by Sheila Walsh
Slowly she turned and the old, defiant tilt of the chin was back. ‘Because I am your property and must do as you say? Oh no sir! Not any more! I shall speak to Grandpapa.’
Hugo felt excitement stir inside him. He almost swept her into his arms there and then, but there was a strong nostalgic urge to play out the game to the end. He said coolly, ‘I have spoken to the Colonel and have his full permission.’
Lucia stared. ‘I don’t believe it! Oh, how despicable to go behind my back!’ She stamped her foot. ‘Since you are a Duke you are become more arrogant than ever! Well, I shall see him myself and tell him I do not wish to go with you. I cannot imagine what is so important about this party of Lady Springhope’s that it cannot be managed without me!’
‘Oh! Did I not tell you?’ Hugo’s eyes were alight with gentle laughter, but she was too full of angry tears to see. ‘It is an engagement party. You see, I too am to be married!’
‘Oh!’ Lucia bit hard on her lip. It was what she had been expecting, but it hurt. ‘No!’ she cried angrily, ‘I will not help with your stupid party! And I am glad you are marrying your Countess … I wish you joy of her, for I think you deserve one another!’
She ran headlong for the door, but Hugo was there before her, and gathered her into his arms, a struggling, sobbing wild thing.
‘Hush now! Not Sophia! … Oh my dearest one … never Sophia! That was cruel of me! Forgive me!’ Holding her, he tenderly wiped away her tears as they continued to fall. ‘I couldn’t stand that frozen-faced stranger a moment longer … I wanted my own dear Lucy back … I haven’t had a good fight since she went away from me! Oh come now little love ‒ be still!’
She was staring as though he had taken leave of his senses and the laughter died from his eyes as he bent his head to kiss her, very gently at first and then, as with an incoherent cry her struggles ceased and her arms crept up round his neck, he uttered a groan and pulled her closer, crushing the breath from her body as his mouth closed on hers.
When at last he released her, she was rosy and ecstatic and bemused. ‘It was me!’ she gasped. ‘All the time it was me?’
‘From the very first … it just took a little while to realize it!’
‘But you never said! Only once I thought …’
‘When Toby was ill? Yes, I was on the point of telling you ‒ but then I mistakenly imagined that you two had changed your minds about each other ‒ and so I kept quiet …’ his voice grated suddenly, ‘… and almost lost you!’
‘Don’t!’ She shuddered. ‘I can’t think about that, even now! And I was so sure you were going to marry Sophia. What fools we both were! Oh!’ A hand flew to her mouth. ‘I’ve just thought ‒ I shall be a Duchess!’
Hugo smiled lazily down at her. ‘Will you like that?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She stepped away from him. ‘We shall have to be very dignified and not quarrel any more.’
‘Impossible!’
‘But we must!’ she decided with mock-seriousness. ‘Dignity ‒ that’s the thing. I shall address you as My Lord Duke!’
‘Lucia!’ Hugo advanced upon her threateningly and she danced away. ‘You will call me by my right name. For far too long I have put up with “My Lord” … I have no intention of tolerating “My Lord Duke” for even a moment. Is that quite clear?’
Head on one side, Lucia appeared to be giving this ultimatum her full consideration. At last she smiled. ‘Quite clear ‒ My Lord Duke,’ she said demurely.
Madalena by Sheila Walsh
From the author of The Golden Songbird, another gripping regency romance ‒ Madalena. Keep reading for a preview of Chapter One and details of where to buy the book.
Prologue: Sussex 1812
The March night was wild. The small figure being buffeted along the path to the cliff top stumbled and threw out a hand to clutch at a tuft of coarse grasses, then ran on into the dark tunnel of trees, where the branches writhed in agony and twigs like clawing fingernails snatched at the heavy woollen jacket and snarled themselves in unruly curls.
The trees gave way at last to the wide sweep of headland just before it dipped into a deep, narrow gorge. The young face turned eagerly towards the open sea, fear struggling with a fierce exhilaration. Almost at once a light stabbed the raging darkness and from the house set high at the apex of the gorge came an answering flash. It was inconceivable that anything could come ashore on such a night, for even above the howl of the wind could be heard the crashing surf below.
The young intruder stretched on tiptoe to peer further into the darkness and a huge stallion, black as the night itself, loomed out of nowhere. It squealed and reared up. The rider swore viciously and dragged hard back on the rein, almost unseating himself and sending the instigator of the near-disaster catapulting into a ragged clump of gorse.
‘Hell and damnation! Come out of there this instant and declare yourself!’
A small, bedraggled figure slowly emerged from the sodden gorse bush, brushing away dirt and twigs with impatient gestures and muttering Gallic curses of a fluency astonishing in one so young.
‘Come here, boy!’
The moon, which had been scudding in and out of mountainous black clouds, suddenly sailed clear, silhouetting horse and rider in one enormous, frightening entity ‒ huge flapping shoulder capes whipped about a face that was no more than a white blur beneath the high conical hat, and the stallion, showing white-rimmed eyes, backed nervously in an effort to escape the tight rein, and snorted little puffs of steam.
The child shrank back convinced that, of a surety, it was the Devil himself.
The black rider leaned down from the saddle and hooked his riding crop beneath the miscreant’s chin, jerking the head up; bright curls glinted in the moonlight, crowning an extraordinary monkey-like little face.
‘Who are you, boy?’ The question was rapped out ‒ in French this time. ‘What mischief brings you here?’ The riding crop prodded harder. ‘Come ‒ I will have an answer.’
Stormy eyes stared back at him in stubborn, unyielding silence ‒ a silence that was never resolved, for cloud once more swept across the face of the moon and when it cleared, the rider was alone.
He paused, irresolute … and in a momentary lull, his keen ears picked up the sound of oars being shipped. He turned at once towards the sound, dug in his spurs and urged the stallion forward to pick its way down the treacherous cliff path.
And in the darkness behind him, a figure emerged from the bushes and watched him go.
Chapter One
Light streamed from every window of the house in St James’s Square. Echoes of music and laughter drifted out on the night air, to be lost in the jingle and creak of harness, the clattering of carriage wheels and the forcibly expressed opinions of coachmen as they manoeuvred their already close-packed vehicles to make room for a late arrival.
In the brilliantly lighted foyer, two footmen sprang into instant action as the doors swung inward to admit a tall, saturnine gentleman.
In austere silence, he relinquished his fashionable high-crowned beaver hat, his light walking cane and the magnificently caped greatcoat; he adjusted the set of the plain black coat which already lay in unwrinkled perfection across the superb shoulders, and moved with an air of bored resignation up the wide, curving staircase towards the sounds of revelry.
‘My Gawd!’ The new, young footman stared after him in awe. ‘Who was that?’
‘That, my lad,’ came the dry rejoinder, ‘is his grace, the 9th Duke of Lytten, of ancient and noble lineage ‒ arrogant bastards, the whole Destain line by all accounts ‒ and this one don’t aim to change the family image ‒ takes his women as he takes his wine ‒ liberally, but with the palate of a connoisseur!’ The old servant glanced round to make sure they were alone, and one eyelid drooped knowingly. ‘You’ll be seeing quite a lot of his grace … if you take my meaning!’
The recipient of this doubtful testimonial had by now reached the head of the stairs, where a dark restless beauty
at once detached herself from a small group of exquisites with a laughing apology and came towards him, hands outstretched.
‘You are late, Dev,’ she reproved sternly. ‘I declare I had quite given you up.’
The Duke carried her hands to his lips. His mocking glance moved with frank appreciation over the daringly-cut soft green crêpe-gown which so exactly complemented her laughing eyes.
‘But surely, my dear Serena, you knew I would come. When have I ever let you down?’
Lady Serena Fairfax drew him a little aside. ‘I knew nothing of the kind, you wretched man,’ she complained softly. ‘I did not even know if you were safely arrived home.’
‘Well, for that omission you must blame my Lord Castlereagh,’ he murmured with some feeling. ‘I landed only this morning, and have spent the entire day closeted with him ‒ and later with our beloved War Minister, who must needs hear all again at first hand.
‘I tell you, my dear, it was a marathon performance deserving of the very highest reward!’ His words were charged with a quite unmistakable meaning and drew a soft chuckle from his companion.
‘Later,’ she promised. ‘When my guests have gone. We will be cosy, and you shall tell me all.’
One calculating eyebrow lifted. ‘If that is all I am to hope for, I may well seek more … accommodating company!’
This threat was greeted with more mirth. ‘Poseur! Very well, you shall have your reward, but you must know I am impatient to hear about the war ‒ and how Lord Wellington goes on.’
For an instant the mask of ennui slipped, and he spoke with soft vehemence. ‘I have no doubt that our newly elevated Earl is a great, a formidable Commander! But I have just pursued him over half of Portugal, into the jaws of a Hell called Badajos ‒ a bloody experience and such a one as I hope, by God’s grace, never to encounter again! Yet I survived, and have returned to an eight hour inquisition at the end of it.’ He shrugged. ‘I can no more, my dear Serena ‒ even for you!’
She looked distressed and would have spoken, but the mask was firmly back in place once more; a fat lady who would have approached them wilted under his intense stare and retreated in disorder. He sighed. ‘The company looks as distressingly boring as usual, my dear. I trust your card room is up to scratch?’
Lady Serena shook her head at him. ‘I positively forbid you to bury yourself in my card room until you have circulated a little among my guests. You know how much of a stir you create ‒ how much it delights me to see all the fond mamas marshalling their dewy-eyed offspring for your approbation!’
His eyes glinted. ‘Someone should inform them that they waste their time. I’ll wed no whey-faced infant; even in my dissolute and inglorious youth I ever preferred women of taste and experience!’
Lady Serena laughed. They had known one another too long and too well to dissemble.
‘Well, do go and make their hearts flutter just a little. I promise I have done my best to afford you some small amusements.’
‘What are you plotting, Serena? You have a look I mistrust!’
‘Nothing dreadful, on my word. It will shock only the prudes ‒ and some of the strait-laced old dowagers!’ Her eyes brimmed with mischief. ‘Lord Palmerston and I are to demonstrate the “wicked waltz”, and we are fully expecting others to follow us on to the floor. You must find yourself a partner, for I will not believe you are not an expert in the waltz as you are in all else.’
His brow lifted laconically. ‘You flatter me, my dear. But who is to match me, since you are bespoken?’
‘My dearest Devereux, you know very well there is not a woman in that ballroom whom you cannot command, should you so choose!’ The mischievous look was back. ‘Caroline Lamb is here ‒ I am sure she would oblige you!’
‘Caro Lamb would oblige anyone ‒ anytime!’ came the Duke’s pithy retort. At that moment Lady Serena’s attention was claimed and her husky laugh floated back to him. He raised his eyeglass and allowed his glance to wander slowly round the huge, gilded ballroom.
As always, Serena’s guests seemed to include almost everyone who was anyone; for even those who disliked her or perhaps had cause to fear her at times faintly malicious tongue accepted her invitations with alacrity. It was widely acknowledged that the Lady Serena ‘had influence’; her late husband had held high office in the government, an office in which he had been successful largely due to his wife’s undoubted capacity for political intrigue. It was a talent she still put to good use whenever called upon so to do.
A cotillion was just coming to an end and the couples began to disperse. A liberal sprinkling of uniforms lent vivid splashes of colour to the already colourful scene.
Along the perimeter of the room a clutch of young girls sat chattering like a flock of birds ‒ no, doves ‒ he thought sardonically ‒ a flock of virginal doves! He knew from the sudden spate of giggling and fluttering that his presence had been noted ‒ and he sighed.
One corner of the ballroom seemed to be attracting a deal of lively attention. The Duke trained his eyeglass upon the centre of the group. A low musical laugh floated out above the hum of conversation and the young men pressed eagerly forward. Then, as though being dismissed, they began to drift away one by one ‒ and he was left staring into an engaging little monkey-like face topped by a close-cropped head of bright copper curls …
Madalena de Brussec turned impulsively to the pretty blonde girl who was her cousin. ‘Phoebe ‒ you will tell me please, who is the man who stands by the door ‒ the one who looks like Satan? He will not take his eyes off me!’
Phoebe Vernon followed her gaze and let out a little gasp. ‘Lud, child ‒ it’s Lytten!’
‘Should this mean something to me? This Lytten is a somebody?’
‘The Duke of Lytten, my dear. His land marches with ours at home. In fact, he owns most of the land around us; his family have done so for generations.’
Madalena’s straight little nose wrinkled. ‘He is perhaps what you would call a feudal lord?’
‘Lordy, what a thought! I suppose he is in a way.’
‘So ‒ you will know him?’
‘No, hardly at all.’ Phoebe giggled. ‘He is a friend of Kit’s, though he is considerably older ‒ well into his thirty-fifth year, I believe.’ She giggled again. ‘He has the most dreadful reputation.’
‘Vraiment!’ Madalena studied this wicked Duke more closely. She met his raking glance with a speculative tilt of her chin; he smiled faintly and inclined his head in answer.
At Madalena’s other side, a tall, willowy girl, with hair like a raven’s wing, watched this exchange with obvious chagrin. Bettina Varley was an acknowledged beauty and, until Mademoiselle de Brussec’s arrival in London, was used to being considered the most popular girl of the season. Yet Lytten had never looked at her in such a way.
She could not imagine what people saw in the little French chit with her cropped Parisian curls; it was infuriating to be cast into the shade by one so frankly ugly! This was not strictly true, for although in repose Madalena de Brussec’s features were ill-balanced, they were lit from within with so much vitality and pure joie de vivre that one noticed only how the large, almond-shaped eyes glowed with amber fires and the too-wide mouth was always tilted up at the corners to disappear, as it frequently did, into two delightful dimples.
Miss Varley said waspishly, ‘It is no use trying to engage his grace’s attention, mademoiselle, for he comes only to tease us. He has no interest in jeunes filles.’
Madalena turned a long cool glance on her. ‘You think not? He has not then tried to ravish you ‒ no?’ She smiled kindly. ‘It is perhaps just as well, for you would not at all care for it. Quant à ça, the English do not understand these matters as we French do.’
‘Madalena!’ Phoebe was scandalized.
Hot colour had crept up under Miss Varley’s skin, but she snapped her mouth tight shut against the temptation to reply.
‘But it is true!’ Madalena insisted with a roguish twinkle. She tapped
one tiny gold pump thoughtfully. ‘It would seem to me that this so arrogant Duc should be taught a small lesson.’
Phoebe groaned. ‘Oh Madalena ‒ no!’
‘I am sure I do not know what you mean,’ said Madalena innocently. ‘You are as bad as Tante Vernon.’
Her cousin eyed her nervously. Mama would not like it if Madalena made a scandal. ‘Promise you won’t do anything indiscreet!’
A gurgling laugh greeted this impassioned plea. ‘Voyons ‒ I believe he is coming across.’
The Duke had accosted Kit Vernon, who was making for the card room.
‘Introduce me, my boy,’ he commanded, indicating the object of his attentions. ‘Since she is with your sister, I infer she is the little French cousin?’
Kit regarded him pensively; already more than halfway under Madalena’s spell, he felt a swift, instinctive desire to protect her.
‘I ain’t at all sure I should,’ he said bluntly. ‘You’ve got that infernal gleam in your eye.’
‘As you will,’ drawled the Duke. ‘I certainly don’t propose to furnish you with a catalogue of my intentions. Serena will, no doubt, be happy to oblige me.’
‘That damned haughty air don’t cut no ice with me; I’ve known you too long.’ Kit grinned suddenly. ‘Oh, very well, I’ll do the honours, but for God’s sake watch it, Dev ‒ I know she’s a devilish taking little thing, but do try to remember she’s family! Mama is already finding her a mixed blessing!’
‘That I can well understand ‒ a twin, I think you said?’
‘As ever was. Like two dashed peas, except the lad’s a half head taller and a touch less volatile. See ‒ there’s Armand, talking with young Merchent.’
A casual glance confirmed Devereux’s suspicions and he smiled.
The two men crossed the ballroom floor shoulder to shoulder and Madalena watched them with frank interest. They were both well-built, but next to Kit’s sandy fairness, this Duke was more than ever sinister in his stark black, with only the white at his throat for relief; a single diamond pin glittered in the elaborate folds of his cravat.
