Lucien Tregellas

by Margaret McPhee

  ‘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 tightfitting 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 con
vincingly. ‘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 m
an 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.