Lucien Tregellas (4 page)

‘The Earl won't save you this time, my dear. He's not even here. I checked.'

Madeline refused to be bated. Speaking to him, pleading with him, would be useless. Cyril Farquharson would not listen to reason. She willed herself to stay calm, forced herself to look up into his eyes, to relax into his arms.

Lord Farquharson's eyes widened momentarily, and then he stretched a grin across his face. ‘I think we begin to understand one another at last.'

Madeline sincerely doubted that.

Lord Farquharson's grip lessened. ‘Madeline,' he breathed, ‘you are such a fearful little thing.' The intent in his gaze was so transparent that even Madeline, innocent as she was, could not mistake it. ‘I will not hurt you.' His fingers scraped hard down the length of her arm.

Apprehension tightened in her belly. ‘But you are doing so already, my lord,' she said, drawing back her leg and delivering her knee to Lord Farquharson's groin with as much force as she could muster. She did not wait to see the effect upon Lord Farquharson, just spun on her foot and ran as fast as she could, banging the door shut behind her. Across the landing, down the stairwell, running and running like she had never run before. The breath tore at her throat and rasped in her ears. Her feet touched only briefly against each stair. And still she ran on, pulling her skirts higher to prevent them catching around her legs. Anything to flee that monster. She rounded the corner, dared a glance back, and then slammed hard into something large and firm. A gasp escaped her. She stumbled forward, her feet teetering on the edge of the stair, arms flailing, reaching for some anchor to save her fall.

A pair of strong arms enveloped her, catching her up, pulling her to safety. Please God, no. How could Lord Farquharson be here so quickly? She had been so sure that he was behind her; even thought she'd heard the pounding of his feet upon the stairs. But it was only the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears. ‘No!' She struggled within his arms, reaching to find some purchase against the smooth surface of the walls.

‘Miss Langley?' The deep voice resonated with concern.

Madeline ceased her fight. She recognised that voice. Indeed, she would have known it anywhere. She looked up into a pair of pale blue eyes. It seemed that her heart skidded to a stop, before thundering off again at full tilt. For the arms wrapped around her belonged to none other than her dark defender. She glanced nervously behind, fearful that Lord Farquharson would creep upon them.

Her defender raised one dark eyebrow. ‘I take it Farquharson is behind this—again?'

Madeline nodded nervously. ‘He…' Her voice was hoarse and low. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘He's upstairs in one of the bedchambers.' Only when she said it did she realise exactly how that must sound.

His eyes narrowed and darkened. She felt the press of his hands against her skin. ‘Farquharson.' The word slipped from his throat, guttural and harsh in the silence surrounding them. He set her back upon the stair and brushed past her. Anger radiated from his every pore. He began to climb quickly and quietly up the narrow stairwell.

‘No!' shouted Madeline, twisting to follow him. Her feet thudded after his. ‘No,' she shouted again. ‘It's not what you think. He didn't—' She reached ahead, grabbed for the tails of his coat disappearing round the next bend and tugged. ‘Wait!'

The man stopped suddenly and looked back down at her.

She released her grip on his coat and leaned back, panting against the wall.

‘What do you mean, Miss Langley?'

‘He tried to kiss me,' she said, still catching her breath. ‘But I managed to get away before he could succeed.'

She could see the tension in the muscles of his neck and around the stiff set of his jaw. His eyes were sheer ice. ‘Did you learn nothing from the last time? What the hell were you doing alone in a bedchamber with Farquharson?'

Madeline's mouth gaped in shock. ‘He tricked me. I didn't know he would be there. I was looking for my father.'

‘And your father is likely to be hiding in one of Lady Gilmour's guest bedchambers?' He raised a cynical eyebrow.

‘It is not unlikely,' she said quietly.

Long fingers raked his hair, ruffling it worse than ever. ‘Miss Langley, if you are too foolish to know it already, I will tell you in no uncertain terms. Lord Farquharson is a dangerous man. You would be wise to steer well clear of him.'

‘That's what I'm trying to do, but my mother wishes to promote a match between Lord Farquharson and myself. She's determined to encourage his interest.'

‘Is your mother insane?'

Madeline's lip began to tremble. She clamped it down with a firm nip of her teeth. It was one thing to know she would be left upon the shelf, and quite another to have so handsome a gentleman imply the same bluntly to her face.

‘I mean no insult, but believe me, Miss Langley, when I say that Lord Farquharson has no interest in marriage.'

Lord, he thought she was hopeful of such a thing! ‘And I have no interest in Lord Farquharson,' she said curtly. She turned away and started to retrace her steps back down the stairwell, then hesitated and faced him once more. ‘Thank you, Mr…'

He made no effort to introduce himself.

‘Both for tonight and last week. I'm indebted to you for your intervention.'

Those pale eyes watched her a moment longer before he said, ‘Don't thank me, Miss Langley, just stay away from Farquharson.'

She chewed at her bottom lip, wondering whether to tell him. He would think the worst of her if she did not, and somehow the stranger's opinion mattered very much to Madeline. ‘Sir,' she said shyly.

‘Miss Langley,' he replied and crooked his eyebrow.

The lip received several nasty nips from her teeth. She looked at him, and then looked at him some more.

‘Was there something you wished to tell me, Miss Langley?'

Madeline twisted her hands together. ‘It's…just that Lord Farquharson has claimed me for the waltz. Perhaps he will not recover in time, but—'

‘Recover?' her defender enquired. ‘What in Hades did you do to him?'

‘My father showed me how to disable a man by using my knee, should the occasion ever arise.'

His mouth gave only the smallest suggestion of a smile. ‘And the occasion arose.'

‘Yes,' she said simply.

They looked at one another.

‘Find whatever excuse you must, Miss Langley, but do not waltz with Farquharson.'

Madeline seriously doubted that the Prince Regent himself could come up with an excuse acceptable to her mother. But there was always the chance, after the incident in the bedchamber, that Lord Farquharson would have changed his mind over dancing with her. ‘I'll try,' she said. And she was gone, her feet padding softly down the cold stone stairs that would lead her back to the ballroom.

 

‘There you are, Madeline. Where is your papa? Did you not tell him of Angelina's success?' Mrs Langley was all of a flutter.

Madeline opened her mouth to reply.

‘Never mind that now. You've missed so much. You will not believe what has just happened.' She clapped her hands together in glee. ‘Mr Lawrence was taken quite ill, something to do with what he ate at his club earlier in the day.'

‘Poor Mr Lawrence,' said Madeline, wondering why Mr Lawrence's malady so pleased her mother.

‘Yes, yes,' said Mrs Langley. ‘It meant that he could not dance with Angelina as he promised.' Her excitement bubbled over in a giggle.

‘Mama, are you feeling quite well?'

Mrs Langley touched a hand to her daughter's arm. ‘You'll never guess what happened.'

Madeline waited expectantly.

‘The Duke of Devonshire stepped in to take his place and danced with Angelina!' She clasped her hand to her mouth. ‘Isn't it just too, too good?'

Madeline glanced across the dance floor to see a rather dashing-looking young man with twinkling blue eyes and warm sand-coloured hair twirl her sister through the steps of a country dance. Angelina was glancing up at the man through long lashes, her golden curls bouncing against the pretty flush of her cheeks. ‘Yes, it is wonderful.'

‘Wonderful indeed!' Mrs Langley breathed.

Madeline cleared her throat. ‘Mama, my head hurts quite dreadfully.'

‘Mmm,' mused Mrs Langley, barely taking her eyes from Angelina's dancing form. ‘You do look rather pale.'

‘I wondered whether Papa might take me home in the carriage. I'm sure that he wouldn't mind.'

‘I tell you of Angelina's success and in the next breath you're asking to go home.'

‘Mama, it isn't like that. Lord Farquharson—'

‘Lord Farquharson!' interrupted her mother. ‘I begin to see how this is going. Your papa may not realise what you're up to, but I most certainly do!' Mrs Langley turned on Madeline, her mouth stretched to a false smile in case anyone should think that Mrs Langley and her daughter were having anything but the most pleasant of chats. ‘You are so determined to refuse a dance with Lord Farquharson that you will destroy the evening for us all. You think to thumb your nose at a baron and care not a jot if you ruin your sister's chances.'

‘No, Mama, you and Angelina will stay here, nothing would be ruined for her.'

‘Are you so wrapped up in your own interest that you cannot see Angelina has the chance to catch a duke? That child out there,' said her mother, ‘has only kindness in her heart.' Mrs Langley glanced fleetingly at her younger daughter upon the dance floor. ‘Not one word has she uttered about Lord Farquharson's preference for you. Not one!'

‘Little wonder! She is relieved that she does not have him clutching for her hand.' As soon as the words were out Madeline knew she should not have said them. Oh, Lord. She shut her eyes and readied herself for her mother's response.

Mrs Langley's eyes widened. The false smile could no longer be sustained and slipped from her face. ‘Madeline Langley, you go too far. Your papa shall hear of this, indeed he shall. All these years I've slaved to make a lady of you, so that you might make a decent marriage. And now, when I'm on the brink of bringing all my hard work to success, you threaten to ruin all, and not only for yourself.'

Madeline counted to ten.

‘Pray do not look at me in that superior way as if I know not of what I speak!' Mrs Langley's small lace handkerchief appeared.

Madeline continued to fifteen.

‘You have not the slightest compassion for your poor mama's nerves. And all the while Mr Langley makes your excuses. Well, not any more.'

And twenty.

‘You are not going home,' Mrs Langley announced. ‘You will sit there and look as if you are having a nice time, headache or not. When the time comes, you will dance with Lord Farquharson and you will smile at him, and answer him politely. Do I make myself clear?'

‘Mama, there's something I must tell you of Lord Farquharson,' said Madeline.

Her mother adopted her most stubborn expression. ‘I know all I need to know of that gentleman, Madeline. You will waltz with him just the same.'

Madeline looked at her mother in silence.

‘Mama. Madeline.' Angelina appeared at her mother's shoulder. As if sensing the atmosphere, she glanced from her mother's flushed face to her sister's pale one. ‘Is something wrong?'

‘No, nothing is wrong, my angel,' replied Mrs Langley with a forced smile. ‘Madeline was just saying how much she was looking forward to dancing this evening.'

Angelina coiled an errant curl around her ear. ‘Oh,' she said, ‘I came to war—I came to tell Madeline that Lord Farquharson is over there looking for her.'

‘How fortuitous,' said Mrs Langley.

Fortuitous was not the word Madeline would have chosen. She turned her head in the direction Angelina had indicated.

Lord Farquharson raised his glass to her in salutation. Even across the distance Madeline could see the promise upon his face.

 

‘What is it, Lucien? First you insist on uprooting me from a very cosy hand of cards at White's, then you trail me here after Farquharson, and now you've got a face like thunder on you.' Guy, Viscount Varington, regarded his brother across a glass of champagne.

‘Farquharson's up to his old tricks again.' Lucien rotated the elegant glass stem between his fingers. The champagne inside remained untouched.

‘You cannot forever be dogging his steps. Five years is a long time. Perhaps it's time to leave the past behind and move forward.'

Lucien Tregellas's fingers tightened against the delicate stem. ‘Move on and forget what he did?' he said bitterly. ‘Surely you jest?'

Guy looked into his brother's eyes, eyes that were a mirror image of his own. He smiled a small, rueful smile.

‘Farquharson has not changed. He's been a regular visitor to a certain establishment in Berwick Street these years past, slaking his needs, and you know for what manner of taste Madame Fouet's house caters. I could do nothing about that. Even so, I always knew that it would not be enough for him. He wants another woman of gentle breeding, another innocent. And I'll kill Farquharson rather than let that happen.' There was a stillness about Lucien's face, a quietness in his voice, that lent his words a chilling certainty.