[Samuel Barbara] Lucien's Fall(Book4You) (3 page)

Jonathan said nothing, but Lucien felt him grow rigid next to him. A mottled red stained his cheeks below the loose blond hair, giving brilliance to his green eyes. Lucien didn’t miss the amused and challenging glance Juliette shot toward Jonathan.

"She’s going to drive me mad," Jonathan said, his mouth twisting as if he tasted something vile.

"It’s a fatal mistake to fall in love, Jonathan. She’ll use it against you."

"She’s doing it now," Jonathan said, "flirting with you.,’

"So flirt another way."

Jonathan smiled, very slowly. "Best not meddle in things you don’t understand, my friend." He left the room.

His departure caught Juliette’s attention. Her coquettish mask evaporated and Lucien thought he caught the tiniest of frowns on her smooth brow. With a murmured word, she left the marquess and Madeline alone and hurried from the room.

Curious, Lucien thought.

…

By the time the meal was announced, Lucien’s headache had trebled. Each step from the salon to the dining room caused a new explosion behind his brow, and he had to struggle to keep his expression even.

As they settled around the table, he concentrated on the quartet providing music from one corner of the room. A mistake. While they were passably good musicians, they fell short of true inspiration, and their dropped notes, sliding sharps, and unpleasing flats grated on his ears, harshly exaggerating his headache.

In the dining room he saw that the countess pinned down the top of the table, with Jonathan and himself seated on either side of her. To Lucien’s right, across the table, sat Lady Madeline and the marquess. At Lucien’s side sat a matron of the small hamlet, her wrinkled bosom dressed in violets, her powder rather grimly patted into the crevices.

Lucien thought she must be at least ninety, and he was surprised to find her a quite learned and agreeable companion, who distracted him from both his headache and his rather disturbing attraction to Lady Madeline.

Serious she was, and quite different from the rest of the women at the table. Her eyes, a cool gray in color, showed a sharp intelligence. He liked intelligent women. They bored him less quickly, and often had bold and pleasing sexual imaginations to go with their clever repartee.

He gestured toward a footman for his glass to be refilled. The smells of the meal sat ill upon his stomach, and he plucked disinterestedly at the roast pheasant, unable to summon any appetite. The wine sloshed in his empty belly, but enough of it might numb the growing pain in his head. After dinner he could slip away unnoticed, or perhaps walk outside for a time. Fresh air sometimes chased away the worst of his headaches.

Luckily he wasn’t called upon to make much conversation. The woman next to him started a lively debate on the merits of early or late shearing with the squire to her right, and Juliette’s attention was on Jonathan. By the flushed expression on both their faces, Lucien guessed there were things going on below the table he’d rather not examine.

A footman took his plate and replaced it with an aspic that quivered sloppily, its shiny edges gleaming against the candles. Looking at it, Lucien feel faintly nauseous.

To distract himself, he gazed again toward Madeline and her marquess. He seemed a plain enough fellow who ate rather a lot but didn’t seem particularly lascivious about it. He chatted politely, but uncomfortably patted his wig more than once, as if afraid it might slip. Which it did each time the marquess patted it.

Whatever the girl thought of her courting lord and his struggles didn’t show on her face. Except once. Lucien caught her taking a deep, heartfelt sigh. Her expression at that moment—oddly stricken, somehow sorrowful—was so fleeting Lucien wondered if he’d really seen it at all. The rest of the time, she was the very model of civility and good breeding. Juliette had trained her well.

She was an exquisite creature. Thick ebony hair, piled artlessly on her head, pointed out the clear, light gray of her eyes, eyes at once smoky and bold and naive; a mouth—oh, yes, quite a mouth—cut wide and full for passion, and as yet unawakened.

As if she could hear the lascivious turn of his thoughts, Madeline looked up, straight at him. Her expression was cool, disguising any thought. Lucien touched his chin, wondering what sort of seduction it would take to shake free that aloof and haughty expression, and if it would be worth it.

Her hands rested at the edges of her plate, and her body was still, as unmoving as statuary in the gardens. He pursed his lips, touching his mouth with his finger as he considered.

Under his gaze, her breath caught. Only a bit, but he saw the quick rise of her breast, the smallest flare of her nostrils. He smiled, letting her know he had seen her reaction.

She tilted her chin, and the disdainful brow rose eloquently before she turned away to listen to something the man to her left was saying. Lucien smiled, satisfied. That coolness, then, was shallow, hiding currents of feeling at which Lucien could only guess.

A smooth, lyrical voice spoke against his ear:

Juliette’s dulcet voice, a voice that had lifted the daughter of a dressmaker to the glittering heights of countess. "Not that chicken, Wolf."

Lucien allowed himself a lazy smile. "I wouldn’t think of it."

"No?"

"Virgins bore me," he drawled. "I am curious, however. Why have we not seen her till now? Surely she’s past the age of a debut."

A flicker of annoyance crossed the exquisite face. "She would not allow it."

"Would not allow it?" he echoed.

"She preferred to continue her education on the Continent. Had to go to Italy and explore the gardens."

"Odd choice for a young girl."

"She is not impressed with society, as you may have gathered."

"But what else is there for the daughter of an earl?"

"Just so."

Lucien glanced back over his shoulder. In the flickering blaze of candles, her thick lustrous hair gleamed like the pelt of some elegant animal, and emeralds winked through the dark strands. He was caught by the flawless curve of her cheek, faintly rosy, unpainted and unpowdered. There was an appealing arrogance in the tilt of her head, a disdain he found more alluring than all the perfumes of Arabia.

He shifted his gaze. "She’s a beauty, Countess," he commented with just the right note of lust in his throat. "Wise of you to marry her to the marquess before she falls into the clutches of some fiend."

Juliette’s color rose. "Beware, Lord Esher." He saw she struggled to maintain her composure, but a hint of shrillness betrayed her. "I am mindful that men of your ilk find challenges irresistible."

"True."

She leaned forward, and Lucien allowed himself to admire frankly the display of creamy shoulders and bosom which her golden gown exposed. "Listen closely, Lord Esher. If you cross me, I’ll not bother with cutting you at parties or arranging a duel, as has contented so many of your lovers."

He chuckled, raising his hands in mock terror. "What, assassinate me?"

She smiled, her eyes glittering like cold jewels. Under the table her hand crawled up his leg. Her meaning was completely clear. "Not even so easy as that."

Lucien inclined his head in acquiescence. He had no doubt she meant exactly what she said. "Very well, madam. I shall look elsewhere for my prey." As if he meant
her,
he let his gaze drop to her lips, as if wondering what taste they would carry. Slowly, he raised his eyes to hers again and smiled.

The mark was true. A sultry look bloomed in her eye, and her vanity was appeased.

God, it was too perfect! As he met that avaricious gaze, Lucien made up his mind to seduce the girl. What rake worthy of the name could resist? Juliette, no small rake herself, fairly begged to be taken down a notch, and she seemed utterly sure he would listen to her bidding.

Deflowering a virgin from a family his father would approve deeply could only add sweetness to the pot. It wasn’t as if he had any pressing business the next few months—in fact he would likely be forced to duel a foolish lad in London if he returned.

Yes, he would seduce Madeline, under the watchful eye of her guardian, and meanwhile let Juliette think he was intent on seducing
her.

It might be his most splendid adventure to date.

A pang of conscience touched him as he looked toward Madeline—for she’d have to be publicly ruined if Lucien’s father were to learn of the debauchery. A pity he’d have to do that.

As he looked at her, his headache swelled suddenly, sending a swift, sharp pain through his brain. And behind it, like a wisp of wind, Lucien heard a faint, disturbing bar of music. He shut it away, fiercely, along with his conscience.

Lucien would be doing Madeline a favor by seducing her. She deserved a taste of the sweeter pleasures before shackling herself forever to the doughy marquess—if he’d even have her when the scandal got out. Lucien rather thought he would as long as his pride were not too injuriously marred; if marquesses only married virgins, there’d be no little marquesses about at all.

Under the table, Lucien felt a kick. He glanced up in surprise to find Jonathan glowering at him across the table. With a quizzical smile, he lifted a brow.

All was fair in love and war. And this, it seemed, was going to be both. For a moment, his headache eased a tiny bit.

Ah, yes. The weeks in the country this year would be splendid indeed.

…

Madeline tried to ignore Lord Esher, but he made it difficult. Throughout supper, he watched her with the relentlessness of a cat stalking a songbird. It was a little unnerving, but Madeline had the marquess to think of.

To her relief, Charles Devon was not an unpleasant companion. He seemed to feel no need to grope at her, as was so often the case with such beefy, rich men; nor did he bore her with stories of the hunt. Instead he had a rather charming fondness for archeology, a subject in which Madeline had no particular interest, but no particular objection.

Nonetheless, she was glad to escape him after supper, ducking outside to one of the small terraces that edged most of the rooms on the lower floor of Whitethorn. A sliver of moon hung above the trees in a clear night sky. Scents of yew and moist ground reached her, and she breathed them deeply.

It was only then, under the narcotic spell of the night, a night that seemed especially designed for lovers, that she let despair invade her. How could she possibly marry the marquess? Listen politely to him forevermore, her heart permanently boxed and put away? It seemed a gross violation of what love should be.

Pulling her shawl around her shoulders more tightly, she walked toward the stone bakistrade edging the terrace. She wasn’t at all like the other girls she knew—dreaming of some great love affair. She’d seen all too many love affairs in the salon of Whitethorn.

They seemed tawdry and untidy, and love rarely outlasted passion.

Or so she had believed. Tonight she realized she’d harbored those same silly dreams herself.

At the edge of the terrace, she paused, leaning her hip against the balustrade.

From this vantage point, she could see the formal gardens, the maze and topiary, the beds planted in patterns of lace. All of it desperately needed her attention, her time, and money she simply did not have.

With a sigh, she knew she could marry to save it. She would.

Behind her came footsteps, the sure strong footsteps of a man of some height.

Madeline smiled, unsurprised. "Join me, Lord Esher," she said without turning.

"How did you know it was I without looking around?"

Madeline looked up at him. "I think there must be a book of rake’s etiquette," she said lightly. "First rule is one must always follow one’s prey into a moon-swept night."

To her surprise, he laughed. "Well done." Inclining his head, he asked, "What then would be my next step?"

Madeline straightened, knowing she must not show any hint of shyness or of blushing sensibility. If she were to put him off properly, he had to understand she knew well any technique he might attempt. "That would depend upon the woman, of course, and the rake." She frowned, inclining her head. "You don’t have the same look as some of the men from London, so I’d guess you were educated elsewhere."

"Good—you’re right. How will that influence my choices?"

"Well, since you haven’t a clue of what sort of woman I am yet, I expect you’d choose flattery first."

A crooked smile caught half his mouth. His voice dropped a measure. "Oh, but I do know a little of you, my lady."

"Do you? Pray tell, then, what tack you’ve chosen for your foray into my seduction."

He chuckled, low and deep, the sound almost sinfully rich against the flitting notes of a minuet in the salon. "Are you absolutely certain I’ve chosen to seduce you?"

"Yes, though you didn’t make up your mind until supper."

This time, he did not smile. The artfully wrought lines of his face grew still.

Madeline knew she’d scored a point, and the slight, growing apprehension in her shoulders eased a little.

"I believe you’ll be more of a challenge than I thought," he said quietly. "All the better, of course."

"Of course," Madeline replied. "Not that you’ll succeed."

"Well, that’s the test, isn’t it?" He leaned on the balustrade, and his elegant, sinuous form took on a lazy grace. For a moment he looked at her musingly, and Madeline forced herself to look evenly at him in return, showing no quiver or disturbance.

At last he spoke in an intimate voice, low and rounded. "I think my first step will be simply to look at you."

A prickle touched her spine, and Madeline clutched her shawl more closely in her fingers. "Simple," she said, but the word was breathier than she would have liked.

"Yes." Infinitesimally, he leaned forward. "I think you haven’t been gazed at enough."

Madeline didn’t move, but the prickle under her skin spread. A breeze came from behind him, carrying notes of the garden, and stealing notes from his flesh to fling against her. It was a man-scent of perspiration and musk and horse, and something else, like hay in the sunshine. She dared not breathe it deep.