‘Do you know who it is?’ she asked.
‘I should do. You have captured the likeness very well.’ He regarded her quizzically. ‘But how on earth did you…?’
Specks of gold glittered in her amber eyes. ‘One of your mother’s paintings on my bedchamber wall shows two small boys playing together. It was not difficult to work out which one was you. Babbie was happy to confirm my suspicions.’
Lucien grinned.
‘George made the frame. We…we hoped that you would like it,’ she said shyly.
‘I like it very much.’ Then he snaked an arm around her waist and dropped a kiss to the top of her head. ‘Thank you, Madeline. It’s a fine and thoughtful gift.’ Clear blue eyes met lucid brown and smiled until little lines creased their sides, and the warmth of his smile engulfed her so that her heart swelled and her head felt light and dizzy. And when his hand covered hers she thought that life had never been so good.
Hand in hand they strolled back into Trethevyn and the birthday lunch that awaited.
The fire blazed upon the hearth, every candle in the massive crystal chandelier had been lit, and the small drawing room was cosy and warm. Madeline and Lucien sat together on the sofa. Lucien’s birthday gift had pride of place on top of the mantelpiece, the stitched boy looking with a cheeky grin over proceedings. Max lay at their feet, beating the edge of the sofa with his tail, and chewing on what had been one of Madeline’s dancing slippers.
‘I see that his appetite is not limited to my footwear.’ Lucien decanted the sherry into two small glasses and handed one to his wife.
Madeline laughed and tickled a black silky ear. ‘I made the mistake of leaving my slippers on the floor and he sneaked off with one before I noticed. I salvaged the other before he came back for it, although quite what good one slipper is, I do not know.’
They chuckled together and sipped at their sherry.
Lucien dropped his hand on to his wife’s. ‘Thank you, Madeline.’
She looked up in surprise. ‘What for?’
‘For today. For understanding.’ His thumb stroked small circle over the back of her hand. ‘For…forgiving.’
‘Lucien…’ her fingers closed around his thumb, trapping it, stilling its motion ‘…there is nothing to forgive. You saved me from Farquharson.’ Her fingers slid from his thumb up to stroke against the inside of his wrist. ‘You are my husband,’ she said softly.
His eyes closed at her words, struggling against the sensation that her fingers conjured up. Would that he were her husband in every sense of the word. ‘That does not mean that I have the right…We had an agreement. I promised you protection, Madeline, not—’
‘Not what, Lucien?’
‘Not what happened that night in the inn.’ He thought he saw wounded anger flash in her eyes and then it was gone. God, he was a fool to have hurt her.
Her teeth nipped at her lower lip, as she entwined her fingers between his. ‘I’m sorry that I—’
Lucien felt the constriction in his chest. ‘Married me,’ he finished for her.
‘No!’ she gasped. ‘Never that.’
Relief loosed the breath from his throat.
Their fingers clung together with a gentle desperation.
‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Madeline. You’ve done nothing wrong.’
The teeth bit harder against the small pink lip. ‘I’m sorry that I made you angry that night. I know that you do not want…that you don’t want to—’
Lucien could stand it no longer. He pulled her into his arms, tilting her face up to his. ‘It was my fault,’ he said harshly. ‘I should have known better, but found to my shame that I was wrong. Let’s put it behind us, Madeline. I wish only for you to be happy.’ He touched his lips to her temple in a chaste kiss and put her away from him. Temptation was a terrible thing. And he was determined not to spoil this most precious of days.
Three weeks had passed since Lucien’s birthday and signs of new life sprouted everywhere from small green shoots in the soil to tiny buds upon bare brown branches. Lucien was consideration itself. He smiled more. Laughed more. Held her hand, took her arm. He told her stories of his and Guy’s boyhood, carried her with him on most of his estate calls, even walked with her to visit the nearby Neolithic stone burial tomb and the mysterious stone circles called the Hurlers. He bought her a beautiful docile bay mare and rode out with her most days. He accompanied her on visits to the local gentry and took her dancing in Bodmin and shopping in Truro. With each passing day Madeline grew to love the man who was her husband.
What had been naïve pleasure at his touch in London had grown to a burning need. She craved him. Didn’t understand why his merest glance caused a flutter in her stomach. Just knew that she needed more of him. The memories of that one night when she’d kissed him in the bed of the New London Inn tortured her. She wanted him. Every last bit of him. To touch his naked skin. Trace a pathway through the hairs upon his chest. To feel the strength of his body moving over hers. Wanted him, despite knowing that the desire was not reciprocated. Madeline blushed at her wantonness.
The exact nature of the marriage bed remained a mystery but Mama had hinted often enough that a wife’s duty lay in it. Henrietta Brown, from the ladies’ sewing group, had delighted in telling them all that she had heard it from her sister that a woman must do her duty and submit to her husband. Duty and submission did not beckon. Memories of what she had shared with Lucien, however, did. Maybe she had done something wrong to disgust him. Maybe women weren’t supposed to kiss their husbands. She lay in the great four-poster bed and pondered the problem. As if sensing her mood, Max crawled up from the bottom of the bed to lie next to her, licking her face with a warm pink tongue, and whining.
‘Go to sleep, Max.’ Madeline patted his head and took comfort from the old dog’s presence. But as she drifted off to sleep she couldn’t help but wish that it was Lucien by her side.
‘Oh, m’lady, I’m so sorry, the ribbon just slipped an’…I’m not usually so butter-fingered!’ Betsy burst into tears and ran from the room.
Madeline started after her in alarm. ‘Betsy!’
But Betsy had disappeared down the servant stairwell at the far end of the landing. Madeline quickly plaited her hair back from her face in a queue, securing it with the ribbon that had fallen to the floor, and set off in pursuit. She almost ran straight into Mrs Babcock at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Mrs Babcock, have you seen Betsy?’
‘What’s all this Mrs Babcock?’ demanded the large woman, elbows akimbo. ‘I thought we’d agreed I’m Babbie.’
‘And so you are,’ Madeline consoled. ‘It’s just that Betsy seems rather upset this morning. She only dropped a ribbon and that prompted a flood of tears. She hasn’t seemed herself for a week or so now. I’m worried about her, Babbie.’
Mrs Babcock sucked at her bottom teeth, a sure sign of stress. ‘It’s Mrs Porter,’ she said in a loud whisper. ‘Betsy’s mother. She’s not been keepin’ well. Right poorly she is. In her bed for nigh on a fortnight and not lookin’ any better for it. There’s only the two of them. Mr Porter was a real scoundrel, ran off and left the pair of ’em high and dry when Betsy was still a little ’un. Betsy’s been lookin’ after her mum. An’ she’s real worried.’
‘Why didn’t she say something? She should be at home with her poor mother, not here combing my hair!’
‘Needs the money,’ confided Mrs Babcock. ‘Poor as church mice. Mrs Porter normally takes in mendin’, but with her illness that’s stopped. Betsy’s wage is their only income.’
Madeline stared at the housekeeper. ‘Then we must do something about that.’
‘Now, m’lady, there’s no need for you to go worrying yourself about them.’
But Madeline was worried. ‘Has Mrs Porter seen a doctor?’
‘Old Dr Moffat’s been out. He’s a real gent. Don’t take no money from them that can’t afford to pay. A consumption of the lungs, he said, accordin’ to Betsy.’
A determined look came
over Madeline’s face. ‘Has Lord Tregellas returned from the Granger farm yet?’
Mrs Babcock shook her head. ‘Not as I know of.’
‘Then have Cook pack up a basket of food: bread, eggs, pie and the like, and if she’s made any soup so much the better. Ask Boyle to harness the gig and tell Betsy to wait ready by it.’ Madeline whirled and ran back up the stairs.
‘M’lady!’ shouted Mrs Babcock at the receding figure. ‘Don’t you be getting any ideas like. His lordship wouldn’t want you doin’ nothin’ silly, m’lady!’
But Madeline was gone.
When the housekeeper saw Madeline again she was heading for the front door, wearing a warm pelisse and cloak, and carrying two large folded blankets on top of which her reticule was balanced.
‘M’lady!’ Mrs Babcock hobbled across the marbled floor of the hallway at a surprising speed.
Madeline halted in her tracks. ‘Oh, Mrs Babcock, there you are. I’m going to take Betsy home, and visit her mother. Has the gig been brought round yet?’
Mrs Babcock ignored the question. ‘You might catch that dreadful disease. Best to stay here, m’lady.’
Madeline pressed a hand to her arm. ‘Babbie, it’s the very least I can do for them. Poor Betsy has been worrying herself sick all week and saying not a word about it. They’re probably not eating properly and the weather has been so very cold.’
The housekeeper’s brow furrowed. ‘His lordship won’t like it. He gave strict instructions that you weren’t to be out alone.’
‘I won’t be alone. Betsy and Mr Boyle will be with me,’ Madeline said. ‘Besides, Lucien will understand.’
Mrs Babcock looked very much like she knew exactly what Lucien’s understanding would be. The furrow across her brow deepened. ‘Well, at least let me come with you.’
Madeline shook her head and smiled. ‘Dear Babbie, I know how very busy you are today, and the weather’s enough to smite the ears from your head. You know what the cold does to your knees. Stay here and keep warm. Somebody needs to check if Cook is making those delicious scones.’
The housekeeper mumbled.
‘My stomach’s rumbling at the very thought. I swear I’ll be ready to eat a horse when I get back.’
Mrs Babcock nodded. ‘Off with you then, but mind you don’t stay too long. Scones won’t take long in the makin’ and you’ll be wantin’ them nice and warm from the oven.’
Madeline laughed and disappeared out of the door, running down to meet Betsy, who was waiting patiently by the gig.
‘What do you mean, she’s gone out?’ Earl Tregellas did not look to be in the best of moods.
Mrs Babcock faced him with a defiant calm. ‘Gone to visit Mrs Porter, who is poorly in her bed. Taken Betsy with her, a hamper of food, blankets and a purse of money.’
‘And when did she go?’
‘Ten o’clock, m’lord,’
‘That was two hours ago,’ said a poker-faced Lucien.
‘She’s only out the other side of the village. It’s safe enough there.’
‘Babbie,’ he said with barely concealed exasperation, ‘there is a very specific reason that I have tried to ensure that Madeline is always accompanied on her every outing. I would not have her safety compromised.’
‘Lord Tregellas,’ said Mrs Babcock a little more gently, ‘there ain’t nothin’ goin’ to happen to her at Mrs Porter’s. Time’s moved on; her ladyship’s in no danger.’
Lucien turned the full strength of his gaze upon the old woman. ‘Madeline is not unknown to Cyril Farquharson. Indeed, he has what might be termed a special interest in her. Only here in Trethevyn is she truly safe.’
Mrs Babcock tightened her lips and sucked hard on her bottom teeth. ‘Oh, Lord! You should have told me.’
‘I’ll take Nelson and ride out to find her.’
Mrs Babcock clutched a veined hand to Lucien’s arm. ‘Forgive me, I’d never have let her go had I but known.’
A nod of his head, and Lucien stepped away.
Carriage wheels crunched against the gravel of the driveway outside.
Lucien and Mrs Babcock looked at one other. Lucien was out the door before the gig had even come to a halt.
Madeline clambered down from the gig and looked at the two tense faces regarding her. ‘Lucien, you’re back.’
Lucien said nothing.
The housekeeper eyed the empty gig behind Madeline.
‘I thought it best that Betsy stayed with her mother until the poor woman felt better. I’ll manage without her for a few weeks.’
A welcoming bark sounded and Max trotted down the stairs to greet her, jumping up at her skirts until she scratched at his head.
Two pairs of eyes continued to stare at her with blatant accusation.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘You mean something apart from you sneaking off unaccompanied in the gig?’ said Lucien.
Madeline blinked in surprise and continued to stroke the dog’s head. Her husband’s mood had been fine at breakfast. Evidently matters had altered that. ‘I didn’t sneak. Betsy’s mother is ill. I merely went to visit her, that’s all.’ Puzzlement was clear upon her face as she glanced at Mrs Babcock.
The housekeeper looked every bit as cross as Lucien.
‘We’ll discuss this inside, Madeline.’ Lucien stalked back inside the front door.
She followed him to the large drawing room, Max dogging her every step.
Not one word was said until he had closed the door carefully behind him. Then he turned and raked her with a blast from those piercing eyes. ‘Do you mean to explain yourself?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Madeline stared at him as if he had run mad. ‘I have not the least notion of what you mean.’
‘Then let me remind you of a certain man who displayed an unhealthy interest in you. Can it be you have forgotten him so easily?’
‘What has Cyril Farquharson to do with my visit to Mrs Porter?’ She perched herself on the edge of the chair, while Lucien loomed before her.
‘You gave me your word that you would not go out alone.’
‘And I didn’t. Betsy and Mr Boyle were with me.’
‘A lady’s maid and Boyle hardly count as adequate defence against someone like Farquharson. Boyle’s seventy if he’s a day. And even at that you came back without Betsy.’
‘You’re exaggerating the danger,’ said Madeline.
Lucien arched one dark eyebrow. ‘Really?’
Max looked from master to mistress in confusion and gave a loud booming bark.
‘Yes, you are!’ Madeline stood up and glared at him. ‘Farquharson is far away in London. He’s hardly likely to just pop up in Mrs Porter’s house. I don’t see what the problem is.’
‘Then let me enlighten you.’
‘There’s no need. I think I begin to understand.’ Madeline turned on her heel and walked towards the door.
‘Madeline,’ he said in a soft, deadly voice.
Madeline walked on regardless, not even showing that she’d heard. Her fingers had reached the handle when she felt herself gripped in a pair of strong hands and spun round to face him.
‘Cyril Farquharson hasn’t been in London for two weeks. It’s likely that he’s here in Cornwall.’ His hands held her firmly, but without hurt.
Her eyes widened at that. Her heart skipped a beat.
A high-pitched whine sounded in the room. Madeline and Lucien looked down to find their normally docile pet in a state of distressed confusion.
‘Max?’ Lucien said.
Max whined louder and then set up a raucous barking.
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Lucien and, letting his hands drop, backed away.
The barking stopped and Max trotted quickly in to fill Lucien’s place, taking great delight in sniffing around the hem of Madeline’s skirt.
Madeline gave a quick raise of her eyebrows and a little sheepish smile. ‘Perhaps I should take Max with me the next time I go visiting. He’s really a rather good guard do
g.’
Lucien did not return the smile. His pale eyes bored into hers. ‘Let me make it crystal clear, Madeline. You are not to leave Trethevyn unless it is in my company. You may underestimate Farquharson. I do not.’
In the weeks that followed, spring blossomed in all its glory, warming the earth and setting everything in growth. Lambs gambled in the fields and what had been bare and barren and brown when Madeline arrived in Cornwall turned green. Since the day of their argument Lucien had shown no signs of changing his mind. As the days wore on with no sign of Farquharson, her husband grew increasingly wary rather than more relaxed. Madeline began to question what lay behind her husband’s zealous guarding. She stood at her bedchamber window, watching the stark outline of his dark figure riding out down the sweep of the driveway. Betsy sat noiselessly in the chair close by, trying her best to repair the damage inflicted upon a shawl by Max.
‘Naughty dog,’ said Betsy. ‘You’ve nigh on ruined her ladyship’s good shawl.’
Max raised innocent eyes as if to say, Who, me? Impossible.
Madeline chewed on her lip and followed the dark figure until it disappeared from sight. ‘Betsy…’ she began.
‘M’lady?’ Betsy concentrated on making her stitches small and neat.
It was probably not an appropriate subject to discuss with the maid, but other than Babbie, Madeline had no one else to ask, and Babbie was desperately loyal to Lucien. Much as the housekeeper bossed and harangued Lucien in a way that no one else dared, Madeline couldn’t imagine the old woman standing to hear a word spoken against him. ‘Do you not wonder on his lordship’s preoccupation with danger, Betsy?’
‘Ain’t my place to wonder, m’lady.’
‘We’ve been here over two months, yet still he rides out every day to check across the length and breadth of the estate. It’s as if he expects the imminent arrival of Lord Farquharson.’
‘Who’s this Lord Farquharson, then, m’lady?’
Madeline plucked out a hairpin that was pressing uncomfortably against her scalp. ‘A villain of a man who has a disagreement with Lord Tregellas,’ replied Madeline. There was no need for Betsy to know the full details of what had happened in London. ‘I cannot help but wonder over Lord Tregellas’s response. What happened with Farquharson is far behind us. He cannot harm us now. Yet Lucien would keep me a practical prisoner in this house for fear that Farquharson means to exact some revenge upon my person.’
Lucien Tregellas Page 15
