Lucien Tregellas (21 page)

‘Humour me,' he said in a flat tone. ‘Every word, every letter.'

His fingers burned against the flesh of her upper arm. He was so close she could feel the brush of his breeches against her skirt, smell the scent of soap and cologne upon his skin, see the detail of the dark shadow of stubble upon his chin. Her heart hammered in her chest. ‘I know the truth,' she whispered.

His eyes bored into hers. ‘Pray enlighten me with it.'

‘I know why you married me.' She saw a muscle twitch in the tightness around his jaw. ‘I was never in any danger from Cyril Farquharson, was I?' she said in a low voice. ‘Only from you.' She thought she saw shock and something else in the depths of those ice-blue pools, a reflection, there, then gone.

‘You really have no idea of the lengths to which Farquharson will go, the depths to which he will plummet, to have you. He means to kill you, and he will, unless I stop him.'

‘No, Lucien! I won't listen to any more of your lies.' She tried to pull back from him but he made no effort to release his grip. ‘Why did you not just call him out and have done with it?' she shouted at him. ‘It would have saved us both a lot of trouble.'

‘I did, albeit too damned late. Have you not noticed his limp? My aim was flawed. A leg is a poor substitute for a heart. I shall not make the same mistake again.' His face was white and bloodless against the stark black of his hair.

‘Your fight with him has nothing to do with me. Just let me go. You may seek a divorce at the Consistory Courts. I will not stop you. I'll return to my family until I'm able to think of what to do with my future. You need not fear I will speak of the matter—I give you my word that I will not.'

Lucien's hands tightened around her arms. ‘Divorce? By heaven and hell, Madeline, if that's what you're hoping, then I tell you now that I will never divorce you. You knew when you agreed to marry me that there was no going back. I haven't gone through all of this to hand you to Farquharson on a plate. If he has his way, you won't have a future.'

‘Cease this pretence, Lucien. Can you not forget what he did, carry on with your own life?'

A gasp of incredulity escaped Lucien's lips. His eyes burned with cold blue fire. Anger coiled tight. ‘I will never forget, and I will never rest until Cyril Farquharson is dead.'

‘He was right,' she whispered. ‘Jealousy has driven you mad.' She struggled to release herself from him.

He hauled her closer. ‘Jealousy?' The straight white teeth practically bared. ‘And of what is it that you think I would be jealous? Rape? Torture? Murder?'

Disbelief blasted at her from every pore of his body. The breath grew ragged in her throat. They stared at one another with the frenzied ticking of the clock in the background goading the squall of emotion higher. The mask slipped. Raw and bleeding hurt showed clear upon his face. All her beliefs of what lay between him and Farquharson, of his callousness in using her for revenge, turned on their head. ‘Lucien…' she reached a hand towards him, but it was too late.

Letting his hands fall loosely by his sides, he stepped back from her. ‘Good God, you really don't believe me, do you? You think I'm lying about protecting you? About what he means to do to you?'

She shook her head. ‘I…I don't know.' She watched the harsh shutter drop back across his face, shielding whatever he was really thinking from her view. ‘He stole your betrothed. So you stole his.
Quid pro quo.
'

His eyes held hers. There was about him an agony of tension that reached across the small distance between them. ‘Never think that,' he said. ‘I will not let him hurt you in the way that he hurt Sarah.' He reached across and with a feather-light touch caressed her cheek. ‘I failed before and two women died because of it. I will not fail again. Hate me if you will, but I'm the only thing that stands between you and Farquharson, and I have no intention of giving up an innocent to him again. You're my wife, Madeline, and while Farquharson still breathes that's the way it's going to stay.'

The gentleness of his fingers stilled against her cheek, transfixing her, wooing her against her will. But beneath it all she heard the steely determination of his tone.

‘Lucien, I cannot…I will not…' She was determined to finish what had to be said. ‘You loved her.' Madeline ploughed on through the weight of crushing pain that had settled upon her chest. It pricked at her eyes and tightened around her throat as if to choke her. ‘I didn't know it, that night in the inn…in the bed. I would never have…I wouldn't have done what I did, had I known.'
And I wouldn't have married you had I known that your heart had already been given, and I would lose my own to you,
the little voice inside her head whispered. She would not hear it, could not allow herself to. Tonight she would say everything she must, for tomorrow she would be gone—whatever Lucien said to the contrary.

‘You did nothing. I was the one who forgot myself, not—'

‘No, Lucien. That's not true.' She looked at him a moment longer. The blush scalded her cheeks. ‘I understand why I disgusted you.'

She thought she disgusted him? Lucien reeled at the frank admission. ‘What ever gave you such a ridiculous idea?' But as the question formed upon his lips, he remembered his reaction on waking to find himself in the throes of making love to his wife. He'd been disgusted all right, but with himself, not Madeline.

The amber eyes looked up to his.

‘I can assure that you do not disgust me, Madeline. Quite the reverse, in fact.'

‘Then why—?'

Lucien's fingers slid round to cradle the nape of her neck. In one step he closed the space between them, his other hand sweeping down to press against the small of her back. She felt the superfine of his coat brush against her breasts. His head lowered towards hers until his breath tickled against her neck, licked against her cheek, her chin, her nose, igniting a trail of passion. Ice-blue eyes locked with warm amber. The words died in her mouth. Madeline found she could not move, could not breathe for drowning in the cool blue water that was his eyes. ‘Lucien…' The word was nothing more than a hoarse breath between them. She watched his gaze drop to her mouth and linger. Felt hers do the same, cleaving to that finely sculpted mouth. ‘Lucien…' Need grew stronger.

The sweet allure of her lips beckoned. Moist. Pink. His lips moved to capture her protestation, claiming hers. Sliding together in possession as his fingers stroked against the skin of her neck. Her mouth opened beneath his, responding to his call, answering with a passion of her own. His tongue teased against her lips, then probed further, seeking within, until it touched against her own small hesitant tongue. Urgency exploded between them.

Madeline arched her back, instinctively driving her breasts against the hardness of his chest, gasping with the sensations taking over her body. She moaned a protest as his mouth left hers. Her hands entwined themselves around his neck to pull him back down to her. But Lucien had other ideas. He pressed a trail of hot kisses to her nose, eyebrow, temple and ear, tracing the delicate line of her jaw with his tongue.

‘Lucien!' She gasped his name aloud, dizzy with desire, blind to everything save the man that pressed against her, deafened by the thud of their hearts.

His fingers moved to close around her breast. His palm scorched the mound, his finger and thumb teasing against her nipple until it hardened and peaked between them, as if the silk of her dress was not there. And still the madness continued. It was not enough. She wanted more. Needed more. Her breasts ached with need. And it seemed that her thighs were on fire, burning her, scalding her with desire. His hands slid down across her stomach, following over the curve of her hips round to cup her bottom. She nestled in closer, feeling her own desperation echoed in his body. His mouth raided hers once more, hard, demanding, needful, but the hands that stroked against her were gentle and giving.

His breath was ragged against her ear. ‘Madeline!' The ravaged whisper sounded against the hollow of her throat, against her lips.

Her legs trembled as she gave herself up to him, lost in the ecstasy of the moment. Strong arms supported her, would never let her fall.

He pulled back enough to look into her face and she wondered that she ever could have thought his eyes cold, for they held in them such a look of warm tenderness.

‘Madeline,' he said again, more gently this time, ‘you make me forget myself and all of my promises. Disgust, indeed!' A wry eyebrow arched and a wicked smile curved his mouth. His fingers caught a tendril of hair that had escaped its pins to feather across her cheek, and tucked it back behind her ear. ‘If you are set upon returning to London tomorrow, then I will take you. But as long as Farquharson lives then I will never let you go. And, Madeline, if you really did know the truth of what happened here five years ago, then you would understand why. Idle gossip weaves lies with truth in equal measure. I thought you knew that. You would have done better to ask me.'

He still held her, close and intimate. Her body burned for want of his touch. ‘Would you have told me?' she whispered the words against his chest.

Lucien's chin rested lightly on the top of her head. He hesitated. ‘In truth, I do not know. It's a difficult matter for me to speak of.' She deserved the truth about that at least.

‘Will you tell me now?' She looked up and shyly touched a small kiss to his throat. Palms laid flat against the muscle of his chest, feeling the strong steady beat of his heart.

His gaze held hers as he moved his thumb against the soft cushion of her lips. ‘It does not make for a pleasant story,' he said. ‘Are you sure that you want to know?'

She nodded once. ‘I need to know, Lucien. All of it.'

She felt the slight tightening of his muscles beneath her hands, saw him swallow hard.

‘Very well, then,' he said. ‘But not here. Let's go to the library.'

The library. His special place into which she had never before been invited. She knew then that he meant to tell her everything.

His hand closed over hers and together they walked towards the dining-room door.

They had almost reached it when a stiff little knock sounded against the wood. Lucien swung the door open to reveal the portly figure of Mr Norton. The butler recovered well, hiding his shock. In all the forty-seven years Mr Norton had served the Tregellases, he had never had the Earl open the door in person. ‘M'lord,' he said with only a shade less than his usual aplomb. A slightly horrified expression flitted across his face as he caught sight of the barely touched serving dishes and food-laden dinner plates upon the dining table. ‘Perhaps the meal was to not to your liking?'

‘It was very good, thank you, Norton.'

Mr Norton showed not the slightest intention of moving. He stared with barely disguised confusion first at Lord Tregellas, and then at his wife.

‘The meal was lovely, thank you, Mr Norton.' Madeline smiled at the butler.

‘We are retiring to the library and are not to be disturbed,' said Lucien, and, taking her hand in his, swept Madeline off in the direction of the library.

 

Madeline sat in one of the battered old wing chairs positioned close to the hearth. The library was not a large room. Down the full length of the wall opposite the fireplace were shelves of books. All were bound in a burgundy-leather cover, with gilt lettering upon the front cover and spine. There was a desk that was bare save for a writing slope, some cut paper, and a pen-and-ink set. A small drum table between the two wing chairs held a decanter and two balloon glasses. Madeline's fingers rested against the worn and cracked leather of the chair arm and she watched her husband push the small table back towards the book shelves, then pull the other chair closer to hers.

He reached across, lifted her hand from the chair leather and held it gently within his own. ‘I didn't mean for you to discover the history of what lies between Farquharson and me. It is, as I said before, hardly a pleasant subject…especially so for you, Madeline.' He lifted each of her fingers in turn, rubbing them, playing with them as he sought to find the words to tell her what needed to be said. ‘But half-truths are a dangerous opponent, and so I find I've no choice but the one to which I'm pushed. I ask only that you hear what I would say in full and that you promise never to reveal what passes between us this evening.' He paused, watching her, waiting for the oath that would bind her to secrecy, afraid of what the truth might do to her.

‘I promise.' Madeline felt the warmth of his hand around hers, saw the hesitation in his eyes. ‘Lucien, you may trust that I will spill your words to no one. I give you my word on all that is holy.'

His gaze held hers a moment longer, then shifted to the golden glow of the fireplace. ‘As you must know, it happened five years ago, although sometimes it seems that time has stood still since that night.' His profile was austerely handsome. ‘I was betrothed to Lady Sarah Wyatt, daughter of Lord Praze. My father and Lord Praze were friends. It seemed a good alliance for the families to make.' He paused. ‘I did not love Sarah, but through time perhaps I would have come to care for her.'