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.’
&nb
sp; 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 ste
ered 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.
Lucien Tregellas Page 7
