused his body. “Victoria …”

  “I am your wife, Lucien. He was your brother. And, yes, it is true Harrison was involved in his death—”

  “I do not wish to discuss this.”

  “—but can you not see how your insistence on keeping me from my brother—”

  He extricated his hands from hers and stood abruptly. “I said I do not wish to discuss it. We should return home.”

  She stood as well, vexation with his stubbornness causing her to stamp her foot and glare up at him. “What if I am with child? Have you considered that?”

  His eyes widened to an alarming degree, dropping to her belly and flying back to her face. “You aren’t …?”

  She crossed her arms, gratified to finally have a reaction from the great lummox. “The babe would be part Lacey, would he not?”

  Lucien appeared both appalled and thunderstruck, as though she had taken a trout by the tail and struck him across the face with it. He grasped her shoulders. “Are you with child, Victoria?”

  “No. I do not believe so.” She watched him slump then turn wary. “I was simply pointing out that you are bound to Harrison through me. And through any children we would have together.”

  He snorted, seemingly regaining his equilibrium. “Perhaps you are not aware, my dear, but certain activities are necessary to beget children.”

  “Are you saying you would like to resume … said activities?”

  Brows arched, he crossed his arms over his chest, mimicking her own posture. “Are you?”

  Suddenly uncomfortable with the public setting, Victoria glanced around the park, mollified that no one was near enough to overhear. “You were right. We should make our way home. The hour grows late.”

  Lucien grinned wickedly and bent his head down to hover near hers. “So eager, love. Not to worry. I am ever at your disposal.”

  Blushing, she lightly slapped his arm and set off along the path. “I meant we shall be late for the Rutherford affair.”

  An amused “hmm” from beside her was the only response she received. They strolled in silence for long minutes until they reached the more populated area of the park, where she felt his hand slip into hers and wrap it securely in the crook of his arm. Startled, she shot him a questioning look. He answered with a subtle nod toward the small crowd of matrons gathered near the park’s entrance.

  Oh, yes. We are supposed to be in love, she thought, a small sigh of disappointment escaping. Odd how one forgets such things.

  As they approached the group, the ladies eyed them and whispered behind their hands. One of them—Lord Underwood’s widow, if Victoria was not mistaken—wore a disapproving expression and an ugly gray pelisse buttoned up to her pointed chin. It was rather surprising to see Lady Underwood puckering more than usual, but such had been the reaction of many ladi
es since the scandal.

  Lucien slowed as though he intended to stop for a chat. Victoria tugged at his arm. “Let us continue on, husband,” she murmured.

  Raising a brow, he glanced between her and Lady Underwood, who now tilted her nose in the air and deliberately turned her back to them. A tic appeared along his jaw. Beneath her fingers, his muscles turned hard as stone. “Not just yet.” Propelling them forward, his strides became purposeful.

  Victoria whispered, “What are you about?” Truly, the look in his eyes was worrisome.

  He grinned. It did nothing to comfort her.

  “Lucien?” she hissed.

  He did not answer. By then, they were a few feet from the women, most of whom were chatting with one another, pretending not to see them. “Ladies!” he said jovially. “A fine afternoon, is it not?”

  Two of them—a younger woman in a blue gown and a lady with a cheerfully wrinkled countenance and a sparkle in her eyes—turned to greet them, but the rest of the group acted as though they hadn’t heard him. “Lord Atherbourne, isn’t it?” the older one queried. Victoria did not recognize her but immediately wanted to sketch her; even the woman’s wrinkles appeared to be smiling.

  He bowed. “Lady Darnham, it has been too long.”

  The younger woman, who stared at Lucien in a most disconcerting way stood mute and wide-eyed. Lady Darnham introduced her as her granddaughter, Miss Clarissa Meadows. In turn, Lucien introduced Victoria. Lady Underwood’s back remained a gray woolen wall behind the two women, although the three others in the group stood sideways, casting glances at Victoria, apparently undecided whether greeting her constituted a breach of moral cleanliness.

  “And who are your companions?” her husband asked innocently. Inside, Victoria cringed. Oh, dear. This was not going to end well.