Wicked in the Regency Ballroom: The Wicked Earl / Untouched Mistress
Margaret McPhee
The Wicked EarlWhen Miss Madeline Langley is saved from some very unwanted and improper attentions, she is too relieved to enquire her saviour’s name. Little does she know that her tall, dark defender is Lucien Tregellas, known to all of London as the wicked Earl!Untouched MistressGuy Tregellas, Viscount Varington, has a rakish reputation and when he discovers Helena McGregor washed up on a beach he is more than intrigued! He doesn’t believe her claims that she is a respectable widow, but when danger catches up with them he cannot refuse to offer this beautiful woman his aid…
About the Author
MARGARET McPHEE loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a trained scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the ideas down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind, retaining only the romance—her husband, whom she met in a laboratory. In summer, Margaret enjoys cycling along the coastline overlooking the Firth of Clyde in Scotland, where she lives. In winter, tea, cakes and a good book suffice.
Wicked
in the
Regency Ballroom
The Wicked Earl
Untouched Mistress
Margaret McPhee
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
In The Regency Ballroom Collection
Scandal in the Regency Ballroom April 2013
Innocent in the Regency Ballroom May 2013
Wicked in the Regency Ballroom June 2013
Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom July 2013
Rogue in the Regency Ballroom August 2013
Debutante in the Regency Ballroom September 2013
Rumours in the Regency Ballroom October 2013
Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom November 2013
Mistress in the Regency Ballroom December 2013
Courtship in the Regency Ballroom January 2014
Rake in the Regency Ballroom February 2014
Secrets in the Regency Ballroom March 2014
The Wicked Earl
Chapter One
London—February 1814
‘Sit up straight, Madeline. And can you not at least attempt to look as if you’re enjoying the play?’
‘Yes, Mama.’ Madeline Langley straightened her back. ‘The actors are very good, and the play is indeed interesting. It’s just Lord Farquharson …’ She dropped her voice to an even lower whisper. ‘He keeps leaning too close and—’
‘The noise in here is fit to raise the roof. It’s little wonder that Lord Farquharson is having trouble hearing what you have to say,’ said Mrs Langley.
‘But, Mama, it is not his hearing that is at fault.’ Madeline looked at her mama. ‘He makes me feel uncomfortable.’
Mrs Langley wrinkled her nose. ‘Do not be so tiresome, child. Lord Farquharson is expressing an interest in you and we must encourage him as best we can. He will never offer for you if you keep casting him such black looks. Look at Angelina—can you not try to be a little more like her? No scowls mar her face.’ Mrs Langley bestowed upon her younger, and by far prettier, daughter, a radiant smile.
Angelina threw her sister a long-suffering expression.
‘That is because Angelina does not have to sit beside Lord Farquharson,’ muttered Madeline beneath her breath.
Angelina gave a giggle.
Fortunately Mrs Langley did not hear Madeline’s comment. ‘Shh, girls, he’s coming back,’ she whispered excitedly. Amelia Langley straightened and smiled most encouragingly at the gentleman who was entering the theatre box with a tray containing three drinks glasses balanced between his hands.
‘Oh, Lord Farquharson, how very kind you are to think of my girls.’ She fluttered her eyelashes unbecomingly.
‘And of you too, of course, my dear Mrs Langley.’ He passed her a glass of lemonade. ‘I wouldn’t want you, or your lovely daughters, becoming thirsty, and it is so very hot in here.’
Mrs Langley tittered. ‘La, Lord Farquharson. It could never be too hot in such a superior and well-positioned theatre box. How thoughtful of you to invite us here. My girls do so love the theatre. They have such an appreciation of the arts, you know, just like their mama.’
Lord Farquharson revealed his teeth to Miss Angelina Langley in the vestige of a smile. ‘I’m sure that’s not the only attribute that they share with their mama.’ The smile intensified as he pressed the glass into Angelina’s hand.
‘So good of you, my lord, to fight your way through the crowd to fetch us our lemonades,’ Mrs Langley cooed.
‘For such fair damsels I would face much worse,’ said Lord Farquharson in a heroic tone.
Mrs Langley simpered at his words.
Madeline and Angelina exchanged a look.
Lord Farquharson’s fingers stumbled over Madeline’s in the act of transferring the lemonade. The glass was smooth and cool beneath her touch. Lord Farquharson’s skin was warm and moist. ‘Last, but certainly not least,’ he said and gazed meaningfully into Madeline’s eyes.
Madeline suppressed a shudder. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said and practically wrenched her hand free from his.
Lord Farquharson smiled at her response and sat down.
Madeline turned to face the stage again and tried to ignore Cyril Farquharson’s presence by her side. It was not an easy matter, especially as he leaned in close to enquire, ‘Is the lemonade to your taste, Miss Langley?’
‘It is delicious, thank you, my lord.’ The brandy on his breath vied with the strange, heavy, spicy smell that hung about him. He was so close that she could feel heat emanating from his lithe frame.
‘Delicious,’ he said, and it seemed to Madeline that a slight hiss hung about the word as he touched her hand again in an overly familiar manner.
Madeline suddenly discovered that drinking lemonade was a rather tricky task and required both of her hands to be engaged in the process.
Thankfully the lights dimmed and the music set up again to announce the resumption of Coriolanus. Mr Kemble returned to the stage to uproarious applause and shouts from the pit.
‘He’s a splendid actor, is he not?’ said Lord Farquharson in a silky tone to Mrs Langley. ‘They say that Friday is to see his last performance.’
‘Oh, indeed, Lord Farquharson. It will be such a loss. I’ve always been a staunch admirer of Mr Kemble’s work.’
Madeline slid a glance in her mother’s direction. Only that afternoon Mrs Langley had made her feelings regarding John Philip Kemble known, and admiration was not the underlying sentiment.
The second half of the play had not long started when Lord Farquharson proclaimed he was suffering with a cramp in his left leg and proceeded to manoeuvre his chair. ‘It’s a souvenir from Salamanca. I took a blade in the leg,’ he said to Mrs Langley. ‘I’m afraid it plays up a bit from time to time.’ He grimaced, and then stretched out his leg so that it brushed against Madeline’s skirts.
Quite how her mother failed to notice Lord Farquharson’s blatant action, especially given that she was seated on her elder daughter’s left-hand side, while his lordship was situated a few feet away on Madeline’s right, Madeline did not know. She threw her mother a look of desperation.
Mrs Langley affected not to notice. ‘Such bravery, Lord Farquharson.’
Lord Farquharson smiled and touched his foot against Madeline’s slipper.
‘Mama.’ Madeline sought to catch her mother’s eye.
‘Yes, dear?’ said Mrs Langley, never taking her eyes from the stage.
‘Mama,’ said Madeline a little more forcefully.
Lord Farquharson leered down at her, a knowing look upon his face. ‘Is something wrong, Miss Langley?’
‘I’m feeling a little unwell. It is, as you have already observed, a trifle hot in here.’ She fanned herself with increasing vigour.
‘My dear Miss Langley,’ said Lord Farquharson, mock-concern dripping from every word as he attempted to squeeze her hand.
Madeline pulled back. ‘A little air and I shall be fine.’ She rose and made for the back of the box.
Mrs Langley could scarcely keep the look of utter exasperation from her face. ‘Can you not wait a little? Angelina and I are enjoying the play. Oh dear, it really is too bad.’
Lord Farquharson saw opportunity loom before his eyes. ‘It seems such a shame for all three of you charming ladies to miss the play, and just when Coriolanus is about to deliver his soliloquy.’
Mrs Langley made a show of sighing and shaking her head.
‘I do not mind,’ said Angelina. But no one heeded her words.
‘What if …?’ Lord Farquharson looked at Mrs Langley hopefully, and then tapped his fingers across his mouth. ‘Perhaps it is an impertinence to even suggest.’
‘No, no, my lord. You impertinent? Never. A more trustworthy, considerate gentleman I’ve yet to meet.’
Madeline’s shoulders drooped. She had an awful suspicion of just what Lord Farquharson was about to suggest. ‘Mama—’
‘Madeline,’ said Mrs Langley, ‘it is rude to interrupt when his lordship is about to speak.’
‘But, Mama—’
‘Madeline!’ her mother said a trifle too loudly, then had the audacity to peer accusingly at Madeline when a sea of nearby faces turned with curiosity.
So Madeline gave up trying and let Lord Farquharson ask what she knew he would.
‘Dear Mrs Langley,’ said his lordship, ‘if I were to accompany Miss Langley out into the lobby, then both your good self and Miss Angelina could continue to watch the play uninterrupted. I give you my word that I shall guard Miss Langley with my very life.’ He placed a hand dramatically over his heart, the diamond rings adorning his fingers glinting even in the little light that reached up from the stage. ‘You know, of course, that I hold your daughter in great affection.’ A slit of a smile stretched across his face.
‘I would be happy to accompany Madeline,’ said Angelina, and received a glare from her mother for her pains.
‘And miss Mr Kemble’s performance when it is unnecessary for you to do so?’ said Lord Farquharson. ‘For have I not already said that I will take care of Miss Langley?’
Mrs Langley clutched her gloved fingers together in maternal concern. ‘I’m not sure … She is very precious to me,’ said Mrs Langley.
‘And rightly so,’ said Lord Farquharson. ‘She would make a man a worthy wife.’
Mrs Langley could not disguise the hope that blossomed on her face. ‘Oh, indeed she would,’ she agreed.
‘Then I have your permission?’ he coaxed, knowing full well what the answer would be.
‘Very well,’ said Mrs Langley.
Madeline looked from her mother to Lord Farquharson and back again. ‘I would not wish to spoil his lordship’s evening. Indeed, it would be most selfish of me to do so. I must insist that he stay to enjoy the rest of the play. I shall visit the retiring room for a little while and then return when I feel better.’
‘Miss Langley, I cannot allow a young lady such as yourself to wander about the Theatre Royal unguarded. It is more than my honour will permit.’ Lord Farquharson was at Madeline’s side in an instant, his fingers pressed firm upon her arm.
She could feel the imprint of his hand through her sleeve. ‘There really is no need,’ she insisted and made to pull away.
‘Madeline!’ Her mother turned a steely eye upon her. ‘I will not have you wandering about this theatre on your own. Whatever would your papa say? You will accept Lord Farquharson’s polite offer to accompany you with gratitude.’
Mother and daughter locked gazes. It did not take long for Madeline to capitulate. She knew full well what would await her at home if she did not. She lowered her eyes and said in Lord Farquharson’s direction, ‘Thank you, my lord. You are most kind.’
‘Come along, my dear.’ Lord Farquharson steered her out of the theatre box and across the landing to the staircase, and all the while Madeline could feel his tight possessive grip around her arm.
Earl Tregellas’s gaze drifted between Mr Kemble’s dramatic delivery upon the stage and the goings-on in Lord Farquharson’s box. He watched Farquharson with an attention that belied his relaxed manner and apparent interest in the progression of Coriolanus, just as he had watched and waited for the past years. Sooner or later Farquharson would slip, and when he did Lucien Tregellas would be waiting, ready to strike.
It was not the first time that Mrs Langley and her daughters had accompanied Lord Farquharson. He had taken them up in his carriage around Hyde Park, and also to the Frost Fair with its merry-go-rounds, swings, dancing and stalls. On the last occasion, at least Mr Langley had been present. Indeed, Mrs Langley seemed to be positively encouraging the scoundrel’s interest in her daughters; more accurately, in one daughter, if Lucien was being honest. And not the pretty little miss with the golden ringlets framing her peaches-and-cream complexion, as might be expected. No. She had been seated safely away from Farquharson. It was the elder and plainer of the sisters that seemed to be dangled before him. Lord Tregellas momentarily pondered as to the reason behind Farquharson’s interest. Surely the younger Miss Langley was more to his taste?
Tregellas restrained the urge to curl his upper lip with disgust. Who more than he knew exactly what Farquharson’s taste stretched to? He saw Farquharson move his chair closer to the Langley chit. Too close. He watched the brief touch of his hand to her arm, her hand, even her shoulder. Miss Langley, the elder, sat rigidly in position, but he could tell by the slight aversion of her face from Farquharson that she did not welcome the man’s attention. Mrs Langley’s headpiece was a huge feathered concoction, and obviously hid Lord Farquharson’s transgressions from the lady’s sight, for she raised no comment upon the gentleman’s behaviour.
Miss Langley’s attention was focused in a most deliberate manner upon the stage. Tregellas’s gaze dropped to take in the pale plain shawl wound around her shoulders that all but hid her dress, and the fact that she seemed not to wear the trinkets of jewellery favoured by other young women. She did not have her sister’s dancing curls of gold. Indeed, her hair was scraped back harshly and hidden in a tightly pinned bun at the nape of her neck. Her head was naked, unadorned by ribbons or feathers or prettily arranged flowers. It struck Lucien that, unlike most women, Miss Langley preferred the safety of blending with the background in an unnoticeable sort of way.
Lord Tregellas watched as Miss Langley rose suddenly from her seat and edged away towards the back of the box. He was still watching when Lord Farquharson moved to accompany the girl. He saw Mrs Langley’s feathers nod their encouragement. Farquharson and the girl disappeared. Silently Lucien Tregellas slipped from his seat and exited his own theatre box.
‘Lord Farquharson, I feel so much better now. We should rejoin Mama and Angelina. I wouldn’t want you to miss any more of the play.’ Madeline could see that he was leading her in a direction far from the auditorium. A tremor of fear rippled down her spine.
Lord Farquharson’s grip tightened until she could feel the press of his fingers hard against her forearm. ‘How considerate you are of my feelings, Miss Langley,’ he said, drawing his face into a smile. ‘But there’s no need. I know the play well. I’ll relay the ending if you would like. Following his exile, Coriolanus offers his services to Aufidius, who then gives him command of half the Volscian army. Together they march against Rome, but Coriolanus is persuaded by his family to spare the city. Aufidius accuses him of treachery and the Volscian general’s men murder Coriolanus. Aufidius is overcome with sorrow and determines that Coriolanus shall have a “noble memory”. So, Miss Langley, now that you know the ending, there is nothing for which to rush back.’
Madeline felt a glimmer of panic as he steered her around a corner. A narrow corridor stretched ahead. ‘Lord Farquharson.’ She stopped dead in her tracks, or at least attempted to. ‘I thank you for your synopsis, but I would rather see the play for myself. Please return me to my mother immediately, my lord.’
Lord Farquharson’s smile stretched. ‘Tut, tut, Miss Langley …’ he bent his head to her ear ‘… or may I call you Madeline?’
‘No, you may not,’ snapped Madeline, pulling away from him with every ounce of her strength.
But for all that Lord Farquharson was a slimly built man, he was surprisingly strong and showed no sign of releasing her. Indeed, there seemed to be an excitement about him that had not been there before. He stretched an arm around her back and, when she was fully within his grasp, marched her along the length of the passageway. Not even his slight limp deterred their progress.
Madeline’s heart had kicked to a frenzied thudding. Blood pounded at her temples. Her throat constricted, tight and dry. But still she resisted each dragging step. ‘What are you doing? This is madness!’
His fingers bit harder. ‘Have a care what you are saying, Madeline. And stop causing such a fuss. I only wish to speak to you in some privacy, that is all.’
‘Come to Climington Street tomorrow. We can speak privately then.’ If only she could buy some time, some space in which to evade him. Thoughts rushed through her head. Surely Mama would notice that they were gone too long and come to seek her? Wouldn’t she? But Madeline knew deep in the pit of her stomach that her mother would do no such thing. The chance of marrying her offspring to an aristocrat, and a rich one at that, had driven the last vestige of common sense from her mother’s head.
‘Please, Lord Farquharson, release me, you’re hurting me!’ She saw him smile at her words and felt the bump of his hip against her as he dragged her onwards.
And then suddenly they stopped and he steered her into a small dimly lit alcove at the side.
‘This shall do nicely,’ he announced and pulled her round to face him, his fingers biting hard against her shoulders.
Madeline’s breaths were short and fast. She struggled to control the panic that threatened to erupt. Sweat trickled down her back, dampening her shift, and her heart skittered fast and furious. She forced herself to some semblance of calm, and looked up at him. ‘What do you want?’
‘Why, you, of course, my dear.’ Excitement had caused the hint of a flush in his cheeks that contrasted starkly with the smooth pale skin of the rest of his face. The suggestion of sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. His dark red hair had been swept dramatically back to best show the bones of his cheeks. It was a face that some thought handsome. Madeline did not. The skin around his eyes seemed tight and fragile, tinged with a shadow of the palest blue. It served only to emphasise the hard glitter of his smoky grey eyes. His gaze fixed firmly on her.
Madeline gritted her teeth hard to stop the tremble in her lips. ‘You are a gentleman and a man of honour, Lord Farquharson.’ His actions rendered this description far from the truth, but she hoped that the reminder would prompt him to abandon his scheme, whatever it may be. ‘Surely you do not mean to compromise me?’
Farquharson’s mouth twisted. His hands were rough against her shoulders. Nothing sounded. Not a hint of music or laughter or applause. No footsteps. No voices. Not even the closing of a door. He looked at her a moment longer, and she had the sensation that not only did he know precisely the extent of her fear, but that it pleased him.
Madeline’s teeth clenched harder.
‘As if I would do such a thing,’ he said and lowered his face to scarcely an inch above hers.
Alcoholic breath enveloped her. Icy fingers of fear clawed at her until her limbs felt numb and useless. She looked up into his eyes, his hard, cold, glassy eyes, and saw in them her doom.
‘Just one kiss, that’s all I ask. One little kiss.’ His gaze dropped to caress her lips.
Madeline struggled, thrusting all of her weight against him in an attempt to overbalance him.
‘You cannot escape me, Madeline,’ he said softly and lowered his lips slowly towards hers …
‘Ah, there you are, Miss Langley,’ a deep voice drawled.
Lord Farquharson practically catapulted her against the wall in his hurry to remove his hands from her. He spun to face the intruder with fists curled ready by his side. ‘You!’ he growled.
Madeline’s eyes widened at the sight of her timely saviour. He was a tall gentleman with a smart appearance, long of limb and muscular of build. His hair was slightly dishevelled and black as a raven’s wing, and he was dressed in black breeches with a neatly fitted and exquisitely cut tail-coat to match. The man was certainly no one of her acquaintance, although he seemed to be of a somewhat different opinion.
‘I wondered where you had got to,’ he said in the same lazy drawl and stepped closer to where Madeline and Lord Farquharson stood.
Madeline stared at him, unable to believe quite what was happening.
‘I trust that Lord Farquharson has been behaving with the utmost decorum?’
His was a harsh face, angular and stark, a bold nose and square-edged jaw, and clear pale blue eyes that brushed over hers.
‘He …’Madeline faltered. If she told this stranger the truth, her reputation would be well and truly ruined. No one would believe that he had dragged her down here against her will, in the middle of a performance of one of the season’s most successful plays. Lord Farquharson was a rich man, an aristocrat. Madeline Langley was a nobody. Willing or not, she knew what people would say. She bit at her lip and dropped her gaze. ‘I must return to my family. They’ll be worried about me.’ She hoped.
The stranger smiled, but the smile did not touch his eyes. Casually he turned his face to Lord Farquharson. The Baron blanched. ‘Lord Farquharson—’ a chill entered his voice as he uttered the name ‘—will escort you back to your mother. Immediately.’
Lord Farquharson stared in sullen resentment, but said not one word.
‘And I need not mention that he will, of course, be the perfect gentleman in doing so.’
It seemed to Madeline that there was some kind of unspoken battle of wills between the two men. Lord Farquharson was looking at the stranger as if he would gladly run him through with the sharpest of swords. The stranger, on the other hand, was smiling at Lord Farquharson, but it was a smile that would have cleaved a lesser man in two.
Lord Farquharson grudgingly took her arm. This time he seemed most disinclined to make contact with her sleeve, touching her as if she were a fragile piece of porcelain. ‘Miss Langley,’ he ground out from between gritted teeth, ‘this way, if you please.’ He then proceeded to lead her briskly back down the corridor, retracing the path along which he had dragged her not so many minutes before.
Although Madeline could not see him, she knew that the dark-haired stranger stalked their every step. His presence was her only protection from the fiend by her side. She wanted to shout her thanks to him. But she could not. She did not even dare to turn her head back. They moved in silence, their progress accompanied only by the muffled steps of their shoes upon the carpet. It was not until they reached the landing leading to Lord Farquharson’s box that the man spoke again.
‘I trust you’ll enjoy what is left of the play, Miss Langley.’ He executed a small bow in her direction before turning his attention once more to Farquharson. ‘Lord Farquharson,’ he said, ‘perhaps you have not noticed quite how clear and unimpeded the view is from these boxes.’ He looked meaningfully at Lord Farquharson and waited for them to step through the curtain that led into the Baron’s box.
‘There the two of you are,’ said her mother. ‘I hope that a little turn with Lord Farquharson has you feeling better, my dear.’ Mrs Langley did not notice that her daughter failed to answer.
Angelina eyed her sister with concern.
Madeline sat down in the chair, taking care to make herself as narrow as possible lest Lord Farquharson’s hands or feet should happen to stray in her direction. But he made no move to speak to her, let alone touch her. The air was still ripe with the spicy smell of him. She stared down at the stage, seeing nothing of Mr Kemble’s performance, hearing nothing of that actor’s fine and resonant voice. Her mind was filled with the image of a dark-haired man and how he had arrived from nowhere at the very hour of her most desperate need: a tall, dark defender.
She could not allow herself to think of what would have happened had the stranger not appeared. Whatever her mother thought, Lord Farquharson was no gentleman, and Madeline meant to speak the truth of him in full as soon as they were home. But who was he, the dark-haired stranger? Certainly his was a face she would not forget. Classically handsome. Striking. Forged in her mind for ever. A shiver rippled down her spine. Something, she would never know what, made her glance across to the boxes on the opposite side of the theatre. There, in one of the best boxes in the house, was her dark defender, looking right back at her. He inclined his head by the smallest degree in acknowledgement. Madeline’s breath caught in her throat and a tingling crept up her neck to spread across her scalp. Before anyone could notice, she averted her gaze. But, try as she might, she could not rid herself of the foolish notion that her life had just changed for ever.
‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’ said Mrs Langley to her elder daughter. ‘Trying your hardest to undo all of my good work!’
‘Mama, he is not the man you think,’ replied Madeline with asperity.
‘Never was a mother so tried and tested by a daughter.’
Madeline controlled her temper and spoke as quietly and as calmly as she could manage. ‘I’m trying to tell you that Lord Farquharson came close to compromising me at the theatre tonight. He is no gentleman, no matter what he would have you believe.’
‘What on earth do you mean, child?’ Mrs Langley clutched dramatically at her chest.
‘He tried to kiss me tonight, Mama.’
‘Kiss you? Kiss you?’ Mrs Langley almost choked. ‘Lord Farquharson tried to kiss you?’ Her cheeks grew suddenly flushed.
‘Yes, indeed, Mama,’ replied Madeline with a sense of relief that her mother would at last understand the truth about Lord Farquharson.
‘Lord, oh Lord!’ exclaimed her mother. ‘Are you certain, Madeline?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Mrs Langley stood closer to Madeline. ‘Why did you not speak of this before?’
‘He frightens me. I tried to tell you that I disliked him.’
Her mother stared at her. ‘Dislike? What has “dislike” to do with it? Now, my dear …’ she took Madeline’s hand in her own ‘… you must tell me the whole of it.’
Madeline detected excitement in her mother’s voice. ‘I’ve told you what happened. He tried to kiss me.’
‘Yes, yes, Madeline, so you say,’ said Mrs Langley with undisguised impatience. ‘But did he do so? Did Lord Farquharson kiss you?’
Madeline bit at her lip. ‘Well, not exactly.’
‘Not exactly!’ echoed her mother. ‘Either he kissed you or he did not. Now, what is it to be?’
‘He did not.’
Mrs Langley pursed her lips and squeezed Madeline’s hand. ‘Think very carefully, Madeline. Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Mrs Langley gave what could almost have been a sigh of disappointment. ‘Then, what stopped him?’
Madeline found herself strangely reticent to reveal the dark-haired stranger’s part in the affair. It seemed somehow traitorous to speak of him. And her mother was sure to misunderstand the whole episode. Surely there was nothing so very wrong with a little white lie? ‘He … he changed his mind.’
‘Gentlemen do not just change their minds over such matters, Madeline. If he did not kiss you, it’s likely that he never intended to do so.’
‘Mama, he most certainly meant to kiss me,’ insisted Madeline.
A speculative gleam returned to Mrs Langley’s eye. ‘Did he, indeed?’ she said. ‘You do understand, of course, that were his lordship to compromise you in any such way then, as a man of honour, he would be obliged to offer for you.’
‘Mama! How could you even think such a thing?’
‘Come now, Madeline,’ her mother cajoled. ‘He is a baron and worth ten thousand a year.’
‘I would not care if he were the King himself!’ Madeline drew herself up, anger and outrage welling in her breast.
Mrs Langley sucked in her cheeks and affected an expression of mortification. ‘Please afford me some little measure of respect. I’m only your mother, after all, trying my best to catch a good husband for a troublesome daughter who refuses the best of her mother’s advice.’
Madeline knew what was coming next. She had heard its like a thousand times. It was pointless to interrupt. She allowed her mother to continue her diatribe.
‘You care nothing for your poor mama’s nerves or the shame of her having a stubborn plain daughter upon her hands for evermore.’ Fortunately a sofa was close enough for Mrs Langley to collapse on to. ‘Whatever will your papa say when we are left with you as an old spinster?’ She dabbed a tiny piece of lacy material to the corner of her eye. ‘I’ve tried so hard, but it seems that my best just is not good enough.’ Her voice cracked with heavy emotion.
‘Mama …’ Madeline moved to kneel at her mother’s side. ‘You know that isn’t true.’
‘And now she has taken against Lord Farquharson, with whom I have tried so hard to secure her interest.’ Her mother gave a sob.
‘Forgive me,’ said Madeline almost wearily. ‘I do not mean to disappoint you. I know you wish to make a good match for me.’
Mrs Langley sniffed into her handkerchief before stroking a hand over Madeline’s head. ‘Not only a good match, but the best. Can’t you see, Madeline, that I only want what’s best for you, so that I can rest easy in my old age, knowing that you’re happy.’
‘I know, Mama. I’m sorry.’
Her mother’s hand moved in soothing reassuring strokes. ‘It is not your fault that you have the looks of the Langleys and are not half so handsome as Angelina.’ The stroking intensified.
Madeline knew full well what a disappointment she was to her mother. She also knew that it was unlikely she would ever fulfil her mother’s ambition of making a favourable marriage match.
‘That is why I have sought to encourage Lord Farquharson.’
Madeline stiffened.
Mrs Langley felt the subtle change beneath her fingers. ‘Oh, don’t be like that, Madeline.’ She removed her hand from Madeline’s hair. ‘He’s a baron. He has a fine house here in London and a country seat in Kent. Were you to marry him, you would want for nothing. He would take care of your every need.’
Madeline looked with growing disbelief at her mother.
‘My daughter would be Lady Farquharson. Lady Farquharson! Imagine the faces of my sewing group’s ladies if I could tell them that. No more embarrassment. No more making excuses for you.’
‘Mama,’ said Madeline, ‘it is not marriage that Lord Farquharson has in mind for me.’
Mrs Langley laughed. ‘Tush! Don’t be so silly, girl. If we but handle him properly, I’m sure that we can catch him for you.’
Madeline placed her hands over her mother’s. ‘Mama, I do not wish to catch him,’ she said as gently as she could.
Amelia Langley’s eyes widened in exasperation. She snatched her hands from beneath her daughter’s and narrowed her lips. ‘But you’ll have him all the same. Such stuff and nonsense as I’ve ever heard. Madeline Langley turning her nose up at a baron! I’ll bring Lord Farquharson to make you an offer if it’s the last thing I do, so help me God. And you, miss, will do as you are told for once in your life!’
Chapter Two
The ballroom was ablaze with candlelight from three massive crystal-dropped chandeliers and innumerable wall sconces. The wooden floorboards had been scraped and polished until they gleamed, and the tables and chairs set around the periphery of the room were in the austere neo-classical style of Mr Sheraton. The hostess, Lady Gilmour, was holding court in a corner close to the band and its delightful music. Despite the heat, the French doors and windows that lined the south side of the room remained closed. It was, after all, still only February and the year had been uncommonly cold. Indeed, frost was thick upon the ground and the night air held an icy chill. With the Season not yet started, London was still quiet, but Lady Gilmour had managed to gather the best of London’s present high society into her townhouse. Everybody who was anybody was there, squashed into the noisy bustle of the ballroom, and spilling out into the hallway and up the sweep of the staircase.
Mrs Langley was in her element as Lord Farquharson had managed to obtain an invitation for her entire family. She was making the most of the evening and taking every opportunity to inveigle as many introductions as possible. Mr Langley, having found an old friend, had slipped discreetly away, leaving his wife to her best devices.
‘Lady Gilmour,’ gushed Mrs Langley, ‘how delightful to meet you. May I introduce my younger daughter, Angelina? This is her first Season and we have such high hopes for her. And this is my elder daughter, Madeline. She is such a dear girl,’ said Mrs Langley. ‘She has engaged the interest of a certain highly regarded gentleman. I cannot say more at the minute other than …’ Mrs Langley leaned towards Lady Gilmour in a conspiratorial fashion and lowered her voice to a stage whisper ‘… we are expectant of receiving an offer in the very near future.’
Madeline, who had been smiling politely at Lady Gilmour, cringed and turned a fiery shade of red. ‘Mama—’
‘Tush, child. I’m sure that Lady Gilmour can be trusted with our little secret.’ Mrs Langley trod indelicately on Madeline’s slipper. Her smile could not have grown any larger when Lady Gilmour offered to introduce Angelina to a small group of other débutantes. Looking fresh and pretty in a ribboned white creation that had cost her poor papa a considerable sum he could not afford, Angelina followed in Lady Gilmour’s wake.
‘Keep up, Madeline,’ whispered Mrs Langley as Madeline trailed at the rear. ‘What a perfect opportunity for Angelina.’
Less than fifteen minutes later, Angelina’s dance card for the evening was filled. A crowd of eager gentlemen stood ready to sweep the divine Miss Angelina off her feet. Mrs Langley’s head swam dizzy with excitement, so much so that she clear forgot all about her plans for Madeline and Lord Farquharson. ‘Oh, I do wish your father was here to see this. Where is Mr Langley?’
‘He’s talking to Mr Scott,’ answered Madeline, happy that her father had managed to escape.
‘Typical!’ snorted Mrs Langley. ‘Angelina is proving to be a success beyond our wildest dreams and her father’s too busy with his own interests to even notice.’ Mrs Langley shook her head sadly, but her spirits could not remain depressed for long, especially when Angelina took to the floor with Lord Richardson, who was the second son of an earl. ‘La, is she not the most beautiful child on the floor?’ demanded Mrs Langley, clutching at Madeline’s hand.
‘Yes, Mama,’ agreed Madeline with a soft smile. ‘She is indeed beautiful.’
‘And elegant,’ added Mrs Langley.
‘Elegant, too,’ said Madeline.
‘And graceful.’
‘Yes.’
Mrs Langley looked fit to burst with pride. ‘That’s my baby out there, my beautiful baby. Oh, how it brings it all back. I was just the same when I was eighteen.’
Mrs Langley and Madeline were so taken up with Angelina’s progress around the dance floor that they did not notice the arrival of Lord Farquharson.
‘Mrs Langley, Miss Langley,’ he said, lingering a little too long over Madeline’s hand. ‘I hope I’m not too late to claim a few dances from the delightful Miss Langley.’
Madeline’s lips tightened. ‘I’m afraid I’m not dancing tonight, my lord. I twisted my ankle earlier in the day.’
Mrs Langley drew her a scowl before announcing, ‘I’m sure that your ankle is much repaired, Madeline. And a dance with Lord Farquharson shall not tax you too much.’
‘But—’ started Madeline.
‘Madeline.’ Her mother threw her the ‘wait until I get you home’ look.
Grudgingly Madeline held the card out to Lord Farquharson, who smiled and tutted and lingered over the empty spaces beside each dance name.
‘Can it be that Miss Langley has kept her dance card free for my sake? Is it too much for my heart to hope?’
Mrs Langley cooed her appreciation of the sugary compliment.
Madeline examined a scuff on the floor and waited until he pressed the card back into her hand. It was now warm and slightly damp to the touch. She held it gingerly by the edge and scanned to see which dances he had selected. A lively Scotch reel and, heaven help her, the waltz!
Lord Farquharson’s slim white fingers took hold of one of her hands. ‘Just in the nick of time,’ he said as the band struck up. ‘I believe this is my dance, Miss Langley.’ And with that he whisked her out to join the lines of bodies upon the floor.
The dance had a nightmarish quality about it. Not only was Madeline thrust into the limelight, a place in which she was never happy, but she had Lord Farquharson squeezing her hand, whispering in her ear and peering down the bodice of her dress for the entirety of the time. She was perforce obliged to smile politely and skip daintily about, as if she were enjoying the occasion immensely. It seemed to Madeline that a piece of music had never lasted so long. She progressed down the set, birling in the arms of every man in turn, each one granting her but a brief respite from Farquharson’s company, for no sooner had she thought it than the dance had led her to meet in the middle of the set with Lord Farquharson once more. At long last the music ceased, and Lord Farquharson returned her to her mother. His eyes glittered with something that Madeline did not understand.
‘She has the grace of a swan,’ he said to Mrs Langley.
Mrs Langley, who had seen Madeline tread on Lord Farquharson’s toes no less than four times, miss several steps, and drop her handkerchief halfway through, marvelled that a gentleman could be so forgiving of her elder daughter’s failings. ‘Dear Lord Farquharson, you are so kind to Madeline.’
They smiled at one another.
Madeline looked away and counted to ten—slowly.
Mrs Langley raved about Angelina’s growing posse of admirers. Was the young man with blond hair merely a baronet? Angelina could do so much better. Let them move here to better see Angelina’s progress around the floor. And they simply must gain an introduction to a patroness of Almack’s. Mrs Langley could not survive without securing tickets for one of the assembly room’s famous balls. It would be quite the best place to catch a husband for Angelina. And so the time passed. Madeline did not mind. She preferred her place in the background, quietly observing what was going on around her. Nodding her head and smiling politely, but never really engaging. At least there was no Lord Farquharson forcing his attention upon her. Even so, he managed to catch her eye across the room on several occasions as if to remind her of what lay ahead: the waltz. Madeline’s throat grew dry and tight at the very thought. She could see him watching her through the crowd, licking his lips, smiling that smile that made her blood run cold.
Quite suddenly Madeline knew that she could not do it; she could not let him rest his hands upon her and draw her close, pretending to be the perfect gentleman when all along he was just biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to strike. And strike he would, like the snake in the grass that he was. She shuddered. No matter what Mama thought, Lord Farquharson was not honourable. He would ruin her and there would be no offer of marriage. He did not want her as a wife any more than Madeline wanted him as a husband. What his lordship wanted was something quite different. Madeline drew a deep breath and determined that, come hell or high water, she would keep herself safe from Lord Farquharson’s attentions. Mrs Langley scarcely noticed when Madeline whispered that she was going to find her papa.
Mr Langley was not anywhere in the grand ballroom. Nor could he be found in the magnificence of Lady Gilmour’s entrance hall. Madeline followed the stairs up, searching through the crowd for a sight of her father. It seemed he was not there either. She spent a little time within the ladies’ retiring room, just because she was passing that way, and enquired of several ladies within if they had seen a gentleman by the name of Mr Langley. But the ladies looked at her as if she had just come up from the country and said that they knew no Mr Langley. So that was that.
She left and was about to make her way back downstairs when a hand closed tight around her wrist and pulled her to the side.
‘Miss Langley, what a pleasant surprise to find you up here.’ Lord Farquharson pressed his mouth to the back of her hand. ‘But then perhaps you were looking for me.’ He stepped closer and did not release his grip on her wrist.
Madeline knew that the people surrounding them afforded her protection from the worst of Lord Farquharson’s intent. But she also knew that she could not risk drawing attention to herself or her situation lest they think the worst. ‘No,’ she said, and tried surreptitiously to disengage herself.
But Lord Farquharson had a grip like an iron vice, and tightened it accordingly. ‘Tut, tut, why don’t I believe you?’ he laughed.
‘I’m looking for my papa. Have you seen him?’ Madeline hoped that Lord Farquharson did not know just how much he frightened her.
The sly grey eyes watched her. ‘I do believe that I saw him not two minutes since, Miss Langley. But it was in the strangest of places.’ Lord Farquharson’s face frowned with perplexity.
In the strangest of places. Yes, that sounded most like where Madeline’s papa would be found. Papa hated large social occasions and would frequently wander off to hide in the most obscure of locations. ‘Where did you see him, my lord?’
Lord Farquharson’s grip loosened a little. ‘On the servants’ stairwell at the other side of that door.’ He gestured to an unobtrusive doorway at the other end of the landing. ‘He seemed to be wandering upstairs, although I cannot imagine why he should be heading in such a direction.’
Madeline could. Anywhere away from the hubbub of activity. Papa would not notice more than that. ‘Thank you, Lord Farquharson.’ She looked pointedly at where he still held her.
‘You’ve not forgotten my waltz?’
How could she? ‘No, my lord, I’ve not forgotten.’
‘Good,’ he said, and released her.
Lord Farquharson fluttered a few fingers in her direction, then turned and walked briskly down the main staircase.
Madeline waited until she could see that he had gone before heading towards the servants’ stairwell.
‘Papa?’ she called softly as she wound her way up the narrow staircase. The stone stairs felt cold through her slippers. ‘Papa?’ she said again, but only silence sounded. The walls on either side had not been whitewashed in some time and, as there was no banister, bore the marks of numerous hands throughout the years. A draught wafted around her ankles and the band’s music dimmed to a faint lilt in the background.
The stairwell delivered her to the rear of the upper floor. She stepped out, scanning the empty landing. Several portraits of Lord Gilmour’s horses peered down at her from the walls. Where could Papa be? A number of doors opened off the landing, to bedchambers, or so Madeline supposed. She stopped outside the first, listening for any noise that might indicate her father’s presence. Nothing. Her knuckles raised and knocked softly against the oaken structure.
‘Papa,’ she whispered, ‘are you in there?’
Madeline waited. No reply came. The handle turned easily beneath her fingers. Slowly she pushed the door open and peeked inside. It was a bedchamber, decorated almost exclusively in blue and white. A large four-poster bed stood immediately opposite the door. Mr Langley was clearly not there. Madeline silently retreated, pulling the door to close behind her. Quite suddenly the door was wrenched from her grasp, and Madeline found herself pulled unceremoniously back into the bedchamber. The door clicked shut behind her. Madeline looked up into the eyes of Lord Farquharson.
‘My dear Madeline, we meet again,’ he said.
Madeline kicked out at him and grabbed for the door handle. But Lord Farquharson was too quick. He embraced her in a bear hug, lifting her clear of the door.
‘Now, now, Madeline, why are you always in such a hurry to get away?’
‘You tricked me!’ she exclaimed. ‘You never even saw my father, did you?’ How could she have been so stupid?
Lord Farquharson’s shoulders shrugged beneath the chocolate brown superfine of his coat. ‘You’ve found me out,’ he said and pulled her closer.
She could feel the hardness of his stomach, and something else, too, pressing against her. ‘Release me!’
‘The Earl won’t save you this time, my dear. He’s not even here. I checked.’
Madeline refused to be bated. Speaking to him, pleading with him, would be useless. Cyril Farquharson would not listen to reason. She willed herself to stay calm, forced herself to look up into his eyes, to relax into his arms.
Lord Farquharson’s eyes widened momentarily, and then he stretched a grin across his face. ‘I think we begin to understand one another at last.’
Madeline sincerely doubted that.
Lord Farquharson’s grip lessened. ‘Madeline,’ he breathed, ‘you are such a fearful little thing.’ The intent in his gaze was so transparent that even Madeline, innocent as she was, could not mistake it. ‘I will not hurt you.’ His fingers scraped hard down the length of her arm.
Apprehension tightened in her belly. ‘But you are doing so already, my lord,’ she said, drawing back her leg and delivering her knee to Lord Farquharson’s groin with as much force as she could muster. She did not wait to see the effect upon Lord Farquharson, just spun on her foot and ran as fast as she could, banging the door shut behind her. Across the landing, down the stairwell, running and running like she had never run before. The breath tore at her throat and rasped in her ears. Her feet touched only briefly against each stair. And still she ran on, pulling her skirts higher to prevent them catching around her legs. Anything to flee that monster. She rounded the corner, dared a glance back, and then slammed hard into something large and firm. A gasp escaped her. She stumbled forward, her feet teetering on the edge of the stair, arms flailing, reaching for some anchor to save her fall.
A pair of strong arms enveloped her, catching her up, pulling her to safety. Please God, no. How could Lord Farquharson be here so quickly? She had been so sure that he was behind her; even thought she’d heard the pounding of his feet upon the stairs. But it was only the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears. ‘No!’ She struggled within his arms, reaching to find some purchase against the smooth surface of the walls.
‘Miss Langley?’ The deep voice resonated with concern.
Madeline ceased her fight. She recognised that voice. Indeed, she would have known it anywhere. She looked up into a pair of pale blue eyes. It seemed that her heart skidded to a stop, before thundering off again at full tilt. For the arms wrapped around her belonged to none other than her dark defender. She glanced nervously behind, fearful that Lord Farquharson would creep upon them.
Her defender raised one dark eyebrow. ‘I take it Farquharson is behind this—again?’
Madeline nodded nervously. ‘He …’ Her voice was hoarse and low. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘He’s upstairs in one of the bedchambers.’ Only when she said it did she realise exactly how that must sound.
His eyes narrowed and darkened. She felt the press of his hands against her skin. ‘Farquharson.’ The word slipped from his throat, guttural and harsh in the silence surrounding them. He set her back upon the stair and brushed past her. Anger radiated from his every pore. He began to climb quickly and quietly up the narrow stairwell.
‘No!’ shouted Madeline, twisting to follow him. Her feet thudded after his. ‘No,’ she shouted again. ‘It’s not what you think. He didn’t—’ She reached ahead, grabbed for the tails of his coat disappearing round the next bend and tugged. ‘Wait!’
The man stopped suddenly and looked back down at her.
She released her grip on his coat and leaned back, panting against the wall.
‘What do you mean, Miss Langley?’
‘He tried to kiss me,’ she said, still catching her breath. ‘But I managed to get away before he could succeed.’
She could see the tension in the muscles of his neck and around the stiff set of his jaw. His eyes were sheer ice. ‘Did you learn nothing from the last time? What the hell were you doing alone in a bedchamber with Farquharson?’
Madeline’s mouth gaped in shock. ‘He tricked me. I didn’t know he would be there. I was looking for my father.’
‘And your father is likely to be hiding in one of Lady Gilmour’s guest bedchambers?’ He raised a cynical eyebrow.
‘It is not unlikely,’ she said quietly.
Long fingers raked his hair, ruffling it worse than ever. ‘Miss Langley, if you are too foolish to know it already, I will tell you in no uncertain terms. Lord Farquharson is a dangerous man. You would be wise to steer well clear of him.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do, but my mother wishes to promote a match between Lord Farquharson and myself. She’s determined to encourage his interest.’
‘Is your mother insane?’
Madeline’s lip began to tremble. She clamped it down with a firm nip of her teeth. It was one thing to know she would be left upon the shelf, and quite another to have so handsome a gentleman imply the same bluntly to her face.
‘I mean no insult, but believe me, Miss Langley, when I say that Lord Farquharson has no interest in marriage.’
Lord, he thought she was hopeful of such a thing! ‘And I have no interest in Lord Farquharson,’ she said curtly. She turned away and started to retrace her steps back down the stairwell, then hesitated and faced him once more. ‘Thank you, Mr….’
He made no effort to introduce himself.
‘Both for tonight and last week. I’m indebted to you for your intervention.’
Those pale eyes watched her a moment longer before he said, ‘Don’t thank me, Miss Langley, just stay away from Farquharson.’
She chewed at her bottom lip, wondering whether to tell him. He would think the worst of her if she did not, and somehow the stranger’s opinion mattered very much to Madeline. ‘Sir,’ she said shyly.
‘Miss Langley,’ he replied and crooked his eyebrow.
The lip received several nasty nips from her teeth. She looked at him, and then looked at him some more.
‘Was there something you wished to tell me, Miss Langley?’
Madeline twisted her hands together. ‘It’s … just that Lord Farquharson has claimed me for the waltz. Perhaps he will not recover in time, but—’
‘Recover?’ her defender enquired. ‘What in Hades did you do to him?’
‘My father showed me how to disable a man by using my knee, should the occasion ever arise.’
His mouth gave only the smallest suggestion of a smile. ‘And the occasion arose.’
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
They looked at one another.
‘Find whatever excuse you must, Miss Langley, but do not waltz with Farquharson.’
Madeline seriously doubted that the Prince Regent himself could come up with an excuse acceptable to her mother. But there was always the chance, after the incident in the bedchamber, that Lord Farquharson would have changed his mind over dancing with her. ‘I’ll try,’ she said. And she was gone, her feet padding softly down the cold stone stairs that would lead her back to the ballroom.
‘There you are, Madeline. Where is your papa? Did you not tell him of Angelina’s success?’ Mrs Langley was all of a flutter.
Madeline opened her mouth to reply.
‘Never mind that now. You’ve missed so much. You will not believe what has just happened.’ She clapped her hands together in glee. ‘Mr Lawrence was taken quite ill, something to do with what he ate at his club earlier in the day.’
‘Poor Mr Lawrence,’ said Madeline, wondering why Mr Lawrence’s malady so pleased her mother.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs Langley. ‘It meant that he could not dance with Angelina as he promised.’ Her excitement bubbled over in a giggle.
‘Mama, are you feeling quite well?’
Mrs Langley touched a hand to her daughter’s arm. ‘You’ll never guess what happened.’
Madeline waited expectantly.
‘The Duke of Devonshire stepped in to take his place and danced with Angelina!’ She clasped her hand to her mouth. ‘Isn’t it just too, too good?’
Madeline glanced across the dance floor to see a rather dashing-looking young man with twinkling blue eyes and warm sand-coloured hair twirl her sister through the steps of a country dance. Angelina was glancing up at the man through long lashes, her golden curls bouncing against the pretty flush of her cheeks. ‘Yes, it is wonderful.’
‘Wonderful indeed!’ Mrs Langley breathed.
Madeline cleared her throat. ‘Mama, my head hurts quite dreadfully.’
‘Mmm,’ mused Mrs Langley, barely taking her eyes from Angelina’s dancing form. ‘You do look rather pale.’
‘I wondered whether Papa might take me home in the carriage. I’m sure that he wouldn’t mind.’
‘I tell you of Angelina’s success and in the next breath you’re asking to go home.’
‘Mama, it isn’t like that. Lord Farquharson—’
‘Lord Farquharson!’ interrupted her mother. ‘I begin to see how this is going. Your papa may not realise what you’re up to, but I most certainly do!’ Mrs Langley turned on Madeline, her mouth stretched to a false smile in case anyone should think that Mrs Langley and her daughter were having anything but the most pleasant of chats. ‘You are so determined to refuse a dance with Lord Farquharson that you will destroy the evening for us all. You think to thumb your nose at a baron and care not a jot if you ruin your sister’s chances.’
‘No, Mama, you and Angelina will stay here, nothing would be ruined for her.’
‘Are you so wrapped up in your own interest that you cannot see Angelina has the chance to catch a duke? That child out there,’ said her mother, ‘has only kindness in her heart.’ Mrs Langley glanced fleetingly at her younger daughter upon the dance floor. ‘Not one word has she uttered about Lord Farquharson’s preference for you. Not one!’
‘Little wonder! She is relieved that she does not have him clutching for her hand.’ As soon as the words were out Madeline knew she should not have said them. Oh, Lord. She shut her eyes and readied herself for her mother’s response.
Mrs Langley’s eyes widened. The false smile could no longer be sustained and slipped from her face. ‘Madeline Langley, you go too far. Your papa shall hear of this, indeed he shall. All these years I’ve slaved to make a lady of you, so that you might make a decent marriage. And now, when I’m on the brink of bringing all my hard work to success, you threaten to ruin all, and not only for yourself.’
Madeline counted to ten.
‘Pray do not look at me in that superior way as if I know not of what I speak!’ Mrs Langley’s small lace handkerchief appeared.
Madeline continued to fifteen.
‘You have not the slightest compassion for your poor mama’s nerves. And all the while Mr Langley makes your excuses. Well, not any more.’
And twenty.
‘You are not going home,’ Mrs Langley announced. ‘You will sit there and look as if you are having a nice time, headache or not. When the time comes, you will dance with Lord Farquharson and you will smile at him, and answer him politely. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Mama, there’s something I must tell you of Lord Farquharson,’ said Madeline.
Her mother adopted her most stubborn expression. ‘I know all I need to know of that gentleman, Madeline. You will waltz with him just the same.’
Madeline looked at her mother in silence.
‘Mama. Madeline.’ Angelina appeared at her mother’s shoulder. As if sensing the atmosphere, she glanced from her mother’s flushed face to her sister’s pale one. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No, nothing is wrong, my angel,’ replied Mrs Langley with a forced smile. ‘Madeline was just saying how much she was looking forward to dancing this evening.’
Angelina coiled an errant curl around her ear. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I came to war—I came to tell Madeline that Lord Farquharson is over there looking for her.’
‘How fortuitous,’ said Mrs Langley.
Fortuitous was not the word Madeline would have chosen. She turned her head in the direction Angelina had indicated.
Lord Farquharson raised his glass to her in salutation. Even across the distance Madeline could see the promise upon his face.
‘What is it, Lucien? First you insist on uprooting me from a very cosy hand of cards at White’s, then you trail me here after Farquharson, and now you’ve got a face like thunder on you.’ Guy, Viscount Varington, regarded his brother across a glass of champagne.
‘Farquharson’s up to his old tricks again.’ Lucien rotated the elegant glass stem between his fingers. The champagne inside remained untouched.
‘You cannot forever be dogging his steps. Five years is a long time. Perhaps it’s time to leave the past behind and move forward.’
Lucien Tregellas’s fingers tightened against the delicate stem. ‘Move on and forget what he did?’ he said bitterly. ‘Surely you jest?’
Guy looked into his brother’s eyes, eyes that were a mirror image of his own. He smiled a small, rueful smile.
‘Farquharson has not changed. He’s been a regular visitor to a certain establishment in Berwick Street these years past, slaking his needs, and you know for what manner of taste Madame Fouet’s house caters. I could do nothing about that. Even so, I always knew that it would not be enough for him. He wants another woman of gentle breeding, another innocent. And I’ll kill Farquharson rather than let that happen.’ There was a stillness about Lucien’s face, a quietness in his voice, that lent his words a chilling certainty.
‘You think he will try again, even with you waiting in the wings?’
‘I know he will,’ came the grim reply. ‘He’s planning it even as we speak, and that foolish chit over there is practically falling over herself to be his next victim.’
Guy followed his brother’s gaze across the room to the slender figure of the girl seated by the side of an older woman.
‘Miss Langley thinks to catch herself a baron. Or, more precisely, her mama does. Miss Langley herself appears to be strangely resistant to any advice to the contrary that I might offer.’ A scowl twitched between his brows.
‘Then leave her to it,’ said Guy with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘If the girl refuses to be warned off, then perhaps she deserves Farquharson.’
Lucien’s gaze still had not shifted from Miss Langley, his eyes taking in her downcast face, her rigid posture. ‘No woman deserves that fate.’
A wry little laugh sounded, and Guy drained the remainder of the champagne from his glass. ‘What would London say if they knew that the notorious Earl Tregellas, the man of whom they are all so very afraid, is on a mission to safeguard every virgin in this city from Farquharson’s roving eye? There’s a certain irony in that, wouldn’t you say?’
‘There’s no comparison between me and Farquharson,’ Lucien said. The fragile glass snapped between his fingers. He set the broken pieces down on the tray of a passing footman.
‘Calm down, big brother. I loath what Farquharson is as much as you.’
‘No. I assure you, you do not.’
‘Your feelings are understandable, given what happened,’ said Guy quietly.
A muscle twitched in Lucien’s jaw.
‘What about the girl? Is she really in danger?’ Guy glanced again at Miss Langley.
‘She’s in much more danger than she could ever realise,’ replied his brother, looking him directly in the eye.
Earl Tregellas and Viscount Varington, two of society’s most infamous bachelors, albeit for vastly differing reasons, turned their gaze upon the slight and unassuming figure of Miss Madeline Langley.
Chapter Three
Madeline glanced uneasily around. It was almost time. She knew he would come for her; her actions of earlier that evening would not stop him. The stranger had been right to tell her to make her excuses, but he had never dealt with her mother. It was bad enough having to suffer Lord Farquharson’s assaults without having her own mother encourage the situation in the hope of forcing him to a wedding. Madeline shuddered at the thought.
She sneaked a glance at her mother. Mrs Langley was engrossed in chattering to Mrs Wilson. Madeline’s eyes raked the ballroom. Still no sign of Papa. Over at the far side, partly hidden by some Grecian-styled columns and lounging beside another man, was her dark defender. Their gazes locked. Her heart kicked to a canter. She felt the blush rise in her cheeks and looked hastily away. What would he think of her sitting waiting for Lord Farquharson to come and claim her for the waltz? And he was right! But what else could she do with Mama guarding her so well? A visit to the retiring room had been refused. And at the suggestion that she go home with Miss Ridgely her mama had warranted a warning glare. Even now Mama’s hand rested lightly against her arm. Madeline dared not look at the stranger again, even when she saw Lord Farquharson begin to make his way slowly, steadily, towards her. Every step brought him closer.
Madeline felt the coldness spreading throughout. Her mouth grew suddenly dry and her palms somewhat clammy. She bowed her head, coaxing her courage. I can do this. I can do this, she inwardly chanted the mantra again and again. It is in full view of everyone. What can he do to me here, save dance? But just the anticipation of being held in his grip, within his power, brought a nausea to her throat. She steeled herself against it. Willed herself to defy him. Don’t let him see that you’re afraid. She steadied her breath, curled her fingers to fists. The spot on the floor disappeared, replaced instead by a pair of large, black-leather buckle slippers. Madeline swallowed once. The shoes were connected to a pair of stockinged shins. The shins led up to a pair of fine black knee breeches. The breeches stretched tight to reveal every detail of well-muscled and long thighs. Madeline’s eyes leapt up to his face.
‘I believe this is my dance, Miss Langley,’ her dark defender said smoothly and, without waiting, plucked Madeline straight from her chair on to the floor.
Lord Farquharson came to an abrupt halt halfway across the ballroom, and stared in disbelief.
Mrs Langley’s mouth opened to squawk her protest, and then shut again. She could only sit and stare while her eldest daughter was whisked into the middle of the dance floor.
‘Well, really!’ exclaimed Mrs Wilson by her side. ‘You do know who that is?’
‘Indeed,’ replied Mrs Langley weakly. ‘That is Earl Tregellas.’
‘The Wicked Earl,’ said her friend with a disapproving frown. ‘What an earth is he doing, dancing with Madeline?’
For once in her life Mrs Langley appeared to be lost for words.
The dark-haired stranger held her with a firm gentleness. The light pressure of his hand upon her waist seemed to burn straight through the material of her dress and undergarments, to sear against her skin. The fingers of his other hand enclosed around hers in warm protection. Beneath the superfine material of his coat she could feel the strength of his muscles across the breadth of his shoulders. The square-cut double-breasted tail-coat was of the finest midnight black to match the ruffled feathers of his hair. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the most elegant tailor’s establishment in all England. A white-worked waistcoat adorned a pristine white shirt, the collar of which stood high. The white neckcloth looked to be a work of art. Madeline felt suddenly conscious of her cheap dress with its plain cream-coloured material and short puffed sleeves. As usual she had declined to wear the wealth of ribbons and bows set out by Mama. Neither a string of beads nor even a simple ribbon sat around her neck. The square-shaped neckline of her dress was not low; even so, in contrast with the other ladies, she had insisted upon wearing a pale pink fichu lest any skin might be exposed.
‘Miss Langley, you seem disinclined to follow my advice.’
The richness of his voice drifted down to her. She kept her focus fixed firmly on the lapel of his coat. What else was he to think? Hadn’t she known that it would be so? ‘I could not leave,’ she said. It sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
‘Could not, or would not? Perhaps you are in concordance with your mother’s plans to catch yourself a baron after all.’
‘No!’ Her gaze snapped up to his. His eyes were watching with a dispassion that piqued her. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘It isn’t like that at all.’
He raised a dark eyebrow as if in contradiction. ‘Perhaps you even welcome Lord Farquharson’s attentions.’ His gaze meandered down over her body, lingered momentarily upon her well-covered bosom, and dawdled back up to see the blush flood her normally pale cheeks.
She gripped at her lower lip with her teeth, as if to hold back the answer that would have spilled too readily forth. ‘If you really think that, then you may as well pass me to him this very moment.’ Her body tensed as she waited to see what he would do.
His steps were perfection, smooth and flowing, guiding her first here, then there, progressing with grace around the floor. For such a big man he was certainly light on his feet. As they turned to change direction, the irate face of Lord Farquharson swam into view. He was standing ready to catch her by the edge of the dance floor. Madeline’s eyes widened. The stranger swung her closer towards Lord Farquharson. Her heart was thumping fit to leap free from her chest. A tremble set up in her fingers. The stranger was going to abandon her into Lord Farquharson’s arms! Madeline’s eyelids flickered shut in anticipation. She readied herself for the sound of Lord Farquharson’s voice, prepared herself to feel the grasp of his hands.
‘You can open your eyes now,’ the stranger said. ‘I haven’t the least intention of releasing you to Farquharson.’
Madeline opened her eyes tentatively to find that they had progressed further around the ballroom, leaving Lord Farquharson well behind. She allowed herself to relax a little.
He felt the tension ease from her body and knew then that she hadn’t lied about her feelings for Farquharson. And although it shouldn’t have made the blindest bit of a difference, the knowledge pleased him. He wouldn’t have abandoned her to Farquharson even if she’d been screaming to get there. She seemed so small and slender in his arms, much smaller than he had realised. He looked into her eyes and saw with a jolt that they were the clear golden hue of amber. Strange that he had not noticed that during either of their previous meetings. He had never met a woman with quite that colouring before. They were beautiful eyes, eyes a man might lose himself in. The sound of Miss Langley’s voice dragged him back from his contemplation and he chided himself for staring at the chit.
She was looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for some kind of response.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘My attention was elsewhere.’ The shadow of something flitted across her face, then was gone.
‘Lord Farquharson does not look happy. You have stolen his dance,’ she said.
‘He has no damn right to dance with any woman,’ he said harshly, then, remembering the woman in his arms, said, ‘Forgive my language, Miss Langley. I did not mean to offend you.’
She smiled then, and it was a smile that lit up her face. Lucien wondered how he could ever have thought her plain. ‘Rest assured, sir, whatever else you have done, you have not offended me.’
Lucien studied her closely.
‘Indeed, you have nothing but my gratitude,’ she continued. ‘I dread to think of my circumstance now had you not intervened on my behalf.’ He could feel the warmth of her beneath his fingers; he could see it in her face. No, Madeline Langley had not encouraged Farquharson. There was an honesty about her, a quiet reserve, and a quickness of mind that was so lacking in most of the young women he had encountered.
She smiled again and he barely heard the notes of the band, concentrating as he was on the girl before him. The prim plain clothing could not completely disguise what lay beneath. The narrowness of her waist beneath his palm, the subtle rise of her breasts, those slender arms. Lucien could see very well what had attracted Farquharson. Innocence and fear and something else, something he could not quite define.
‘Who are you?’ she said, looking up at him. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
Of course she didn’t know. She wouldn’t be looking up at him so trustingly if she had known who he was. Some women attempted to court him for his reputation. Madeline Langley would not. He knew that instinctively. She would shun the wicked man Earl Tregellas was reputed to be.
A shy amusement lit the amber eyes. ‘Will you not tell me, sir?’
He hesitated a moment longer, enjoying the innocent radiance in her face. No woman looked at him like that any more. Artful coquetry, pouting petulance, flagrant fear, and, of course, downright disapproval—he had known them all. Miss Langley’s expression fell into none of those categories.
She smiled.
Lucien traced the outline of it with his eyes. He doubted that he would see her smile again once he told her his name.
The band played on. Their feet moved in time across the floor. Silence stretched between them.
‘I am Tregellas.’ There was nothing else he could say.
‘Tregellas?’ she said softly.
He watched while she tried to place the name, the slight puzzlement creasing a tiny line between her brows. Perhaps she did not know of him. And then he saw that she did after all. Shock widened the tawny glow of her eyes. The smile fled her sweet pink lips. Uncertainty stood in its stead.
‘Earl Tregellas? The Wick—’ She stopped herself just in time.
‘At your service, Miss Langley,’ he said smoothly, as if he were just any other polite gentleman of the ton.
Her gaze fluttered across his face, anxiety clouding her beautiful eyes, before she masked them with long black lashes. He thought he felt her body stiffen beneath his fingers.
‘I’m not Farquharson,’ he growled. ‘You need have no fear of me.’ Hell, he was trying to save her, not ravish her himself. And anyway, he had no interest in young ladies of Miss Langley’s ilk. Indeed, he had not paid attention to any woman in five long years, or so he reminded himself.
She raised her eyes and looked at him, really looked at him, as if she could see the man beneath, the real Lucien Tregellas.
‘No, you’re not Farquharson.’ Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.
Lucien found that he could not take his eyes from hers. The censure that he expected was not there. There was nothing except an open, honest appraisal.
The music came to a halt.
‘Thank you, Miss Langley,’ he said, but whether it was for the dance or for her recognition that he and Farquharson were miles apart, he did not know. Her small hand was still enclosed in his. Swiftly he placed it upon his arm and escorted her back to her mother in silence.
And all the while he was conscious that Miss Madeline Langley had seen behind the façade that was the Wicked Earl.
‘Madeline, what on earth do you think you’re playing at?’ her mother demanded. ‘Do you know who that is?’ she whispered between clenched teeth.
‘Earl Tregellas,’ Madeline said slowly, her words slightly stilted.
‘Of all the most ill-mannered men. He takes you off without even consulting your mama! Not so much as a by your leave! How could you dance with him when Lord Farquharson’s name is written clearly upon your card against the waltz!’ Mrs Langley’s hand scrabbled for her handkerchief. ‘I declare my nerves are in a terrible state. Oh, Madeline, whatever were you thinking of? He has the blackest reputation of any man in London!’
‘I could not refuse him without causing a scene.’ She omitted to mention that she would rather have danced with the infamous Wicked Earl a thousand times over than let Lord Farquharson lay one finger upon her. ‘I did not wish to embarrass you, Mama.’
‘Embarrass me? Embarrass me?’ The words seemed to be in danger of choking Mrs Langley. ‘Never has a mother been more embarrassed by the actions of such a vexing daughter!’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘And what will Lord Farquharson think of this?’
Madeline held her tongue.
‘How could you do it, Madeline? It was as good as giving him a cut in front of the world.’ Mrs Langley’s bosom heaved dramatically.
Madeline tried to ignore the numerous stares that were being sent in her direction. She made no sign of having heard the whispers from the ladies in the seats surrounding them. ‘No one knew what was on my dance card. Most likely they would have believed it to be empty as is usual.’
The whispers grew louder.
Angelina tugged at her mother’s arm. ‘Mama,’ she said. ‘You must not upset yourself. People are staring.’
Mrs Langley surveyed the attention turned upon her family. It was not the interest she had hoped for. She noticed that even Mrs Wilson had distanced herself somewhat and was now conversing with Mrs Hammond, casting the odd look back at the Langleys. Amelia Langley held her head up high and said in a voice intended to carry, ‘Unfortunately, girls, your mama has developed one of her headaches. There is nothing else for it but to retire at once. What a shame, when we were having such a nice time. Come along, girls.’ And Mrs Langley swept her daughters from the ballroom. ‘I shall have a footman find your papa.’
The journey back to Climington Street was not pleasant. Madeline suffered several sympathetic looks from Angelina, a continuous harangue from her mother, and only the mildest expression of reproof from her father.
The harangue from Mrs Langley paused only while the family made their way into their home, and resumed once more when the front door had been firmly closed. Madeline made to follow Angelina upstairs.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ her mother screeched. ‘We shall discuss this evening’s nonsense, miss. Through to the parlour with you. Now!’
Madeline started back down the stairs.
‘Think I might just have an early night myself,’ mumbled her father and tried to slope away.
But Mrs Langley was having none of it. ‘Mr Langley,’ she cried. ‘Will you not take control of your daughter?’
It was strange, or so Madeline thought, that she was always Papa’s daughter when she had displeased Mama, which, of course, was most of the time.
The long-suffering Mr Langley gave a weary sigh and led the way through to the parlour.
‘She has made a spectacle of us this evening,’ ranted Mrs Langley. ‘And most certainly destroyed any chance of an alliance with Lord Farquharson!’
‘Calm yourself, Mrs Langley, I’m sure it cannot be quite that bad,’ said Mr Langley.
Mrs Langley’s face turned a mottled puce. Her mouth opened and closed convulsively. Madeline had never seen her look so distressed. ‘If you had not been hiding in Lady Gilmour’s conservatory all evening, then you would realise that it is worse than bad!’ she shouted.
‘Perhaps Lord Farquharson can be persuaded otherwise,’ said Mr Langley in an attempt to pacify his wife.
‘Madeline snubbed him to dance with Earl Tregellas, for pity’s sake!’
‘Really?’ mumbled Mr Langley, ‘I’m sure he’ll get over it.’
‘Get over it! Get over it!’ huffed Mrs Langley. ‘How can you say such a thing? Lord Farquharson is unlikely to look in her direction, let alone offer her marriage! She has ruined her chances. We will never be invited anywhere ever again!’ wailed Mrs Langley. Tears squeezed from her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks.
‘Now, Mrs Langley,’ Mr Langley cajoled, ‘please don’t take on so. I will sort it all out. Come along, my dearest.’ He pressed a soothing arm around his wife’s quivering shoulders.
But Mrs Langley steadfastly refused to budge. ‘What are we to do? Lord Farquharson will never have her now.’ The trickle of tears was in danger of becoming a deluge.
Madeline watched the unfolding scene, never uttering a word.
‘Speak to her, Arthur,’ Mrs Langley pleaded.
Mr Langley patted his wife, straightened, and cleared his throat. ‘So, Madeline.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘What’s all this about? How came you to dance with Lord Tregellas over Lord Farquharson?’
Madeline found that she could not tell even her dear papa what Lord Tregellas had done for her; how he had saved her from Lord Farquharson on, not one, but two separate occasions. ‘He asked me and took my arm. There did not seem any polite manner in which to decline his request.’ Indeed, there had been no request. Lord Tregellas had plucked her straight from her seat and on to the dance floor as if he had every right to do so.
‘Did you know who he was?’
‘No,’ she answered. That, at least, was true. She had not known that her dark defender was the notorious Wicked Earl, not then.
Furrows of worry ploughed across her father’s forehead. ‘But how came you to his attention, my dear?’
Somehow it seemed strangely traitorous to reveal the truth about Lord Tregellas. She didn’t understand why, just knew that it would not be what he wanted. It made no sense. Surely to tell them that he had stepped in to save her honour would have done him only good? Common sense affirmed that. Instinct fought against it … and won. ‘I do not know,’ said Madeline. She was not in the habit of lying, especially to her papa. Guilt sat heavily upon her shoulders.
‘I understand he does not normally dance. Why should he then suddenly take it into his head to dance with a quiet, unassuming and gently bred girl like you?’ Mr Langley pondered his own question.
Madeline understood exactly why Lord Tregellas had waltzed with her. She was not foolish enough to think that he actually liked her. There was nothing to recommend Madeline Langley to him, indeed to any man, when it came to that. It was simply a matter of saving her from enduring the dance within Lord Farquharson’s arms. What she did not understand was why Lord Tregellas should care. She kept her thoughts to herself and shook her head at her father’s question.
Mrs Langley snorted in the background. ‘Quiet and unassuming?’ she echoed. ‘It is clear you have spent little time of late in your daughter’s company!’
Mr Langley chose to ignore this comment. ‘Madeline,’ he said as carefully as he could, ‘Lord Tregellas is a gentleman of some renown. He may be an earl and in receipt of a large fortune, but …’ He hesitated, unsure how best to phrase the next words. ‘He has a rather dubious reputation, my dear—’
‘Everyone knows what he is reputed to have done,’ cut in her mother.
‘What did he do?’ asked Madeline.
Mrs Langley’s mouth opened. ‘He is a murderer of the very worst kind. Why do you think he’s called the Wicked Earl? He killed the—’
‘We shall not lower ourselves to become gossip-mongers, Mrs Langley,’ said her father reprovingly.
Madeline looked from one parent to the other. Even she, prim and proper Miss Madeline Langley, had heard talk of Lord Tregellas. He was said to have committed some heinous crime in the past. That fact alone made him strangely fascinating to half the women across London, although he was reputed to treat them all with a cold contempt. Madeline knew that, and still it did not matter. The man that had forced Lord Farquharson to leave her safe in the Theatre Royal, who had warned her against that fiend, and had saved her again at this evening’s ball, was not someone she could fear. He had, after all, given her every reason to trust him. ‘It was only one dance,’ she said in defence of Lord Tregellas and herself.
‘It was the waltz!’ sobbed her mother. ‘Madeline is quite ruined after this evening’s fiasco.’
Mr Langley said patiently, ‘Come now, my dear, she’s hardly ruined. It was, as she said, only a dance.’
The sobbing burst forth into a wail. ‘Oh, you understand nothing, Mr Langley!’
Mr Langley wore the weary air of a man who knew exactly what the forthcoming weeks would hold if he did nothing to resolve the situation. ‘Perhaps I could have a word with Farquharson.’
‘He’ll have nothing to do with Madeline now. All my plans lie in ruins.’
‘He’s a stout fellow. He’ll listen to reason,’ said Mr Langley.
Her mother stopped wailing and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Do you really think so?’ she hiccupped.
‘Of course,’ her father replied. ‘I’ll go round there tomorrow and explain that Madeline had no notion to dance with Tregellas, that she was taken unawares, and, as a young and inexperienced lady, had no say in the matter. Perhaps I could invite him to dinner.’
Madeline could not believe what she was hearing. Her father thought Farquharson a stout fellow? ‘Papa,’ she said. ‘Please do not. If you knew Lord Farquharson’s true nature, you would not suggest such a thing. He is not an honourable man.’
‘Mr Langley,’ said her mother, ‘pray do not heed her. She’s taken a set against Lord Farquharson and is determined to thwart my plans. He’s a wealthy and respected member of the aristocracy, a war hero and more. And he’s worth ten thousand a year. Does that sound like a dishonourable man?’
‘Papa, if you knew what he had done—’
‘Then tell me, child,’ encouraged her father.
‘Arthur!’ her mother whined.
But Mr Langley made no sign of having heard his wife’s complaint. ‘Madeline, what has happened?’
Madeline sighed. Papa would listen. He would not make excuses for Lord Farquharson or, worse still, encourage the man’s attentions. Once Papa knew the truth, she would be free of Lord Farquharson for ever. It did not matter that she would never marry. Rather that, than wedded to Lord Farquharson. No man other than that villain had ever expressed so much as an interest in her. She was four-and-twenty years old, with a string of failed Seasons behind her. She did not blame her mother and father for not sending her out on to the circuit last year. In fact, it was a blessed relief, and they did, after all, have Angelina to think about. Surely Angelina would more than compensate them for Madeline’s failings?
‘Madeline?’ her father prompted.
Madeline shook the fluttering thoughts from her head. The truth must be told—just without any mention of Lord Tregellas. Taking a deep breath, she relayed what Lord Farquharson had been about, both in the Theatre Royal and at Lady Gilmour’s ball. There was no embellishment, no dramatics, just plain facts, minus a certain earl’s involvement.
By the end of it Mr Langley was no longer looking his usual mild-mannered self. He fixed a stern eye upon his wife. ‘You knew of this, Amelia?’ Incredulity edged his voice.
‘Only about the theatre. But he did not kiss her, Arthur.’ Mrs Langley cast imploring eyes up to her husband. ‘I knew nothing of this evening. She said not one word of being alone in a bedchamber with Lord Farquharson. Had I but known …’ Mrs Langley pressed her tiny lace handkerchief to her mouth and fell silent.
A small cynical part of Madeline wondered as to her mother’s claim. Would she still have had her daughter dance with Lord Farquharson, knowing all that he had done? Mama had been unwilling to hear Madeline speak against the Baron. And social standing and money were so very important to Mrs Langley. It was a pointless question.
‘We shall discuss this further, Mrs Langley, once the matter has been satisfactorily resolved.’
Madeline had never seen her father like this before. There was a determined glare in his normally kind brown eyes, a tension in his usually relaxed stance. He rang the bell and requested that the carriage be brought back round. ‘Papa?’ said Madeline. ‘Where are you going?’
‘To see Lord Farquharson.’
Madeline felt the blood drain from her face. Visions of duelling pistols and her father lying wounded, or worse, swam in her head. She prayed that he would not do anything so foolish as call out Lord Farquharson. Not her papa, not her mild-mannered, gentle papa. ‘Please, Papa, do not go.’
‘I must, my dear,’ he said. ‘It’s a matter of honour.’
‘Arthur?’ Mrs Langley raised a trembling voice.
‘Do not wait up, I may be some time,’ said Mr Langley and walked from the parlour.
The clock on the mantel struck midnight as the front door slammed behind him.
‘So you waltzed with Miss Langley just to prevent Farquharson from doing so?’ Guy, Viscount Varington, raised a cynical brow.
The library was quiet; only the slow rhythmic ticking of the clock and the occasional spit from the fire punctuated the silence.
‘Why else?’ Lucien Tregellas didn’t even glance round at his brother, just stood by the carved marble fireplace looking into the dancing yellow flames. They glowed golden in the darkness of the library, reminding him of the lights in Madeline Langley’s eyes. Such warmth and honesty as he had not seen in any other woman’s eyes. Long dark lashes and that straight little nose … and a clean pleasant smell that reminded him of … It came to him then exactly what Miss Langley smelled of—oranges!
‘You’ve done far more damage to her reputation just by dancing with her than Farquharson ever could.’ Guy leaned across the small drum table and captured the decanter.
‘Hell’s teeth, Guy! I only danced with the girl. Farquharson would have done a damned sight worse. It wasn’t as if I ravished her.’
‘Might as well have, old chap,’ said his brother. ‘You haven’t danced in the last five years. And when you decide to take again to the dance floor, after such a long absence, you don’t choose just any old dance, but the waltz.’
‘So?’
‘So, all of London’s eyes will be upon you now to see what Tregellas meant by waltzing with the very proper Miss Langley.’ Guy filled two balloon glasses with the rich amber liquid from the decanter.
‘Then London will have a long wait.’
Guy pressed a glass into his brother’s hand. ‘Really?’
Lucien arched an eyebrow and ignored the comment.
Guy continued on, knowing full well his brother’s irritation. ‘You know, of course, that the chit will now be thrust under your nose at every opportunity. Why should Miss Langley’s mama settle for a mere baron when an earl has just waltzed right into her sight?’
‘Your puns get worse, Guy.’ Lucien’s fingers rubbed against the Tregellas coat of arms artfully engraved upon the side of his glass. ‘Mrs Langley may do her worst. I had no interest in Madeline Langley other than to stop Farquharson getting his hands on her.’
‘Had?’ queried Guy with an expression that bellied innocence.
‘Had, have, what’s the difference?’
‘You tell me,’ came Guy’s rejoinder.
Lucien took a large swig of brandy. The liquid burned a satisfying trail down to his stomach. ‘I made my meaning clear enough to Farquharson.’
‘And what of Miss Langley? Did you make your meaning clear to her, too? Perhaps she has expectations following her waltz this evening. A girl like that can’t have too many men hanging after her.’
Lucien took another gulp of brandy. ‘Miss Langley has no expectations of me.’ He thought momentarily of Madeline Langley’s clear non-judgemental gaze, and a touch of tenderness twitched at his lips. The girl didn’t have a conniving bone in her body.
‘News of your waltz with Miss Langley will be all over town by tomorrow afternoon, and you know what people will think.’ Guy paused to take a delicate sip from his glass. ‘Dallying with a respectable girl can only mean one thing in their tawdry little minds—that you have finally decided to take a wife and beget an heir.’
‘Let them think what they will,’ Lucien shrugged. ‘We both know that I have no intention of marrying, and as for the Tregellas heir …’ Lucien raised his glass in the direction of his brother ‘… I’m looking at him. Hell will freeze over before I find myself in parson’s trap.’
A peculiar smile hovered around Guy’s mouth. ‘We’ll see,’ he said softly. ‘Only the devil or a fool tempts fate.’
Not so very far away in Brooks’s Club on St James’s Street, Cyril Farquharson was also sipping brandy. His attention was not on the small circle of fashionable gentlemen with whom he was sitting. Indeed, Lord Farquharson’s thoughts were concerned with someone else entirely; and that someone was Miss Madeline Langley. The whores at Madame Fouet’s had been meagre rations to feed his appetite. Five years was a long time to starve. He had grown tired of them. They were too willing, too coarse and worldly wise, and, even though they role-played otherwise, that fact detracted something from the experience for Farquharson. And he was tired too of Tregellas’s constant watching, his constant waiting. Damn the man for curtailing the best of his pleasures. But Farquharson would be held in check no longer. He hungered for a gentlewoman, someone young and innocent and fearful, someone with that unique je ne sais quoi; in short, someone like Madeline Langley.
She had taken years in the finding, but Farquharson had known that Madeline was the one from the moment he had seen her. She was quiet and reserved and afraid of him, all the things he liked in a woman. He played with her, like a cat played with a mouse. He liked to see her discomfort when he stepped too close or lingered too long over her hand. He liked the way she tried to hide her fear and her futile efforts to avoid him. Dear, sweet, fearful Madeline. He meant to take his pleasure of her … in the worst possible way. If the empty-headed Mrs Langley was determined to dangle her delicious daughter before him in the hope of trapping him in marriage, who was he to refuse the bait? Cyril Farquharson was far too cunning to be caught. So he had enjoyed his game with Madeline Langley until Tregellas had entered the scene.
The interruption in the Theatre Royal during the play had been an irritation. Tregellas’s dance with the girl at Lady Gilmour’s ball went beyond that. It smacked of more than a desire to thwart Farquharson. Tregellas had not looked at a female in years, and now he had waltzed with the very woman that Farquharson held within his sights. Perhaps Tregellas had an interest in Miss Langley. There was an irony in that thought. Lord Farquharson mulled the matter over. By the time that he finished his brandy and headed for home, he knew just what he was going to do. In one fell swoop, not only would he secure Miss Langley to do with whatsoever he might please, but he would also effectively thwart any move that Tregellas might mean to make. And that idea appealed very much to Cyril Farquharson. He smiled at his own ingenuity and looked forward to Madeline Langley’s reaction when she learned what he meant to do.
Chapter Four
Madeline did not see her father again until the next morning. All the night through she had lain awake, unable to find sleep; tossing and turning beneath the bedcovers, until her cheeks burned red with the worry of it all. Papa was well meaning, but he had no real appreciation of the malice contained in a man like Lord Farquharson. It seemed that Madeline could see the cruel grey eyes and the sneer stretched across Lord Farquharson’s lips. Dear Lord in heaven, Papa didn’t stand a chance! Lord Farquharson would dispense with her gentle father before Mr Langley had so much as taken his second breath. What good did Papa think that complaining would do? None, as far as Madeline could see. And God forbid that he took it into his head to challenge Lord Farquharson! She did not even know if her father owned a pair of duelling pistols. Papa was far too sensible to call Lord Farquharson out. Wasn’t he?
The bed linen was very crumpled and Madeline very tired by the time morning came. The foggy dullness of her brain contrasted with the tense agitation of her body. She rose early, washed, dressed, took only the smallest cup of coffee and waited in the quiet little dining room, ignoring the heated salvers of ham and eggs. Her stomach was squeezed so tight by anxiety that even the smell of the food stirred a wave of nausea. It was not until after nine o’clock that her father finally appeared, with her mother in tow.
Mrs Langley was surprisingly calm in the light of what had yesterday been cited as the biggest catastrophe of the century. In fact, Madeline might even have gone so far as to say that her mother was looking rather pleased. At least Papa did not seem to have taken any hurts. His arm was not in a sling nor did he limp. His eyes were bagged with tiredness, but were not blackened from bruising. Indeed, he had not one visible scratch upon him. Madeline breathed a sigh of relief. Tension’s hold slackened a little. ‘Papa!’ she breathed. ‘Thank goodness you’re safe.’ She ran to him and placed her arms around him in a grateful embrace. ‘I was so worried.’
Mr Langley did not return Madeline’s tremulous smile. Rather, he reached out a tired old hand and pulled her gently to him. ‘Madeline,’ he said, and there was sadness in his voice.
Something was wrong. Madeline felt it immediately. She started back and stared up into his eyes. ‘What is it, Papa? What has happened?’ It did not make sense. He was home, returned safely, hurt, it seemed, by nothing more than Farquharson’s words. The first hint of apprehension wriggled down Madeline’s spine. What had Lord Farquharson said? And then a worse thought made itself known. ‘You have not … killed him, have you?’ she asked.
‘No, child.’ Mr Langley shook his grizzled head. ‘Although, I begin to think that I would be better placed if I had.’
‘Then what …?’
Mrs Langley touched a hand to her husband’s arm; she could no longer hide her smile. ‘Pray tell Madeline the good news, Mr Langley,’ she said.
Madeline looked up into her father’s face and waited for the words to fall.
‘Lord Farquharson apologised for his lapse of control. He said that his normal behaviour was overcome by the magnitude of his feelings for you.’
The first tentacles of dread enclosed around Madeline’s heart. ‘And?’ Her voice was nothing more than a cracked whisper.
‘He has offered to do the decent thing. Lord Farquharson wishes to marry you, Madeline.’
His words clattered harsh against the ensuing silence.
She stared at her father, resisting the enormity of what he had just said.
Mr Langley’s palm dabbed against Madeline’s back as if to salve the hurt he had just dealt her. ‘As a gentleman he should never have tried to compromise you. But the deed is done and he would redeem himself by making you his wife. He said it was ever his wish since first he saw you. I believe he does care for you, my dear. Perhaps in time you will come to be happy together.’
‘No.’ Madeline shook her head. ‘No!’ The word reverberated around the room. ‘I cannot marry him, Papa. I will not!’
Mrs Langley came forward then. ‘Your father has already agreed it. Lord Farquharson is already organising a party at which your betrothal will be announced. The invitations are to be written and sent today.’
‘The party can be cancelled.’
The smile wiped from Mrs Langley’s face. ‘You see how she tortures me, Mr Langley!’ she cried. ‘She would rather make fools of us before all of London than do as she is bid.’
None of it seemed real. They were but players upon a stage, mouthing lines that would wreck her life for ever. Madeline struggled to shake the thick fleece that clouded her thoughts. ‘Papa, please, I cannot do this.’
‘Madeline,’ he said gently, and it seemed as if his heart were breaking. ‘If you really cannot bear to marry Lord Farquharson, then I am obliged to take other steps. He has impugned your honour. As your father, I cannot just sit back and let that happen. If word were to get out of your meeting with Farquharson in Lady Gilmour’s bedchamber, then your reputation would be utterly tarnished, and even Angelina would not remain unharmed.’ His eyes shuttered in anguish, and prised open again. ‘Either he marries you or I must call him out. The guilt is Farquharson’s, not yours, never doubt that, my dear, but we both know that society will not view it that way, and I cannot let you suffer their persecution should the matter come to light.’ His fingers fluttered against her hair, drawing her face up to look at him. ‘I will not force you to this marriage, Madeline. The choice is yours to make. If you truly cannot bear to have Farquharson as your husband, then so be it.’
Mrs Langley gripped at her husband’s arm, pulling it away from Madeline. ‘Oh, Mr Langley, you cannot seriously mean to challenge his lordship?’ Her voice rose in a panic. ‘Duelling is illegal … and dangerous. You might be killed!’ She clung to him, tears springing to her eyes. ‘And what good would it do? Madeline’s reputation will be ruined if she does not marry him, regardless of the outcome of any duel. I beg of you, Mr Langley, do not give her the choice. Madeline must wed him and be done with it.’
‘It is a matter of honour, Mrs Langley, and I shall not force her to wed against her will,’ said Mr Langley.
Madeline’s teeth clung to her lower lip. Her throat constricted ready to choke her. She would not cry. She would not.
‘You may have some little time to think on your decision, but if you decide against the marriage, Madeline, speed might yet prevent the sending of the invitations.’
Mrs Langley was tugging at her husband’s hand. ‘No, Arthur, no, please!’
For Madeline there was, of course, no decision to be made. Marry Lord Farquharson, or have her father risk his life. The choice was not a difficult one, and in its making, a cold calm settled upon her. Tears and fear and anger would come later. For now, Madeline moved like an automaton.
Mr Langley turned to go.
‘Wait, Papa …’ Madeline stayed him with a hand ‘… I’ve made my choice.’
Her father’s kindly brown eyes looked down into hers.
‘I will marry Lord Farquharson.’
Mrs Langley’s face uncrinkled.
‘Are you certain, my dear?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ Such a little word to tilt the axis of the world.
An uncertain smile blossomed on Mrs Langley’s face. ‘It will not be so bad, Madeline. You’ll see. His lordship will make up for his mistakes, I’m sure he will.’ She patted at her daughter’s arm. ‘And he is a baron.’
Madeline barely felt her touch. Yes, Lord Farquharson would more than make up for his mistakes, just not in the way her mother thought. There had been nothing of care or affection in his eyes. Whatever he meant to do, Madeline knew that it would not be with her welfare or her wishes in mind. Neither would matter once she was his wife. He could do what he pleased with her then, and no one would mind in the slightest. Farquharson’s wife. The ball of nausea within her stomach started to grow. ‘Please excuse me, Mama, Papa. I feel suddenly rather … tired.’
‘Of course, my dearest,’ said Mrs Langley.
Her father looked drained, wrung out. ‘It’s for the best,’ he said.
Madeline tried to smile, tried to give him some small measure of false assurance, but her lips would do nothing but waver. ‘Yes,’ she said again, and slipped quietly from the room.
‘Hell!’ Earl Tregellas’s curse drew the attention of several of the surrounding gentlemen dotted around the room.
‘Lucien?’ Guy watched the rigidity grip Lucien’s jaw and saw the telltale tightening of his lips. He leaned forward from his chair, all previous lounging forgotten, keen to know exactly what was printed in today’s copy of The Morning Post that had wrought such a reaction from his brother. Lucien normally preferred to keep his emotions tightly in check in public.
Lucien Tregellas threw an insolent stare at those gentlemen in White’s lounge area who were fool enough to be still expressing an interest. The grandfather clock over by the door ticked its languorous pace. A few newspapers rustled. The chink of porcelain and glass sounded. And the normal quiet drone of conversation resumed. ‘Come, Guy, I’ve a mind to get out of here.’ He folded the newspaper in half and threw it nonchalantly on to the small occasional table by his elbow.
Both men rose, and, with their coffee still unfinished on the table, left the premises of White’s gentlemen’s club without so much as a backward glance.
Lucien’s curricle was waiting outside, the horses impatiently striking up dust from the street. ‘Do you mind if we walk?’
Guy shook his head. Things must be bad.
A brief word to his tiger and Lucien’s curricle was gone, leaving the brothers alone in the late winter’s pale sunlight.
They walked off down St James’s Street. ‘Well?’ said Guy.
Lucien made no reply, just clenched his jaw tighter to check the unleashing of the rage that threatened to explode. To any that passed it would seem that Earl Tregellas was just out for a casual morning stroll with his brother. There was nothing in his demeanour to suggest that anything might be awry in his usual lifestyle. Lucien might disguise it well, but Guy was not indifferent to the tension simmering below the surface of his brother’s relaxed exterior. That Lucien had failed to prevent his outburst in White’s was not a good sign.
‘Are you going to tell me just what has you biting down on your jaw as if you were having a bullet extracted?’
Lucien’s long stride faltered momentarily and then recovered. ‘Lord Farquharson entertained a small party last evening in Bloomsbury Square to announce his betrothal to Miss Madeline Langley, elder daughter of Mr Arthur Langley and Mrs Amelia Langley of Climington Street.’
Guy stopped dead on the spot. ‘He means to marry her?’
‘It would appear so.’ There was a harshness in Lucien’s features, an anger that would not be suppressed for long.
‘But why?’ Guy turned a baffled expression upon Lucien.
‘Keep walking, Guy.’ Lucien touched a hand briefly to his brother’s arm.
‘Why not just turn his attention to another, easier target? By Hades, I would not have thought him to be so desperate for Miss Langley above all others. The girl has nothing particular to recommend her. She doesn’t even look like—’ Guy caught himself just in time. ‘Sorry, Lucien, didn’t mean to …’
‘I warned him if he ever tried to strike again that I would be waiting. Perhaps he thought that I was bluffing, that I would just sit back and let him take Madeline Langley. I did not think he would resort to marriage to get his hands on her.’
They walked in silence for a few minutes before Guy slowly said, ‘Or he may have misinterpreted your defence of Miss Langley.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Lucien. ‘Why on earth would he think that I have any interest in the girl?’
Guy raised a wry eyebrow. ‘For the same reason that half of London did only yesterday.’
‘What else was I supposed to do? Watch him run his lecherous hands all over her? Let him force her to a dance she did not want … and more?’
‘It seems that Miss Langley has changed her opinion of Farquharson. She might not have wanted to dance then, but she wants to marry him now.’
Lucien thought of the fear and revulsion on Miss Langley’s face as that brute had tried to force himself upon her; of her terror when she’d quite literally run straight into him on that servants’ stairwell; and her loathing at the prospect of waltzing with Farquharson. ‘I cannot believe that it is so.’
‘There’s nothing so fickle as women. You should know that, Lucien. Saying one thing, then changing their minds at the drop of a hat. It’s amazing what the odd bauble or two can buy these days.’
‘Madeline Langley isn’t like that. You’ve seen her, Guy. She isn’t that sort of woman.’
‘Plain and puritanical maybe, Lucien, but still as likely to yield to temptation as any other. The Langleys are not wealthy. The pretty golden looks of the younger Langley chit are bound to catch her a husband. Not so with the elder Miss Langley. Perhaps she decided Farquharson was preferable to life as an old maid.’
Lucien shook his head. ‘No.’ He could not imagine Miss Langley agreeing to touch Farquharson, let alone marry him.
‘Let it rest, Lucien,’ his brother advised. ‘You’ve done all you can to save the girl. If she’s foolish enough to become his wife, then there’s nothing more you can do. Your conscience, at least, is clear.’
‘My conscience is anything but clear. My actions have brought about this situation.’
‘You don’t know that,’ countered Guy.
‘I threw down the gauntlet and Farquharson took it up.’
‘Perhaps he planned to marry her all along.’
‘Perhaps. Whatever the reasoning, I cannot let Miss Langley become his wife.’
‘Oh, and just how do you propose to stop the wedding? Stand up and announce the truth of what Farquharson did? Stirring up the past will release Miss Langley from the betrothal, but at what cost? It’s too high a price, Lucien.’
‘I’ll find another way.’
Guy sighed. ‘What is Miss Langley to you? Nothing. She’s not worth it.’
‘Whatever Madeline Langley may or may not be worth, I’ll be damned if I just abandon her to Farquharson. You know what he’ll do.’
‘He might have changed, learned his lesson over the years.’
Lucien drew his brother a look of withering incredulity. ‘Men like Farquharson never change. Why else has he been visiting Madame Fouet’s all these years?’
‘Face it, Lucien. Short of marrying Miss Langley yourself, there’s not a cursed thing you can do to stop him.’
A silence hiccupped between them.
A crooked smile eased the hardness of Lucien’s lips. ‘You might just have an idea there, little brother.’
Guy laughed at the jest. ‘Now that really would be beyond belief, the Wicked Earl and Miss Langley!’ Still laughing, he grabbed his brother’s arm. ‘What you need is a good stiff drink.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Lucien.
The more that Lucien thought on it, the more sense it seemed to make. He knew what would happen if Farquharson married Miss Langley, knew that he could not stand by and let another woman walk to her death, willing or not. For all that his brother said, Lucien still could not bring himself to believe in Miss Langley’s sudden capitulation. Could she really want Farquharson as a husband? Lucien drank deeper and stared unseeing into the dying embers of the fire. Did the answer to that question even make any difference? Farquharson was Farquharson. No woman, knowing the truth about him, would willingly agree to so much as look at the man. Lucien remembered too well that of which Farquharson was capable. Mercifully the brandy anaesthetised the worst of the pain that the memories triggered. He emptied the contents down his throat and reached for the decanter again.
Farquharson. Farquharson. Farquharson. For five long years Lucien had thought of little else. Nothing but that and his own vow to ensure that Farquharson never struck again. Then Miss Madeline Langley had entered the picture and history was suddenly in danger of repeating itself, while all he could do was watch it happen. Lucien’s lip curled at the very thought. His eyes closed tight against the spiralling anger. When they opened again, he was perfectly calm, his thinking never clearer. Lucien Tregellas knew exactly what he was going to do. Raising the stakes was a risky move but, if played well, would resolve the situation admirably. Guilt prickled at his conscience. He quashed it. Even if he was using her for revenge, Miss Langley would also benefit from the arrangement. And besides, being with him would be infinitely safer for the girl than being with Farquharson.
Madeline sat demurely on the gilt-legged chair, her mother positioned on one side, Angelina on the other. Since the announcement of her betrothal to Lord Farquharson, Madeline had been elevated in her mother’s order of things. There had been trips to cloth warehouses, milliners, drapers and Burlington Arcade. Shopping, shopping and more shopping. Life had taken on a frenzied whirl of dances and parties and balls. The little house in Climington Street looked more like a florist’s shop following the daily arrival of Lord Farquharson’s bouquets. And now, Mrs Langley had managed to obtain the ultimate in social acceptance—vouchers for Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Amelia Langley had finally arrived, and the look on her face told the world that she knew it was so.
Through it all Madeline appeared as the ghost of the person she had been. She moved mechanically, her emotions disengaged by necessity. It was the only way to get through this, the only way to survive Lord Farquharson’s little visits to take afternoon tea with the Langley household, to bear his hand upon her arm, the touch of his lips to her fingers. It was the shell of Madeline Langley who allowed Lord Farquharson to lead her out on to dance floor after dance floor, to whisper promises of love into her ear, to take her up in his chaise around Hyde Park at the most fashionable of hours for all the world to see. The real Madeline Langley was curled up tight in a ball somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of that protection. So it was Madeline’s shell, and not Madeline herself, who sat that night in Almack’s.
It did not matter that they were in the famous assembly rooms. It did not matter that the night was chilled, or that the air within the dance rooms was stuffy and hot. It did not even matter when one of the ladies patronesses gave permission for Madeline to waltz with Lord Farquharson, or when his fingers lingered about her waist, or when he gazed with such promise into her face. Madeline saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. And by being so, Madeline’s shell could do what it had to do.
‘Madeline, Mrs Barrington has promised me the recipe for a wonderful lotion that clarifies the skin and removes any blemish or shadow. It will do wonders for your complexion, my dear.’
Madeline sat, like she had done on every other occasion since learning of her betrothal to Lord Farquharson, and said nothing.
Colonel Barclay materialised as if from nowhere. ‘My dear Mrs Langley, may I introduce a good friend of mine, Viscount Varington. He has been admiring you and your daughters from across the room for some time now. I have taken pity on the poor man and decided to put him out of his misery by bringing him here for a word from your sweet lips.’
The tall, dark and extremely handsome Lord Varington swooped down to press a kiss to Angelina’s hand. ‘Miss Langley,’ he uttered in a sensuously deep voice. ‘Such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, at last.’ And delivered her a look of dangerous appreciation.
Angelina smiled and glanced up at him through downcast lashes.
‘I can see from where Miss Langley gets her golden beauty.’ He touched his lips to Mrs Langley’s hand.
Mrs Langley tittered. ‘La, you flatter me too much, sir.’
‘Not at all,’ said Lord Varington, his pale blue eyes bold and appraising. ‘Is it possible that Miss Langley is free for this next dance? A most improbable hope, but …’
Angelina scanned down her dance card, knowing full well that Mr Jamison’s name was scrawled against the dance in question, and indeed that every successive dance had been claimed. Her eyes flickered up to the hard, handsome face waiting above them.
Lord Varington smiled in just the way that he knew to be most effective, showing his precisely chiselled features to perfection. He cast a smouldering gaze at Angelina.
Angelina opened her mouth to explain that she could not in truth dance with him.
But Mrs Langley was there first. ‘How fortuitous your timing is, my lord. It seems that Mr Jamison is unwell and is unable to stand up with Angelina as he promised. She, therefore, is free to dance with you, my lord.’
‘I can breathe again,’ murmured Lord Varington dramatically, and took Angelina’s hand into his with exaggerated tenderness.
‘Oh, my!’ exclaimed Mrs Langley and fanned herself vigorously as Angelina disappeared off on to the floor in Lord Varington’s strong muscular arms.
It was only then that she noticed that Madeline was missing.
Lucien tucked Madeline’s hand into the crook of his arm and continued walking through Almack’s marbled vestibule.
‘My lord, what is wrong? The note the girl brought said that you needed to speak with me urgently.’ Madeline felt his pale blue eyes pierce a crack in the shell that she had so carefully constructed.
‘And so I do, Miss Langley, but not here.’ He scanned the entrance hall around them, indicating the few bodies passing in chatter. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘Dangerous?’ Madeline’s voice faltered, the crack growing exponentially wider. ‘I don’t understand—’
Lord Tregellas stopped behind one of the large Ionic pillars and gently pulled her closer. ‘Miss Langley,’ he interrupted, ‘do you trust me?’
‘Yes.’ The shell shattered to smithereens. ‘Of course I do.’ Logic deemed that she should not, instinct ensured that she did.
A strange expression flitted across his face and then was gone. ‘Then come with me.’
For the first time in two weeks Madeline felt her heart leap free of the ice that encased it. Surely she had misheard him? She looked into his eyes and what she saw there kicked her pulse to a canter.
‘Miss Langley.’ His voice was rich and mellow. ‘We do not have much time. If you wish to escape Farquharson, come with me.’
Come with me. It was the dream that she dare not allow herself to dream. Lord Tregellas had saved her before. Perhaps he could save her now. But even in the thinking Madeline knew it was impossible. No one could save her, not even Tregellas. Foolish hope would only lead to more heartache. Slowly she shook her head. ‘I cannot.’
His hands rested on her upper arms. ‘Do you desire to marry him?’ His voice had a harsh edge to it.
‘No!’ she whispered. Now that her shell was broken she felt every breath of air, suffered the pain from which she had sought to hide. ‘You know that I do not.’
His voice lost something of its harshness. ‘Then why have you accepted him?’
She could not tell him. Not here, not like this, not when she knew that in three more weeks she would be Lord Farquharson’s wife. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Too long for here?’
‘Yes.’ She felt the brush of his thumb against her bare skin between the puff of her sleeve and the start of her long gloves. It was warm and reassuring.
‘There are other places,’ he said.
Temptation beckoned. Lord Tregellas was more of a man than she ever could have dreamt of. She blushed to think that he could show her any interest … and that she actually welcomed it. Were she to be seen leaving Almack’s in the company of the Wicked Earl, she would be ruined. Strangely, the prospect of her own ruination in that manner did not seem such a terrible atrocity. Life with Lord Farquharson seemed far worse. But what Lord Tregellas was suggesting would not only ruin her, but also her family and that was something she could not allow. She shook her head again. ‘No.’
‘I mean only to help you. You should know something of Lord Farquharson’s history before you take your wedding vows. You said that you trusted me. Then give me half an hour of your time, nothing more, to let me tell you of Farquharson’s past and of a way you may evade him.’
Madeline bit at her lip and remained unconvinced. It would be wrong of her to go with him. She had her family to think about.
It was as if the Earl read her mind. ‘He’s a danger not only to you, but to your sister and your parents, too. And you need not be concerned that our departure together shall be noticed. I assure you it will not.’
‘My family are truly in danger?’ His gaze held her transfixed. He was a stranger, a man reputed by all London to be wicked. She should not believe him. But inexplicably Madeline knew that she did.
‘Yes.’ He released his hold upon her, stepping back to increase the space between them. ‘We’re running out of time, Miss Langley. Do you come with me, or not?’
A sliver of tension stretched between them. Pale ice blue merged with warm amber. Madeline looked a moment longer. It seemed so right. Reputations could be wrong. There was nothing of Lord Farquharson in the man that faced her. Lord Tregellas would not hurt her. ‘Half an hour?’ she said.
‘Half an hour,’ he affirmed and reached his hand for hers.
The interior of the Tregellas closed carriage was dark, only the occasional street light illuminated the dimness.
Lucien could see the stark whiteness of Madeline Langley’s face against the black backdrop. Huge eyes, darkly smudged beneath, and cheeks that were too thin. He doubted that the girl had slept or eaten since the announcement of her betrothal. Guilt stuck in his throat. He swallowed it down. He had done what he could to save Miss Langley. He need have no remorse. Or so he told himself. But telling and believing were two different things. ‘It’s not much further now.’
‘We will be back in time, won’t we?’ She nibbled at her lip.
The knot of guilt expanded to a large tangle. ‘Of course.’
She relaxed a little then, leaning back against the dark drapery in the corner. Her implicit trust stirred his heart.
‘Miss Langley.’ He ensured that his voice was without emotion. He could not tell her all of it, but he would tell her enough. The girl was not stupid. She would realise that he was right. ‘Cyril Farquharson is not to be toyed with. He is evil, pure and unadulterated. What you have seen of his behaviour is nothing compared to that of which he is capable.’ Lucien paused, tightening the rein on his self-control. ‘He is a man that delights in plucking the most tender of blooms to crush beneath his heel.’
‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.
‘Exactly that.’
‘I don’t understand. What did he do?’
Lucien slid another bolt across the barrier to the memories. ‘He took a woman, a young and foolish woman, and …’
Madeline waited.
‘… killed her.’
Only the sound of their breathing filled the carriage.
‘Killed her?’ He could hear the horror in Miss Langley’s words. ‘Who was she? Why did he not stand trial?’
Lucien turned his face to the window. ‘It could not be proven.’
‘Why not? If he was guilty—’
‘He was most definitely guilty, but Farquharson was careful to destroy the evidence.’ Lucien’s jaw clamped shut.
There was a moment’s silence before Madeline asked, ‘And you think he means to … to kill me too?’
He looked back across at the fear-filled little face—fear that he had put there with his revelation. He hardened his compassion. She had to know. ‘Oh, he will kill you all right, Miss Langley, and anyone who tries to stop him.’
‘I cannot believe it,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Can’t you? What do you feel when you stand close to him, when he touches you? What do you feel then, Madeline?’
She barely noticed the use of her given name. ‘Fear … loathing … repulsion.’
‘Then listen to your instinct, it speaks true.’
‘But I am bound to marry him.’ She sighed and recounted what had happened that night after Lord Tregellas had waltzed with her. ‘I cannot dishonour my papa and there is Angelina to think of.’
‘There is another way,’ Lucien said softly, and leaned forward. ‘Give me your hand, Miss Langley.’
Every sensible nerve in her body was telling her to resist. Madeline warily reached her hand towards him.
His fingers closed around hers. Her hand was small and slender and chilled. ‘You’re cold. Here, put this travelling rug around you.’ Through the darkness he felt for her, moving across to the other side of the carriage, wrapping the woollen rug across her shoulders, running his hands briskly over the sides of her now-blanketed arms. ‘The night air is chilled and you have no cloak.’
‘Lord Tregellas.’ Madeline’s plea brought him up short.
He stopped. Dropped his hands from her arms. Stayed seated by her side. Rumble of carriage wheels. Horses’ hooves. Bark of dogs. Men’s voices cursing coarse and loud. Bang of doors. Lucien let them all pass, breathing in that small space of time, waiting to utter the words he had never thought would pass his lips. ‘Miss Langley,’ he said, ‘there is one way that would most certainly prevent your marriage to Farquharson.’
‘Yes?’
There was such hope in that one little word. The subtle scent of oranges drifted up from Madeline Langley’s hair. Anticipation squeezed at Lucien’s heart. Fool! he chastised himself. Just ask her the damn question and be done with it. ‘Will you marry me?’ He felt the start of the slim body beside him, felt more than saw the shock upon her face.
‘You want me to be your wife?’ Disbelief raised her voice to a mere squeak.
‘Yes. It’s by far the best solution to our problem.’ He tried to convey that it was the logical answer for them both.
‘Lord Farquharson is my problem alone, my lord, not yours. You have no need to marry me. Why should you even care what he does to me, let alone wish to sacrifice yourself on my behalf?’
‘I have my reasons, Miss Langley. Suffice to say, it is in both our interests to stop him.’ Sacrifice was a very strong word, and the wrong word. It did not describe at all what it was that Lucien Tregellas was doing.
‘But marriage?’
Why should she find it so unbelievable? ‘Think of it as a marriage of convenience, if you prefer,’ he said, trying to make her feel easier.
‘I cannot just marry you.’
‘Why not?’
‘My family, the scandal—’
‘Would blow over. Your family will not suffer. I’ll ensure that. I’m not without influence, Madeline.’
She seemed embarrassed at the sound of her Christian name upon his lips, and glanced down nervously at her lap. He remembered how innocent she was.
‘Lord Farquharson would sue for breach of contract.’
‘It’s only money, a commodity of which I have plenty.’
A short silence, as if she was digesting his words. He heard her hands move against the blanket.
‘Such an act would publicly humiliate Lord Farquharson. He would be obliged to demand satisfaction of his honour.’
‘We both know that Farquharson has no honour.’
‘Society does not. He would call you out.’
‘So much the better.’
‘But your life would be in danger. He might injure you, or worse!’
He smiled then, a chilling smile, a smile that held in it five years of waiting, five years of hatred. The light from a street lamp glanced across his stark angular features, casting a sinister darkness to his handsome looks. ‘Have no fear of that. I promise you most solemnly that when I meet Farquharson across a field again I will kill him.’
Her breath expelled in one rush.
‘Have you any more objections, Miss Langley?’
‘It … it does not seem right, my lord.’
‘I assure you that it would be the best for everyone, involved.’
‘I-I’m a little shocked,’ she stuttered.
‘That is only to be expected,’ he said. ‘If you marry me, you would be well provided for, have anything you desire. I have no objection to you seeing your family as and when you please. You would be free to live your own life—within reason, of course. And, most importantly, you would be safe from Farquharson.’
‘What do you wish from me in return, my lord?’
He blinked at that. What did he want? All his careful thinking had not made it that far. He had not expected her to ask such a thing. And then he understood what it was she was asking, or at least thought he did. ‘Discretion,’ he replied, trying to be tactful.
When she still did not understand, he elaborated. ‘It would be a marriage in name only, Madeline. We would both go on just as before, nothing need change save your name and our living arrangements for a short while.’
She bowed her head. ‘You seem to have considered everything, my lord.’
Another silence.
‘Then you must choose, Madeline. Will you be my wife or Farquharson’s?’
She touched the fingers of her right hand against her forehead, kneading the spot between her eyes.
He could sense her tension. The small body next to his was strung taut as a bow. ‘Madeline,’ he said softly, and captured her left hand into his. ‘Your half-hour is fast expiring. Will you not give me your answer?’
She shivered. ‘Yes, my lord,’ she whispered, not daring to look round at his face. ‘I will marry you.’
His fingers communicated a brief reassurance to hers and were gone. ‘Thank you,’ he said, then thumped the roof of the carriage with his cane and thrust his face out of the window, ‘Home, please, Jackson.’
‘But … but aren’t we going back to Almack’s? What of my mama—?’
‘Speed is of the essence. I’ll send a note to your mother explaining our decision.’
‘I would prefer to tell her myself, my lord.’
The anxiety in her voice scraped at his conscience. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Madeline. You’ll see her soon enough when we’re safely married. I’ll explain all once we reach Cavendish Square.’
The carriage drove on in silence.
Chapter Five
Tregellas’s townhouse in Cavendish Square was not a house at all, not in the sense that Madeline knew. Mansion was the word she would have used in its stead. It was a large imposing building set back in a fine garden. The hallway alone was bigger than the parlour and dining room put together in the Langleys’ home. Floors beautifully laid with Italian marble, walls covered with exquisite neo-classical plasterwork—all nymphs and cherubs, wreaths and festoons—expensive oriental rugs, windows elaborately dressed with rich curtains, huge crystal chandeliers that shimmered in the light of a hundred candles. Madeline stared around her in awe.
‘This way, Miss Langley.’
Lord Tregellas steered her down a passageway and into the most palatial, enormous drawing room she had ever seen. But it wasn’t the luxurious décor or the expensive furniture that drew Madeline’s eye. That was accomplished much more readily by the two gentlemen standing before the fireplace, one of whom she had just seen at Almack’s Assembly Rooms, dancing with her sister: Viscount Varington and Colonel Barclay. Realisation dawned. She peered round at Lord Tregellas with great wide eyes. ‘You used your friends to distract Mama and Angelina!’
‘I did not think that Mrs Langley would welcome my direct approach.’
That was putting it mildly. Mama would have run squawking to Lord Farquharson as fast as her legs would carry her. Madeline’s brow wrinkled. But what, then, were the gentlemen doing here?
The men stepped forward, the taller of the two electing to speak. ‘Miss Langley, honoured to make your acquaintance at last.’ When he looked into her face she saw that he had the same pale blue eyes as Lord Tregellas. ‘I am Varington, and this is our good friend, Barclay.’
‘Your servant, Miss Langley,’ said the Colonel.
Then Madeline saw who was sitting quietly in the background. And the sight stilled the breath in her throat and brought a tremble to her legs. The elderly clergyman had dozed off in the comfort of the wing chair. The faint catch of a snore resonated in the silence of the room. ‘Lord Tregellas!’ Madeline swung round to find the Earl directly at her back. ‘You cannot … I did not think … Tonight?’
‘I took the liberty of procuring a special licence,’ Lord Tregellas said.
A snuffling and then a yawn. ‘Lord Tregellas, please do forgive me. Must have nodded off. One of the vices of old age, I’m afraid. And this …’he rummaged in his pocket, produced a pair of small round spectacles, and perched them on the end of his nose ‘… must be the bride.’ He peered short-sightedly in Madeline’s direction. ‘Lovely girl.’
Madeline blinked back at him, wondering if the clergyman could see at all.
‘Now …’ the clergyman placed an ancient liver-spotted hand on her shoulder ‘… I should check that this handsome devil hasn’t abducted you from beneath your mother’s nose.’ The clergyman chortled at the hilarity of his joke.
Viscount Varington smothered a cough and grinned at Tregellas.
Lord Tregellas showed not one sign of having heard anything untoward.
‘As if Lucien would have any need to do such a thing! Known him since he was a boy, and his brother there, too.’ The clergyman glanced across at the Viscount.
Madeline followed his gaze. So Lord Varington and Lord Tregellas were brothers. That explained the similarity in their looks.
‘Knew their father, too, God rest his soul.’ The clergyman patted her shoulder. ‘Sterling fellows, all three. Why, I remember in the old days—’
Lord Tregellas cleared his throat. ‘Reverend Dutton, Miss Langley is rather tired after her journey.’
‘Of course. Know the feeling myself.’ He peered in Lord Tregellas’s direction. ‘And you, sir, are no doubt impatient to make this lovely lady your wife. Now, where did I put it …?’ The clergyman patted at his pockets and gave Madeline a rather confused look. ‘Had it a minute ago.’
She felt Lord Tregellas step close against her back, looking over her head, impatience growing sharper by the minute. Her scalp prickled with the proximity of his large and very male body.
‘Ah, here we are!’ A battered old book was waved before them and the clergyman cleared his throat. ‘Dearly beloved, ye have brought this child here to be baptized … Oops, wrong one,’ mumbled Reverend Dutton. ‘Getting ahead of myself there somewhat. You won’t need that one for a little while yet.’
Madeline’s face flamed.
Lord Tregellas stiffened behind her.
‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of these witnesses, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.’ He stopped and beamed at Madeline. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ Lord Tregellas moved round to stand at her right-hand side and the rest of the old clergyman’s words passed as a blur. This was a binding ceremony in the eyes of both God and the law. By the end of it she would be Lord Tregellas’s wife; his wife, no less. Not half an hour ago she had been sitting in Almack’s, existing minute by minute, doomed by a promise to marry Lord Farquharson, empty save for despair. Now the threat of Cyril Farquharson was gone, removed in one fell swoop by the man standing by her side.
‘Madeline.’
His voice invaded her thoughts, pulling her back to the present, to the reality of her situation.
‘Madeline,’ he said again.
She looked up into those stark eyes. Saw a tiny spark of anxiety in them. Knew he was waiting for her answer. He was a stranger, she had only spoken to him on three evenings, and this was one of them. And he was Earl Tregellas. Tregellas, for goodness’ sake. The Wicked Earl! How did she even know that what he had told her about Lord Farquharson was true? What she was doing was madness. Absolute insanity. She should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. Well, only a little, if truth be told. He had spoken of instincts and trusting them. Every instinct in Madeline’s body told her that Lord Tregellas would not hurt her. He had saved her twice from Farquharson. Now he was prepared to give her his name to save her yet again. If she refused him, she knew full well what awaited her—Cyril Farquharson. Just the thought of that man conjured real fear.
His fingers touched to hers as if willing her to speak the words.
And she did.
More voices, more words, warmth of his hand on hers, touch of cold metal upon the third finger of her left hand. Then, with a brush of Lord Tregellas’s lips against her cheek, it was done. There would be no going back. She had just become Earl Tregellas’s wife, while all the while her mama sat unknowing, waiting for her in Almack’s.
‘Hell, I thought for a minute that she meant to refuse me in front of Reverend Dutton.’ Only Tregellas and his brother remained. Colonel Barclay had volunteered to see the clergyman safely home, and the critical letter had been dispatched to Mrs Langley via Lucien’s most trusted footman. Lucien filled two glasses, loosened his neckcloth, and sat down in the buttoned wing chair opposite his brother. Heavy burgundy-coloured curtains hung at the library window, blotting out the night beyond. The room was dark save for a single branch of candles upon the desk by the window and the flames that danced within the fireplace.
Guy helped himself to one of the glasses. ‘What would you have done if she had? The best-laid plan would have crumbled beneath a simple refusal.’
Lucien’s dark eyebrows angled dangerously. That would have necessitated the introduction of plan B.’
‘Plan B?’ echoed Guy intrigued.
The firelight exaggerated the clean angles and planes of Lucien’s face and darkened his eyes. ‘The one in which Miss Langley spends the night unchaperoned in the bachelor residence of Earl Tregellas. Come morning, without so much as touching her, I would have ensured that Miss Langley had no other choice but to marry me.’
‘My God, that’s wicked. Wicked but effective.’
Lucien shrugged and took a swig of brandy. ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures. It would have been in her best interest. And the Wicked Earl is, after all, expected to execute such things.’ But the blunt words did not prevent the stab of guilt at the thought of his betraying Miss Langley’s trust.
‘Then old Dutton’s reference to abducting Miss Langley from beneath her mama’s nose was even more applicable than we thought,’ laughed Guy.
‘I did not abduct her,’ said Lucien. ‘She came most willingly once I had explained the situation.’
‘And why not? I do not think there was much chance of her turning down your offer, Lucien. Half the women in London would give their right arm to become Lady Tregellas, no matter what they might say to the contrary. Little Miss Langley has done rather nicely out of your arrangement. Her mama could not have done half so well. Discarded a baron and came up with an earl.’
‘Guy,’ Lucien argued, ‘it isn’t like that.’
‘Why did you marry her? Like you said, you could have just kept her here for the night. That alone would have been enough to make Farquharson discard her and call you out. Then Farquharson would have been dead, Miss Langley safe, and you in a position to choose a more suitable bride.’
‘Miss Langley’s reputation would have been ruined. For what that counts for in this town, she might as well be dead, as be carved up by the tabbies. What kind of man do you take me for?’
Guy rolled his eyes and gave a cynical sigh. ‘To hear you speak, one might be pardoned for thinking they were talking to a bloody saint! Have you forgotten what you’ve spent the last five years doing, big brother? A one-man crusade to deliver vengeance on Farquharson.’
‘That’s irrelevant. I’m trying to protect her, not ruin her life.’
‘Oh, come, Lucien. Face facts. This isn’t really about the girl at all. It’s about appeasing your conscience and killing Farquharson.’
Lucien refilled their glasses. ‘Have a care that you don’t go too far, Guy,’ he warned.
‘Not far enough and not soon enough,’ said Guy. ‘Hell knows why I agreed to help you in the first place.’
‘Then why did you?’
In one swig Guy downed the remainder of his brandy. ‘Because you’re my brother, and I’m a fool, and … like you, I would not see Farquharson do to Miss Langley what he did to Sarah.’ He sighed. ‘It’s just that marriage seems rather drastic. If you think there’s not going to be any repercussions over this, you’re sadly mistaken, Lucien. When it comes to an heir, the Langleys aren’t exactly the best of breeding stock.’
‘You need not worry, Guy. I’ve told you already, as far as I’m concerned, you’re my heir. This marriage doesn’t alter that.’
Guy faced his brother with growing exasperation. ‘Unless you mean to leave the marriage unconsummated, then I don’t see how you can be so …’His eyes narrowed and focused harder on Lucien. ‘That’s exactly what you’re planning, isn’t it?’
Lucien tipped some more brandy down his throat. ‘As you said, little brother, although I might not have chosen to put it quite so bluntly, this marriage satisfies my need to protect an innocent woman and lure Farquharson to a duel, nothing else. I’ll see that Miss Langley is safe and has everything that she wants. But that’s as far as it goes. Our lives will resume as normal.’ He raked a hand through his ebony ruffle of hair. ‘All aspects of it.’
‘I think you may have underestimated the effects of married life.’ Guy replaced his empty glass upon the drum table.
‘And I think we’d better ready ourselves for a visit from Farquharson and Mr Langley.’
Guy waited until his brother reached the door before saying, ‘By the way, if Farquharson finds out that you haven’t bedded the girl, he’ll push to have the marriage annulled.’
‘Then we had better convince him otherwise,’ came the reply. But as Lucien closed the library door quietly behind him, unease stroked between his shoulder blades and the faint echo of oranges teased beneath his nose.
He took the stairs two at a time and knocked at the door that led to the Countess’s rooms. ‘Madeline,’ he said through the wooden structure, wondering as to the woman whom he had delivered here to this same door not twenty minutes since. He had warned her that Farquharson would come. It was not a matter of if, rather when. He remembered how pale she had looked and the slight tremor in her small cold hand as it lay in his. His grandmother had been a small woman, but her ring had swamped Madeline’s slender finger. He reminded himself for the umpteenth time that he had done what he had to to help the girl, to save her from Farquharson, but that didn’t stop him from feeling a brute.
She feared Farquharson … and trusted a man who had practically kidnapped her from an evening’s dancing. Why else would she have agreed to marry him? Guilt tapped harder at his heart. She trusted him, little knowing that he had sealed her fate from the moment she had climbed into his carriage. ‘Hell,’ he cursed through gritted teeth. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. The guilt was supposed to get better, not worse. He wondered what would have happened had he been forced to resort to plan B. Thank God it had not come to that. Madeline need never even know of its existence. At least this way she would feel that the choice had been hers. ‘Madeline,’ he said a bit louder and slowly opened the door that led to his wife’s bedchamber.
The room was empty; well lit, warm, luxurious, but empty. The only signs that Madeline had even been there were the slight crinkling of the bedcover as if she’d sat on top of it, and that faint familiar scent. Something rippled down Lucien’s spine. ‘Madeline,’ he said louder still, moving swiftly to the small dressing room and bathroom that led off from the main bedchamber. But Madeline wasn’t there either. ‘Madeline!’ It was almost a shout. Where the hell was she? Didn’t she know that Farquharson was out there, coming for them? He felt the pulse throb in his neck.
It was a long time since Lucien had felt fear, but it was fear for Madeline that was now pulsing the blood through his veins with all the force of Thor’s hammer. He reacted instantly, backing out of the room, moving smoothly, steadily towards the staircase. Adrenalin flooded through his muscles, lengthening his stride, tightening his jaw. The candle flames in the wall sconces billowed in the draught created by his progress, casting the long dark shadow of a man against the wall. He had almost reached the top of the stairs when he saw her treading up them.
‘Madeline.’ Her name snapped from his lips. His stride didn’t even falter, just continued right on up to her with the same determined speed. His arms closed around her, pulling her up against him, reassuring himself that it was really her, that she was safe. His lips touched to the sleek smoothness of her hair, his cheek grazing against the top of her head that reached just below his chin. The scent of oranges, so light, so clean, engulfed his nostrils. She was soft and malleable beneath his hands, warm and feminine. ‘Madeline.’ In that word was anger and relief in dual measure. ‘Where have you been?’ He knew that his voice was unnecessarily harsh. Her face raised to look up into his. Those amber eyes were dark and soulful, as if she was hurt, as if something had been shattered. All the anger drained away, to be replaced with relief. He made no effort to release his hands from her back. ‘Where were you?’ His eyes scanned her face, taking in the tension around her mouth and the pallor of her cheeks.
‘I was looking for you,’ she said in a quiet steady voice. ‘I wanted to ask you about when Lord Farquharson comes.’ Then she turned her gaze away. ‘I went to the drawing room, I thought you would be there.’
Lord, he was a fool. The girl had been through the mill. He supposed that this evening had not exactly been the wedding of which most women dreamed of. And Madeline was as likely to have had her dreams as any. It had been a long night and it wasn’t over yet. The worst was still to come. Farquharson would come before the night was over. Of that he could be sure. Without thinking he pulled her against him and dropped a kiss to the top of her head. ‘I was in the library with Guy, and I was coming to find you to discuss the same thing.’ He found he was strangely reluctant to disengage himself from her. He did so anyway, taking her hand in his. ‘Come,’ he said, leading her slowly back the way he had walked. ‘You should rest while you can. And what I have to say is rather delicate and requires some privacy. Your bedchamber is probably the best place.’ The irony of his last sentence struck him. She made no resistance, just followed where he would lead, but something had changed, he could see it in her eyes. He just didn’t know what.
Madeline perched at the edge of the pretty green striped armchair, beside the fire.
Lucien leaned against the mantelshelf above the fireplace, his foot resting against the white marble slabs.
She watched the warm glow of firelight illuminate his face. Such classically handsome features that could have come straight from one of the statues of Apollo displayed in the antiquities rooms of the British Museum, except she had always envisaged Apollo as golden and this man’s colouring was as stark as a raven’s wing against snow. Ebony hair, darkly shaped eyebrows and eyes of a blue so pale as to draw the attention of any woman who breathed. She could see why women still cast desirous looks in his direction despite the blackness of his reputation. Just to look at him caused a flutter in her stomach. Madeline stilled the flutter with a heavy hand. She did not know what the emotion was that caused the ache in her breast, just knew that it was there, raw and sore, since she’d overheard his words through the library door, since she knew that he had been untruthful.
Trust. So foolishly given, against all sense of reason, against all that society whispered him to be. She had deemed her own judgement better. And she had been proven wrong. His voice calling her name had been so filled with alarm and anger that she’d been sure that he knew of her eavesdropping. Not that she’d intended to do any such thing. She had been looking for him. That much was true. But it hadn’t been the drawing room to which she’d been directed by the young footman. Her knuckles had been poised to knock when she’d heard his voice, and that of Lord Varington. Despite knowing that it was against every shred of decency to listen, that was exactly what she had done. Now she would suffer the hurt of learning the truth. She waited for what he had to say.
‘Madeline.’ He sighed and raked his fingers through the ruffle of his hair, with the merest hint of agitation. ‘Farquharson will come tonight, hoping to forestall the marriage ceremony and … and subsequent events.’
She barely heard his words, rerunning the memory of his hands pulling her to him, the feel of his mouth against her hair, almost as if he cared for her. But Madeline knew otherwise. His voice had held relief. Why? The lie had slipped from her tongue; drawing room was so much easier to say than library. Lucien Tregellas did not need to know what she had heard.
‘The marriage certificate will prove him too late.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘There is also the matter of the …’ He paused and rephrased what he had been about to say. ‘It is important that we do not leave him any loopholes to exploit.’ He looked at her expectantly.
Madeline felt his gaze upon her. ‘No, my lord.’
‘You need not call me that, Madeline. You’re my wife now. My name is Lucien.’
‘Lucien,’ she whispered into the silence of the room. The name sounded too intimate upon her lips.
Lucien rubbed his fingers against the strong angles of his jawline. ‘As it stands there is such a loophole for Farquharson to find.’
Whatever was he talking of? She was married to him. He had said that would be enough to save her from the fiend. Had he lied about that too? ‘What loophole?’
‘There are certain expectations following a wedding.’
‘My lord?’
‘Lucien,’ he corrected.
‘Lucien, then,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand. You said that marriage to you would protect me from Lord Farquharson. Now you’re saying that it does not.’
He pulled the matching chair out from the side of the fireplace and dragged it so that it sat before her. Then he perched his large frame on its dainty green cushion and leaned forward to take both her hands within his. ‘No, Madeline. What I’m saying is …’ his thumbs caressed her fingers as if seeking to apply a balm to his words ‘… if it is discovered that the marriage has not been consummated, then it is possible for an annulment to be sought. It is not an easy process, but Farquharson may use anything that is available to him.’
Madeline stiffened and felt the blood warm in her cheeks. ‘But you said that you did not wish to … that it was not necessary.’ Her pulse picked up its rate. The butterflies stirred again in her stomach.
‘No, no,’ he said quickly, his thumbs sliding in fast furious strokes. ‘You’re quite safe.’
Was she? Beneath that sensuous stroking Madeline was starting to feel quite unlike herself. She became acutely aware of just how close his body was to hers, of the warmth that it generated, much hotter than any fire could ever be. The scent of his cologne surrounded her, causing an unexpected tightening in her breasts.
‘We need only pretend.’ One hand loosed to touch a finger gently to her chin. ‘Don’t look so afraid. I did not mean to frighten you.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ she said, and knew that she lied. But it was not Lucien Tregellas that frightened her, but the strength of the feelings that he ignited in her, feelings that the very righteous Madeline Langley had no right to feel. And then she remembered that she wasn’t even Madeline Langley any longer, but someone else altogether.
A loud thumping set up below. Someone was at the front door, someone intent on kicking it in by the sound of things.
‘Quickly!’ Lucien pulled her over to stand by the bed and peeled off his coat with a speed surprising for such a tight-fitting garment. The coat was thrown to the floor, closely followed by his waistcoat and neckcloth. ‘Take out your hairpins and remove your dress.’
‘My dress?’ Madeline gasped.
‘Make haste, Madeline,’ he said and began to tug his shirt out of his breeches. ‘We must make it look as if we have lain together.’
‘Oh, my!’ Madeline’s face blushed scarlet as she swiftly averted her eyes and made to follow his instructions. Pins scattered all over the bedchamber rug beneath their feet and soon her hair was long and flowing. Her heart thumped as loud as the banging at the door. She struggled to loosen the tapes at the back of her dress, but her fingers were shaking so badly that they fumbled uselessly. ‘Lucien,’ she breathed in panic, ‘I cannot—’
In one fluid motion her new husband ripped the dress open; the remainder of the tapes dangled torn and useless. His fingers brushed against her petticoats and shift, burning a path across the skin exposed above them. Madeline almost gasped aloud at the ensuing shimmer, but Lucien gave no sign of having been similarly affected. Together they stripped what remained of the dress from her. She stepped out of it, leaving it in a pile upon the floor.
‘Your petticoats and stays, too.’ His gaze dropped lower, ‘Slippers and stockings as well,’ he instructed.
Madeline did as she was bid, until she faced him wearing only her shift. As she clutched her arms across her front in embarrassment, she felt his fingers run through her hair, rubbing and raking, until neat tidiness was no more. She thought she heard him stifle a groan. Maybe he was worried that Farquharson wouldn’t be convinced. And then quite suddenly he stopped and stood back, scanning her appearance.
‘Very good,’ he said rather hoarsely, then touched his hand to her shoulders. ‘Rumple the bedcovers as if we have lain there. I’ll have Sibton bring you my dressing gown. Put it on over your shift and then wait here until I send for you. All you need do is agree with everything that I say and do not offer any other information. I will deal with all else.’
She nodded her agreement. No matter that he had misled her, she would rather marry Beelzebub himself than Cyril Farquharson.
‘All will be well, Madeline.’ His fingers slid against her face. ‘I’ll see Farquharson in hell before I let him touch you.’
Then he was gone, leaving only the trace of his cologne and the scald of his fingerprints against Madeline’s cheek.
Madeline sat on the edge of the bed, tense and alone, Lucien’s dressing gown wrapped around her. She had rolled the sleeves up as best she could, but still the blue-and-red paisley-patterned silk swamped her, making her feel like a little girl dressing up. She touched the sleeve against her nose, breathed in the clean smell of him, and somehow felt reassured. The strains of Lord Farquharson’s voice reached even here. Righteous indignation layered over malice and rage. And still he ranted on. The clock marked the pace of time, second by second, minute by minute. Lucien would send for her soon.
Gingerly she touched her fingers to where his had lingered, wondering that she could react to him in such a way. Her blood surged too strong, too fast. She closed her eyes, letting the sensation flood over her, trying to understand the nature of it. Her body was taut, but not through fear, primed as if readied, waiting, wanting. Wanting!
Madeline’s eyes flickered open with a start. Guilt washed a rosy hue across her cheeks. She buried the feelings back down where they belonged, deep in place from where they should never find release. Her heart was beating so loud she barely heard the discreet knock at the door. Thud. Thud. Thud. Her heart galloped. Her cheeks burned hotter.
‘My lady.’ The hushed voice sounded through the wood.
Madeline jerked back to reality. She rose from the bed, painfully aware of just what it was she was being summoned to do. Persuade Lord Farquharson that she had already lain with her husband, while all the while knowing the irony of the truth. Lucien did not want a wife. Most certainly he did not want to consummate his marriage. A mutually convenient agreement, he had said. Lucien would protect her; she did not doubt that for a minute. He would give her his name, let her live in his house, see that she did not want for money or anything that it might buy. She would be his Countess. She would be safe from Farquharson. It should have been everything that Madeline could want. So why did she have this feeling of loss and longing? There was no time to speculate. Drawing deep on her breath and her courage, she opened the bedchamber door and went to face what waited below.
Chapter Six
Anger resonated from Farquharson. His grey eyes darkened and there was a slight snarl about his lips. The waves of his deep red hair had been arranged to perfection. A slight shimmer of perspiration beaded above his lip. ‘I tell you, sir, he’s lying. Madeline is a gently reared woman. Do you honestly believe that she would abandon her mother and sister midway through an evening at Almack’s to elope with this … this scoundrel?’
‘I must confess, Lord Farquharson, that such an action seems most out of character for Madeline,’ said Mr Langley wringing his hands. He turned to the tall dark-haired man standing by the drawing-room fireplace. ‘You have shown us the marriage certificate, my lord, which does indeed appear to prove that you are now legally married to my daughter, but how do we know that Madeline consented to wed you? She is … she was betrothed to Lord Farquharson. To my knowledge she is not even acquainted with you.’
‘Then your knowledge is wrong, sir,’ said Lucien succinctly. He had no argument with Arthur Langley. The man was only doing what he thought right to protect his daughter. Lucien wondered that Langley ever could have agreed to marry Madeline to that snake in the first place. But then again, Langley wouldn’t have stood a chance against Farquharson.
‘He bloody well abducted her!’ snarled Farquharson. ‘Everyone knows of his reputation. He’s downright evil.’
‘Lord Farquharson,’ said Mr Langley, ‘I understand your distress, but rest assured that it does not measure in comparison with the extent of mine. We are all gentlemen here, I hope, and as such we should try to keep our language accordingly.’
‘Please excuse my slip, Mr Langley,’ said Farquharson from between stiffened lips.
Lucien looked at Arthur Langley. ‘The matter is easily enough resolved, sir. Call back tomorrow and speak with Madeline yourself. She will soon set your mind at ease.’
‘No!’ Farquharson moved to stand between the seated figure of Mr Langley and the tall, broad frame of Tregellas. ‘He seeks to buy time in which to consummate the marriage. Let him bring her out to face us now, before he has had time to intimidate her. By tomorrow the poor child will be so distraught she won’t know what she’s saying.’
‘Madeline is resting. It would be unfair to subject her to such scrutiny.’ Lucien’s teeth gritted with the rage that roared within him. That Farquharson had the audacity to accuse anyone else of the heinous crimes for which he himself was responsible!
Farquharson turned to plead his case with Mr Langley, dropping his voice to a more controlled volume. ‘Please, Mr Langley, I beg of you,’ he wheedled. ‘Do not subject Madeline to rape at this man’s hands. Look at his state of undress. He was readying himself for the task.’ He stared down into the older man’s eyes that were heavy with fatigue and worry. ‘We’ve arrived in the nick of time,’ he said convincingly. ‘There’s still time. Demand that he bring her out now. If she was party to this crime, as he claims, then why is he disinclined to do so?’
‘Lord Farquharson has a point,’ said Arthur Langley slowly. ‘I find myself unwilling to accept your word alone, sir. I cannot rest contented without seeing my daughter. Let me hear the words from her own lips and only then will I believe it.’ His skin was washed an unhealthy grey and the skin beneath his eyes hung in heavy pouches.
Lucien rang the bell, whispered a word in the suddenly appeared butler’s ear, and straightened. ‘As you wish, Mr Langley.’
Farquharson glanced at Mr Langley’s profile, then glared across the room at Lucien. ‘If you’ve so much as harmed one hair on my betrothed’s head …’
Ice-blue eyes locked with smoky grey. ‘Madeline’s my wife now, Farquharson.’
The tension in the room magnified one hundredfold. The challenge in Lucien’s voice was as blatant as a slap on the face.
Arthur Langley stared from one man to the other.
A soft tapping sounded and the door swung open to reveal Madeline.
Lucien’s heart turned over at the sight of her: small and slender, his dressing gown covering from her shoulders to her toes and beyond. Eyes the colour of warm aged honey sparkled in the candlelight and lips parted in expectation. Her dark blonde hair was mussed and beddy, its long tresses sweeping sensuously down to her waist. From the hint of a blush that sat across her cheeks to the little bare toes that peeped from beneath the edge of his robe, Madeline had the look of a woman who had just been loved. Lucien found the words emptied from his head, every last rehearsed phrase fled. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time, wondering that this woman could be his wife.
‘Lucien,’ she said softly and moved to stand by his side.
‘Good God!’ Mr Langley uttered weakly.
Farquharson stared, eyes bulging, panting like an enraged bull.
‘You see, Lord Farquharson,’ said Lucien, ‘Madeline is my wife in every sense of the word, and completely by her own volition.’
The drop of a pin would have shattered against the silence that followed his words.
‘Madeline?’ Mr Langley staggered to his feet. ‘Is what he says true? Did you willingly elope with Lord Tregellas?’ The brown eyes widened, scanning every inch of his daughter’s face.
‘Yes, Papa,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to hurt you, or Mama, or Angelina.’
Farquharson’s lips curled to reveal his small white teeth. ‘He is forcing her to this. The poor child is scared for her life!’
‘I assure you that is not the case. Madeline has nothing to fear from me.’ The emphasis on Lucien’s last word did not go unnoticed.
Mr Langley slowly shook his head, his eyes crinkling into closure, his shoulders rounding as if the burden upon them had suddenly become too much to bear. ‘Madeline, how could you? I thought that I knew my own daughter, but it seems that I’m wrong.’
‘No, Papa …’ Madeline made a brief move towards her father, only to find Lucien’s hand upon her arm.
Farquharson saw his chance. ‘See how he controls her! He’s trying to trick us!’
Mr Langley’s eyes slowly opened.
‘There has been insufficient time for him to have wedded and bedded her!’ Farquharson said crudely. ‘For all of the rumours, Tregellas is only a man, like any other. He would have to be superhuman to have had her in that time!’
‘Lord Farquharson, must you be so blunt?’ complained Mr Langley, but there was a light of revived hope in his eyes.
‘Madeline, my dove, you must tell us the truth,’ said Farquharson, edging closer towards Madeline. ‘We will not be angry with you.’ His eyes opened wide in an encouraging manner.
Lucien stepped forward, forming a barrier between Madeline and the two men. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ he asked in a quiet voice that could not hide the threat beneath.
Farquharson’s eyes narrowed, exaggerating the fox-like character of his features. His mouth opened to speak—
‘Lucien speaks the truth.’ Madeline shifted to stand by her husband’s side before Lucien knew what she planned. He felt her small hand slip into his. ‘I married him because I love him. And for that same reason I lay with him in the bed upstairs. He is my husband in truth; that fact cannot be undone, for all that both of you would wish it.’
Lucien’s heart swelled. He felt the faint tremble of her hand and knew what it cost her to say those words. His fingers squeezed gently against hers, his gaze dropping to the courageous stance of her slight frame.
‘I’m sorry, Papa. I hope that you may come to forgive me.’
Farquharson’s fury would be leashed no longer. ‘And what of me, Madeline? Where are your pretty words of apology for me?’ His anger exploded across the room. ‘Or don’t I count? Doesn’t it matter that you have just publicly humiliated me?’
‘Lord Farquharson, please!’ Mr Langley exclaimed.
‘I gave you my heart, Madeline, and this is how you repay me. It would have been kinder to decline me at the start.’
‘I tried to tell—’
But Farquharson was in full rant. ‘But no. You encouraged me, led me to believe that you would welcome my addresses. And now you run to Tregellas because you think to catch yourself an earl rather than an honest humble baron. There’s a name for women like you!’
‘Farquharson!’ The word was little more than a growl from Lucien’s mouth. ‘Don’t dare speak to my wife in—’
Farquharson continued unabated. ‘He only wants you because you were mine. He’s an evil, jealous, conniving bastard, and believe me when I say that—’
Lucien struck like a viper, his fist contacting Farquharson square on the chin.
Farquharson staggered back, reeling from the shock, his hand clutching at his jaw.
‘Now get the hell out of my house,’ said Lucien.
Farquharson drew his hand away and looked at the blood that speckled his fingers. ‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this, Tregellas. You’ve gone too far this time.’
‘Impugned your honour?’ suggested Lucien. ‘What do you mean to do about it?’
Mr Langley inhaled loudly.
Madeline’s face paled.
‘You’ll find out soon enough, Tregellas,’ said Cyril Farquharson, making his way towards the door. ‘And as for you, my sweet …’ his gaze lingered over Madeline ‘… you had better start praying. He’s not named the Wicked Earl for nothing. You’ll rue the day you cast me over for him.’ Farquharson peered round at Arthur Langley. ‘Come along, Mr Langley,’ he instructed. ‘There is nothing more than can be done this night.’
Mr Langley cast one last glance at his daughter and then followed. The last Madeline saw of her father was his face, pale and haggard and filled with hurt. The door banged and Mr Langley and Lord Farquharson were gone.
Lucien stood alone at the library window, the heavy burgundy curtains closed around his back. From the room behind came three chimes of the clock. The night sky was a clear inky blue; a waxing moon hung high amidst a smattering of tiny stars. The orangey-yellow glow of the street lamps showed the road to be empty aside from the sparkling coating of frost. Across the square the houses sat serene and dark, not even a chink of light escaping their windows. It seemed that all of London was asleep, all curled in their beds. The hectic humdrum of life had ceased—for now. Somewhere in the distance a dog howled; it was a lonely eerie sound that resonated all the way through to Lucien’s bones. It struck a chord. Lucien knew what it was to be lonely.
His thoughts shifted to the woman that lay upstairs: Lady Tregellas, his wife. It had been Madeline who had saved the evening, Madeline who had convinced Farquharson and her father that the marriage was real. He heard again her words, I married him because I love him. Such a quiet voice, but so strong in conviction that he had almost believed her himself. God only knew how much he wished it could be true. That any woman could love the man he had become: the man from whom God-fearing women fled, the man whose name was used to frighten naughty children into doing what they were told. It was something he would not ask of Madeline. He had promised her safety and that is exactly what he would give. The bargain they had agreed did not include anything else.
A marriage to ease the terrible guilt that had gnawed day and night at his soul these past five years. A marriage to bring Farquharson to his knees once and for all. That was all he wanted. The memory of Madeline’s small soft hand slipping into his, the sweet smell that surrounded her, the feel of that long silky hair beneath his fingers. Lucien shut his eyes against it. Such thoughts were not allowed. He could not. He would not. She deserved better than that. He parted the curtains to move back into the library, refilled his brandy glass, sat down in his favourite wing chair, and waited for the rest of the night to pass.
Madeline lay in the great four-poster bed in the bedchamber of the wife of Earl Tregellas. She had tossed and turned and sighed, and still sleep would not come. Wife. The word refused to enter her brain. Legally she was Lucien’s wife. In the eyes of God and the Church she was his wife. But she didn’t feel it. She still felt like plain Miss Madeline Langley, the same as she was yesterday and the day before, and the day before that. It was only the world around her that had changed. The threat of Farquharson had vanished. Mama, Papa and Angelina were fast asleep on the other side of town. Her own bed in the little bedchamber in Climington Street was empty while she lay here alone.
Her eyes travelled again to the mahogany door in the wall that separated her bedchamber from Lucien’s. Was he asleep? Did the fact that he was now married mean anything to him? Anything other than a means to bait Farquharson, and protect herself? She wondered why her safety and Farquharson’s demise meant so much to him, enough to marry a woman far beneath him, who was so plain as to have been unable to engage a single gentleman’s attention, save for Cyril Farquharson. But then again, Lucien barely knew her enough to stand up for a dance, let alone care if she suffered under Farquharson’s hands. And she barely knew him.
He had called Farquharson a murderer and said that her own life was at risk, so much so that he had been prepared to hold her hostage overnight to ensure her agreement to a marriage he promised would protect her. He had underestimated her loathing of Lord Farquharson if he thought that necessary. Madeline had the feeling that she had stepped inside something very dark where there were no answers to her questions. Maybe the answers lay with the woman that Farquharson had killed, if, indeed, Lucien had been telling the truth.
Madeline shivered. She thought of those ice-blue eyes and the cold handsome perfection of his looks. Thought, too, of the heat of his touch and the warmth in his voice. And of how his relief had washed over her as he wrapped her in his arms out in the hallway, and the gratitude in his eyes when he faced her after Farquharson and her papa had gone. No, Madeline thought, she had not escaped unchanged at all. Lucien Tregellas had awakened something deep within her. And that something was not part of their arrangement. A marriage of convenience, he had called it. A marriage to suit them both. Better this a thousand times over than facing Farquharson. It was the escape of which she could only have dreamt. She should have been basking in cosy contentment. But she wasn’t. When she finally found sleep, it was with the thought of the strong dark man who had made himself her husband.
The following morning Madeline and Lucien sat at opposite sides of the round breakfast table in the morning room. Sunshine flooded in through the windows, lighting the room with a clear pale clarity. The smells of eggs and ham, chops and warm bread rolls pervaded the air. Lucien poured a strong brown liquid into her cup, added a dash of cream, and soon the aroma of coffee was all that filled Madeline’s nostrils.
‘Did you sleep well?’ The answer was plain to see in her wan cheeks and the dark circles below her eyes, but he asked the question anyway.
Madeline nodded politely. ‘Yes, thank you. And you?’
‘Very well, thank you,’ he lied.
An awkward little silence followed.
‘Would you care for some eggs, or a chop, perhaps?’
‘No, thank you. The coffee will suffice.’ She gave a small half-smile and looked around the room, unsure of what to say next.
Lucien helped himself to some ham and rolls. ‘I was thinking,’ he said.
Madeline’s eyes wandered back to him.
‘Perhaps it would be better if we went away for a short while. It would let the worst of the gossip die down and allow your parents to grow accustomed to the idea of our marriage.’
‘Go away where?’ she asked.
Steam rose from Lucien’s coffee cup. ‘I have an estate in Cornwall. The house is close to Bodmin Moor and not so very far from the coast. There is not much shopping, but you could have a mantua maker take your measurements before we leave and have whatever you wish sent down from London.’ Lucien paused, trying to think of something else with which to make Cornwall sound enticing to a woman. ‘There is also the latest fashion for sea bathing in which you might care to indulge, and a very pretty beach at Whitesand Bay.’ He omitted to mention the positively arctic temperature of the sea at this time of year.
Shopping? Sea bathing? Madeline tried to look pleased. ‘It sounds very nice.’
Lucien continued, ‘There are frequent house parties in the locality and assembly rooms in the town of Bodmin some few miles away.’ Fourteen miles to be precise, but he did not want to put Madeline off.
‘For how long would we be away?’ She sipped at her coffee, cradling the cup between her hands as if it were some small delicate bird.
Lucien gave a casual shrug of his shoulders. ‘A few weeks,’ he said nonchalantly.
‘Very well.’ She smiled nervously. ‘I have nothing to take with me save the clothes I am wearing.’ She smoothed her hand a little self-consciously over the skirt of the evening dress she had been wearing at Almack’s last night; the dress in which he had married her.
Then he remembered what had happened to the tapes in his haste to remove that same dress. Something inside him tightened. Surreptitiously his eyes travelled to her neckline and sleeves. Nothing seemed to be amiss. He wondered if he ought to make an excuse to view the back of her, and thought better of it. ‘That can soon be remedied. Buy anything that you like, as much as you want, whatever the cost. Two days should suffice to make your purchases. We’ll leave the day after.’
‘I was not … I didn’t mean that you should …’ A delicate pink washed her cheeks.
A slight frown marred Lucien’s brow. ‘Then you do not wish to go?’
‘Yes,’ she said looking at him a little embarrassed. ‘I want to go to Cornwall. It’s just that … my requirements are not what you seem to think. I would like—’
‘More days to shop?’
‘Oh, no.’ Heaven forbid.
‘Then what?’
She bit at her bottom lip. ‘Nothing.’
Nothing? He looked at her expectantly.
‘I had better go and get ready. Such a long day ahead.’ She flashed a brief smile and escaped out of the morning room in a flurry of steps.
It was only when she had gone that it dawned on Lucien that Madeline was as ready as she would ever be, for she didn’t even have a pelisse or a bonnet in which to dress before facing the world.
Madeline sat across from the maid and the footman in the Tregellas carriage on the way back from a truly horrendous day’s shopping. It seemed that either Mama or Lord Farquharson had lost no time in ensuring that all of London had been apprised of the fact that she had eloped with Earl Tregellas. No one else had known and the notice of their marriage would not be published in The Times until tomorrow. Not that anyone had actually said anything directly to her face. Indeed, most people did not know who she was. But even so there were several speculative glances, a few hushed whispers and one episode of finger pointing. Mrs Griffiths in Little Ryder Street, studiously polite, gave no hint of knowing that her customer was at the centre of the latest scandal sweeping the city and furnished her with the bulk of her clothing requirements very happily. Brief visits to the perfumery in St James’s Street and Mr Fox’s in King Street went in much the same way. Only when in Mr Rowtcliff’s, the shoemaker, did she actually hear anything that was being said. Two robustly large ladies were deep in conversation as she arrived.
‘Abducted a girl clean from beneath her mother’s nose,’ said the shorter and ruddier of the two.
‘And forced her to a wedding,’ nodded the other. ‘He has a soul as black as Lucifer’s, that one.’
The smaller woman screwed up her face. ‘Who is she? Does anyone know yet?’
‘Oh, yes,’ replied her friend. ‘Plain little thing by the name of Miss Langley. That is, Miss Langley the elder. Got a pretty sister by all accounts. Heaven knows why he didn’t take her instead. Not quite the thing, the Langleys. House in Climington Street.’
The women exchanged a knowing look before continuing on their way, none the wiser that Madeline Langley had just witnessed every word that passed their lips.
Mr Rowtcliff and his assistant Mrs Phipps hurried back through, each with an armful of shoes and boots. ‘Of course, my lady, once we make your own shoes up they will fit like a glove. These are just some that we have that may pass in the meantime.’
Madeline bit down hard on her lip, pushed the women’s cruel words from her mind and chose some footwear as quickly as she could.
The clock struck three and still Cyril Farquharson had not roused himself from his bed. It was not that he was sleeping. Indeed, he had not slept at all since returning home from Tregellas’s townhouse last night. Anger had ensured that. The boiling of his blood had diminished to a simmer. At least now he could think beyond the desire to grind Tregellas’s face into the dirt. The Earl had outwitted him, snatching the girl to an elopement before Farquharson had realised his intent. And Farquharson’s best-laid plans lay in ruins. Madeline Langley would not be his. Her tender innocent flesh belonged to Tregellas now.
He had dismissed his initial instinct to call Tregellas out and kill him. Farquharson was no fool. Tregellas was bigger, stronger, his aim truer, his shot straighter. In a one-on-one confrontation, Tregellas would always win, just as he had won their duel five years ago. Farquharson’s leg still carried the scars to prove it. But one victory did not win the war. There were better means to that, underhand means that involved stealth and bribery and corruption. Farquharson had ever relied on others’ stupidity and greed.
Stealing Farquharson’s betrothed from beneath her mama’s nose at Almack’s was a stroke of genius. Even through his anger, Farquharson had to admire Tregellas’s move. It was an action worthy of Farquharson himself. And it sent a message loud and clear. Farquharson knew what this was about. Hadn’t he always known? A mirror of past events. Farquharson smiled. No, he would not call Tregellas out. There were easier ways to catch the Earl. He thought of Madeline Langley and the way that her hand trembled beneath his. He thought too of the fear in her pretty amber eyes and how she struggled within his grip. He wanted her and he would have her, and the fact she was Tregellas’s wife would serve to make the experience all the sweeter. After five long years, the game had begun in earnest once more.
The journey to Earl Tregellas’s country seat in Cornwall was long and tiresome. It did not matter that Lucien’s travelling coach was of the most modern design, sprung for comfort and speed. Or that the man himself had filled it with travelling rugs and hot stone footwarmers to keep her warm. Madeline’s bones ached with a deep-set weariness, not helped by the fact she had not slept properly for the past few nights. Every night was the same. Nightmares in which Cyril Farquharson’s face leered down at her, whispering that he was coming to catch her, promising that there would be no escape. She woke in a cold sweat, terror gnawing at her gut, afraid to let her eyes close lest Farquharson really did make true on those nightmarish oaths.
Lucien sat opposite her, long legs stretched out before him, looking every inch as if he was sitting back in the comfort of an armchair. The bright daylight shining in through the window showed him in clarity. The stark blue eyes were hooded with long black lashes, the harshness of his handsome features relaxed in sleep. Gentle even breaths sounded from his slightly parted lips. Madeline’s gaze lingered on that finely sculpted mouth. All signs of tension around it had vanished. No tightly reined control remained. Just hard chiselled lips. She wondered what it would be like to place a kiss upon them. Madeline licked her own suddenly dry lips, gulped back such profoundly unsuitable thoughts and concentrated on looking out of the window. The countryside surrounding the Andover Road swept by in a haze of green and brown. The daylight was white and cold. Madeline found her eyes wandering back to Lucien once more.
His skin was a pale contrast to the darkness of his angular-shaped eyebrows and the black dishevelment of his hair. Sleep stole the severity from Lucien’s face, imposing on it a calm serenity, as if it was only in sleep that he found peace. The fine lines around his eyes and mouth seemed to disappear. Indeed, the more that Madeline looked, the more she found she could not drag her eyes away. Her fingers itched to touch against that blue-stubbled jawline, that bold strong nose, those lips. Although the air within the carriage was cool, Madeline began to feel rather warm. She stared and stared some more. She was just considering the length of his legs and how muscular his thighs were through those rather tight pantaloons when she noticed that Lucien’s eyes were no longer closed. Indeed, he was regarding her with something akin to amusement.
Her eyes raised to meet that lazy stare.
He smiled, and it seemed that something of sleep must still be upon him for his face still held a peaceful look. ‘Warm enough?’ he asked.
Madeline’s cheeks grew hotter still. ‘Yes, thank you.’ Had he seen her staring?
The smile deepened.
Oh, Lord! Madeline hastily found something that necessitated all of her attention out of the window.
‘We’ll reach Whitchurch by nightfall and put up in an inn there. The White Hart usually serves me well.’
Madeline didn’t trust herself to speak, just nodded.
‘Are you hungry? There’s still some cold pie left in the lunch basket.’
‘No, thank you. I’ll wait until we reach Whitchurch.’
‘Well, in that case …’ said Lucien and closed his eyes once more.
Madeline was careful to keep her gaze well averted.
The White Hart was quite the busiest coaching inn that Madeline had ever seen. Not that she was in the habit of frequenting such places, but there had been that time that Mama had taken her and Angelina to visit Cousin Mary in Oxford. The inn seemed to consist of a maze of dimly lit, winding corridors leading from one room to another. This said, the private parlour that Lucien had arranged for them was clean and tidy, as was the place as a whole. The food that the landlord and his wife brought was simple, but wholesome. A stew of beef with carrots, a baked ham, potatoes and a seed cake. They called her my lady and were polite. No whispers followed her here. No gossip. Madeline breathed a sigh of relief and ate her stew.
‘Some ham?’ suggested her husband.
‘No, thank you.’
‘A slice of cake, then?’
‘No.’ Madeline shook her head.
Lucien’s brows twitched together. He seemed to be finding Madeline’s dinner plate worthy of a stare. ‘You don’t eat very much,’ he finally said.
‘I eat enough,’ she replied defensively. In truth, her appetite had shrunk since meeting Cyril Farquharson. She picked at her food, nothing more. Three days as Lucien’s wife had not changed that.
He said nothing more, just looked at her with those pale eyes.
Madeline knew she should not have snapped at him. It was not his fault that her bones ached and her head was so tired she could scarcely think. ‘Forgive me, Lucien. I’m just a little tired.’
‘It’s been a long day and we have an early start in the morning. We should go to bed. Finish your wine and I’ll take you up.’
His words caused Madeline’s heart to stumble. She sipped a little more of the claret, then pushed her chair back.
He looked at the half-full glass but forbore to comment on it.
‘We are to share a room?’ Madeline glanced up at her husband, surprise clear upon her face as he followed her into the room and closed the door.
‘It is not safe to sleep alone,’ he said.
‘But—’
‘No buts, Madeline. It is for a short while only and you’ll be safe. I’m not quite the monster society would paint me.’ There was a hard cynical catch to his voice. ‘I’ll go back downstairs that you might undress. Lock the door and do not open it for anyone except me.’
She nodded her head.
And he was gone.
The key turned easily within the lock as if it was kept well oiled. She turned to survey the bedchamber. The bed was situated on the right-hand side, facing out into the room and towards the warmth of the fireplace where a small fire burned. At the right-hand side of the bed and behind the door was a sturdy chest of drawers on top of which sat a pitcher and basin and a towel. A plain spindle chair and a small rug had been placed beside the fireplace.
Madeline walked over to the bed, running her hands over the bed linen, feeling the firmness of the mattress. Everything was clean and fresh, if a little worn. Such humble simplicity seemed a surprising choice for a man who held an earldom. She’d imagined him demanding something more luxurious, more ostentatious. And the landlord and his wife hadn’t cowered from Lucien. In fact, when she thought about it, their attitude hadn’t been dutiful at all. Friendly was definitely a more accurate description. Strange. Especially for a man with Lucien’s reputation.
She sat down heavily on the bed, fatigue pulling at her shoulders and clouding her mind. Her new brown pelisse slipped off easily enough, folding neatly beneath her fingers. Next came her bonnet, shoes and stockings. The dark green travelling dress proved more difficult to remove without assistance, but with perseverance and a few elaborate body contortions Madeline soon managed. She made her ablutions, resumed the protection of her shift, removed the warming pan from the bed, and climbed in. The sheets were warm against her skin, thanks to the thoughtfulness of whoever had placed the warming pan within. She stretched out her legs, wriggled her toes and, breathing in the smell of freshly laundered linen, relaxed into the comfort of the mattress. Bliss. For the first time in weeks Madeline was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
A soft tapping sounded from the door. Madeline opened one drowsy eye and peered suspiciously at the oaken structure.
The knocking grew louder.
The pillow was so soft and downy against her head, the covers so enticingly warm.
‘Madeline,’ a male voice whispered.
Madeline forced the other eye open, levered herself from beneath the sheets and padded through the darkness of the room towards the sound. Her hand touched to the key and stilled.
‘Madeline, it’s Lucien.’
Her fingers hesitated no longer. The key turned. The door cracked open by the smallest angle, letting in the candlelight of the well-lit landing. Lucien was looking right back at her. The piercing gaze of his eyes blasted away any remnants of sleep from Madeline’s mind. She said nothing, just opened the door wider and watched with a beady eye while he entered. There was only one bed: Madeline waited to see what her husband intended.
He locked the door before moving to the chair by the glowing hearth. First his coat was discarded, followed closely by his neckcloth and waistcoat. The bottom drawer in the chest opened to reveal a blanket. Lucien extracted it, kicked off his boots, sat himself down in the chair, and pulled the blanket over his body. All in less than two minutes.
Madeline’s toes were cold upon the floor. She still lingered beside the door.
‘Goodnight, Madeline,’ he said and, leaning back in the chair, closed his eyes.
Her mouth opened, then closed. ‘Goodnight.’ She climbed back beneath the covers, looked again at the figure of her husband slumped awkwardly in the small chair. The bed was spacious and warm. Madeline bit at her lip. Offering to share the bed might be misconstrued. And he could have taken two rooms for the night instead of only one. Madeline stifled the guilt and closed her eyes against the discomfort of the chair, only to open them several times to check upon Lucien’s immobile figure. Sleep crept unobtrusively upon her and Madeline’s eyes opened no more.
Chapter Seven
‘Madeline.’ His voice was honeyed, but beneath the sweetness she knew there was venom. ‘My love,’ he whispered against her ear. His lips, hard and demanding, trailed over her jaw. ‘Did you think that you could escape me, my sweet?’ Bony fingers clawed at her arms, raking her flesh, tearing at her dress. ‘There’s a name for women like you.’
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘I know the truth,’ he said, his mouth curving to reveal those small sharp teeth. She looked up into the eyes of Cyril Farquharson. ‘And I’m coming to get you. Tregellas cannot stop me from taking what is mine.’
‘No.’ Madeline shook her head, denying the words she dreaded so much. Nausea churned in her stomach. Fear prickled at her scalp and crept up her spine.
The blow hit hard against her cheek. Breath shuddered in her throat. She staggered back, searching for an escape, running towards the door. Her skirts wound themselves around her legs, contriving to trip her, pulling her back to him. She fought against them, reaching out towards the doorknob. Her fingers grasped at the smooth round wood. Turned.
Pulled. The door held fast. The handle rattled uselessly within her clasp. Panic rose. She wrenched at it, scrabbled at it, kicked at the barrier. And then she felt the hot humid breath against the back of her neck and the gouge of his nails as he tore her round to face him.
‘No, please, Lord Farquharson, I beg of you. Please do not!’
Cyril Farquharson only laughed and the sound of it was evil to the core. He was laughing as he ripped open her bodice to expose her breast, and still laughing as he raised the dagger ready to plunge it into her heart.
‘No!’ Madeline screamed. ‘No! No!’
‘Madeline.’
Madeline’s eyes flew open with a start to find herself sitting up in the bed with a man’s strong arms around her. Fear surged strong and real. Farquharson? She struggled against him.
‘It’s all right.’ The voice was calm and soothing. ‘You’ve had a nightmare.’ Cool fingers stroked at her head and then ran over her cheeks to gently tilt her face round to look at his. ‘Farquharson isn’t here. It’s just a bad dream.’
‘Lucien?’ The word trembled, as did the rest of her. Her heart still kicked in her chest and her throat felt like its sides had stuck together. Slowly she remembered the room in the White Hart and saw the dying embers of the fire across on the hearth.
Firm lips touched to her forehead, murmuring words of comfort. ‘Go back to sleep, Madeline. I’m here, nothing can harm you.’
The darkness was so thick as to mask him. Just the hint of the angle of a jaw and the suggestion of a nose. She moved her hands up to his face, lightly caressing his features. ‘Lucien?’ she said again, touching her fingers against the stubble on his chin.
‘Yes,’ came the deep reassuring voice that she had come to recognise. He eased her back down against the bed, pulling the covers up and tucking them around her. ‘You should go back to sleep. You’re safe. I’ll be watching over you.’ His fingers trailed a tender caress against her cheek as he moved away.
His skin had felt cold against hers. Madeline sat back up, peering towards the fireplace. ‘Lucien?’
‘Mmm?’ There was the sound of a woollen blanket being arranged and the creak of the wooden chair beneath his weight.
The air within the room was not warm. Madeline shivered against its chill. No wonder he was freezing, sitting in that uncomfortable little chair all night with just one thin blanket against the plummeting temperature. ‘You … you could come and sleep over here.’
Silence. As if he hadn’t heard what she’d just suggested.
But Madeline had felt his weariness and the chill in his limbs. ‘There’s plenty of room for us both and it’s nice and warm. Much better, I’d guess, than that chair.’
A moment’s hesitation and then from the other side of the room, ‘Thank you, Madeline, but my honour does not allow me.’
Madeline stifled a snort. Lord, but he had the pride of the devil. She dozed for what was left of the night, stealing looks into the darkness, guarding against the return of Farquharson, even if it was in her dreams.
The next day both Lucien and Madeline were tired and wan-faced. A hasty breakfast and then their journey resumed, moving slowly, increasingly closer to Cornwall and the Tregellas country estate. They travelled along the Dorchester Road, making good progress despite the chill wind. A brief stop at the Three Swans in Salisbury for lunch and then they pushed on, travelling further south as the daylight dimmed and the dark clouds gathered. The rain, when it started at first, was a collection of a few slow drops. But each drop was heavy and ripe, bursting to release a mini deluge. One drop, then another, and another, faster and faster, until the road was a muddied mess of puddles, and the rain battered its din against the coach’s feeble body. They put up for the night at The Crown in Blandford, a coaching inn that had none of the welcome of the White Hart, and was filled with travellers wishing to escape the worst of the downpour. Only the production of several guineas served to procure them a room for the night and the shared use of a small parlour. They ate hurriedly, exchanging little conversation, listening to the hubbub of noise that drifted in from the public room, and the batter of wind and rain against the windows.
Lucien downed the remainder of the brandy and scanned the faces around the room. Old men, young men, peasants, servants, farmers and gentlemen. The weather was an effective leveller of class. Even the odd woman, hag-faced, sucking on a pipe, or young with an obvious display of buxom charm. But thankfully the face that Lucien sought was not present. He wondered how long it would be before Farquharson would come after them, for he had not one doubt that he would. Now he knew that Farquharson would never call him out. The weasel wasn’t man enough to face him again across an open field. Farquharson would use different methods altogether. The lure had worked, just not in the way that Lucien might have imagined. Farquharson would be part of the gossip: an object of ridicule, someone to be pitied. That was not something that Cyril Farquharson was likely to suffer for long. With cold and deliberate calculation Lucien had unleashed the demon. Farquharson would come for him now, at long last. Finally, after all these years. The satisfaction was tempered by the knowledge that he would not be Farquharson’s only target.
He remembered the expression on Farquharson’s face the last time he had looked at Madeline, when he had spoken so cruelly to the woman who was now Lucien’s wife. She was a softer, easier target for revenge and one that would enable Farquharson to score Lucien’s old wounds afresh. And in that memory he realised that it was Madeline that Farquharson would target. Lucien’s mouth compressed to a hard line. He had promised her safety. And, by God, she would have it. When Farquharson came, Lucien would be ready. He blinked the fatigue from his eyes, wondering if Madeline would be beneath the covers yet. Then he sat the glass upon the wooden counter and slowly took himself up the stairs that led to their chamber.
He shifted restlessly in the small hard chair, feeling the ache in his shoulders and back growing stronger by the minute. His head was foggy with exhaustion, his eyes gritty and sore. Yet still merciful sleep eluded him. The memory of Farquharson jabbed at him like a sharp stick, taunting him with the terrible deeds from their shared past. Deeds that had stolen Lucien’s peace, destroyed the man he used to be, and made him the cold hard cynic he was now. The mean fire had long since burned out; grey raked ashes lay in a cold pile. Lucien huddled beneath the layers of his coat and the blanket, and tried to breathe warmth into his fingers. He pushed the thoughts far from his mind, struggled to escape from their oppression. Another sleepless night stretched ahead. He should be used to it by now. Then he heard it: the small movement from the bed; the change from her soft even breaths to staccato gasps; a mumbled cry; the twisting of her body beneath the sheets.
He trod quietly across the wooden flooring and leaned towards the bed.
‘No, Lord Farquharson …’ A whisper of torment that wrenched at his heart.
Lucien’s teeth clenched tighter. Last night had not been in isolation then. Madeline too knew what it was to suffer the terror of the night demons. There was an irony in the fact that the same man lay at the root of both their nightmares. He reached a hand out towards her, touched it gently against her face. The skin was wet beneath his fingers. Sobs racked her body. He could feel her fear, understand her terror. ‘Madeline,’ he whispered, trying to pull her from its grasp.
‘No!’ she sobbed louder.
His mouth tickled against her ear. ‘Madeline, wake up. It’s a nightmare. You’re safe.’
‘Lucien?’
He stroked her hair and wiped the dampness from her cheek. ‘You’re safe,’ he whispered again and again, lying his length on top of the covers, pulling her into his arms.
Gradually he felt the tautness of her body relax as she snuggled into him. Her breathing slowed, the frenzied beat of her heart steadied against his chest. He inhaled the scent of her, revelled in the feel of her softness, of her trust, and knew that he didn’t deserve it. He swallowed down temptation and with steadfast resolve gently began to ease a space between them. He had just managed to roll away when he felt the sudden grip of her hand around the flat of his stomach.
‘Please stay,’ she whispered into the darkness.
And Lucien knew that he was lost. He could no sooner ignore the plea in her voice than he could cut off his own arm. She was afraid. She needed him, he told himself, and ignored the stubborn little voice deep down inside that told him that he needed her, too.
‘Come beneath the covers.’
‘Madeline.’ There was an agony of denial in his whisper as he gently shook his head.
‘I’m so cold.’
‘Oh, God,’ Lucien ground out and promptly climbed beneath the covers of the bed.
She didn’t feel cold. In fact, Lucien would have sworn that she was positively warm. He lay motionless by her side, trying not to feel the slight body that rose and fell against him. She snuggled in closer and wrapped her arm around him. Lucien closed his eyes and enjoyed the soft gentleness of his wife, basking in her smell and her warmth. Slowly, he floated on a feather cushion of bliss into the black comfort of sleep.
Madeline felt the chill in her husband’s body and opened herself against him, sharing her warmth. Her hand slid over the soft lawn of his shirt, resting against the strong muscle beneath. She noticed how strange a man’s body felt in comparison with her own—all taut hardness, large, long and lean, with such a suppressed strength that her eyes flickered open, straining through the darkness to see him. He lay rigid as a flagpole, completely immobile, as if he exerted some kind of tense control over his muscles and limbs, almost fighting sleep. It appeared that Lucien Tregellas was not a man who allowed his guard to slip. He might feign an easiness of style, as if he did not care what happened around him, but it seemed to Madeline that there was something dark and watchful about her husband. What was it that he guarded so carefully against? The only time she had seen the guard drop was yesterday in the travelling coach when he had fallen asleep. Peace had touched his face then. There was nothing of peace in the large body now lying beside her own.
She lay her palm flat against his ribs and snuggled in close so as to feel the beating of his heart. She breathed in the scent of him—a heady mix of bergamot and the underlying smell that was uniquely Lucien. Cyril Farquharson and the stuff of Madeline’s nightmare drifted far away. All she knew, all she felt, was the presence of the man lying next to her, filling her nostrils, beneath the tips of her fingers, against her breast and waist and thighs. Warming. Strong. Sure. No matter that theirs was a marriage of convenience, a marriage in name only—nothing had ever felt so right as the man that she called husband. She closed her eyes against him, felt the tight muscles beneath her fingers relax. His breathing eased, letting go, the guard slipping slowly and steadily, until she knew that he slept. She smiled a little smile of contentment into his chest, placed a kiss through the lawn of his shirt, and gave herself up to follow the same path.
Lucien awoke with an unusual sense of calm contentment. He lay quite still, trying to capture the essence of the fragile moment, reticent to lose it. The first strains of daylight filtered through the thin curtains stretched across the window. Lucien opened one bleary eye and reality jolted back into place. As the warm body beside him nestled in closer, he realised the exact nature of his predicament. A woman’s soft body was curved into his, like a small spoon lying atop another. Her feet touched against his leg, her back fitted snug all the way up from his abdomen to his chest. Not only did he find that his arm was wrapped possessively around her, but his hand was resting against the small mound of her breast. As if that were not bad enough, her buttocks were pressed directly against his groin. Worst of all, Lucien was in a state of blatant arousal. The breath froze in his throat.
Madeline gave a little sigh and wriggled her hips closer into him.
Lucien captured the groan before it left his mouth, and gently removed his hand from the place it most certainly should not have been. Sweat beaded upon his brow. No woman had ever felt this good, like she belonged in his arms. He could have lain an eternity with Madeline thus and never wished to resume his life. Except that he must not. Never had he wanted to love a woman as much as he wanted to love Madeline right at that moment. Every inch of his body proclaimed its need. Lucien gritted his teeth. A fine protector he would be if he took advantage of her. Little better than Farquharson. Not like Farquharson, a little voice whispered. She’s your wife. You care for her. Lucien slammed the barrier down upon those thoughts. What he cared about was justice and retribution. He eased a distance between their bodies, but he had reckoned without Madeline.
From the depths of her dream Madeline felt him slipping away and sought to recapture the warm contentment that he had offered. She rolled over and thrust an arm over his retreating body.
Lucien stifled the gasp. Hell, but was a man ever so tempted? For a brief moment he allowed himself to relax back into her, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his, inhaling her scent, sweeping his hand lightly over her back to rest upon the rounded swell of her hips. ‘Madeline.’ Her name was a gentle sigh upon his lips. In the greyness of the dawn he studied her features: the long black lashes sweeping low over her eyes, the straightness of her little nose, the softness of her lips parted slightly in the relaxation of slumber. Lucien swallowed hard as his gaze lingered over her mouth. He experienced the urge to cover her lips with his; to kiss her long and deep and hard; to show her what a husband and his wife should be about. But he had promised both her and himself that he would not.
He heard again her question of that night that now seemed so long ago, although it was scarcely four nights since: What do you wish from me in return, my lord? And he remembered the proud, foolish answer he had given: Discretion … a marriage in name only … nothing need change. But as he lay there beside her, he knew that he had lied. Everything had changed. He knew very well what he wanted: his wife. Lucien’s jaw clenched harder. That wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal. He looked at her for a moment longer, then allowed himself one chaste kiss against her hair, her long glorious hair, all tousled from sleep. Quietly he slipped from the bed.
Madeline reached for the warm reassurance of her husband’s body and found only bare sheets. Her fingers pressed to the coolness of the empty linen. Gone. She sat up with a start, eyes squinting against the sunlight filtering through and around the limp square of material that passed for a curtain. His name shaped upon her lips, worry wrinkled at her nose.
‘Good morning, Madeline.’ He was lounging back as best he could in the small chair, watching her.
Surely she must still be dreaming? Madeline watched while his mouth stretched to a smile. A tingling warmth responded within her belly. Most definitely this could only be a dream. Part of the same nocturnal imaginings in which she had lain safe within Lucien’s strong arms all the night through, shared his warmth, and felt his hand upon her breast. Madeline blushed at the visions swimming through her mind, rubbed at her eyes and cast a rather suspicious look in his direction. ‘Lucien?’
‘I thought I might have to carry you sleeping out into the coach. You seemed most resistant to my efforts to wake you.’ He was fully dressed, his hair teased to some semblance of order; even the blue shadow of growth upon his chin had disappeared. Her gaze lingered over the strong lines of his jaw and the chiselled fullness of his lips.
Madeline’s blush deepened as she remembered exactly what she had been dreaming about. ‘I must have been very tired to sleep so long. I’m normally awake with the lark. I don’t usually lie abed.’
‘You appear to be mastering the art well,’ said her husband with a wry smile. ‘Did you sleep well?’
Madeline’s heart skipped a beat. Had last night been real? Or a wonderful dream that followed hard on the heels of a hellish nightmare? The touch of him, the smell of him, the chill in those long powerful limbs. No, she couldn’t have imagined that, could she? ‘Yes. After you … after the nightmare passed, I slept very well, thank you.’
The smile dropped and his voice gentled. ‘Do you dream of Farquharson every night?’
‘How did you know?’
‘You uttered his name aloud.’
They looked at one another. Warm honey brown and pale blue ice.
‘I did not mean to wake you,’ she said.
‘I was awake anyway. As you correctly observed, the chair does not make the most comfortable of sleeping places.’ He paused. ‘You have not answered my question.’
There was a difference about his face this morning. Nothing that she could define exactly, just something that wasn’t the same as yesterday. ‘Yes. He has haunted my dreams since I first met him. Even before … before he tried to …’ She let the sentence trail off unfinished. ‘Every night without fail, he’s there waiting in the darkness. I know it sounds foolish, but sometimes I’m afraid to fall asleep.’
Understanding flickered in Lucien’s eyes. ‘He would have to come through me to reach you, Madeline, and that will only happen over my dead body.’
It seemed that in the moment that he said it a cloud obliterated the sun, and a cold hand squeezed upon her heart. ‘Pray God that it never happens,’ she said.
‘It won’t,’ he said with absolute certainty. ‘I’ll have stopped him long before.’
‘We’ll be safe in Cornwall, though. He won’t follow us there, will he?’
Lucien did not answer her question, just deflected it and changed the subject. ‘Put Farquharson from your thoughts. The fresh water was delivered only a few minutes ago; it should still be warm.’ He gestured towards the pitcher. ‘I’ll go and order us breakfast. Will fifteen minutes suffice to have yourself ready?’
Madeline nodded, and watched the tall figure of her husband disappear through the doorway. So, even down in Cornwall, so far away from London, the threat of Cyril Farquharson would continue.
The hours passed in a blur. At least the weather held fine until the light began to drain from the day. Then a fine smirr of rain set up as the darkness closed, and they sought the sanctuary of the New London Inn in Exeter. It was the same pattern as the previous two nights. He had promised that they would reach Trethevyn by tomorrow. This would be their last night on the road, his last excuse to share her bedchamber. Lucien thrust the thought away and denied its truth. His presence was just a measure of protection. Or so he persuaded himself. If Lucien had learned anything in the years he’d spent waiting, it was to leave nothing to chance. The busy throng within a coaching inn provided opportunity for Farquharson, not safety from him.
Sharing a bed with Madeline had been an unforeseen complication. Lucien’s loins tightened with the memory. He tried to turn his mind to other matters, but memory persisted. No matter how damnably uncomfortable the chair, or the sweet allure of her voice, or, worse still, her soft welcoming arms … Lucien’s teeth ground firm. He’d be damned to the devil if he was stupid enough to make the same mistake twice. Take the chair, not the bed, he thought, and made his way up the scuffed wooden staircase of the New London Inn.
Surprisingly the room was not in darkness. The fire still blazed and a candle flickered by the side of the bed. The small room welcomed and warmed him. Still hanging grimly on to his determination, he made his way over to the chair and slipped out of his coat. Not once did he permit his gaze to wander in the direction of the bed and the woman that lay within it. He just kept his focus on the chair, that damned wooden chair, and started to undress.
‘Lucien,’ she said in a quiet voice.
He stilled, his boot dangling in his hand. Temptation beckoned. His eyes slid across to hers … and found that she was sitting up, watching him, her hands encircling the covers around her bent legs, her chin resting atop her blanketed knees. ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, hoping that she would not notice the huskiness in his voice.
‘I wondered if you might … if you would …’ The candlelight showed the rosy stain that scalded her cheeks.
Oh, Lord! Lucien knew what it was that his wife was about to ask.
‘I thought perhaps if you were here that … that Farquharson … that the nightmares might not come …’ She glanced away, her face aflame, her manner stilted.
Lucien felt her awkwardness as keenly as if it were his own. How much had it cost her to make such a request? Hell, but she had no idea of the effect that she had upon him. She was an innocent. The boot slipped from Lucien’s fingers. He raked a hand roughly through his hair, oblivious to the wild ruffle of dark feathers that fanned in its wake. ‘Madeline,’ he said gruffly, ‘you don’t know what it is that you ask.’
She gestured towards the empty half of the bed. ‘It seems silly that you should be cold and uncomfortable on a hard rickety chair when there is plenty room for both of us in this bed.’
Better that than risk the temptation that lay in what she was so innocently offering. Lucien opened his mouth to deny it.
‘I do trust you, Lucien.’
She trusted him, but the question was—did he trust himself? The warmth of her sweet gaze razed his refusal before it had formed.
‘Madeline,’ he tried again, raking his hair worse than ever.
She smiled, and pulled the bedcovers open on the empty side of the bed, his side of the bed. ‘And it’s not as if my reputation can be ruined by our sleeping in the same bed. We are at least married.’ She snuggled down under the covers and waited expectantly.
Lucien knew that he was lost. Could not refuse her. Swore to himself that he would not touch her. Still wearing his shirt and pantaloons, he climbed in beside her.
Madeline felt the mattress dip beneath his weight. Safety and excitement in equal dose danced their way through her veins. She knew that she should not have asked. Perhaps he thought her wanton to have done so. But the need for him to be close was greater than the shame in asking. And so she had spoken the words that Madeline Langley had never thought to utter and asked a man to come into her bed. They lay stiffly side by side. Each on their backs, careful not to look at the other, determined that no part of them should actually touch. His warmth traversed the space between them, so that the full stretch of the left-hand side of her body tingled from his heat. She wondered that he could have brought himself to marry a woman that he found so … lacking. For all that she was neither his social nor financial equal, he did not despise her, for surely something of that would have communicated itself in his manner? When he touched her she felt warm, happy, breathless with anticipation. Clearly Lucien did not feel the same. He did not want to touch her. The gap between them widened. That was when a glimmer of understanding dawned upon Madeline.
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