Lucien Tregellas

by Margaret McPhee

  The sweet allure of her lips beckoned. Moist. Pink. His lips moved to capture her protestation, claiming hers. Sliding together in possession as his fingers stroked against the skin of her neck. Her mouth opened beneath his, responding to his call, answering with a passion of her own. His tongue teased against her lips, then probed further, seeking within, until it touched against her own small hesitant tongue. Urgency exploded between them.

  Madeline arched her back, instinctively driving her breasts against the hardness of his chest, gasping with the sensations taking over her body. She moaned a protest as his mouth left hers. Her hands entwined themselves around his neck to pull him back down to her. But Lucien had other ideas. He pressed a trail of hot kisses to her nose, eyebrow, temple and ear, tracing the delicate line of her jaw with his tongue.

  ‘Lucien!’ She gasped his name aloud, dizzy with desire, blind to everything save the man that pressed against her, deafened by the thud of their hearts.

  His fingers moved to close around her breast. His palm scorched the mound, his finger and thumb teasing against her nipple until it hardened and peaked between them, as if the silk of her dress was not there. And still the madness continued. It was not enough. She wanted more. Needed more. Her breasts ached with need. And it seemed that her thighs were on fire, burning her, scalding her with desire. His hands slid down across her stomach, following over the curve of her hips round to cup her bottom. She nestled in closer, feeling her own desperation echoed in his body. His mouth raided hers once more, hard, demanding, needful, but the hands that stroked against her were gentle and giving.

  His breath was ragged against her ear. ‘Madeline!’ The ravaged whisper sounded against the hollow of her throat, against her lips.

  Her legs trembled as she gave herself up to him, lost in the ecstasy of the moment. Strong arms supported her, would never let her fall.

  He pulled back enough to look into her face and she wondered that she ever could have thought his eyes cold, for they held in them such a look of warm tenderness.

  ‘Madeline,’ he said again, more gently this time, ‘you make me forget myself and all of my promises. Disgust, indeed!’ A wry eyebrow arched and a wicked smile curved his mouth. His fingers caught a tendril of hair that had escaped its pins to feather across her cheek, and tucked it back behind her ear. ‘If you are set upon returning to London tomorrow, then I will take you. But as long as Farquharson lives then I will never let you go. And, Madeline, if you really did know the truth of what happened here five years ago, then you would understand why. Idle gossip weaves lies with truth in equal measure. I thought you knew that. You would have done better to ask me.’

  He still held her, close and intimate. Her body burned for want of his touch. ‘Would you have told me?’ she whispered the words against his chest.

  Lucien’s chin rested lightly on the top of her head. He hesitated. ‘In truth, I do not know. It’s a difficult matter for me to speak of.’ She deserved the truth about that at least.

  ‘Will you tell me now?’ She looked up and shyly touched a small kiss to his throat. Palms laid flat against the muscle of his chest, feeling the strong steady beat of his heart.

  His gaze held hers as he moved his thumb against the soft cushion of her lips. ‘It does not make for a pleasant story,’ he said. ‘Are you sure that you want to know?’

  She nodded once. ‘I need to know, Lucien. All of it.’

  She felt the slight tightening of his muscles beneath her hands, saw him swallow hard.

  ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘But not here. Let’s go to the library.’

  The library. His special place into which she had never before been invited. She knew then that he meant to tell her everything.

  His hand closed over hers and together they walked towards the dining-room door.

  They had almost reached it when a stiff little knock sounded against the wood. Lucien swung the door open to reveal the portly figure of Mr Norton. The butler recovered well, hiding his shock. In all the forty-seven years Mr Norton had served the Tregellases, he had never had the Earl open the door in person. ‘M’lord,’ he said with only a shade less than his usual aplomb. A slightly horrified expression flitted across his face as he caught sight of the barely touched serving dishes and food-laden dinner plates upon the dining table. ‘Perhaps the meal was to not to your liking?’

  ‘It was very good, thank you, Norton.’

  Mr Norton showed not the slightest intention of moving. He stared with barely disguised confusion first at Lord Tregellas, and then at his wife.

  ‘The meal was lovely, thank you, Mr Norton.’ Madeline smiled at the butler.

  ‘We are retiring to the library and are not to be disturbed,’ said Lucien, and, taking her hand in his, swept Madeline off in the direction of the library.

  Madeline sat in one of the battered old wing chairs positioned close to the hearth. The library was not a large room. Down the full length of the wall opposite the fireplace were shelves of books. All were bound in a burgundy-leather cover, with gilt lettering upon the front cover and spine. There was a desk that was bare save for a writing slope, some cut paper, and a pen-and-ink set. A small drum table between the two wing chairs held a decanter and two balloon glasses. Madeline’s fingers rested against the worn and cracked leather of the chair arm and she watched her husband push the small table back towards the book shelves, then pull the other chair closer to hers.

  He reached across, lifted her hand from the chair leather and held it gently within his own. ‘I didn’t mean for you to discover the history of what lies between Farquharson and me. It is, as I said before, hardly a pleasant subject…especially so for you, Madeline.’ He lifted each of her fingers in turn, rubbing them, playing with them as he sought to find the words to tell her what needed to be said. ‘But half-truths are a dangerous opponent, and so I find I’ve no choice but the one to which I’m pushed. I ask only that you hear what I would say in full and that you promise never to reveal what passes between us this evening.’ He paused, watching her, waiting for the oath that would bind her to secrecy, afraid of what the truth might do to her.

  ‘I promise.’ Madeline felt the warmth of his hand around hers, saw the hesitation in his eyes. ‘Lucien, you may trust that I will spill your words to no one. I give you my word on all that is holy.’

  His gaze held hers a moment longer, then shifted to the golden glow of the fireplace. ‘As you must know, it happened five years ago, although sometimes it seems that time has stood still since that night.’ His profile was austerely handsome. ‘I was betrothed to Lady Sarah Wyatt, daughter of Lord Praze. My father and Lord Praze were friends. It seemed a good alliance for the families to make.’ He paused. ‘I did not love Sarah, but through time perhaps I would have come to care for her.’

  Madeline bowed her head and tried not to be glad.

  ‘She was a very quiet and reserved young girl. Even though it was agreed that we would marry, Sarah had always longed to go to London and be presented for the Season. I saw no reason why she shouldn’t do so. The winter had been hard that year and none of the family knew that my father’s heart had weakened. I’d been in London only a fortnight when I received the news of his death.’

  Madeline squeezed his hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Lucien gave a barely perceptible nod of the head and continued in the same controlled tone as before. ‘My parents didn’t care for the town, preferring to spend their time here at Trethevyn. Naturally Guy and I returned with haste. My mother was distraught.’ He glanced at her then. ‘Theirs had been a love match, you see.’

  Madeline briefly touched her cheek to the back of the hand that was still wrapped around hers.

  ‘Sarah didn’t return to Cornwall. She sent a letter expressing her condolences and carried on as before.’

  ‘Did you not mind?’

  ‘Not really. She was young and enjoying all that London had to offer.’

  Sarah Wyatt also sounded to be a rather self
ish young lady to Madeline’s mind, but she held her tongue and did not offer her opinion.

  ‘It was two weeks after the funeral when the first rumours reached us. Cyril Farquharson had been seen too frequently in Sarah’s company. Their behaviour was giving London something to gossip over. My mother insisted that she would manage and bade me return to London to speak to Sarah.’

  ‘So you went back.’

  ‘Yes, I went back to find that Sarah had been beguiled by Farquharson and was set upon marrying him.’

  Madeline shivered. ‘She would willingly have wed him?’ Her voice rang high with incredulity.

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ replied Lucien with surprising calm. ‘She told me that I might sue her all I wished, but it would not convince her to marry me or stop her loving Farquharson.’

  Madeline’s jaw dropped open, her eyes opening wide. ‘Love? How could anyone love such a man?’

  Lucien shrugged. ‘She barely knew him. It was not Farquharson that she loved, but the false image that he played her.’

  ‘What happened?’ she whispered the question, wondering what was to follow. Sarah Wyatt was dead, of that she was sure. But by what means and had Lucien played any role in that terrible event?

  The stark blue eyes moved to hers. ‘The time comes when I must confess my guilt, Madeline, for had I acted differently that night, things would not have unfolded in the same manner. Both Sarah and my mother would still be alive.’

  Cold dread crept up Madeline’s spine. Her teeth nipped at her bottom lip. She waited for what he would say.

  The firelight flickered upon Lucien’s face, casting sinister shadows across its hard angular planes. And still he said nothing. A log crackled, sending a cascade of sparks out on to the marble slabs.

  ‘What did you do?’ Her throat was hoarse with aridity. It was the question she most feared to ask, and the one question she knew that she must.

  ‘I killed her,’ he said softly.

  Madeline’s heart stopped. Breath trapped in her throat. Time shattered. Her eyes slid to him, gaped in horror at the stillness of his profile.

  ‘Or as good as,’ he said, still staring into the flames as if he were locked into some nightmare of the past.

  As good as? A sigh of relief. Then he hadn’t, he didn’t… ‘Tell me, Lucien,’ and she pulled him round to face her. ‘Tell me,’ she said again.

  His eyes held hers. ‘I cast her out. Sent her to him, willingly. Told her that I would not sue her because I did not want her.’ And still he faced her with defiance. ‘I didn’t even call Farquharson out over it.’

  ‘But you shot him. I thought—’

  He shook his head in denial. ‘That was later, after I knew what he had done to her.’ The pain was clear upon his face. ‘I sent her to her death, Madeline. The guilt is mine.’

  ‘No! She loved him. She wanted to marry him. You did nothing wrong.’

  ‘She was a foolish, innocent young girl. What chance did she have against Farquharson? She couldn’t have known what manner of man he was.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘There was always something unsavoury about him. But I did not know the extent of it. Not then.’

  ‘Lucien, what else could you have done? You couldn’t have pushed her to a wedding she did not desire.’ Clear honey eyes stared into pale blue. Both knowing that the conversation was overlapping on to more recent events.

  ‘Not even to protect her?’ he said with a harsh cynical tone. ‘To save her life?’

  The heavy beat of Madeline’s heart thudded in her chest. ‘Like you did me,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’ He raked a hand wearily through his hair. ‘Exactly like I did you.’

  Only the slow ticks of the clock punctuated the silence.

  ‘How did she die?’

  ‘Horribly.’

  The single word hung between them.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s better that you don’t.’

  ‘Lucien…’ a wrinkle crept across her brow ‘…I should know it all, however bad it is.’

  He sighed, and opened his palm beneath her hand. ‘Madeline, once you know there’s no going back.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said again and laid her hand over his. ‘I’m your wife, Lucien, and nothing is going to change that.’

  He gave a slight nod. ‘Very well. Cyril Farquharson—’

  A knock sounded.

  Madeline jumped. Lucien glanced round at the library door.

  Another knock, slightly louder than the last.

  ‘Come in.’

  The door opened to reveal Norton. ‘My apologies, m’lord. I know you didn’t wish to be disturbed, but Lord Varington has just arrived. I’ve taken the liberty of placing him in the drawing room.’ The butler gave a mild clearing-of-the-throat noise. ‘If I may be so bold as to observe that Lord Varington has come only with his man, and that his horses have been ridden long and hard.’

  A prickle of foreboding traversed Lucien’s scalp. ‘I’ll come immediately,’ was all that he said before turning to Madeline. ‘It appears that we must postpone our…conversation until another time.’ He waited until the butler’s footsteps receded into the distance. ‘Guy wouldn’t have arrived unannounced, on horseback and at this time of night, if something wasn’t wrong. Perhaps it would be better if you waited upstairs.’

  He could see the look of hurt in her eyes. ‘My brother will not speak bluntly in front of you and I need to discover what’s happened to bring him down here at such speed.’ His fingers squeezed hers in a gesture of reassurance. ‘Guy hates the country. I can’t remember the last time he left London.’ He stood.

  Madeline got to her feet. ‘Then matters must be serious.’

  ‘That’s what I’m afraid of. Go up to your room…’ he spoke gently, his hand still intertwined with hers ‘…I’ll come to you later. We should finish what we’ve started this evening.’ He stared into her eyes. ‘There will be time later to speak of it in full.’

  ‘Lucien.’ She raised her face to his. ‘You will come…tonight, won’t you?’

  He traced the outline of her cheek with his thumb, regarding her with something akin to wonder.

  ‘Are you sure that you want me to? Perhaps it would be better kept until another time.’

  She shook her head and, standing on the tips of her toes, reached up to place a shy kiss upon his mouth. ‘No. What happened with Farquharson wasn’t your fault.’ The thrum of her heart pulsed in her chest. ‘Tonight.’ She pulled back to look into the cool blue pools of his eyes. ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ll come to you tonight.’

  Their lips touched, lingered together, parted reluctantly. Both knowing that it was not only the end of the story for which she was asking.

  He followed her out, watched while the slender figure mounted the stairs. Subtle sway of her hips and rustle of silk. He breathed in the subtle scent of oranges that surrounded him, felt his heart swell with a long-forgotten tenderness, acknowledged that he wanted her, every last inch of her, from the heavy dark gold of her hair to the tips of her toes. Not only her body, but also her respect, her affection, her love. She did not blame him for the terror from across the years. Would she, once she knew it all? Lucien did not think so. Her belief in him eased the heavy burden of guilt. Her warmth thawed the ice in which he had been frozen. And the realisation that she wanted him was a salve to his soul. After tonight, the possibility of a divorce a vinculo matrimonii would be no more. A consummated marriage could not be nullified. But first there was the small matter of his brother.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘What were you doing speaking to him?’ Lucien raked a hand through his hair, oblivious to the mayhem he was wreaking upon his valet’s hard work.

  Guy lounged back in the wing chair, swinging a muddy booted leg over the arm. ‘Your concentration seems to be elsewhere, Lucien,’ he said. ‘I already told you, he approached me in White’s. I couldn’t very well break the bastard’s jaw without drawing a smid
gen of attention to the fact. Believe me when I say that I was tempted in the extreme. But I didn’t want to give that snake any further fuel to burn upon the fire he’s stoking.’ Guy looked at his brother’s face and took a swig of brandy. ‘You’d best prepare yourself, Lucien. The matter’s not over.’

  ‘I never believed it was. I’ve been waiting for him to strike, watching closer with each passing day.’

  ‘Farquharson was ever the coward, Lucien. He’s coming after you, all right, but not in the way that you think. He means to convince all of London that Madeline was an unwilling party in your marriage. He’s been working on it since you left.’

  Lucien paced the length of the small library. ‘Let him. Arthur Langley will vouch for his daughter’s story. Madeline spoke before Farquharson and her father. She assured them of her willingness in the matter and confirmed the validity of the marriage.’ A vision of a tousled-haired Madeline wrapped in his dressing-gown, asserting before both her father and Farquharson that she had married and bedded him because she loved him, swam into his mind. His heart swelled with tenderness. He’d be damned if he would let either man take her from him by whatever means.

  Guy’s leg ceased its lazy swing. ‘That may have been what she said. It’s what she has written that is the problem.’

  A sinking feeling started in Lucien’s chest. ‘Go on.’

  A short silence. Brother looked at brother. And Lucien knew that what Guy was about to say would change everything.