The Madness of Viscount Atherbourne (Rescued from Ruin, Book One) (3 page)

“You’ll catch your death out here, you know,”
a deep, resonant voice said quietly next to her ear. She gave an
unladylike yelp and leapt to one side, spinning to face the dark
form that appeared beside her. A man. Tall. Big. His face was
shadowed, but he looked familiar. The arrogant tilt of the head,
the square cut of the jaw. He stepped toward her into a shaft of
light from the ballroom.

“You!” she squeaked. It was him. Her dark
angel. What? Wait. Not hers.
The
dark angel. She did not
even know his name, so how could he be her anything? Oh, but her
heart recognized him. The foolish thing pounded out a frantic
welcome against her breastbone.

He swept a deep, exaggerated bow. “Yes, it is
I. At your service, my lady.”

*~*~*

Chapter Two

“
Virtue is its own reward. But then, the same
could be said for sin.”
—The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham
to the Countess of Berne upon said lady’s refusal of a fourth lump
of sugar.

He was mocking her. She knew it, and yet
could say nothing because she was quite ridiculously hypnotized.
That faint grin had grown into a full-scale smile.
Parliament
should declare his smile patently illegal,
she thought.
It
is lethal to all womankind.

“I—I saw you earlier, when you entered the
ballroom,” she said finally, kicking herself for the inane
utterance.

“Yes, I was a bit late arriving. Caused quite
a stir, I understand. But then, the only thing the ton enjoys more
than its rules is the fever created by those who break them.”

His rich baritone alone was enough to weaken
an aged spinster’s knees. Add the subtle lift of one dark brow and
the half smile gracing his sinful lips, and it was no wonder a
visible shiver ran along the surface of her skin.

Without a word, he stepped closer and reached
for her shoulders, chafing his gloved palms along the skin of her
upper arms between the edges of her cap sleeves and the tops of her
gloves. It was a shocking breach of etiquette to touch her without
so much as an introduction, much less her permission.

She stood motionless for several long
seconds, unable to speak. That must have been why she failed to
step back and rebuke him immediately for his cheek. It could not be
the fizzing excitement in her belly at having him so close, feeling
the warmth of his hands on her skin, his thumbs stroking gently and
causing little thrills to shoot from her arms to her spine and,
most concerning, her breasts. No, surely not.

“You should have a wrap if you intend to
spend much more time out here, my lady. To call this springtime
would be generous, indeed.”

She blinked up at him, feeling weak and
slow—enthralled. Even standing this close, she could not make out
the color of his eyes, only noting they were dark and glimmered in
the moonlight. He was so tall, the top of her head would barely
reach his collarbone.

With Lord Stickley, her forehead came even
with his nose. At one time, she had thought him the ideal height,
not requiring the craning of her neck to look up at him. As an
added benefit, they moved quite nicely together on the dance floor,
his strides more closely matching her shorter ones. However, now
she was less certain about how perfectly suited she and her fiancé
were on a physical level. Something about this man’s height and
larger, more muscular physique made her feel oddly safe.

Comparing Stickley to a stranger was not
wise, she chided herself. She was engaged and now must make the
best of things, rather than finding fault with her betrothed at
every step. Yet, she could not help noticing he stood in this man’s
shadow in numerous ways.

The errant thought seemed to break the spell
the stranger had cast over her. She abruptly pulled away, breathing
embarrassingly fast, heart racing. “Sir, you overstep yourself. I
don’t even know your name.”

“Call me Lucien.”

She reeled back a step further, her hip
bumping the balustrade. Stiffening her spine and raising her chin,
she retorted, “Your familiarity is insulting. We have not been
properly introduced. I could not possibly call you by your first
name.”

“You must call me something if we are to
continue our conversation.”

“Perhaps I should call you presumptuous. It
seems fitting.”

His slow, wicked smile seemed to speak a
foreign language, one she did not understand but which caused a
flush of heat to wash through her. “I have not begun to
presume
, my darling.”

For a moment, she was flummoxed, her open jaw
working in a fashion not unlike a fish lying onshore. She had never
been spoken to in such a manner. As the daughter and then the
sister of a duke, no one would dare exhibit such disrespect for her
station and the simple courtesies due her. No one except this
bounder, apparently.

At last, she found her voice, stumbling and
ineffectual though it might be. “I—I am not your darling!”

“My goddess, then?”

“Furthermore, your suggestive tone implies a
much more significant acquaintance—”

Lucien tilted his head and spoke as though
she’d said nothing at all. “I have it. My angel.”

“—than I would ever allow. I will have you
know I am engaged to be married—”

“Although it still fails to do you justice.
You are quite beautiful, you know.”

“—and your behavior is entirely inappropriate
…” Her breath stuttered to a full stop as she absorbed what he had
said. His tone had been so offhanded, it took a moment to sink in.
“You … you think I am beautiful?”

“Hmm. Yes, quite. Has no one ever told
you?”

She shook her head and then immediately
corrected herself. “Well, several of my suitors did say they found
my hair attractive. And one gentleman said my eyes were like pools.
Of what, I am uncertain. But I assume it was meant to be
flattering.”

His mouth quirked in amusement. “And your
betrothed? What does he say?”

Is he standing closer than before?
Victoria wondered absently. Yes, he was. His massive body nearly
surrounded her now, only inches away. He gave off such heat, she no
longer felt the bite of cold, damp air. Her voice grew breathless
and high. “Lord Stickley? Oh, well, he is not much given to poetry
or flattery.”

“Has he not said that your skin glows with
the purity of fresh cream?” He stroked one finger delicately along
her cheek, his dark gaze holding hers rapt. “Or that your hair
rivals the last glorious rays of the sun just before dusk?” His
fingers sifted through the loose curls behind her ear. “Has he not
even mentioned your lips, how they are as full and luscious as a
ripe peach? Come, now. He must have done so at least a dozen
times.”

She made an inarticulate sound that was
vaguely embarrassing, but she was utterly helpless to prevent it.
If she could have managed to draw air into her lungs, she would
have groaned. Oh, he was simply divine. Divine and devilish.

Lucien’s lips hovered so near her own, she
felt his breath with each word. “Surely he has kissed you, my
angel. Has he not?”

“Yes,” she whispered, staring at his
mouth.

His head tilted. “And did it feel like
this?”

This
was heaven. He fitted his mouth
masterfully to hers, his lips warm and firm, gliding sensually
without a moment of hesitation. It was not the soft, gentle kiss of
a man concerned with offending her. Nor was it the dry, obligatory
peck of her fiancé. As strong arms wrapped around her waist and
pressed her breasts to his hard form, she marveled at his
confidence. Then all thoughts of assessing the kiss flew away like
a dandelion tuft on the wind as his hot, slick tongue slipped along
the seam of her lips.

Lucien pulled away for the barest moment.
“Open for me, angel,” he whispered, tugging at her lower lip with
his finger. When she obliged, he swooped back in, this time
thrusting his tongue inside her mouth and stroking along her own.
She felt seared and shaken, the boldness of it shocking, unfamiliar
in its intimacy.

She moaned into his mouth and clutched at his
lapels. He drew her tighter against his body, his hands gripping
her hips and sliding along her bottom as a flooded river of heat
coursed through her. Her breasts felt heavy where they pressed flat
against his chest, she ached low in her belly, and the muscles in
the intimate place between her thighs clenched as though in great
need of … something.

Distantly, she noticed a hard and rather
large object pressed against her midsection. But a moment later,
she was distracted by one of his hands moving up over her ribcage
and cupping her right breast. The most pleasurable tingles—yes,
tingles
—erupted from the center as he skimmed lightly over
her breast with his palm, then returned to stroke insistently with
his thumb.

Truly, she was awash in tingles of every
sort, in every place she could imagine and some she tried not to
think much about. She could feel herself panting, the sensations
overwhelming whatever faint notion of propriety might have flitted
through her head. Indeed, her mind was sluggish and spinning, every
sense singing to the tune only he could play.

Abruptly, both his hand and mouth were
removed from her person. But it was no reprieve.

“I must feel your skin. Now,” he gritted. He
took the tip of one of his gloves between his teeth and pulled his
hand free, spitting the glove onto the ground and immediately
running the backs of his fingers along her collarbone. Then, as she
stood hanging helplessly in his embrace, not knowing what to
expect, his hand turned so his fingertips traced their way along
the upper slopes of her breasts. They caught on her low-cut bodice,
slipped beneath the silken layers, and tugged slowly downward. Her
right breast popped free, the nipple hard and flushed.

She glanced at his face, seeing the muscles
tighten in his jaw and no hint of his earlier sardonic smile. Was
he displeased? She couldn’t decide why he suddenly looked so tense.
Then his head dropped forward, his hand cupped her breast from
beneath, and his mouth covered her nipple, suckling it like a
babe.

What in heaven’s name was he doing? This was
… this was sweet madness. She heard herself squawk, but could not
bring herself to care with his fiery mouth drawing so pleasurably
upon her nipple. He licked and stroked, even glided his teeth
gently along the tip, causing her legs to weaken in an alarming
way. She feared she might collapse, where it not for the iron-like
arm wrapped tightly around her waist.

He shifted her so that his thigh wedged high
between her own as he worked and laved at her nipple. At first,
this seemed to soothe the infernal ache she felt deep inside. Then,
like a fiendish devil, it caused an even deeper emptiness and
tension. Occasionally, his thigh would brush against a hidden spot
and a sharp burst of pleasure would erupt, causing her to cry out
and grind herself against him. This repeated over and over, almost
rhythmically, and each time, the coil inside her wound tighter.

His mouth pulled away for a moment while he
tugged her other breast free and latched onto her left nipple,
giving it the same treatment as the right.

She moaned and threw her head back, clutching
desperately at his hair as the torturous ache between her legs rose
to an unbearable height. His thigh pressed harder at that sensitive
center. Without warning, the tension gave way in an explosive
spiral. “Oh, my stars. Lucien!” she shouted as her body spasmed in
a crescendo of echoing pleasure.

A shriek from the direction of the ballroom
doors pulled her rather rudely from the heavens down to earth.
“Good gracious, Lady Victoria! Have you lost your senses?”

Warm lethargy weakened her muscles, filled
her head like a steam cloud. Vaguely, she knew something odd had
occurred, but she was dazed, shivering in the aftermath. Lucien
pulled away slightly, but still clutched her waist. Her bare
breasts were suddenly cold, exposed in a way they had not been when
he had covered them with his mouth and hands. Slowly blinking up at
his face, she noticed he was breathing heavily, flushed and wearing
a fierce frown. He shook his head like a dog casting off water
after a swim.

Distantly, a thread of sanity anchored on the
edge of her mind, and she realized what must have happened: They
had been interrupted. She froze, seeing the same realization in
Lucien’s face. Simultaneously, they turned in the direction of the
shrill exclamation.

And there stood Lady Gattingford, the
venerable hostess of one of the finest balls of the season and a
notorious gossip, staring back at her from the open door. The
expression on the matron’s face was astounded, appalled.
Scandalized.

In that moment, as Lucien pivoted so his back
blocked Lady Gattingford’s view and calmly tugged Victoria’s bodice
up to restore her modesty, the full horror of what had just
occurred—what she had
allowed
to occur—hit her with
paralyzing force. She had let a man unknown to her touch and
pleasure her in ways she had not even considered permitting her
fiancé. This had been witnessed by none other than her hostess, who
would doubtless relish notifying every member of the ton in hopes
of enshrining her ball as the event of the year. The scandal would
spread with the swiftness of fire through dry grass. Within a week,
everyone would know. Everyone. Including Lord Stickley, who would
surely cry off the engagement. And her brother, of course.

Oh, dear God. The duke would be enraged. She
had shamed the entire family. Harrison placed great importance on
honor and reputation. Her other brother, Colin, would be far more
understanding. But then, he was hardly a stranger to
less-than-dignified behavior himself.