[Samuel Barbara] Lucien's Fall(Book4You) (21 page)

"Lovely!" Juliette crowed. There was no bet of course, but men could not resist showing off. It was one of the kernels of knowledge that served her best all these years.

"Squire McKinnley’s wife? And Lady Roake?"

"A green satin with diamonds. Lady Roake is wearing a ghastly robe of brown with—" He frowned. "I can’t think of her jewels—the dress was so appallingly made.

Ah, she is wearing topazes, unfortunately. The whole outfit is unfortunate."

"And Lady Madeline?"

His eyes opened. "I don’t recall."

Juliette shivered at the burning in the vibrantly colored irises. "Oh, surely you remember something."

"No," he said, and lifted his glass of port. "As I’ve said, I do not care for innocence, Countess, but much prefer"—he lifted that sardonic brow and let his eyes drop, once again, to her mouth—"more experienced beauties."

"Ah," Juliette said, smiling through her knowledge that he lied as baldly as it was possible to lie. "Perhaps then you will dance with such beauty after supper?"

He bowed. "It would be my pleasure."

As he wandered off, Juliette felt a clutch of foreboding. No good would come of any of this. She could feel it in her bones.

But my kisses bring again, bring again

Seals of love, but seal’d in vain, seal’d in vain.

—Shakespeare

The evening was sheer misery
for Madeline. She’d tried to get out of dinner altogether, but Juliette had seen through her ruse and ordered her to dress and come down to eat. As a hostess of Whitethorn, Madeline had a duty to be present at all evening gatherings unless she were quite desperately ill. Which anyone with half an eye could see she was not.

Not in body, anyway. But didn’t an illness of the heart or spirit come to the same discomfort? Madeline was so ashamed of herself she could barely lift her head. Since she could not share that emotion with her stepmother, Juliette was immovable.

So it was that Madeline, disturbed and sulky, swollen with a thousand emotions she didn’t dare examine, suffered through supper. Suffered the silly conversations and the gossip and the mean-spirited barbs that masqueraded as wit. Suffered the cloying presence of Lady Heath, who seemed not to leave Madeline’s side for even a tiny moment all evening.

And suffered most of all the intent and invasive gaze of Lucien Harrow, who overtly and broodingly watched her all evening.

But why not? He had nothing to lose—his reputation would only be enhanced if he succeeded in tumbling her, and he’d told her that first night that he would do whatever was necessary.

Even tell her he loved her. That sinfully false declaration of love bothered her most. For one long, shimmering instant, Madeline had wanted with all her being to believe him.

Shame pulsed in her, a heated wash that touched her in the places he had touched her, filling her with a yearning and revulsion she could not reconcile. How could she, after so many years of observing the habits of lazy rakes and their women, have fallen under his spell so violently? Lord Esher, by his own admission, was a most accomplished seducer.

But in the maze this afternoon, it had been his despair that moved her, the hopelessness burning in his eyes—a sorrow so vast she couldn’t begin to understand it, an unhealed grief so long buried it festered like a maltreated wound.

Thinking of it gave her an odd feeling in her stomach, a breathlessness. His mouth, so close to her own, had been too inviting to resist. His face, so beautiful and haunted, had seemed to beg for her caress. So she had touched and kissed, and—

No, she would not think of the rest.

There was dancing after supper, line dances that thankfully kept her apart from the narcotic presence of Lord Esher, who seemed busy enough with other women anyway that she needn’t have worried.

He didn’t speak to her. After supper, he didn’t look at her anymore either, and disappeared for a long time. Jonathan came up to her as she drank a cup of punch, hoping to find oblivion in the potent brew.

"Have you seen your stepmother?" he asked.

Madeline shook her head. "Nor do I care if I ever do again."

He chuckled. "Don’t be so sulky, my dear. She wants only what’s best for you."

"I have the headache," she said crossly. "I am weary of guests and dinner parties and music. I want silence and my old country life."

"Come." He held out his arm. "A little air will no doubt clear your mind."

With a sigh, Madeline took his proffered elbow and allowed herself to be led into the night. Skimmers of clouds drifted over the stars, and only the smallest of moons illuminated the night. It was very dark.

"Isn’t that better?" Jonathan asked, as they moved away from the house and all the noise, moving down the newly raked gravel path that led to the rose gardens.

She nodded. "I fear I was not made for these times. Perhaps I would have been better born when there were no carriages clattering down the roads, and so many people in one place."

"There is no shame in wishing for a quiet life, Madeline. It suits you, and you should pursue it."

"Yes" She thought of Charles, and regret crippled her again. How could she have been so wanton with another man after promising herself to him? How could she betray him so? With effort, she said, "I believe I will find that life with the marquess."

"I’ve no doubt at all."

They circled the graveled paths and headed back to the house. The sulky meanness she’d been feeling eased, along with the muscles in her shoulders and neck.

Perhaps she had been foolish today, but it was not the end of the world. Charles need never know she’d nearly been ravished by a rake—and resisted. She had to remember that: in spite of her wanton arousal, her very deep wish to do with Lucien whatever he wished, Madeline had not succumbed. In spite of her traitorous body, her spirit and will had resisted him.

With a smile, she said, "This has helped immensely, Lord Lanham. Thank you."

"My pleasure."

As they moved over the lawn to the house, there came a cry and a groan from a hidden spot. Madeline froze, looking urgently up at Jonathan for direction. If they continued forward, they ran the risk of exposing lovers in the act. Just now, Madeline could not manage even the thought of it.

Jonathan seemed to read her plea. Putting a single finger to his lips, he melted into the shadows of a great, old elm and pulled her with him. In the shadows, they crouched.

"It’s Lucien, you know," he whispered in her ear. "There is no other man at this party who’d consider a midnight seduction in the garden."

A pain as violent as a knife rendered Madeline without speech. She wanted to cover her ears so she would not hear the sounds, but instead pressed her hands to her mouth. Why did it wound that he should have found someone else to ease his carnal hungers? Had she not just congratulated herself upon resisting such advances? But wound it did—the gash deep and sharp. She thought of his face this afternoon, bathed in the still cloudy light, so beautiful and fragile and vulnerable, thought of his mouth, so rich and—

Foolish, foolish woman!

In the cover of bushes, the rising and falling of voices seemed to go on forever.

Urgent, then softer, then argumentative and soothing. Male and female, weaving together, pausing, starting.

At last, the sounds ceased and a pair of shadows emerged. Madeline recognized Lucien’s elegant figure, graceful as a cat even at night in the shadows.

She also recognized the woman with him. With sorrow, looked up to Jonathan, who went utterly rigid. A choking sound escaped his throat and for a moment, she wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Rush from the bushes to demand a duel? Faint? Kill them both?

Lucien shook off Juliette’s hand on his arm and stalked away, obviously angry.

Juliette laughed, and the sound carried an edge. She let Lucien go, and stood a moment in the darkness, rearranging her gown. It was plain it had been unlaced, and Juliette could not seem to catch the strings.

Without a second thought, Madeline moved from the shadows to her stepmother.

"Whatever are you doing?" Madeline asked, as if she’d only just come upon her. "Let me help you."

"Thank you, my dear," Juliette said smoothly. "I fear I rather got carried away."

Her voice fairly purred with lush satisfaction. "Lord Esher is a talented fellow."

A pounding beat in Madeline’s throat, and she yanked the laces tight. She thought of Jonathan, in the trees. She wished she could slap a hand over Juliette’s mouth, but the damage had been done.

Juliette, oblivious, chattered archly. After a moment, Madeline thought Juliette sounded brittle, almost to the point of breaking, and when she looked at her, she saw there were tears making sticky trails through the powder on her face, like a river cutting new tributaries.

"Mama!" she cried. "Did he hurt you?

"Ah, child, you’ve not called me that for many years," Juliette said, and started to cough. "No," she said, waving away Madeline’s concern. "He didn’t hurt me."

Madeline heard the hesitation in her voice, and thought of the argumentative sounds she’d heard from the bushes.

Jonathan. Madeline glanced over her shoulder, but the place where he’d hidden was empty. "Juliette, what about Jonathan? He loves you."

With the weariest expression Madeline had ever seen, Juliette looked at her.

"He’ll love another." Leaning on Madeline, she said, "Take me to my room. I am most unwell."

Lucien had shed his shirt and stood in his breeches and boots when the door to his chamber slammed open. Madeline stood there, furious, if he were to judge by the high spots of color on her cheeks.

"You are disgusting," she said, and her voice was low and breathless. "You accuse Jonathan of—of—"

"Doing mother and daughter?" he drawled.

"Yes! And you’re the one attempting it!"

He smiled bitterly. "Not that I expect you to believe me, but I have not touched your stepmother."

"I saw you."

Carefully, he turned, narrowing his eyes. A tendril of her dark hair trailed over her shoulder, making a line he could follow with his mouth over her collarbone, down the slope of her chest, and swaying into a curl on the white swell of her breast. His chest tightened. "Be careful what you think, Madeline. Thinking you see and really seeing are not the same."

Her gray eyes blazed, made bright by the flush on her cheekbones. Her agitation was not entirely anger, and if he wished to be truly relentless, he would press his advantage now. She’d tumble to her emotions in this moment, tumble to him, thrash and cry out— "I wish you would leave Whitethorn," she said.

He stared at her, willing her to remember what had passed between them this afternoon. He thought of her breasts, plump and round and tipped with coral. Her mouth softened, the slightest bit. Lucien turned away to hide his arousal. "I know."

She waited another moment, but when he did not turn, she slammed the door.

Lucien lifted a bottle and drank. It was better that she believed he seduced both mother and daughter. It was evidently what Juliette wanted the girl to believe, and he had to applaud her cunning. She had followed him from the salon and stalked him until he paused in a quiet place, and proceeded to seduce him. Her dress came loose and she stood naked to the waist in the dark, cloudy night, and he had to admit the sight had been a splendid one.

But not even the slightest twinge of arousal had moved him. That had shamed her.

They’d argued.

And Lucien had made a mortal enemy.

It was, perhaps, best if he left Whitethorn before things grew more complicated.

He’d leave Madeline to her marquess, Juliette to Jonathan, his music in oblivion.

But just now he was driven to the paper, to the ink. In the humid, close night, he heard a transition that had eluded him, and he scribbled it down. Just now, he had to catch that little turn at the end of the fourth bar. Just now...

Shirtless, barefoot, with a bottle of port, a fat tallow candle, and a pot of ink at his elbow, Lucien sat in his chair and wrote.

…

Juliette waited for Jonathan. She left a candle burning on her night table and sat on the chaise longe nearby the door to the balcony, dressed in a diaphanous wrapper he liked. Her hair she left dressed, as he also liked, and her maid had repaired the mussed powder on her face.

She felt unwell, sick at heart, with a thick weight of sorrow and shame in her chest, a weight utterly unfamiliar. It had been so humiliating to offer herself so boldly to Lucien and have him refuse. It had never happened—no man had ever turned her down.

Which only meant she must be, after all, getting old.

Wearily, she leaned her head on a pillow, closing her eyes for only a moment.

How lucky she’d been to find Jonathan! Perhaps, after all, she should take him up on his offer of marriage. If society chuckled at her behind its hand, how would it be different than the whispers she’d endured as the dressmaker’s daughter?

Except she’d grown used to a certain deference, both to her beauty and her power.

These thoughts chased themselves in her mind, like squirrels after their tails. She smiled as she thought of the tiny gray squirrel babies she’d fed all spring from her window. Squirrels.

She started awake much later, feeling the stiffness in her neck and wrists from such an awkward position. The candle spluttered, nearly out, and she could hear no sounds from the rest of the house. Blinking, stiff, coughing, she sat up and peered at the clock on her mantel. It was past three.

With considerable effort she got to her feet and padded over to the mirror, the damp cough rattling her lungs as she bent to examine the damage her nap had done her face. Remarkably little. She pushed a curl from her forehead.

Odd Jonathan had not come to her. With a wash of fear, she wondered if he’d somehow learned of her attempt to daily with Lord Esher. Although she had been prepared to lose him to save Madeline’s virtue, the disastrous seduction attempt had proved nothing. What a dreadful irony if she lost him over it.

Refreshed by her little nap, she donned a silk dressing gown and took up a candle to guide her way through the halls to Jonathan’s room. She scratched at the door and waited, noticing with a small part of her mind that there was noise yet coming from Lord Esher’s chamber—the man never slept!