Or, rather, a more magnificent version of himself.
Heart thumping painfully inside his chest, Lucien stared into his own eyes and suddenly understood.
The woman who painted this saw him. Knew him down to his very soul. And she loved him deeply. It could not have been clearer.
Spinning and tilting, his world changed, expanding to include this new knowledge. Joy—precious and fragile—sprang from a part of himself he had thought lost.
She loved him.
But would she forgive him? For the first time, he realized it might be possible. He could earn her forgiveness. He could regain her trust.
It was far from guaranteed. Unlikely, perhaps. But there was a chance. And nothing mattered more.
~~*
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Lemons are sour. They require an equal amount of sweet to be palatable. Perhaps you hadn’t heard, my dear.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Gattingford after unintentionally imbibing said lady’s lemonade.
They arrived at the Gattingford ball amidst an explosion of murmurs. Victoria clutched Lucien’s arm a bit harder as they were announced, struggling against a sudden attack of nerves.
She glanced down at her gown. The peacock-blue silk shimmered in the candle glow, silver embroidery along the bodice reflecting light. The neckline was squared and lower than a day dress’s, but perfectly respectable for evening. Nothing marred the fabric’s surface, thank heaven. For a moment, she had wondered if that was the reason so many people were staring.
A portly gentleman bumped her arm, forcing her more tightly against her husband’s side. It was an absolute crush, with barely enough room to breathe, and dozens of eyes were upon her.
Lucien scanned the crowd with a commanding glare as though daring the gawkers to offer insult. His arm slid around her waist. “They must have noticed how lovely you are, my dear,” he whispered close to her ear. “It does bear commenting upon.”
She stared up at him, startled by the intimacy. His eyes glittered in a way she had not seen in over a week. A lock of black fell over his forehead, causing a squeeze of longing to run down her arm and into her fingertips.
Dressed in finely tailored black, relieved only by the stark white of his cravat, he was her dark angel once again. She wanted to kiss him, right there before the eyes of the ton.
Earlier in her studio, she had been almost afraid to hope—too many questions yet remained unanswered. Would Lucien seek retribution upon Colin? Would her love for him survive if he harmed her brother? Did he truly care for her, or had he simply been pleased with her and satisfied with his scheme?
As she had watched him at the window, looking out at the fog, she had known two things: She wanted a real marriage with Lucien. And if he did not love her, could not set aside his animosity toward her family, there was very little chance of it. She had teetered on a thin edge between hope and despair, watching her husband battle his demons.
Now, feeling the connection to him spark again … It was most encouraging. She sighed and tilted her lips up toward his.
“Why Lady Atherbourne! And Lord Atherbourne.” The shrill voice of Lady Gattingford intruded. “Splendid to have you here.”
Blast. Honestly, the woman had horrid timing.
She approached them from the left, a tallish, stout figure with a slight stoop about her shoulders, accompanied by Lord Gattingford. He was equal in height, but considerably leaner, pale and hawk-nosed, wearing an unfortunately vibrant yellow waistcoat.
Victoria managed to work up a smile. “Lady Gattingford, thank you for the invitation. I must say, the ball appears a smashing success.”
The graying brunette scrunched her nose in an oddly girlish gesture. “A mad crush, I daresay.”
As Lord Gattingford and Lucien engaged in a gentlemanly discussion about the benefits of a well-sprung carriage, Victoria allowed herself to be pulled away by Lady Gattingford. “Now then,” the older woman said, her voice low and confiding, as though they were long friends. “Lady Berne informs me you have introduced her to a new modiste. Mrs. Bowman. You must tell me about her.”
Victoria’s brows rose and her eyes widened in surprise—not because Lady Berne had shared such a tidbit, but because Lady Gattingford was being quite friendly. Considering the last time she had seen her, the matron was regaling a crowd with Victoria’s moral shortcomings, this was nothing less than miraculous.
“I—well, yes. Certainly.” For several minutes, they discussed the remarkable talents of a certain Italian seamstress. Victoria remained nonplussed at the woman’s convivial demeanor. Upon being invited to the Gattingford rout, she had expected politeness, perhaps. Instead, it was as though the scandal had never occurred.
Most strange.
“My lady, I was delighted to receive your invitation, though I must tell you, it was a bit of a surprise.”
The woman’s brows arched. “Oh, you mean because of …” She gestured toward the terrace doors, then tsked and swept her hand back and forth dismissively. “Pish posh. My dear Lady Atherbourne, I regret that I misunderstood the events that occurred when last you were here, but thankfully I have since learned the truth of your situation.”
“You—you have?”
She nodded, gazing out over the crowd as a queen would survey her subjects. “Indeed. Lady Wallingham has been most informative.” Lady Gattingford opened her lace fan with a flick of her wrist and gave Victoria a sideways smile. “I must say, Stickley did seem a robust sort. One would never suspect his little problem, but thank heavens your dear Atherbourne was so persistent.”
“Er—problem?”
An eyebrow arched and the lady’s gaze drifted to her smallest finger, extending straight outward from the lace fan. Slowly, the finger curled downward. “A most unfortunate malady, to be sure,” she whispered.
Realizing suddenly to what the matron was referring, Victoria blushed furiously. “Lady Wallingham told you that? About Lord Stickley?”
The fan worked vigorously. “Oh, not to worry. I am the soul of discretion. Besides, this has all worked out rather well for you, has it not?” She pointed her fan in Lucien’s direction. “Such a dashing young man. And to think he loved you so dearly, he could not bear to be parted from you. Why, it fair stirs my heart. Of course, there are those who will never understand the siren call of great love. Lady Rumstoke and Lady Colchester have not experienced it, so how could they possibly do so? I, on the other hand, have been blessed to have made its acquaintance. Just as you have, my dear.” Sniffing with emotion, she pressed her fan over her heart as she gazed in the direction of a certain bright-yellow waistcoat. “Is he not the handsomest man you have ever seen?”
Victoria turned and saw Lord Gattingford standing next to Lucien. Even now, her eyes found him as though magnetized. “Yes,” she said softly. “He is.”
Their conversation ended as they were joined by Lady Wallingham and Lady Berne, both dressed in jewel-toned silk. Lady Wallingham did not wait long to send Lady Gattingford scurrying. “Who would suspect so many would still be in town to attend, eh? I am certain you would have arranged for additional seating had you but known.” The arch tone and lofty tilt to the dragon’s chin caused the hostess to excuse herself and hurry through the crowd, presumably in pursuit of more chairs.
With a flick, Lady Wallingham deployed the silk fan dangling from her wrist, examining Victoria through crafty eyes. “I believe victory is ours, my dear. And a satisfying one it is.”
Lady Berne smiled brightly and nodded in agreement. “Everyone is saying what a handsome couple you and Lord Atherbourne make. How it is easy to see it was love that brought you together.”
Victoria pressed a hand to her chest, realizing they were right—the scandal was over. Certainly, there would still be those who remembered, and whispered about it. And Lord Stickley might never forgive her—especially given the new rumors the dragon had spread about him. But she and Lucien had been accepted back into the fold. And she had Lady
Wallingham and Lady Berne to thank.
She began with Lady Wallingham. “My lady, I do not know how to express the depth of my gratitude,” she began, impulsively reaching out to take the dragon’s hands in her own. She was mildly shocked at how fragile and small they felt. “Without your support and wise counsel, this surely would not have been possible.”
Momentarily surprised, Lady Wallingham froze and stared back at Victoria. Lady Berne nudged her friend’s shoulder. “Perhaps a simple, ‘You are welcome,’ would suffice, Dorothea.”
Realizing Lady Wallingham was disconcerted by the overture, Victoria loosened her hands immediately. But the old woman clung and squeezed her fingers gently before releasing her. “You will come and visit me at Grimsgate Castle,” she declared superciliously. “It is the least you can do. Bring that scoundrel you married.”
Victoria grinned and nodded. “It would be our pleasure, my lady.”
She turned and hugged Lady Berne, whispering, “I could not have asked for a better friend than you have been.”
The diminutive, rounded woman sniffed and then pulled back to beam a watery smile at Victoria. “I am dreadfully happy for you, dear girl.”
For the next half hour, their triumph was confirmed as Victoria was greeted warmly by several patronesses of Almack’s, pulled aside for friendly conversation with a group of debutantes—including the Aldridge twins—and complimented on her gown seven times.
She had not been this popular before the scandal. Lady Wallingham’s influence was powerful, indeed.
Reaching the refreshment table, she sighed in relief. The heat and closeness of the ball was positively stifling. Even Lady Gattingford’s dreadful lemonade seemed tempting. She poured herself a cup and sipped it, wishing she had thought to bring a fan.
“I would offer to take you out to the terrace,” a dark voice whispered in her ear, “but we would not want to set tongues wagging again, would we?”
Her stomach gave a tiny flip of excitement. Tingles ran up her arms and into her neck. Slowly, Victoria set her cup on the table and turned. “Lucien,” she murmured softly.
His eyes—those beautiful, storm-cloud eyes—sparkled and crinkled at the corners as he gave her a wicked half-grin. Almost immediately, however, Lucien’s smile disappeared and his gaze jerked away when they heard an announcement at the entrance to the ballroom.
Her heart dropped, chest tightening painfully as she swung around to see the man she had never expected to come here, of all places.
What is he doing? Please, God. Please. Let this night not turn into a disaster.
She felt Lucien move away, and after a moment’s hesitation, followed him. By the time she reached his side, he was already standing before her brother.
Looking cold, composed, and handsome in his dark coat and breeches, Harrison greeted Lucien with a simple, if terse, “Atherbourne.”
The crowd around them stared in silent anticipation. Would they attack one another? Would one of the men issue a challenge that would end in violence? Even Victoria did not know. Long seconds passed in which she tried to think how to prevent the coming confrontation. She could leap between them, but that might make things worse. She could pull Lucien away, perhaps. Or greet Harrison as though nothing was amiss. At best, it might delay the inevitable, but at least it would save them all a painfully public row. Deciding she must take action, she looped her arm through her husband’s and said his name under her breath.
His other arm stretched forward without warning, causing Harrison to frown and glance down—at the handshake awaiting him.
“Your grace,” Lucien said, his voice strong, his jaw determined.
Harrison grasped the offered hand, accepting the truce with a polite nod. The handshake did not last long, but it didn’t have to. The gasps of the crowd echoed her own astonishment.
Consciously closing her mouth, she swung her gaze rapidly between the duke and her husband. Two of the men she loved most in the world.
Her brother bowed to her and reached for her hands. “Victoria, you look lovely this evening. I trust you are … well?”
Tears springing unexpectedly to her eyes, she smiled up at Harrison and nodded. “I am …” She glanced to her right where her husband still stood, his expression unreadable. “I am better than I have been in a long while.”
Behind them, the first notes of a quadrille began. Harrison asked Victoria if she would care to dance, and she searched immediately for Lucien’s reaction. He gave her a half smile and said, “Go and dance, love.”
She took her brother’s arm. As they made their way through a press of bodies to the dance floor, Harrison quietly asked, “You are truly happy, then?”
She considered the question. Was she happy? After all that had occurred, all Lucien had done to damage her reputation, and then her relationship with her family?
“Yes,” she answered finally. And it was true. “Our marriage is far from perfect. He is far from perfect, as am I. But we are connected—bound to one another in a way I cannot explain. I love him. It gives me great hope for the future.”
Harrison nodded and paused at the edge of the dance floor, staring straight ahead at the dancers as they gathered into the proper formation for the group dance. “He asked me to come tonight, you know.”
“He did?”
He nodded. “Surprised me, as well. But as long as his sole aim is to ensure your contentment, then we will have few disagreements.” When he spoke again, his voice was unusually thready. “That is all I ever wanted for you, Tori. To be cared for as you deserve.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “If you ever have need of me, you have only to say so. I shall always be at your disposal.”
Oh, now he was truly going to turn her into a watering pot.
“I know,” she said. “I love you too, Harrison.”
Thankfully, their dance gave them an opportunity to recover, and she was smiling from ear to ear by the time they finished. Just then, Lucien arrived to claim her for a waltz. He and Harrison acknowledged each other again, their exchange polite, if a bit stiff and guarded.
“You have never looked more beautiful, angel,” Lucien remarked as he swept her into his arms. “Or happier.”
Her skin, her stomach, her heart—every part of her sang and lit from within, overjoyed to be in his embrace once more, even if it was only for a dance. “Thank you for what you did, Lucien. Your cordiality toward Harrison was—Well, it meant a great deal to me. If I seem happier, that is why.”
As they made a graceful turn, his eyes captured hers. She was shocked by what she saw. It was as though a veil had been stripped away, as though she were seeing Lucien for the first time. Longing, regret, adoration. All were there, exposed and offered without hesitation.
He loved her.
Her breath halted in her lungs.
“I would do anything for you, Victoria,” he rasped. “For your happiness. Anything. I would swim until I drown. Walk until no ground remained. You asked once if you mattered to me at all. The answer is this—you are the only thing that matters.”
Blinded by tears, she stumbled through another turn. Lucien’s strong arms steadied her, then quickly swept her off the dance floor, guided her through the doors and out to the terrace.
The din of voices and music receded. Cool air whispered across her skin, but she barely noticed. She covered her face with her hands, tears leaking from her eyes and into her gloves. Tears of relief, of joy.
He loved her. It was like a dream.
His arms wrapped around her and a hand stroked her hair. “I am ashamed of the way I treated you, love. I will understand if you cannot forgive me. I do not deserve it. But I pray you will.”
She sobbed and grabbed his face in her hands. Her mouth met his in a fiery charge, her tongue seeking his, her hands clutching the sides of his head. Initially, he was too stunned to react. But within seconds, he pulled her fiercely against his body and took control of the kiss, pressing her aching breasts flat against his chest, c
upping her nape with one large hand.
Pulling back to catch her breath, she braced her hands on his chest and sobbed, “I love you so, Lucien. I might burst with it.”
He chuckled and stroked the tears from her cheeks, his forehead meeting hers. “I love you too, angel. Do you know you have been that for me? My angel. You rescued me from a very dark place.”
“I don’t know how you survived at all, Lucien. Losing your family that way, and after Waterloo,” she whispered. “I understand why you hated Harrison, why you felt it necessary to try to gain justice.” A thought occurred to her, and she groaned, shaking her head. “Colin behaved abominably toward Marissa. Is it possible, do you think, for you to somehow forgive him?”
“I—I honestly don’t know. His actions resulted in my sister’s death. Forgiveness may not be possible.” He paused. “But if realizing my mistakes has taught me anything, it is this: The choice between your happiness and making Colin pay for his sins is an easy one. I will always choose your happiness. I will choose you above all else.”
She met his eyes, seeing the remorse swimming there.
“If I could go back to the night when we first met on this terrace, I would not have involved you—”
“If you hadn’t,” she said softly, “I might be the Marchioness of Stickley at this very moment. And, believe me, I much prefer being your viscountess.” Grinning, she gave him a gentle kiss.
“I do not deserve you,” he said, his voice raw, his eyes naked.
“Perhaps not. But you have me, just the same.” She smiled up at him as a cool night breeze surrounded them. It was a bit damp and smelled of coal smoke, but at least it was not the stifling heat of the ballroom. She glanced reluctantly toward the doors. “Do you suppose we must return to the ball? Oh, Lucien, I cannot wait to depart for Thornbridge so we can truly begin our life together. London is necessary, but I prefer the country. Much better light. That reminds me, will there be a room I can use as a studio? It needn’t be a bedchamber—”
“Victoria.”
“Yes?”
“Hush, so I may kiss you.”
Love Regency Style Page 83