Lucien Tregellas (23 page)

Guilt was a heavy burden to bear and Lucien had carried it for five long years. In truth, he had done nothing wrong. Sarah Wyatt had chosen Farquharson and she had paid the price with her life. Poor, foolish Sarah. Eighteen was too young to die. Madeline could only be glad that Lucien had intervened to save herself from Farquharson.

A pang of conscience tweaked at her. To think that only this evening she had doubted her husband and had questioned the motives behind their marriage. All along he had blamed himself for Sarah's death and determined to save her from the same fate. An image of Lord Farquharson's face stole into her mind. Hard grey eyes, narrow lips that formed such pretty words, and beneath it all a soul as black as the devil's. Even the memory of his moist breath against her cheek and the pungency of his spicy scent made her feel quite sick. How could she have even contemplated the words of such a man?

Instinct had warned her against him from the start. Lucien had described him as unsavoury. Madeline would have used a much stronger and unladylike word. Yet despite it all she had questioned her husband with ungrateful suspicion. He had gone to such lengths to save her from Farquharson. And she had practically cast it all back in his face. It was a wonder that he had not just sent her packing back to London. But Lucien had not done that. He had told her the truth, and kissed her. Tonight he would come to her bed and everything would be all right.

 

Madeline awoke with a start and as much a feeling of panic as from her nightmares of Farquharson that had long since ceased. The clock on the mantel chimed two. The room was in darkness, the candle long since expired, and the fire nothing more than a pile of warm ashes. She sat up, stared around her, aware of a feeling that something was wrong. Then she remembered that Lucien was supposed to have come. On the covers beside her lay the warm, heavy weight of Max, giving the occasional whimper while he chased rabbits in his dreams. The small seed of dread deep within her began to grow. An unease. What news was so bad as to have kept Lucien from his promise? All around her was the hiss of nocturnal silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock. The night was black with the occasional glimmer of a cold pale moonlight that crept from behind cloud cover to illuminate her bedchamber. It seemed that a hand wrung at her stomach and she could not rid herself of a bleak, unnatural sensation. Something was badly awry. Had Farquharson harmed another woman? Her mother? Angelina? Madeline could not dispel the notion of dread, even when Max opened a sleepy eye and licked her face.

The floor was cold beneath her feet on the edge of the rug. She peered from her window across the darkened gardens, seeking any sign of movement. There was none. An owl hooted in the distance. She moved silently towards the connecting door that led to Lucien's rooms, Max padding by her side. Her fingers closed around the smooth roundness of the handle, hesitated for a minute and then turned. It was not locked. The door opened noiselessly. Madeline waited where she was, heart racing twenty to the dozen, eyes straining to see through the darkness of the room. Lucien's bedchamber was shrouded in a thick black, by virtue of the heavy curtains closed across his windows. No fire. No lit candles. That did not deter Max. The dog disappeared into his master's room, the black hair of his coat merging with the darkness. ‘Max! Come here!' Madeline whispered. A snuffling and the click of canine nails against wooden flooring sounded from the other side of the room. ‘Max!' she whispered again.

She stepped across the threshold. Gradually her eyes adjusted to make out the shapes of large pieces of furniture, blacker shapes within the darkness, there, but only just. Without some hint of guiding light, she did not dare proceed lest she knocked something over or tripped over some hidden object. ‘Max,' she said softly. No reply. Her hands extended, reaching out before her, probing cautiously into the darkness. One foot edged forward, then the other, arms waving before her. But Max was not forthcoming. And it seemed that her husband must be in the depths of a sound sleep, for no stirring came from anywhere in the room. Madeline sighed and knew that she would have to leave Max to snuggle his warmth against Lucien. She retreated as silently as she had arrived, the handle scraping slightly as the door closed. The barrier between the two bedchambers was intact once more.

Her fingers fumbled with the tinderbox as she struggled to strike a light. Eventually the small remnants of her candle by the bedside took, casting soft yellow flickers of light to dance around the paintings upon the walls. Madeline had never felt more disinclined to sleep. Her fingers fanned through
Pride and Prejudice,
but the story had been read. Then she remembered Lucien's library with its complete wall lined with books. She looked at the small lump of candle left within her holder. There would be candles down there, too. A good novel would drag her mind from such melancholic contemplation. Madeline lifted the small spluttering candle and headed towards the bedchamber door.

 

Lucien stared blindly out of the library window. The fire had long since died and the draught infiltrating the window frames caused a flutter of the curtains he had pulled back two hours since. Lucien noticed neither, nor did he feel the chill that had steadily descended upon the room. He lounged back in the chair and threw some more brandy down his throat. Anything to deaden the pain of betrayal.

Every time his eyes closed it was to see Madeline. Sherry-gold eyes and pink parted lips that curved in the sweetness of her smile.
What happened with Farquharson wasn't your fault,
she said, and reached her lips to his. Warm. Willing. So beguiling, yet traitorous. Farquharson would never get beneath the guard he had so carefully erected in the years that had passed. Madeline had managed it without even trying.

He rubbed long fingers against his temples, replaying the scenes for the umpteenth time. She was good. He had to give her that. Feigning such innocence. Responding to his kisses. Asking him to come to her bed. How far would she have gone to be sure of him? Would she actually have given herself to him for Farquharson's sake?

Another swig of brandy, but the pain hung on grimly, refusing to go. Especially in view of what he knew he must do. A faint noise sounded from the hallway. He thought he heard a woman's voice. A pause, then the library door slowly creaked open. There was a moment of faint illumination and then darkness.

‘Wretched candle,' the voice muttered.

Lucien froze in his seat, the smell of candle smoke tickling at his nose.

One small hesitant step sounded and then another. Whoever had decided to visit his library in the middle of the night was coming closer. His muscles tensed for action.

Madeline edged towards the window, thankful that her husband had left the curtains open. Now that she thought of it the curtains had been closed earlier that evening when he had brought her here to tell her of his past. He must have opened them before retiring for the night. And he must have retired, for she had seen no glimmer of light escaping the drawing-room door along the corridor. Fleetingly a break in the clouds revealed a shaft of moonlight. It lit enough of the library to show her the desk by the window and the high-backed chair behind it. Maybe Lucien would keep a candle and a tinderbox on his desk. Her father had always done so.

She moved warily forward, hands outstretched in the darkness. If only the clouds would not keep covering the moon, then she would see readily enough. Progress was slow, but Madeline persevered. She reached the desk, and skimmed her fingers lightly across its surface, seeking the means to make light. Writing slope, paper, pens, ink pots, a small knife, more paper. Nothing of any use to Madeline. She tried the drawers, but they were locked. She withdrew her hand and hesitated where she was, unsure of what to do next. Back to the bedchamber and the thoughts that had forced her down here in the first place. She sighed and looked again at the inky cloud-streaked sky beyond the window. Blues and blacks and deep charcoal grey. And every now and again the peep of the bright white lunar disc. The scene beckoned her. Madeline answered its call. Unmindful of the cold, ignoring the darkness, she moved to stand before the window.

Lucien smelled her before he saw her. The faint resonance of oranges, and then she appeared. A small figure in a flowing white nightdress that stretched down to the floor. Her hair was unbound, sweeping long and straight across her shoulders and down to meet her waist. He knew her feet would be bare. She moved forward until she was right up at the window, staring out at the view beyond, seemingly unaware of his presence. He heard the softness of her sigh, saw the relaxed slump of her shoulders, as if something of night had taken a burden of tension away from her.

The empty glass nestled within the palm of his hand. Three-quarters of a decanter of brandy and nothing of the horror of Guy or Norton's words had faded. And now he had caught her searching around his desk in the dead of night. Hell! The pain bit deep. Farquharson had played him for a fool, thanks to the woman he had tried to save. However hard he tried to deny it, he knew that Madeline had found a route directly to his heart. He reined in his emotions and watched the slight figure before him.

The clouds drifted, ever changing, forming patterns against the night-time sky. Madeline watched in fascination, feeling some sense of relief from the foreboding that had gripped her in the bedchamber. She was being fanciful and foolish. She was just overtired and thinking too much on Lucien's story of Farquharson. Everything would seem better in the morning, in the sunlight, with Lucien by her side. As she turned to go, the moon escaped the cover of the cloud and lit Madeline's route across the library with a soft silver brilliance. She smiled a small smile at her good fortune and glanced down at the floor. Still smiling she stepped forward, raising her eyes…to look directly into the face of her husband.

Madeline gave a small yelp of fright and jumped back. ‘Oh, Lucien, you startled me. I didn't know that you were there.' Her hand touched against the embroidered neckline of her nightdress.

‘Evidently not.' His face appeared unnaturally pale beneath the moonlight, as if he were a carved effigy in white marble. It contrasted starkly with the darkness of his hair. His coat, waistcoat and neckcloth had been cast aside. His shirt was hanging open at the neck. At least his pantaloons and top boots still appeared to be in good order. An empty glass was cradled within his hand and the look upon his face did not bode well.

‘Is something wrong?' She bent and touched a hand to his arm.

Lucien pulled his arm back as if scalded. ‘He was right, Madeline. You play the game well. I admit that you had me convinced. Not once did I think to question the innocent Miss Madeline Langley.'

Madeline stared at him as if he was speaking double Dutch. Her eyes dropped to the empty glass in his hand. ‘You're foxed!' she exclaimed in surprise. Something of the dangerous glitter in his eyes sent a warning. She knew better than to pursue the conversation. ‘I'll see you in the morning,' she said and made to leave.

But Lucien had other ideas. He moved with alarming speed, his hand gripping her shoulder before she had even completed one step.

‘Lucien!' Madeline gasped.

He hauled her back so that they stood face to face before the window. ‘Did you find what you were looking for?' His voice was hard, with nothing of the tenderness that had softened his words earlier in the night.

Madeline's brow creased in puzzlement. ‘No. My candle expired too soon. I had hoped to find a new one before it extinguished.'

One harsh breath of laughter grated. ‘What a shame you couldn't see to rummage through my desk.'

‘I was not rummaging! I couldn't sleep and had finished my book. I came to borrow one of yours. I didn't think that you'd mind.'

‘Looking for anything in particular, or just something that might be of use to you both?'

‘Lucien, I was looking for a candle and tinderbox.'

Madeline tried to shake him off, but Lucien held her arms in a firm grip.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Madeline, but you'll only find cut sheets of writing paper there. My documents are thankfully locked away.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

He lowered his face towards hers. The first thing she noticed was the strong smell of brandy. The second was the coldness of his eyes. ‘Oh, but I think that you do, Madeline,' he said silkily. ‘You're in league with Farquharson, aren't you?'

‘Lucien?' She lifted her hands to rest against the muscles in his arms. ‘You're drunk. You don't know what you're saying.'

‘I know all right,' came his reply. ‘All along I thought I was saving you from him. I would have forced you to become my wife. That's how determined I was to stop him from harming you. And all along you and Farquharson were playing me for the fool.'

‘No!' she gasped. ‘How could you think it?'

‘That night in the Theatre Royal with your mama, and then again at Lady Gilmour's ball, you were very good at feigning fear. I believed you.'

Madeline just stared up at him, aghast at the words spilling from his mouth. Gone was the man she had come to love, in his place, a cold stranger.

‘You married me to please him, didn't you? How much further were you willing to go for him? Would you have let me bed you? Make love to you? What then, Madeline? Would you have borne my child?'