Lucien Tregellas (5 page)

‘You think he will try again, even with you waiting in the wings?'

‘I know he will,' came the grim reply. ‘He's planning it even as we speak, and that foolish chit over there is practically falling over herself to be his next victim.'

Guy followed his brother's gaze across the room to the slender figure of the girl seated by the side of an older woman.

‘Miss Langley thinks to catch herself a baron. Or, more precisely, her mama does. Miss Langley herself appears to be strangely resistant to any advice to the contrary that I might offer.' A scowl twitched between his brows.

‘Then leave her to it,' said Guy with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘If the girl refuses to be warned off, then perhaps she deserves Farquharson.'

Lucien's gaze still had not shifted from Miss Langley, his eyes taking in her downcast face, her rigid posture. ‘No woman deserves that fate.'

A wry little laugh sounded, and Guy drained the remainder of the champagne from his glass. ‘What would London say if they knew that the notorious Earl Tregellas, the man of whom they are all so very afraid, is on a mission to safeguard every virgin in this city from Farquharson's roving eye? There's a certain irony in that, wouldn't you say?'

‘There's no comparison between me and Farquharson,' Lucien said. The fragile glass snapped between his fingers. He set the broken pieces down on the tray of a passing footman.

‘Calm down, big brother. I loath what Farquharson is as much as you.'

‘No. I assure you, you do not.'

‘Your feelings are understandable, given what happened,' said Guy quietly.

A muscle twitched in Lucien's jaw.

‘What about the girl? Is she really in danger?' Guy glanced again at Miss Langley.

‘She's in much more danger than she could ever realise,' replied his brother, looking him directly in the eye.

Earl Tregellas and Viscount Varington, two of society's most infamous bachelors, albeit for vastly differing reasons, turned their gaze upon the slight and unassuming figure of Miss Madeline Langley.

M
adeline glanced uneasily around. It was almost time. She knew he would come for her; her actions of earlier that evening would not stop him. The stranger had been right to tell her to make her excuses, but he had never dealt with her mother. It was bad enough having to suffer Lord Farquharson's assaults without having her own mother encourage the situation in the hope of forcing him to a wedding. Madeline shuddered at the thought.

She sneaked a glance at her mother. Mrs Langley was engrossed in chattering to Mrs Wilson. Madeline's eyes raked the ballroom. Still no sign of Papa. Over at the far side, partly hidden by some Grecian-styled columns and lounging beside another man, was her dark defender. Their gazes locked. Her heart kicked to a canter. She felt the blush rise in her cheeks and looked hastily away. What would he think of her sitting waiting for Lord Farquharson to come and claim her for the waltz? And he was right! But what else could she do with Mama guarding her so well? A visit to the retiring room had been refused. And at the suggestion that she go home with Miss Ridgely her mama had warranted a warning glare. Even now Mama's hand rested lightly against her arm. Madeline dared not look at the stranger again, even when she saw Lord Farquharson begin to make his way slowly, steadily, towards her. Every step brought him closer.

Madeline felt the coldness spreading throughout. Her mouth grew suddenly dry and her palms somewhat clammy. She bowed her head, coaxing her courage.
I can do this. I can do this,
she inwardly chanted the mantra again and again.
It is in full view of everyone. What can he do to me here, save dance?
But just the anticipation of being held in his grip, within his power, brought a nausea to her throat. She steeled herself against it. Willed herself to defy him.
Don't let him see that you're afraid.
She steadied her breath, curled her fingers to fists. The spot on the floor disappeared, replaced instead by a pair of large, black-leather buckle slippers. Madeline swallowed once. The shoes were connected to a pair of stockinged shins. The shins led up to a pair of fine black knee breeches. The breeches stretched tight to reveal every detail of well-muscled and long thighs. Madeline's eyes leapt up to his face.

‘I believe this is my dance, Miss Langley,' her dark defender said smoothly and, without waiting, plucked Madeline straight from her chair on to the floor.

Lord Farquharson came to an abrupt halt halfway across the ballroom, and stared in disbelief.

Mrs Langley's mouth opened to squawk her protest, and then shut again. She could only sit and stare while her eldest daughter was whisked into the middle of the dance floor.

‘Well, really!' exclaimed Mrs Wilson by her side. ‘You do know who that is?'

‘Indeed,' replied Mrs Langley weakly. ‘That is Earl Tregellas.'

‘The Wicked Earl,' said her friend with a disapproving frown. ‘What an earth is he doing, dancing with Madeline?'

For once in her life Mrs Langley appeared to be lost for words.

 

The dark-haired stranger held her with a firm gentleness. The light pressure of his hand upon her waist seemed to burn straight through the material of her dress and undergarments, to sear against her skin. The fingers of his other hand enclosed around hers in warm protection. Beneath the superfine material of his coat she could feel the strength of his muscles across the breadth of his shoulders. The square-cut double-breasted tail-coat was of the finest midnight black to match the ruffled feathers of his hair. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the most elegant tailor's establishment in all England. A white-worked waistcoat adorned a pristine white shirt, the collar of which stood high. The white neckcloth looked to be a work of art. Madeline felt suddenly conscious of her cheap dress with its plain cream-coloured material and short puffed sleeves. As usual she had declined to wear the wealth of ribbons and bows set out by Mama. Neither a string of beads nor even a simple ribbon sat around her neck. The square-shaped neckline of her dress was not low; even so, in contrast with the other ladies, she had insisted upon wearing a pale pink fichu lest any skin might be exposed.

‘Miss Langley, you seem disinclined to follow my advice.'

The richness of his voice drifted down to her. She kept her focus fixed firmly on the lapel of his coat. What else was he to think? Hadn't she known that it would be so? ‘I could not leave,' she said. It sounded pathetic even to her own ears.

‘Could not, or would not? Perhaps you are in concordance with your mother's plans to catch yourself a baron after all.'

‘No!' Her gaze snapped up to his. His eyes were watching with a dispassion that piqued her. ‘No,' she said again. ‘It isn't like that at all.'

He raised a dark eyebrow as if in contradiction. ‘Perhaps you even welcome Lord Farquharson's attentions.' His gaze meandered down over her body, lingered momentarily upon her well-covered bosom, and dawdled back up to see the blush flood her normally pale cheeks.

She gripped at her lower lip with her teeth, as if to hold back the answer that would have spilled too readily forth. ‘If you really think that, then you may as well pass me to him this very moment.' Her body tensed as she waited to see what he would do.

His steps were perfection, smooth and flowing, guiding her first here, then there, progressing with grace around the floor. For such a big man he was certainly light on his feet. As they turned to change direction, the irate face of Lord Farquharson swam into view. He was standing ready to catch her by the edge of the dance floor. Madeline's eyes widened. The stranger swung her closer towards Lord Farquharson. Her heart was thumping fit to leap free from her chest. A tremble set up in her fingers. The stranger was going to abandon her into Lord Farquharson's arms! Madeline's eyelids flickered shut in anticipation. She readied herself for the sound of Lord Farquharson's voice, prepared herself to feel the grasp of his hands.

‘You can open your eyes now,' the stranger said. ‘I haven't the least intention of releasing you to Farquharson.'

Madeline opened her eyes tentatively to find that they had progressed further around the ballroom, leaving Lord Farquharson well behind. She allowed herself to relax a little.

He felt the tension ease from her body and knew then that she hadn't lied about her feelings for Farquharson. And although it shouldn't have made the blindest bit of a difference, the knowledge pleased him. He wouldn't have abandoned her to Farquharson even if she'd been screaming to get there. She seemed so small and slender in his arms, much smaller than he had realised. He looked into her eyes and saw with a jolt that they were the clear golden hue of amber. Strange that he had not noticed that during either of their previous meetings. He had never met a woman with quite that colouring before. They were beautiful eyes, eyes a man might lose himself in. The sound of Miss Langley's voice dragged him back from his contemplation and he chided himself for staring at the chit.

She was looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for some kind of response.

‘I beg your pardon,' he said. ‘My attention was elsewhere.' The shadow of something flitted across her face, then was gone.

‘Lord Farquharson does not look happy. You have stolen his dance,' she said.

‘He has no damn right to dance with any woman,' he said harshly, then, remembering the woman in his arms, said, ‘Forgive my language, Miss Langley. I did not mean to offend you.'

She smiled then, and it was a smile that lit up her face. Lucien wondered how he could ever have thought her plain. ‘Rest assured, sir, whatever else you have done, you have not offended me.'

Lucien studied her closely.

‘Indeed, you have nothing but my gratitude,' she continued. ‘I dread to think of my circumstance now had you not intervened on my behalf.' He could feel the warmth of her beneath his fingers; he could see it in her face. No, Madeline Langley had not encouraged Farquharson. There was an honesty about her, a quiet reserve, and a quickness of mind that was so lacking in most of the young women he had encountered.

She smiled again and he barely heard the notes of the band, concentrating as he was on the girl before him. The prim plain clothing could not completely disguise what lay beneath. The narrowness of her waist beneath his palm, the subtle rise of her breasts, those slender arms. Lucien could see very well what had attracted Farquharson. Innocence and fear and something else, something he could not quite define.

‘Who are you?' she said, looking up at him. ‘I don't even know your name.'

Of course she didn't know. She wouldn't be looking up at him so trustingly if she had known who he was. Some women attempted to court him for his reputation. Madeline Langley would not. He knew that instinctively. She would shun the wicked man Earl Tregellas was reputed to be.

A shy amusement lit the amber eyes. ‘Will you not tell me, sir?'

He hesitated a moment longer, enjoying the innocent radiance in her face. No woman looked at him like that any more. Artful coquetry, pouting petulance, flagrant fear, and, of course, downright disapproval—he had known them all. Miss Langley's expression fell into none of those categories.

She smiled.

Lucien traced the outline of it with his eyes. He doubted that he would see her smile again once he told her his name.

The band played on. Their feet moved in time across the floor. Silence stretched between them.

‘I am Tregellas.' There was nothing else he could say.

‘Tregellas?' she said softly.

He watched while she tried to place the name, the slight puzzlement creasing a tiny line between her brows. Perhaps she did not know of him. And then he saw that she did after all. Shock widened the tawny glow of her eyes. The smile fled her sweet pink lips. Uncertainty stood in its stead.

‘Earl Tregellas? The Wick—' She stopped herself just in time.

‘At your service, Miss Langley,' he said smoothly, as if he were just any other polite gentleman of the
ton.

Her gaze fluttered across his face, anxiety clouding her beautiful eyes, before she masked them with long black lashes. He thought he felt her body stiffen beneath his fingers.

‘I'm not Farquharson,' he growled. ‘You need have no fear of me.' Hell, he was trying to save her, not ravish her himself. And anyway, he had no interest in young ladies of Miss Langley's ilk. Indeed, he had not paid attention to any woman in five long years, or so he reminded himself.

She raised her eyes and looked at him, really looked at him, as if she could see the man beneath, the real Lucien Tregellas.

‘No, you're not Farquharson.' Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

Lucien found that he could not take his eyes from hers. The censure that he expected was not there. There was nothing except an open, honest appraisal.

The music came to a halt.

‘Thank you, Miss Langley,' he said, but whether it was for the dance or for her recognition that he and Farquharson were miles apart, he did not know. Her small hand was still enclosed in his. Swiftly he placed it upon his arm and escorted her back to her mother in silence.

And all the while he was conscious that Miss Madeline Langley had seen behind the façade that was the Wicked Earl.

 

‘Madeline, what on earth do you think you're playing at?' her mother demanded. ‘Do you know who that is?' she whispered between clenched teeth.

‘Earl Tregellas,' Madeline said slowly, her words slightly stilted.

‘Of all the most ill-mannered men. He takes you off without even consulting your mama! Not so much as a by your leave! How could you dance with him when Lord Farquharson's name is written clearly upon your card against the waltz!' Mrs Langley's hand scrabbled for her handkerchief. ‘I declare my nerves are in a terrible state. Oh, Madeline, whatever were you thinking of? He has the blackest reputation of any man in London!'

‘I could not refuse him without causing a scene.' She omitted to mention that she would rather have danced with the infamous Wicked Earl a thousand times over than let Lord Farquharson lay one finger upon her. ‘I did not wish to embarrass you, Mama.'

‘Embarrass me? Embarrass me?' The words seemed to be in danger of choking Mrs Langley. ‘Never has a mother been more embarrassed by the actions of such a vexing daughter!' She dabbed at her eyes. ‘And what will Lord Farquharson think of this?'

Madeline held her tongue.

‘How could you do it, Madeline? It was as good as giving him a cut in front of the world.' Mrs Langley's bosom heaved dramatically.

Madeline tried to ignore the numerous stares that were being sent in her direction. She made no sign of having heard the whispers from the ladies in the seats surrounding them. ‘No one knew what was on my dance card. Most likely they would have believed it to be empty as is usual.'

The whispers grew louder.

Angelina tugged at her mother's arm. ‘Mama,' she said. ‘You must not upset yourself. People are staring.'

Mrs Langley surveyed the attention turned upon her family. It was not the interest she had hoped for. She noticed that even Mrs Wilson had distanced herself somewhat and was now conversing with Mrs Hammond, casting the odd look back at the Langleys. Amelia Langley held her head up high and said in a voice intended to carry, ‘Unfortunately, girls, your mama has developed one of her headaches. There is nothing else for it but to retire at once. What a shame, when we were having such a nice time. Come along, girls.' And Mrs Langley swept her daughters from the ballroom. ‘I shall have a footman find your papa.'