[Samuel Barbara] Lucien's Fall(Book4You) (2 page)

All the same, she paused for an instant outside the door to the salon. From within came the chuckling of bawdy jokes, a lascivious undertone to the notes of the string quartet playing in the corner. She clutched her hands together, wishing for the veiling of a gauze fichu to cover her bosom. She wanted nothing to do with this sort of a life, filled with parties and meaningless dinners and too much drink.

The trouble was, she seemed to have little calling for a religious life, either. She had only an eccentric need for solitude, a wish to spend her days with plants and in study of poetry and music. Had she been born male—

But she had not, and for all her resentment of Juliette’s pushing, Madeline knew the estate needed a new source of cash. For the gardens, for the house that was her legacy, Madeline could marry as Juliette wished. Touching the armoring weight of emeralds at her breast, she took a breath and pushed open the door.

A little ripple of halted, then hastily resumed, conversation flew around the room.

For a moment, Madeline paused, allowing them to admire her as she’d been instructed, then cast her gaze around.

There were a number of dazzling, beautiful women in the room, women Madeline had met in London with her stepmother. They stood in little groups with men in embroidered and brocaded coats and satin breeches in colors of her spring garden—new leaf green and lilac and sky blue—and red-heeled shoes.

Madeline greeted them graciously. She answered their polite inquiries, smiled and allowed kisses to be brushed over her cheek. The men bent over her hand, letting their eyes linger over the body that had been so thin when she left two years before. They commented upon how well she’d grown up.

None were the marquess. Trying to contain a frown, Madeline looked for her stepmother. As if Juliette could read her mind, she heard her name called out, sweetly,

"Madeline!"

She turned, bracing herself as well as she might for the sight of her husband-to-be.

Instead, she saw Juliette standing with the two men from the race this afternoon. The one from the phaeton was pale and very thin, quite perfectly elegant in his presentation. The way he hung close to Juliette, Madeline thought he must be Juliette’s current lover.

Thinking of the strange longing the other man had aroused in her, Madeline folded her hands before she allowed herself to look at him, and took a breath to steel herself against his heady aura of freedom. She looked up—and found his gaze boldly upon her. A jolt of—something—passed through her stomach, hard and bright, then gone.

He still scorned wig or powder, and his hair seemed as violently alive in the candlelight as it had in the gold dappling of sunshine this afternoon. It was caught back from his face again in a queue neatly tied with a black ribbon, and rippled halfway down his back, thick and wavy and glossy.

Now she could see the details of the handsome face: high cheekbones touched with a flush of color, an aggressive and hawkish nose, a mobile and sensual mouth. It was his eyes that gave him an exotic cast— very dark blue and slightly tilted. Like a large cat.

And like a cat, the smile he gave her was both predatory and elegant.

Madeline had long been acquainted with the habits of rakes. At fourteen, this sort of insolent and knowing smile had turned her knees to mush. At twenty, she was beyond melting under the gaze of any man— even one who was, she had to admit, quite compelling.

Still, she did not blush or hastily look away, but affected boredom as she approached the knot of them.

"Madeline, my dear, these are friends of mine from London," Juliette said. "This is Jonathan Child, viscount of Lanham."

The pale man bent over Madeline’s hand. "A pleasure."

"My lord."

"And this," Juliette continued, indicating the other man, "is Lucien Harrow, Lord Esher, heir to the earl of Monthart, and quite the worst rake in the history of England."

This last was said with a hint of suppressed laughter. "Beware of him, sweet."

Madeline glanced at Juliette, surprised to hear such bold warning. The countess had already fixed her gaze rather brilliantly upon Lord Esher, who took Madeline’s hand with a startlingly strong grip. He stepped close, so close that the crown of that thick, living hair brushed the tops of her breasts when he bent over her hand.

She stepped back. He lifted his head, affecting a quizzical expression that could not entirely hide the glitter of amusement in his eyes. "Do not be alarmed, Lady Madeline. She jests."

His voice was as rich as the breath of a cello, and it was oddly alluring to have him so close, to see from a few inches the depth of those eyes, to smell the dusky fragrance of his skin. He held her hand and her gaze for a beat longer than was proper, a tiny smile playing at the edges of his sensual mouth.

Madeline frowned, yanking her hand away. "Do not attempt such flirtations with me, Lord Esher. I’m afraid I find men of your ilk transparent and boring."

He tucked his hands behind his back, allowing her to put distance between them.

But his grin was crooked and set alive a dimple in the cheek. "Are we?"

"Yes."

"Madeline, how rude of you!" Juliette said, amused.

Madeline, knowing her stepmother applauded her silently, said, "No ruder than men who think of women as little toys."

Lord Esher laughed. "What a wise daughter you’ve raised, Countess," he said. His gaze never strayed from Madeline’s face, and she found the steadfast perusal unsettling.

"Stepdaughter," Juliette said, and spatted him with her fan.

"Oh?"

Juliette lifted her chin. "I am not near of an age to have a grown daughter! Her mother died in childbed. ’Twas tragic."

"Ah. I remember the story now. You wed the earl soon after, though, did you not?"

The countess pouted, very prettily. "Yes. But I was a mere child."

Madeline looked toward the long windows showing the setting sun framed by damask drapes, amused in spite of herself. Juliette, who was the daughter of a dressmaker, did not like being teased about her humble beginnings. Lord Esher evidently knew it. Madeline glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

Boldly, he admired Madeline’s figure, making no pretense of doing anything else.

The nearly violent blue of his eyes touched her shoulders and breasts and waist with approval.

Juliette caught the examination. "I did train the girl, so you needn’t work your charms—she’s immune to the wiles of seduction."

"Is she now?"

"Quite," Madeline said.

Mockingly, he dipped his head. "Then all I may do is bow."

Madeline inclined her head in return, just as mockingly, a smile on her lips for the first time. If he did not exert himself too much—and why would he— she’d grow used to his extraordinary appeal very quickly. It was only the suddenness of his appearance that made her feel so unsettled. She’d had crushes on far more magnetic rakes than this.

A stirring at the front of the salon caught her attention. Madeline turned, hoping it would be the marquess. A man came through the door, nodding distractedly at the guests.

Madeline stared for a long moment. He was not the piggish creature she’d feared, nor was he at all handsome. Too plump, too soft. His clothes were a bit askew, as if he’d hurried or been careless, and his forehead already showed two half-moons of skin where his hair was falling out.

Behind her, Madeline felt the presence of Lord Esher. His voice fell in her ear. "I hope you won’t mind one single compliment, earnestly extended." The warmth of his breath brushed her earlobe.

She looked over her shoulder.

The smile faded from his face, leaving a sober and intense expression. "You are the most exquisitely fey and beautiful creature I’ve ever seen."

The tiny hairs on her neck raised. Abruptly, she flicked her fan. "If that’s sincere, I’m the queen of England."

His crooked smile returned, and he straightened as Juliette moved close to Madeline, nudging her. "Psst. There is your husband, child. At the door."

Madeline stared at the marquess, knowing her life hung in this moment. As she waited, the marquess caught sight of her, and the round, unremarkable face was transformed by a smile of deep and singular sweetness. He gave her a small, courtly bow.

Her heart pinched.

"Our troubles are over, my sweet," Juliette murmured, urging Madeline forward.

"Go to him."

For an instant longer, Madeline hung back. All her dreams of romance, of love, were swept away. She might one day grow fond of this round little man, but she would never love him.

As if to point out the contrast, the heated, moist breath of Lord Esher brushed her shoulder, a whisper of a caress as dangerous as a serpent’s tongue. "One would think the marquess a perfect man for a woman who so dislikes men of my ilk."

A tiny shudder rippled over her arms. "Yes," she said with more certainty than she felt, and moved forward. She smiled at the marquess as graciously as she was able, feeling a cool brush of air replace the breath of Lord Esher against her neck.

She did not allow herself to look back.

Fain would I change that note

To which fond love hath charm’d me.

—Anonymous

Lucien had a headache.
Mild at the moment, but the smell of perfume in the salon aggravated it, and he found himself hoping supper would soon be called. Food might help.

The party was not particularly large, seven men and an equal number of women.

In comparison to London affairs, it was minuscule indeed. But as Lucien watched the group assemble into knots according to friendship and alliance, he knew there were endless possibilities for amusement.

Next to him, Jonathan glowered and tried not to watch every move Juliette made.

By the door, Juliette fawned over the young marquess, while her stepdaughter less enthusiastically, but politely, allowed her hand to be kissed.

"Why’s the countess angling for a marriage between those two?" Lucien asked Jonathan.

Jonathan, involved in a pinch of snuff, wiggled his nose in satisfaction. "Look around. Whitethorn is suffering. The countess has done well to hold it all together, but the old earl was a notorious gambler and pissed away most of the estate before he died."

Lucien narrowed his eyes to watch the trio by the door. Lady Madeline smiled politely at the young marquess, but in subtle signs Lucien saw her reluctance to be with him: in her hands, clutched tightly together in front of her, in the way she only halfway faced him, as if she might flee at any moment; in the rigidness of her jaw. "The girl doesn’t look particularly thrilled at the notion."

"Can you blame her?"

Lucien gave his friend a wry smile. "No." The marquess was young, but that youth was the only thing he had on his side. Plump and dull and earnest, his already thinning hair covered with a hedgehog wig, he was hardly the stuff of a girl’s dreams.

And yet, the young man was obviously and thoroughly smitten with Madeline.

His eyes shone with a naive worship Lucien found almost painful to observe.

Jonathan lazily snapped his snuff box closed and tucked it back into the pocket of his waistcoat. "Why don’t you offer for her, Lucien?"

"Marry?" Lucien echoed in genuine amusement. "Why don’t you do it? Snuggle yourself close to the countess?"

His face darkened. "I haven’t the fortune they need. You do."

Lucien looked intently at his friend and realized Jonathan had already offered and been turned down. Curious. He glanced back to the glorious Madeline— and for one instant, he gave the notion of marriage a fleeting consideration. One had to do it eventually. It might as well be to one as beautiful as this, whom a man might enjoy for the brief time before boredom set in.

"Wouldn’t that please my father to no end?" he said dryly. He lifted his glass of port and sipped of it, thinking of Madeline’s arch acknowledgment of his status as a rake, and her disdain. She’d not marry him even if he offered.

"It
would
please your father, actually," Jonathan said. "He’s likely to cut you off if you continue to defy him the way you have."

"His only son? He’s a cold bastard, but I doubt he’d go that far."

"You have cousins."

Lucien blinked at a trickle of sharp, light-edged pain that seeped through his skull.

In truth he had several cousins and an uncle, all of whom would be delighted to get their hands on the Monthart fortune. "So let them take it."

A derisive noise escaped Jonathan’s throat. "We’ll see how your tune changes when one of them succeeds in stealing it away from you."

"They won’t."

"Suit yourself."

"A man so intent on being a lapdog to a woman ought not be so free with advice,"

Lucien said.

Anger flashed in Jonathan’s eye. "If you weren’t my oldest friend, I’d call you out for that."

The light-studded knife twisted in Lucien’s brain, blinding him momentarily.

Harshly, he said, "So do it. I’d be inclined to let you kill me."

"God, you’re in a temper. What ails you?" He frowned. "Surely you can’t be worried over that boy!"

"What boy? God, no." Lucien frowned and waved the notion away. Helena, his most recently discarded mistress, had stirred the passions of a melodramatic young actor, who vowed to avenge Helena’s "humiliation" at Lucien’s hands. "No. He’s misguided, as he’ll learn soon enough."

Jonathan clipped his watch closed with a sharp snap. "Well, whatever it is spoiling your mood, overcome it, will you? Juliette is rather counting on a smooth evening here tonight."

Lucien made no reply. Smooth evenings bored him. Again his gaze strayed to the girl, speaking earnestly now to the marquess. Her skin carried a peculiar luminosity he found quite extraordinary. It almost blended with the shards of light in his headache, and he found himself a bit adrift in a rather fanciful vision of her, clad only in that thick dark hair. "Marriage, no," he said, half to himself.

"Not seduction, Lucien," Jonathan protested. "Juliette will quite have your head."

"Is that so?" he drawled, and paused just long enough to plant doubt in Jonathan’s mind before he said, "No. Innocents are rather dull." He let his gaze linger instead on Juliette, who caught the bold examination and tilted her head proudly in acknowledgment. "I much prefer women of some experience."