Lucien Tregellas (14 page)

Inquisitive fingers explored across his body, sneaking beneath the loose linen of his shirt. Even in sleep his muscles were hard, with nothing of softness. A light sprinkling of hair dusted across the breadth of his chest. Her fingertips lightly swept through it, dancing in small circles against his skin. Madeline obeyed her instinct and followed her fingers with her mouth, touching her lips against his chest. A sleepy sigh escaped him as she pressed a small kiss against his skin. Lucien groaned, the rumble of the sound vibrating against her lips. So real, too real. Madeline's eyes flickered open. Warm contentment vanished in a second, to be replaced with utter shock.

Lucien's shirt was pushed up to expose his naked skin, and she was kissing him! Lucien groaned again and swept a hand down to caress her buttocks. Madeline froze, desperate to escape the situation she had created, yet afraid to waken Lucien. Slowly she tried to ease herself away from him. Lucien murmured something and slid his fingers against her hip. The material of her shift was no protection against him. His touch branded her with its heat. Another attempt to extract herself, gently easing her legs from his. ‘Sweetheart,' he murmured and in one smooth motion rolled over to press her beneath him.

She felt him probe against her, something that willed her thighs to open. Madeline wanted nothing more than to comply, to give herself to him. The strange compelling need that burned in her, that made her crave his touch, his kiss, stoked higher, chasing reason and sensible thought from her head. Madeline fought back. She wanted him, but not like this. Not when he was sleep-drugged and did not know what he was doing. One magical hand stroked across her thigh. She gasped, knowing that this was all wrong, part of her wanting it just the same. ‘Lucien!' His name was thick upon her lips. His hand moved to capture her breast, fingers teasing across the soft mound of skin, hardening its tip, until she thought she would faint for the need of him. Need. Her thighs burned with it. Her pulse throbbed with it. ‘Lucien!' she cried out with the one last strand of sanity that lingered where all others had fled. ‘Lucien!' a cry of desperation and of longing.

Lucien came to with a start to find that the glorious dream in which he was making love to his wife was a horrendous nightmare. He stared down aghast at the sight of Madeline lying half-naked beneath him. ‘Madeline?' The word was raw and disbelieving. Her hair splayed across the pillows, long and straight, framing her face. Huge wide eyes that stared back at him in shock and disbelief, lips parted, panting small breaths of fear. And he, like a great beast, swooping over her, with his arousal pressed against her softness. ‘Hell!' he swore and rolled off her as quickly as he could. Disgust tore at him, sickening him to the pit of his stomach. He was every bit as bad as Farquharson. He had become the devil that everyone thought him. A man about to rape his own wife—had it not been for his breeches. A thrust of the covers and he was out of the bed, standing staring at her. She looked as shocked as he felt.

‘Madeline—' his voice was harsh and gritty ‘—forgive me. I was sleep-addled. I did not know what I was doing.' It was a feeble excuse, even to his own ears. As if that could justify what he had been about to do, what he would have done if her pleading shouts had not woken him to the villain he was. He wiped a hand across his mouth.

‘It was not your fault,' she said.

God in heaven! What had he done to her? ‘It won't happen again. I give you my word, Madeline.'

‘No.' She shook her head as if to clear the daze from her mind.

How could he expect her to believe him when he had so glibly given his word before and broken it just as easily? ‘It was a mistake to share the bed. I shall not do so again and you shall be perfectly safe.' His throat tightened. His jaw clenched.

‘But—' Desolation struck at her beautiful eyes.

‘Forgive me,' he said again, and gathering up the rest of his clothes in his arms, walked out of the room. It was the best he could offer her. His absence. He could only hope that through time Madeline would come to forgive and to forget.

T
he rest of the journey, from Exeter to Liskeard and then on past Tregellas village, was made in sullen silence. Lucien attended to her every need: ensured she was warm enough, that she was not hungry, that she was not too tired. But there was a formality between them, a distance that could not be breached. He did not touch her, or smile or even lounge back in his seat as he had done during the journey so far. Instead, he sat rigid and stern-faced, as if an anger bristled beneath the surface. His words, the few that he actually spoke to her, were not unkind. But his eyes sparked with something that she could not name. Loathing? Disgust? She did not blame him. He had made it very clear that he did not want her and she had behaved like nothing short of a trollop, tempting his kisses, craving his touch. Her face flamed just at the memory. Little wonder that he could hardly bear to look at her. Shame flooded her soul. She bit down hard on her lip, and averted her face.

Clearly he was a man to whom honour was everything. Why else throw himself away on a marriage to the likes of her? He had sacrificed himself to save her and all because of something in the past with Lord Farquharson. This was how she repaid him. Wanton. The word taunted her, playing again and again in her head, until she thought she would scream from it. Her teeth bit harder, puncturing the soft skin. She didn't even realise she was doing it until the metallic taste of blood settled upon her tongue. The road passed in a blur of mud and field and hedgerow. Madeline was blind to it all, concentrating as she was on holding herself together. His voice echoed through her mind, disgust lacing his every word.
It won't happen again…It was a mistake to share the bed.
She wanted to weep tears of shame and loss. Instead she took a deep breath, and sat calmly, steadfast and enduring, as if her heart wasn't bruised and aching. Strength rallied. She had survived a betrothal to Farquharson with his wandering hands and cruel promises. She could survive Lucien's disgust.

A shameful situation and each believing themselves to be to blame, neither Madeline nor Lucien noticed that both their dreams had been free from the presence of Cyril Farquharson.

 

Trethevyn was a large manor house that stood on the edge of a great, barren stretch of moorland. Madeline's heart sank as she caught sight of it through the cloud and rain. A huge imposing structure of grey stone, as dismal as the bleak countryside that surrounded it.

She supposed that Lucien must have sent word that he would be arriving, for the staff were assembled in the black-and-white chequered hallway to welcome the master of the house. An austere elderly butler and a large-boned elderly woman who answered to the name of Mrs Babcock seemed to be in charge. Mrs Babcock, who Madeline soon learned was the housekeeper, had a huge bun of wispy grey hair clearly displayed without the pretence of a cap of any kind. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes were as dark as two plump blackcurrants. As far as Lord Tregellas was concerned, she showed not one iota of the respect that one might have expected. Indeed, she was of a rather no-nonsense approach. She eyed the new mistress with obvious curiosity.

Lucien kept his distance. If the servants thought there anything strange in the fact that his lordship barely looked in the direction of his new wife, they made no hint of it. What would be said below-stairs was quite a different matter all together.

‘No doubt you will wish to rest after such a long journey. Mrs Babcock will show you to your rooms.' Madeline was dismissed into the care of the housekeeper without a further word. Lucien disappeared into a doorway on his immediate right, closing the door firmly behind him.

Madeline looked at the large woman.

Mrs Babcock stared right back, and then a huge smile beamed across her face. ‘Come along then, m'lady. Best get you settled upstairs and warmed up before anythin' else.' The housekeeper hobbled up towards the staircase that veered off to the right.

Madeline hesitated for a moment longer.

‘This way, if you please, Lady Tregellas,' came Mrs Babcock's voice. The kindly blackcurrant eyes peered round at Madeline. Mrs Babcock's ample girth set off at a dawdle up the stairs. She turned her head with frequent regularity to check if the lady of the house was following in her wake, and struggled up stair by stair with her uneven stomping gate. ‘Oh, my word, these stairs get steeper all the time,' complained Mrs Babcock, her breath coming in wheezes.

Madeline followed with mounting concern. The housekeeper certainly seemed to be labouring. ‘Mrs Babcock, perhaps you should take a short rest.'

‘Nonsense!' exclaimed Mrs Babcock cheerfully. ‘Up and down these stairs all the day long, I am. Not too old to be showin' the new mistress to her rooms.'

‘No. I didn't mean to suggest—'

Mrs Babcock cut her off. ‘Trethevyn is a lovely house. I'm sure you'll come to love it as much as his lordship does. Not the best of weather to be arrivin' in, but old George reckons as the weather will turn cold and fine again in the mornin', and then you'll see the place in all its glory. Expect you don't want to be bothered thinkin' about nothin' 'cept gettin' some nice warm food down you. But don't you fret, m'lady, Cook has got a special treat prepared, a lovely selection, and his lordship's favourite apple puddin' an' all.'

Madeline absorbed all this in silence. Her stomach felt small and tight and not a bit hungry. She forced a smile to her face and tried to sound enthusiastic. ‘That sounds lovely.'

The wheeze of Mrs Babcock's breath grew louder. From down below there was the bustle of footmen unloading the baggage from the coach. Voices shouted and the fast flurry of footsteps on marble and wooden floors sounded. Madeline followed the housekeeper as the stairs swept back on themselves to reach a landing. From there Mrs Babcock turned to her right and followed down a dimly lit passageway.

‘It seems a pleasant house,' said Madeline.

‘Once you're settled, m'lady, you won't want to leave. I can promise you that,' replied the housekeeper.

Madeline sincerely doubted the truth of that remark, but said nothing.

Eventually they stopped outside a door, a door that looked to be the same as every other dark mahogany door along the passageway. Mrs Babcock reached forward, turned the handle, and swung the door open.

‘The bedchamber of the mistress of the house. In you go, m'lady.' She waited for Madeline to move.

Madeline hesitated, peering in through the heavy mahogany doorway with a feeling of awe.

‘Just as her ladyship left it,' said Mrs Babcock.

Madeline looked round with a start. ‘Her ladyship?'

The housekeeper chuckled. ‘The dowager Lady Tregellas. His lordship's mum, 'fore she passed on, that was. God rest her soul.'

‘Oh.'

‘And now the bedchamber is yours,' beamed Mrs Babcock, linking her arm through Madeline's and walking her into the room. ‘I'm sure you'll be very happy here, m'lady.'

Madeline bit at her lip. ‘Yes,' she murmured, unable to meet Mrs Babcock's eye.

The room was large in the extreme, bigger even than the one in Lucien's London house. Even the four-poster bed seemed small in comparison.

Mrs Babcock nodded towards the full-length window in the middle of the opposite wall. ‘Have a care if you go out on the balcony until them there railings are mended. There was a right bad thunderstorm a few nights past and lightnin' hit the ironwork. All of a crumpled mess it is.' An ancient finger pointed to the side. ‘Dressing room and bath's through there. His lordship even has one of them new water closets installed. Newfangled falderal, if you ask me. A chamberpot was good enough for his father and his grandfather before, but Master Lucien always was rather headstrong. Wouldn't listen as a boy. Still won't listen.' Mrs Babcock sniffed loudly to show what she thought of Lucien's wilful ways. ‘Sit yourself down, m'lady. I'll have Betsy bring you a nice strong cup of tea with plenty of sugar. You're lookin' a bit pasty, if you don't mind me sayin'.'

Madeline found herself being steered towards the sofa, an elderly hand patting at her shoulder.

‘I'll stop my chatterin' and let you catch your breath then. Anythin' you want, just ring. Betsy'll be right up.' Mrs Babcock got as far as the door before turning her face back towards Madeline. ‘Took his lordship long enough to find himself a bride. But I reckon he's made the right choice with you, m'lady. Welcome to Trethevyn.' Then she was off and lumbering back along the length of the corridor.

Madeline stood where she was, listening to the scuffling of Mrs Babcock's shoes against the wooden flooring, eyes scanning what lay before her. A rose-coloured bedchamber, warm from a fire that had clearly been burning for some time within the centre of the carved white marble fireplace. Rain battered against the large full-length window in the centre of the room, and would have lent a greyness to the light had it not been for the warming yellow glow from a multitude of lighted candles. The room did indeed have a peaceful air to it, just as Mrs Babcock had said.

Madeline surveyed the furniture. There was a matching desk and chair, a small bookcase, a large wooden box on top of a stand, and an easel. There was even a vase of snowdrops, bowing their shy white little heads low towards their green stems. She pushed the door shut and walked quietly across the pink patterned rug. A pale brocade-covered sofa with matching cushions was positioned before the fireplace, a corresponding armchair by its side. A tallboy and a wardrobe in the left-hand corner. Two bedside tables. Symmetrically placed in the walls of both the left-and right-hand sides of the bedchamber were two identical doors, painted the same pale rose colour to merge with the walls. Madeline moved first to the right, the side that Mrs Babcock had indicated. The door led into a dressing room complete with dressing table and mirrors, and from there into a bathroom. She looked across the length of the bedchamber towards the matching door on the other side. Madeline suspected what lay behind that. She walked steadily towards it, placed her hand on the smooth wooden handle and turned. The door was locked. She backed away from it. Only in her retreat did she notice the walls.

Every inch of space upon the walls had been hung with framed paintings: paintings of woodland scenes, paintings of dogs, paintings of wild sweeping moorland, and colourful bright studies of flowers. Two children playing in the sunlight, a man walking through the snow. A rainbow lighting a dark sky, and a rugged ruined castle on a cliff edge so sheer as to plunge into a white-foamed sea. They drew Madeline like a magnet. Chilled fingers soon warmed, tension and unease melted away. Madeline forgot all else as she studied the works. Delicate translucence of watercolour, and bold rich oils. Absorbing her into the scenes, drawing her in with the artist's eye. At the bottom of every paper, every canvas, were the same entwined initials: A and T. The same artist had rendered all these paintings, and with such love and passion and clarity. Everyday scenes immortalised for ever by the careful strokes of a brush.

A quiet knock sounded, timid knuckles tapping on wood.

‘Come in.' Madeline looked up to find a young woman carrying a tray hovering by the doorway.

‘Beggin' your pardon, m'lady, but Mrs Babcock sent me with your tea.' The girl hunched her lanky frame and smiled a nervous little smile.

Madeline returned the smile. ‘Thank you. You must be Betsy.'

‘Yes, m'lady. Betsy Porter.' Another nervous smile. ‘Shall I set it down here on the table by the fire?'

‘Yes, please.' The girl's hair was fair, not unlike Madeline's own, but the eyes that looked back were blue washed with grey. ‘Betsy, I was just admiring the pictures on the walls. Who painted them?'

‘Oh, that was old Lady Tregellas. Mrs Babcock says that her ladyship painted all her life. 'Cept at the end. Wasn't well enough to paint 'fore she died.'

‘When was that?' asked Madeline, intrigued to learn something more of Lucien's family.

‘Long time 'fore I started work here,' answered Betsy. ‘Perhaps five years, or so, ago.' A little silence before she said, ‘I hope you like the flowers, m'lady. Mrs Babcock had me pick them specially for you.'

Madeline glanced towards the vase holding the snowdrops. ‘They're beautiful, Betsy. I like them very much, thank you.'

Betsy pleated her apron and smiled. ‘Mrs Babcock says to tell you that dinner will be served at five o'clock, so there's time for a short nap if you're tired. I'm to come back to help you dress at half past four. There ain't no lady's maid here. Mrs Babcock thought you would be bringin' your own.' Betsy ground to an awkward halt.

‘No,' said Madeline, and then, making a spur-of-the-moment decision, ‘Perhaps you might like to be my maid?'

Betsy looked as if she'd been struck by lightning. Then the blood rushed with a fury to heat her pale cheeks. ‘But I ain't trained, m'lady. I don't know how to do hair stylin' or…' The words trailed off.

‘I don't know how to be a countess,' confided Madeline. ‘Perhaps we could learn together.'

‘Oh, m'lady!' burst out Betsy. ‘I won't let you down, that I won't, m'lady.'