Lucien Tregellas

Margaret McPhee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Copyright

Chapter One

London—February 1814

‘Sit up straight, Madeline. And can you not at least attempt to look as if you’re enjoying the play?’

‘Yes, Mama.’ Madeline Langley straightened her back. ‘The actors are very good, and the play is indeed interesting. It’s just Lord Farquharson…’ She dropped her voice to an even lower whisper. ‘He keeps leaning too close and—’

‘The noise in here is fit to raise the roof. It’s little wonder that Lord Farquharson is having trouble hearing what you have to say,’ said Mrs Langley.

‘But, Mama, it is not his hearing that is at fault.’ Madeline looked at her mama. ‘He makes me feel uncomfortable.’

Mrs Langley wrinkled her nose. ‘Do not be so tiresome, child. Lord Farquharson is expressing an interest in you and we must encourage him as best we can. He will never offer for you if you keep casting him such black looks. Look at Angelina—can you not try to be a little more like her? No scowls mar her face.’ Mrs Langley bestowed upon her younger, and by far prettier, daughter, a radiant smile.

Angelina threw her sister a long-suffering expression.

‘That is because Angelina does not have to sit beside Lord Farquharson,’ muttered Madeline beneath her breath.

Angelina gave a giggle.

Fortunately Mrs Langley did not hear Madeline’s comment. ‘Shh, girls, he’s coming back,’ she whispered excitedly. Amelia Langley straightened and smiled most encouragingly at the gentleman who was entering the theatre box with a tray containing three drinks glasses balanced between his hands.

‘Oh, Lord Farquharson, how very kind you are to think of my girls.’ She fluttered her eyelashes unbecomingly.

‘And of you too, of course, my dear Mrs Langley.’ He passed her a glass of lemonade. ‘I wouldn’t want you, or your lovely daughters, becoming thirsty, and it is so very hot in here.’

Mrs Langley tittered. ‘La, Lord Farquharson. It could never be too hot in such a superior and well-positioned theatre box. How thoughtful of you to invite us here. My girls do so love the theatre. They have such an appreciation of the arts, you know, just like their mama.’

Lord Farquharson revealed his teeth to Miss Angelina Langley in the vestige of a smile. ‘I’m sure that’s not the only attribute that they share with their mama.’ The smile intensified as he pressed the glass into Angelina’s hand.

‘So good of you, my lord, to fight your way through the crowd to fetch us our lemonades,’ Mrs Langley cooed.

‘For such fair damsels I would face much worse,’ said Lord Farquharson in a heroic tone.

Mrs Langley simpered at his words.

Madeline and Angelina exchanged a look.

Lord Farquharson’s fingers stumbled over Madeline’s in the act of transferring the lemonade. The glass was smooth and cool beneath her touch. Lord Farquharson’s skin was warm and moist. ‘Last, but certainly not least,’ he said and gazed meaningfully into Madeline’s eyes.

Madeline suppressed a shudder. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said and practically wrenched her hand free from his.

Lord Farquharson smiled at her response and sat down.

Madeline turned to face the stage again and tried to ignore Cyril Farquharson’s presence by her side. It was not an easy matter, especially as he leaned in close to enquire, ‘Is the lemonade to your taste, Miss Langley?’

‘It is delicious, thank you, my lord.’ The brandy on his breath vied with the strange, heavy, spicy smell that hung about him. He was so close that she could feel heat emanating from his lithe frame.

‘Delicious,’ he said, and it seemed to Madeline that a slight hiss hung about the word as he touched her hand again in an overly familiar manner.

Madeline suddenly discovered that drinking lemonade was a rather tricky task and required both of her hands to be engaged in the process.

Thankfully the lights dimmed and the music set up again to announce the resumption of Coriolanus. Mr Kemble returned to the stage to uproarious applause and shouts from the pit.

‘He’s a splendid actor, is he not?’ said Lord Farquharson in a silky tone to Mrs Langley. ‘They say that Friday is to see his last performance.’

‘Oh, indeed, Lord Farquharson. It will be such a loss. I’ve always been a staunch admirer of Mr Kemble’s work.’

Madeline slid a glance in her mother’s direction. Only that afternoon Mrs Langley had made her feelings regarding John Philip Kemble known, and admiration was not the underlying sentiment.

The second half of the play had not long started when Lord Farquharson proclaimed he was suffering with a cramp in his left leg and proceeded to manoeuvre his chair. ‘It’s a souvenir from Salamanca. I took a blade in the leg,’ he said to Mrs Langley. ‘I’m afraid it plays up a bit from time to time.’ He grimaced, and then stretched out his leg so that it brushed against Madeline’s skirts.

Quite how her mother failed to notice Lord Farquharson’s blatant action, especially given that she was seated on her elder daughter’s left-hand side, while his lordship was situated a few feet away on Madeline’s right, Madeline did not know. She threw her mother a look of desperation.

Mrs Langley affected not to notice. ‘Such bravery, Lord Farquharson.’

Lord Farquharson smiled and touched his foot against Madeline’s slipper.

‘Mama.’ Madeline sought to catch her mother’s eye.

‘Yes, dear?’ said Mrs Langley, never taking her eyes from the stage.

‘Mama,’ said Madeline a little more forcefully.

Lord Farquharson leered down at her, a knowing look upon his face. ‘Is something wrong, Miss Langley?’

‘I’m feeling a little unwell. It is, as you have already observed, a trifle hot in here.’ She fanned herself with increasing vigour.

‘My dear Miss Langley,’ said Lord Farquharson, mock-concern dripping from every word as he attempted to squeeze her hand.

Madeline pulled back. ‘A little air and I shall be fine.’ She rose and made for the back of the box.

Mrs Langley could scarcely keep the look of utter exasperation from her face. ‘Can you not wait a little? Angelina and I are enjoying the play. Oh dear, it really is too bad.’

Lord Farquharson saw opportunity loom before his eyes. ‘It seems such a shame for all three of you charming ladies to miss the play, and just when Coriolanus is about to deliver his soliloquy.’

Mrs Langley made a show of sighing and shaking her head.

‘I do not mind,’ said Angelina. But no one heeded her words.

‘What if…?’ Lord Farquharson looked at Mrs Langley hopefully, and then tapped his fingers across his mouth. ‘Perhaps it is an impertinence to even suggest.’

‘No, no, my lord. You impertinent? Never. A more trustworthy, considerate gentleman I’ve yet to meet.’

Madeline’s shoulders drooped. She had an awful suspicion of just what Lord Farquharson was about to suggest. ‘Mama—’

‘Madeline,’ said Mrs Langley, ‘it is rude to interrupt when his lordship is about to speak.’

‘But, Mama—’

‘Madeline!’ her mother said a trifle too loudly, then had the audacity to peer accusingly at Madeline when a sea of nearby faces turned with curiosity.

So Madeline gave up trying and let Lord Farquharson ask what she knew he would.

‘Dear Mrs Langley,’ said his lordship, ‘if I were to accompany Miss Langley out into the lobby, then both your good self and Miss Angelina could continue to watch the play uninterrupted. I give you my word that I shall guard Miss Langley with my very life.’ He placed a hand dramatically over his heart, the diamond rings adorning his fingers glinting even in the little light that reached up from the stage. ‘You know, of course, that I hold your daughter in great affection.’ A slit of a smile stretched across his face.

‘I would be happy to accompany Madeline,’ said Angelina, and received a glare from her mother for her pains.

‘And miss Mr Kemble’s performance when it is unnecessary for you to do so?’ said Lord Farquharson. ‘For have I not already said that I will take care of Miss Langley?’

Mrs Langley clutched her gloved fingers together in maternal concern. ‘I’m not sure…She is very precious to me,’ said Mrs Langley.

‘And rightly so,’ said Lord Farquharson. ‘She would make a man a worthy wife.’

Mrs Langley could not disguise the hope that blossomed on her face. ‘Oh, indeed she would,’ she agreed.

‘Then I have your permission?’ he coaxed, knowing full well what the answer would be.

‘Very well,’ said Mrs Langley.

Madeline looked from her mother to Lord Farquharson and back again. ‘I would not wish to spoil his lordship’s evening. Indeed, it would be most selfish of me to do so. I must insist that he stay to enjoy the rest of the play. I shall visit the retiring room for a little while and then return when I feel better.’

‘Miss Langley, I cannot allow a young lady such as yourself to wander about the Theatre Royal unguarded. It is more than my honour will permit.’ Lord Farquharson was at Madeline’s side in an instant, his fingers pressed firm upon her arm.

She could feel the imprint of his hand through her sleeve. ‘There really is no need,’ she insisted and made to pull away.

‘Madeline!’ Her mother turned a steely eye upon her. ‘I will not have you wandering about this theatre on your own. Whatever would your papa say? You will accept Lord Farquharson’s polite offer to accompany you with gratitude.’

Mother and daughter locked gazes. It did not take long for Madeline to capitulate. She knew full well what would await her at home if she did not. She lowered her eyes and said in Lord Farquharson’s direction, ‘Thank you, my lord. You are most kind.’

‘Come along, my dear.’ Lord Farquharson steered her out of the theatre box and across the landing to the staircase, and all the while Madeline could feel his tight possessive grip around her arm.

Earl Tregellas’s gaze drifted between Mr Kemble’s dramatic delivery upon the stage and the goings-on in Lord Farquharson’s box. He watched Farquharson with an attention that belied his relaxed manner and apparent interest in the progression of Coriolanus, just as he had watched and waited for the past years. Sooner or later Farquharson would slip, and when he did Lucien Tregellas would be waiting, ready to strike.

It was not the first time that Mrs Langley and her daughters had accompanied Lord Farquharson. He had taken them up in his carriage around Hyde Park, and also to the Frost Fair with its merry-go-rounds, swings, dancing and stalls. On the last occasion, at least Mr Langley had been present. Indeed, Mrs Langley seemed to be positively encouraging the scoundrel’s interest in her daughters; more accurately, in one daughter, if Lucien was being honest. And not the pretty little miss with the golden ringlets framing her peaches-and-cream complexion, as might be expected. No. She had been seated safely away from Farquharson. It was the elder and plainer of the sisters that seemed to be dangled before him. Lord Tregellas momentarily pondered as to the reason behind Farquharson’s interest. Surely the younger Miss Langley was more to his taste?

Tregellas restrained the urge to curl his upper lip with disgust. Who more than he knew exactly what Farquharson’s taste stretched to? He saw Farquharson move his chair closer to the Langley chit. Too close. He watched the brief touch of his hand to her arm, her hand, even her shoulder. Miss Langley, the elder, sat rigidly in position, but he could tell by the slight aversion of her face from Farquharson that she did not welcome the man’s attention. Mrs Langley’s headpiece was a huge feathered concoction, and obviously hid Lord Farquharson’s transgressions from the lady’s sight, for she raised no comment upon the gentleman’s behaviour.

Miss Langley’s attention was focused in a most deliberate manner upon the stage. Tregellas’s gaze dropped to take in the pale plain shawl wound around her shoulders that all but hid her dress, and the fact that she seemed not to wear the trinkets of jewellery favoured by other young women. She did not have her sister’s dancing curls of gold. Indeed, her hair was scraped back harshly and hidden in a tightly pinned bun at the nape of her neck. Her head was naked, unadorned by ribbons or feathers or prettily arranged flowers. It struck Lucien that, unlike most women, Miss Langley preferred the safety of blending with the background in an unnoticeable sort of way.

Lord Tregellas watched as Miss Langley rose suddenly from her seat and edged away towards the back of the box. He was still watching when Lord Farquharson moved to accompany the girl. He saw Mrs Langley’s feathers nod their encouragement. Farquharson and the girl disappeared. Silently Lucien Tregellas slipped from his seat and exited his own theatre box.

‘Lord Farquharson, I feel so much better now. We should rejoin Mama and Angelina. I wouldn’t want you to miss any more of the play.’ Madeline could see that he was leading her in a direction far from the auditorium. A tremor of fear rippled down her spine.

Lord Farquharson’s grip tightened until she could feel the press of his fingers hard against her forearm. ‘How considerate you are of my feelings, Miss Langley,’ he said, drawing his face into a smile. ‘But there’s no need. I know the play well. I’ll relay the ending if you would like. Following his exile, Coriolanus offers his services to Aufidius, who then gives him command of half the Volscian army. Together they march against Rome, but Coriolanus is persuaded by his family to spare the city. Aufidius accuses him of treachery and the Volscian general’s men murder Coriolanus. Aufidius is overcome with sorrow and determines that Coriolanus shall have a “noble memory”. So, Miss Langley, now that you know the ending, there is nothing for which to rush back.’

Madeline felt a glimmer of panic as he steered her around a corner. A narrow corridor stretched ahead. ‘Lord Farquharson.’ She stopped dead in her tracks, or at least attempted to. ‘I thank you for your synopsis, but I would rather see the play for myself. Please return me to my mother immediately, my lord.’

Lord Farquharson’s smile stretched. ‘Tut, tut, Miss Langley…’ he bent his head to her ear ‘…or may I call you Madeline?’

‘No, you may not,’ snapped Madeline, pulling away from him with every ounce of her strength.

But for all that Lord Farquharson was a slimly built man, he was surprisingly strong and showed no sign of releasing her. Indeed, there seemed to be an excitement about him that had not been there before. He stretched an arm around her back and, when she was fully within his grasp, marched her along the length of the passageway. Not even his slight limp deterred their progress.

Madeline’s heart had kicked to a frenzied thudding. Blood pounded at her temples. Her throat constricted, tight and dry. But still she resisted each dragging step. ‘What are you doing? This is madness!’

His fingers bit harder. ‘Have a care what you are saying, Madeline. And stop causing such a fuss. I only wish to speak to you in some privacy, that is all.’

‘Come to Climington Street tomorrow. We can speak privately then.’ If only she could buy some time, some space in which to evade him. Thoughts rushed through her head. Surely Mama would notice that they were gone too long and come to seek her? Wouldn’t she? But Madeline knew deep in the pit of her stomach that her mother would do no such thing. The chance of marrying her offspring to an aristocrat, and a rich one at that, had driven the last vestige of common sense from her mother’s head.

‘Please, Lord Farquharson, release me, you’re hurting me!’ She saw him smile at her words and felt the bump of his hip against her as he dragged her onwards.

And then suddenly they stopped and he steered her into a small dimly lit alcove at the side.

‘This shall do nicely,’ he announced and pulled her round to face him, his fingers biting hard against her shoulders.

Madeline’s breaths were short and fast. She struggled to control the panic that threatened to erupt. Sweat trickled down her back, dampening her shift, and her heart skittered fast and furious. She forced herself to some semblance of calm, and looked up at him. ‘What do you want?’

‘Why, you, of course, my dear.’ Excitement had caused the hint of a flush in his cheeks that contrasted starkly with the smooth pale skin of the rest of his face. The suggestion of sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. His dark red hair had been swept dramatically back to best show the bones of his cheeks. It was a face that some thought handsome. Madeline did not. The skin around his eyes seemed tight and fragile, tinged with a shadow of the palest blue. It served only to emphasise the hard glitter of his smoky grey eyes. His gaze fixed firmly on her.

Madeline gritted her teeth hard to stop the tremble in her lips. ‘You are a gentleman and a man of honour, Lord Farquharson.’ His actions rendered this description far from the truth, but she hoped that the reminder would prompt him to abandon his scheme, whatever it may be. ‘Surely you do not mean to compromise me?’

Farquharson’s mouth twisted. His hands were rough against her shoulders. Nothing sounded. Not a hint of music or laughter or applause. No footsteps. No voices. Not even the closing of a door. He looked at her a moment longer, and she had the sensation that not only did he know precisely the extent of her fear, but that it pleased him.

Madeline’s teeth clenched harder.

‘As if I would do such a thing,’ he said and lowered his face to scarcely an inch above hers.

Alcoholic breath enveloped her. Icy fingers of fear clawed at her until her limbs felt numb and useless. She looked up into his eyes, his hard, cold, glassy eyes, and saw in them her doom.

‘Just one kiss, that’s all I ask. One little kiss.’ His gaze dropped to caress her lips.

Madeline struggled, thrusting all of her weight against him in an attempt to overbalance him.

‘You cannot escape me, Madeline,’ he said softly and lowered his lips slowly towards hers…

‘Ah, there you are, Miss Langley,’ a deep voice drawled.

Lord Farquharson practically catapulted her against the wall in his hurry to remove his hands from her. He spun to face the intruder with fists curled ready by his side. ‘You!’ he growled.

Madeline’s eyes widened at the sight of her timely saviour. He was a tall gentleman with a smart appearance, long of limb and muscular of build. His hair was slightly dishevelled and black as a raven’s wing, and he was dressed in black breeches with a neatly fitted and exquisitely cut tail-coat to match. The man was certainly no one of her acquaintance, although he seemed to be of a somewhat different opinion.

‘I wondered where you had got to,’ he said in the same lazy drawl and stepped closer to where Madeline and Lord Farquharson stood.

Madeline stared at him, unable to believe quite what was happening.

‘I trust that Lord Farquharson has been behaving with the utmost decorum?’

His was a harsh face, angular and stark, a bold nose and square-edged jaw, and clear pale blue eyes that brushed over hers.

‘He…’ Madeline faltered. If she told this stranger the truth, her reputation would be well and truly ruined. No one would believe that he had dragged her down here against her will, in the middle of a performance of one of the season’s most successful plays. Lord Farquharson was a rich man, an aristocrat. Madeline Langley was a nobody. Willing or not, she knew what people would say. She bit at her lip and dropped her gaze. ‘I must return to my family. They’ll be worried about me.’ She hoped.

The stranger smiled, but the smile did not touch his eyes. Casually he turned his face to Lord Farquharson. The Baron blanched. ‘Lord Farquharson—’ a chill entered his voice as he uttered the name ‘—will escort you back to your mother. Immediately.’

Lord Farquharson stared in sullen resentment, but said not one word.

‘And I need not mention that he will, of course, be the perfect gentleman in doing so.’

It seemed to Madeline that there was some kind of unspoken battle of wills between the two men. Lord Farquharson was looking at the stranger as if he would gladly run him through with the sharpest of swords. The stranger, on the other hand, was smiling at Lord Farquharson, but it was a smile that would have cleaved a lesser man in two.

Lord Farquharson grudgingly took her arm. This time he seemed most disinclined to make contact with her sleeve, touching her as if she were a fragile piece of porcelain. ‘Miss Langley,’ he ground out from between gritted teeth, ‘this way, if you please.’ He then proceeded to lead her briskly back down the corridor, retracing the path along which he had dragged her not so many minutes before.

Although Madeline could not see him, she knew that the dark-haired stranger stalked their every step. His presence was her only protection from the fiend by her side. She wanted to shout her thanks to him. But she could not. She did not even dare to turn her head back. They moved in silence, their progress accompanied only by the muffled steps of their shoes upon the carpet. It was not until they reached the landing leading to Lord Farquharson’s box that the man spoke again.

‘I trust you’ll enjoy what is left of the play, Miss Langley.’ He executed a small bow in her direction before turning his attention once more to Farquharson. ‘Lord Farquharson,’ he said, ‘perhaps you have not noticed quite how clear and unimpeded the view is from these boxes.’ He looked meaningfully at Lord Farquharson and waited for them to step through the curtain that led into the Baron’s box.

‘There the two of you are,’ said her mother. ‘I hope that a little turn with Lord Farquharson has you feeling better, my dear.’ Mrs Langley did not notice that her daughter failed to answer.

Angelina eyed her sister with concern.

Madeline sat down in the chair, taking care to make herself as narrow as possible lest Lord Farquharson’s hands or feet should happen to stray in her direction. But he made no move to speak to her, let alone touch her. The air was still ripe with the spicy smell of him. She stared down at the stage, seeing nothing of Mr Kemble’s performance, hearing nothing of that actor’s fine and resonant voice. Her mind was filled with the image of a dark-haired man and how he had arrived from nowhere at the very hour of her most desperate need: a tall, dark defender.

She could not allow herself to think of what would have happened had the stranger not appeared. Whatever her mother thought, Lord Farquharson was no gentleman, and Madeline meant to speak the truth of him in full as soon as they were home. But who was he, the dark-haired stranger? Certainly his was a face she would not forget. Classically handsome. Striking. Forged in her mind for ever. A shiver rippled down her spine. Something, she would never know what, made her glance across to the boxes on the opposite side of the theatre. There, in one of the best boxes in the house, was her dark defender, looking right back at her. He inclined his head by the smallest degree in acknowledgement. Madeline’s breath caught in her throat and a tingling crept up her neck to spread across her scalp. Before anyone could notice, she averted her gaze. But, try as she might, she could not rid herself of the foolish notion that her life had just changed for ever.

‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’ said Mrs Langley to her elder daughter. ‘Trying your hardest to undo all of my good work!’

‘Mama, he is not the man you think,’ replied Madeline with asperity.

‘Never was a mother so tried and tested by a daughter.’

Madeline controlled her temper and spoke as quietly and as calmly as she could manage. ‘I’m trying to tell you that Lord Farquharson came close to compromising me at the theatre tonight. He is no gentleman, no matter what he would have you believe.’

‘What on earth do you mean, child?’ Mrs Langley clutched dramatically at her chest.

‘He tried to kiss me tonight, Mama.’

‘Kiss you? Kiss you?’ Mrs Langley almost choked. ‘Lord Farquharson tried to kiss you?’ Her cheeks grew suddenly flushed.

‘Yes, indeed, Mama,’ replied Madeline with a sense of relief that her mother would at last understand the truth about Lord Farquharson.

‘Lord, oh Lord!’ exclaimed her mother. ‘Are you certain, Madeline?’

‘Yes, Mama.’

Mrs Langley stood closer to Madeline. ‘Why did you not speak of this before?’

‘He frightens me. I tried to tell you that I disliked him.’

Her mother stared at her. ‘Dislike? What has “dislike” to do with it? Now, my dear…’ she took Madeline’s hand in her own ‘…you must tell me the whole of it.’

Madeline detected excitement in her mother’s voice. ‘I’ve told you what happened. He tried to kiss me.’

‘Yes, yes, Madeline, so you say,’ said Mrs Langley with undisguised impatience. ‘But did he do so? Did Lord Farquharson kiss you?’

Madeline bit at her lip. ‘Well, not exactly.’

‘Not exactly!’ echoed her mother. ‘Either he kissed you or he did not. Now, what is it to be?’

‘He did not.’

Mrs Langley pursed her lips and squeezed Madeline’s hand. ‘Think very carefully, Madeline. Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

Mrs Langley gave what could almost have been a sigh of disappointment. ‘Then, what stopped him?’

Madeline found herself strangely reticent to reveal the dark-haired stranger’s part in the affair. It seemed somehow traitorous to speak of him. And her mother was sure to misunderstand the whole episode. Surely there was nothing so very wrong with a little white lie? ‘He…he changed his mind.’

‘Gentlemen do not just change their minds over such matters, Madeline. If he did not kiss you, it’s likely that he never intended to do so.’

‘Mama, he most certainly meant to kiss me,’ insisted Madeline.

A speculative gleam returned to Mrs Langley’s eye. ‘Did he, indeed?’ she said. ‘You do understand, of course, that were his lordship to compromise you in any such way then, as a man of honour, he would be obliged to offer for you.’

‘Mama! How could you even think such a thing?’

‘Come now, Madeline,’ her mother cajoled. ‘He is a baron and worth ten thousand a year.’

‘I would not care if he were the King himself!’ Madeline drew herself up, anger and outrage welling in her breast.

Mrs Langley sucked in her cheeks and affected an expression of mortification. ‘Please afford me some little measure of respect. I’m only your mother, after all, trying my best to catch a good husband for a troublesome daughter who refuses the best of her mother’s advice.’

Madeline knew what was coming next. She had heard its like a thousand times. It was pointless to interrupt. She allowed her mother to continue her diatribe.

‘You care nothing for your poor mama’s nerves or the shame of her having a stubborn plain daughter upon her hands for evermore.’ Fortunately a sofa was close enough for Mrs Langley to collapse on to. ‘Whatever will your papa say when we are left with you as an old spinster?’ She dabbed a tiny piece of lacy material to the corner of her eye. ‘I’ve tried so hard, but it seems that my best just is not good enough.’ Her voice cracked with heavy emotion.

‘Mama…’ Madeline moved to kneel at her mother’s side. ‘You know that isn’t true.’

‘And now she has taken against Lord Farquharson, with whom I have tried so hard to secure her interest.’ Her mother gave a sob.

‘Forgive me,’ said Madeline almost wearily. ‘I do not mean to disappoint you. I know you wish to make a good match for me.’

Mrs Langley sniffed into her handkerchief before stroking a hand over Madeline’s head. ‘Not only a good match, but the best. Can’t you see, Madeline, that I only want what’s best for you, so that I can rest easy in my old age, knowing that you’re happy.’

‘I know, Mama. I’m sorry.’

Her mother’s hand moved in soothing reassuring strokes. ‘It is not your fault that you have the looks of the Langleys and are not half so handsome as Angelina.’ The stroking intensified.

Madeline knew full well what a disappointment she was to her mother. She also knew that it was unlikely she would ever fulfil her mother’s ambition of making a favourable marriage match.

‘That is why I have sought to encourage Lord Farquharson.’

Madeline stiffened.

Mrs Langley felt the subtle change beneath her fingers. ‘Oh, don’t be like that, Madeline.’ She removed her hand from Madeline’s hair. ‘He’s a baron. He has a fine house here in London and a country seat in Kent. Were you to marry him, you would want for nothing. He would take care of your every need.’

Madeline looked with growing disbelief at her mother.

‘My daughter would be Lady Farquharson. Lady Farquharson! Imagine the faces of my sewing group’s ladies if I could tell them that. No more embarrassment. No more making excuses for you.’

‘Mama,’ said Madeline, ‘it is not marriage that Lord Farquharson has in mind for me.’

Mrs Langley laughed. ‘Tush! Don’t be so silly, girl. If we but handle him properly, I’m sure that we can catch him for you.’

Madeline placed her hands over her mother’s. ‘Mama, I do not wish to catch him,’ she said as gently as she could.

Amelia Langley’s eyes widened in exasperation. She snatched her hands from beneath her daughter’s and narrowed her lips. ‘But you’ll have him all the same. Such stuff and nonsense as I’ve ever heard. Madeline Langley turning her nose up at a baron! I’ll bring Lord Farquharson to make you an offer if it’s the last thing I do, so help me God. And you, miss, will do as you are told for once in your life!’

Chapter Two

The ballroom was ablaze with candlelight from three massive crystal-dropped chandeliers and innumerable wall sconces. The wooden floorboards had been scraped and polished until they gleamed, and the tables and chairs set around the periphery of the room were in the austere neo-classical style of Mr Sheraton. The hostess, Lady Gilmour, was holding court in a corner close to the band and its delightful music. Despite the heat, the French doors and windows that lined the south side of the room remained closed. It was, after all, still only February and the year had been uncommonly cold. Indeed, frost was thick upon the ground and the night air held an icy chill. With the Season not yet started, London was still quiet, but Lady Gilmour had managed to gather the best of London’s present high society into her townhouse. Everybody who was anybody was there, squashed into the noisy bustle of the ballroom, and spilling out into the hallway and up the sweep of the staircase.

Mrs Langley was in her element as Lord Farquharson had managed to obtain an invitation for her entire family. She was making the most of the evening and taking every opportunity to inveigle as many introductions as possible. Mr Langley, having found an old friend, had slipped discreetly away, leaving his wife to her best devices.

‘Lady Gilmour,’ gushed Mrs Langley, ‘how delightful to meet you. May I introduce my younger daughter, Angelina? This is her first Season and we have such high hopes for her. And this is my elder daughter, Madeline. She is such a dear girl,’ said Mrs Langley. ‘She has engaged the interest of a certain highly regarded gentleman. I cannot say more at the minute other than…’ Mrs Langley leaned towards Lady Gilmour in a conspiratorial fashion and lowered her voice to a stage whisper ‘…we are expectant of receiving an offer in the very near future.’

Madeline, who had been smiling politely at Lady Gilmour, cringed and turned a fiery shade of red. ‘Mama—’

‘Tush, child. I’m sure that Lady Gilmour can be trusted with our little secret.’ Mrs Langley trod indelicately on Madeline’s slipper. Her smile could not have grown any larger when Lady Gilmour offered to introduce Angelina to a small group of other débutantes. Looking fresh and pretty in a ribboned white creation that had cost her poor papa a considerable sum he could not afford, Angelina followed in Lady Gilmour’s wake.

‘Keep up, Madeline,’ whispered Mrs Langley as Madeline trailed at the rear. ‘What a perfect opportunity for Angelina.’

Less than fifteen minutes later, Angelina’s dance card for the evening was filled. A crowd of eager gentlemen stood ready to sweep the divine Miss Angelina off her feet. Mrs Langley’s head swam dizzy with excitement, so much so that she clear forgot all about her plans for Madeline and Lord Farquharson. ‘Oh, I do wish your father was here to see this. Where is Mr Langley?’

‘He’s talking to Mr Scott,’ answered Madeline, happy that her father had managed to escape.

‘Typical!’ snorted Mrs Langley. ‘Angelina is proving to be a success beyond our wildest dreams and her father’s too busy with his own interests to even notice.’ Mrs Langley shook her head sadly, but her spirits could not remain depressed for long, especially when Angelina took to the floor with Lord Richardson, who was the second son of an earl. ‘La, is she not the most beautiful child on the floor?’ demanded Mrs Langley, clutching at Madeline’s hand.

‘Yes, Mama,’ agreed Madeline with a soft smile. ‘She is indeed beautiful.’

‘And elegant,’ added Mrs Langley.

‘Elegant, too,’ said Madeline.

‘And graceful.’

‘Yes.’

Mrs Langley looked fit to burst with pride. ‘That’s my baby out there, my beautiful baby. Oh, how it brings it all back. I was just the same when I was eighteen.’

Mrs Langley and Madeline were so taken up with Angelina’s progress around the dance floor that they did not notice the arrival of Lord Farquharson.

‘Mrs Langley, Miss Langley,’ he said, lingering a little too long over Madeline’s hand. ‘I hope I’m not too late to claim a few dances from the delightful Miss Langley.’

Madeline’s lips tightened. ‘I’m afraid I’m not dancing tonight, my lord. I twisted my ankle earlier in the day.’

Mrs Langley drew her a scowl before announcing, ‘I’m sure that your ankle is much repaired, Madeline. And a dance with Lord Farquharson shall not tax you too much.’

‘But—’ started Madeline.

‘Madeline.’ Her mother threw her the ‘wait until I get you home’ look.

Grudgingly Madeline held the card out to Lord Farquharson, who smiled and tutted and lingered over the empty spaces beside each dance name.

‘Can it be that Miss Langley has kept her dance card free for my sake? Is it too much for my heart to hope?’

Mrs Langley cooed her appreciation of the sugary compliment.

Madeline examined a scuff on the floor and waited until he pressed the card back into her hand. It was now warm and slightly damp to the touch. She held it gingerly by the edge and scanned to see which dances he had selected. A lively Scotch reel and, heaven help her, the waltz!

Lord Farquharson’s slim white fingers took hold of one of her hands. ‘Just in the nick of time,’ he said as the band struck up. ‘I believe this is my dance, Miss Langley.’ And with that he whisked her out to join the lines of bodies upon the floor.

The dance had a nightmarish quality about it. Not only was Madeline thrust into the limelight, a place in which she was never happy, but she had Lord Farquharson squeezing her hand, whispering in her ear and peering down the bodice of her dress for the entirety of the time. She was perforce obliged to smile politely and skip daintily about, as if she were enjoying the occasion immensely. It seemed to Madeline that a piece of music had never lasted so long. She progressed down the set, birling in the arms of every man in turn, each one granting her but a brief respite from Farquharson’s company, for no sooner had she thought it than the dance had led her to meet in the middle of the set with Lord Farquharson once more. At long last the music ceased, and Lord Farquharson returned her to her mother. His eyes glittered with something that Madeline did not understand.

‘She has the grace of a swan,’ he said to Mrs Langley.

Mrs Langley, who had seen Madeline tread on Lord Farquharson’s toes no less than four times, miss several steps, and drop her handkerchief halfway through, marvelled that a gentleman could be so forgiving of her elder daughter’s failings. ‘Dear Lord Farquharson, you are so kind to Madeline.’

They smiled at one another.

Madeline looked away and counted to ten—slowly.

Mrs Langley raved about Angelina’s growing posse of admirers. Was the young man with blond hair merely a baronet? Angelina could do so much better. Let them move here to better see Angelina’s progress around the floor. And they simply must gain an introduction to a patroness of Almack’s. Mrs Langley could not survive without securing tickets for one of the assembly room’s famous balls. It would be quite the best place to catch a husband for Angelina. And so the time passed. Madeline did not mind. She preferred her place in the background, quietly observing what was going on around her. Nodding her head and smiling politely, but never really engaging. At least there was no Lord Farquharson forcing his attention upon her. Even so, he managed to catch her eye across the room on several occasions as if to remind her of what lay ahead: the waltz. Madeline’s throat grew dry and tight at the very thought. She could see him watching her through the crowd, licking his lips, smiling that smile that made her blood run cold.

Quite suddenly Madeline knew that she could not do it; she could not let him rest his hands upon her and draw her close, pretending to be the perfect gentleman when all along he was just biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to strike. And strike he would, like the snake in the grass that he was. She shuddered. No matter what Mama thought, Lord Farquharson was not honourable. He would ruin her and there would be no offer of marriage. He did not want her as a wife any more than Madeline wanted him as a husband. What his lordship wanted was something quite different. Madeline drew a deep breath and determined that, come hell or high water, she would keep herself safe from Lord Farquharson’s attentions. Mrs Langley scarcely noticed when Madeline whispered that she was going to find her papa.

Mr Langley was not anywhere in the grand ballroom. Nor could he be found in the magnificence of Lady Gilmour’s entrance hall. Madeline followed the stairs up, searching through the crowd for a sight of her father. It seemed he was not there either. She spent a little time within the ladies’ retiring room, just because she was passing that way, and enquired of several ladies within if they had seen a gentleman by the name of Mr Langley. But the ladies looked at her as if she had just come up from the country and said that they knew no Mr Langley. So that was that.

She left and was about to make her way back downstairs when a hand closed tight around her wrist and pulled her to the side.

‘Miss Langley, what a pleasant surprise to find you up here.’ Lord Farquharson pressed his mouth to the back of her hand. ‘But then perhaps you were looking for me.’ He stepped closer and did not release his grip on her wrist.

Madeline knew that the people surrounding them afforded her protection from the worst of Lord Farquharson’s intent. But she also knew that she could not risk drawing attention to herself or her situation lest they think the worst. ‘No,’ she said, and tried surreptitiously to disengage herself.

But Lord Farquharson had a grip like an iron vice, and tightened it accordingly. ‘Tut, tut, why don’t I believe you?’ he laughed.

‘I’m looking for my papa. Have you seen him?’ Madeline hoped that Lord Farquharson did not know just how much he frightened her.

The sly grey eyes watched her. ‘I do believe that I saw him not two minutes since, Miss Langley. But it was in the strangest of places.’ Lord Farquharson’s face frowned with perplexity.

In the strangest of places. Yes, that sounded most like where Madeline’s papa would be found. Papa hated large social occasions and would frequently wander off to hide in the most obscure of locations. ‘Where did you see him, my lord?’

Lord Farquharson’s grip loosened a little. ‘On the servants’ stairwell at the other side of that door.’ He gestured to an unobtrusive doorway at the other end of the landing. ‘He seemed to be wandering upstairs, although I cannot imagine why he should be heading in such a direction.’

Madeline could. Anywhere away from the hubbub of activity. Papa would not notice more than that. ‘Thank you, Lord Farquharson.’ She looked pointedly at where he still held her.

‘You’ve not forgotten my waltz?’

How could she? ‘No, my lord, I’ve not forgotten.’

‘Good,’ he said, and released her.

Lord Farquharson fluttered a few fingers in her direction, then turned and walked briskly down the main staircase.

Madeline waited until she could see that he had gone before heading towards the servants’ stairwell.

‘Papa?’ she called softly as she wound her way up the narrow staircase. The stone stairs felt cold through her slippers. ‘Papa?’ she said again, but only silence sounded. The walls on either side had not been whitewashed in some time and, as there was no banister, bore the marks of numerous hands throughout the years. A draught wafted around her ankles and the band’s music dimmed to a faint lilt in the background.

The stairwell delivered her to the rear of the upper floor. She stepped out, scanning the empty landing. Several portraits of Lord Gilmour’s horses peered down at her from the walls. Where could Papa be? A number of doors opened off the landing, to bedchambers, or so Madeline supposed. She stopped outside the first, listening for any noise that might indicate her father’s presence. Nothing. Her knuckles raised and knocked softly against the oaken structure.

‘Papa,’ she whispered, ‘are you in there?’

Madeline waited. No reply came. The handle turned easily beneath her fingers. Slowly she pushed the door open and peeked inside. It was a bedchamber, decorated almost exclusively in blue and white. A large four-poster bed stood immediately opposite the door. Mr Langley was clearly not there. Madeline silently retreated, pulling the door to close behind her. Quite suddenly the door was wrenched from her grasp, and Madeline found herself pulled unceremoniously back into the bedchamber. The door clicked shut behind her. Madeline looked up into the eyes of Lord Farquharson.

‘My dear Madeline, we meet again,’ he said.

Madeline kicked out at him and grabbed for the door handle. But Lord Farquharson was too quick. He embraced her in a bear hug, lifting her clear of the door.

‘Now, now, Madeline, why are you always in such a hurry to get away?’

‘You tricked me!’ she exclaimed. ‘You never even saw my father, did you?’ How could she have been so stupid?

Lord Farquharson’s shoulders shrugged beneath the chocolate brown superfine of his coat. ‘You’ve found me out,’ he said and pulled her closer.

She could feel the hardness of his stomach, and something else, too, pressing against her. ‘Release me!’

‘The Earl won’t save you this time, my dear. He’s not even here. I checked.’

Madeline refused to be bated. Speaking to him, pleading with him, would be useless. Cyril Farquharson would not listen to reason. She willed herself to stay calm, forced herself to look up into his eyes, to relax into his arms.

Lord Farquharson’s eyes widened momentarily, and then he stretched a grin across his face. ‘I think we begin to understand one another at last.’

Madeline sincerely doubted that.

Lord Farquharson’s grip lessened. ‘Madeline,’ he breathed, ‘you are such a fearful little thing.’ The intent in his gaze was so transparent that even Madeline, innocent as she was, could not mistake it. ‘I will not hurt you.’ His fingers scraped hard down the length of her arm.

Apprehension tightened in her belly. ‘But you are doing so already, my lord,’ she said, drawing back her leg and delivering her knee to Lord Farquharson’s groin with as much force as she could muster. She did not wait to see the effect upon Lord Farquharson, just spun on her foot and ran as fast as she could, banging the door shut behind her. Across the landing, down the stairwell, running and running like she had never run before. The breath tore at her throat and rasped in her ears. Her feet touched only briefly against each stair. And still she ran on, pulling her skirts higher to prevent them catching around her legs. Anything to flee that monster. She rounded the corner, dared a glance back, and then slammed hard into something large and firm. A gasp escaped her. She stumbled forward, her feet teetering on the edge of the stair, arms flailing, reaching for some anchor to save her fall.

A pair of strong arms enveloped her, catching her up, pulling her to safety. Please God, no. How could Lord Farquharson be here so quickly? She had been so sure that he was behind her; even thought she’d heard the pounding of his feet upon the stairs. But it was only the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears. ‘No!’ She struggled within his arms, reaching to find some purchase against the smooth surface of the walls.

‘Miss Langley?’ The deep voice resonated with concern.

Madeline ceased her fight. She recognised that voice. Indeed, she would have known it anywhere. She looked up into a pair of pale blue eyes. It seemed that her heart skidded to a stop, before thundering off again at full tilt. For the arms wrapped around her belonged to none other than her dark defender. She glanced nervously behind, fearful that Lord Farquharson would creep upon them.

Her defender raised one dark eyebrow. ‘I take it Farquharson is behind this—again?’

Madeline nodded nervously. ‘He…’ Her voice was hoarse and low. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘He’s upstairs in one of the bedchambers.’ Only when she said it did she realise exactly how that must sound.

His eyes narrowed and darkened. She felt the press of his hands against her skin. ‘Farquharson.’ The word slipped from his throat, guttural and harsh in the silence surrounding them. He set her back upon the stair and brushed past her. Anger radiated from his every pore. He began to climb quickly and quietly up the narrow stairwell.

‘No!’ shouted Madeline, twisting to follow him. Her feet thudded after his. ‘No,’ she shouted again. ‘It’s not what you think. He didn’t—’ She reached ahead, grabbed for the tails of his coat disappearing round the next bend and tugged. ‘Wait!’

The man stopped suddenly and looked back down at her.

She released her grip on his coat and leaned back, panting against the wall.

‘What do you mean, Miss Langley?’

‘He tried to kiss me,’ she said, still catching her breath. ‘But I managed to get away before he could succeed.’

She could see the tension in the muscles of his neck and around the stiff set of his jaw. His eyes were sheer ice. ‘Did you learn nothing from the last time? What the hell were you doing alone in a bedchamber with Farquharson?’

Madeline’s mouth gaped in shock. ‘He tricked me. I didn’t know he would be there. I was looking for my father.’

‘And your father is likely to be hiding in one of Lady Gilmour’s guest bedchambers?’ He raised a cynical eyebrow.

‘It is not unlikely,’ she said quietly.

Long fingers raked his hair, ruffling it worse than ever. ‘Miss Langley, if you are too foolish to know it already, I will tell you in no uncertain terms. Lord Farquharson is a dangerous man. You would be wise to steer well clear of him.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to do, but my mother wishes to promote a match between Lord Farquharson and myself. She’s determined to encourage his interest.’

‘Is your mother insane?’

Madeline’s lip began to tremble. She clamped it down with a firm nip of her teeth. It was one thing to know she would be left upon the shelf, and quite another to have so handsome a gentleman imply the same bluntly to her face.

‘I mean no insult, but believe me, Miss Langley, when I say that Lord Farquharson has no interest in marriage.’

Lord, he thought she was hopeful of such a thing! ‘And I have no interest in Lord Farquharson,’ she said curtly. She turned away and started to retrace her steps back down the stairwell, then hesitated and faced him once more. ‘Thank you, Mr…’

He made no effort to introduce himself.

‘Both for tonight and last week. I’m indebted to you for your intervention.’

Those pale eyes watched her a moment longer before he said, ‘Don’t thank me, Miss Langley, just stay away from Farquharson.’

She chewed at her bottom lip, wondering whether to tell him. He would think the worst of her if she did not, and somehow the stranger’s opinion mattered very much to Madeline. ‘Sir,’ she said shyly.

‘Miss Langley,’ he replied and crooked his eyebrow.

The lip received several nasty nips from her teeth. She looked at him, and then looked at him some more.

‘Was there something you wished to tell me, Miss Langley?’

Madeline twisted her hands together. ‘It’s…just that Lord Farquharson has claimed me for the waltz. Perhaps he will not recover in time, but—’

‘Recover?’ her defender enquired. ‘What in Hades did you do to him?’

‘My father showed me how to disable a man by using my knee, should the occasion ever arise.’

His mouth gave only the smallest suggestion of a smile. ‘And the occasion arose.’

‘Yes,’ she said simply.

They looked at one another.

‘Find whatever excuse you must, Miss Langley, but do not waltz with Farquharson.’

Madeline seriously doubted that the Prince Regent himself could come up with an excuse acceptable to her mother. But there was always the chance, after the incident in the bedchamber, that Lord Farquharson would have changed his mind over dancing with her. ‘I’ll try,’ she said. And she was gone, her feet padding softly down the cold stone stairs that would lead her back to the ballroom.

‘There you are, Madeline. Where is your papa? Did you not tell him of Angelina’s success?’ Mrs Langley was all of a flutter.

Madeline opened her mouth to reply.

‘Never mind that now. You’ve missed so much. You will not believe what has just happened.’ She clapped her hands together in glee. ‘Mr Lawrence was taken quite ill, something to do with what he ate at his club earlier in the day.’

‘Poor Mr Lawrence,’ said Madeline, wondering why Mr Lawrence’s malady so pleased her mother.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs Langley. ‘It meant that he could not dance with Angelina as he promised.’ Her excitement bubbled over in a giggle.

‘Mama, are you feeling quite well?’

Mrs Langley touched a hand to her daughter’s arm. ‘You’ll never guess what happened.’

Madeline waited expectantly.

‘The Duke of Devonshire stepped in to take his place and danced with Angelina!’ She clasped her hand to her mouth. ‘Isn’t it just too, too good?’

Madeline glanced across the dance floor to see a rather dashing-looking young man with twinkling blue eyes and warm sand-coloured hair twirl her sister through the steps of a country dance. Angelina was glancing up at the man through long lashes, her golden curls bouncing against the pretty flush of her cheeks. ‘Yes, it is wonderful.’

‘Wonderful indeed!’ Mrs Langley breathed.

Madeline cleared her throat. ‘Mama, my head hurts quite dreadfully.’

‘Mmm,’ mused Mrs Langley, barely taking her eyes from Angelina’s dancing form. ‘You do look rather pale.’

‘I wondered whether Papa might take me home in the carriage. I’m sure that he wouldn’t mind.’

‘I tell you of Angelina’s success and in the next breath you’re asking to go home.’

‘Mama, it isn’t like that. Lord Farquharson—’

‘Lord Farquharson!’ interrupted her mother. ‘I begin to see how this is going. Your papa may not realise what you’re up to, but I most certainly do!’ Mrs Langley turned on Madeline, her mouth stretched to a false smile in case anyone should think that Mrs Langley and her daughter were having anything but the most pleasant of chats. ‘You are so determined to refuse a dance with Lord Farquharson that you will destroy the evening for us all. You think to thumb your nose at a baron and care not a jot if you ruin your sister’s chances.’

‘No, Mama, you and Angelina will stay here, nothing would be ruined for her.’

‘Are you so wrapped up in your own interest that you cannot see Angelina has the chance to catch a duke? That child out there,’ said her mother, ‘has only kindness in her heart.’ Mrs Langley glanced fleetingly at her younger daughter upon the dance floor. ‘Not one word has she uttered about Lord Farquharson’s preference for you. Not one!’

‘Little wonder! She is relieved that she does not have him clutching for her hand.’ As soon as the words were out Madeline knew she should not have said them. Oh, Lord. She shut her eyes and readied herself for her mother’s response.

Mrs Langley’s eyes widened. The false smile could no longer be sustained and slipped from her face. ‘Madeline Langley, you go too far. Your papa shall hear of this, indeed he shall. All these years I’ve slaved to make a lady of you, so that you might make a decent marriage. And now, when I’m on the brink of bringing all my hard work to success, you threaten to ruin all, and not only for yourself.’

Madeline counted to ten.

‘Pray do not look at me in that superior way as if I know not of what I speak!’ Mrs Langley’s small lace handkerchief appeared.

Madeline continued to fifteen.

‘You have not the slightest compassion for your poor mama’s nerves. And all the while Mr Langley makes your excuses. Well, not any more.’

And twenty.

‘You are not going home,’ Mrs Langley announced. ‘You will sit there and look as if you are having a nice time, headache or not. When the time comes, you will dance with Lord Farquharson and you will smile at him, and answer him politely. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Mama, there’s something I must tell you of Lord Farquharson,’ said Madeline.

Her mother adopted her most stubborn expression. ‘I know all I need to know of that gentleman, Madeline. You will waltz with him just the same.’

Madeline looked at her mother in silence.

‘Mama. Madeline.’ Angelina appeared at her mother’s shoulder. As if sensing the atmosphere, she glanced from her mother’s flushed face to her sister’s pale one. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, nothing is wrong, my angel,’ replied Mrs Langley with a forced smile. ‘Madeline was just saying how much she was looking forward to dancing this evening.’

Angelina coiled an errant curl around her ear. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I came to war—I came to tell Madeline that Lord Farquharson is over there looking for her.’

‘How fortuitous,’ said Mrs Langley.

Fortuitous was not the word Madeline would have chosen. She turned her head in the direction Angelina had indicated.

Lord Farquharson raised his glass to her in salutation. Even across the distance Madeline could see the promise upon his face.

‘What is it, Lucien? First you insist on uprooting me from a very cosy hand of cards at White’s, then you trail me here after Farquharson, and now you’ve got a face like thunder on you.’ Guy, Viscount Varington, regarded his brother across a glass of champagne.

‘Farquharson’s up to his old tricks again.’ Lucien rotated the elegant glass stem between his fingers. The champagne inside remained untouched.

‘You cannot forever be dogging his steps. Five years is a long time. Perhaps it’s time to leave the past behind and move forward.’

Lucien Tregellas’s fingers tightened against the delicate stem. ‘Move on and forget what he did?’ he said bitterly. ‘Surely you jest?’

Guy looked into his brother’s eyes, eyes that were a mirror image of his own. He smiled a small, rueful smile.

‘Farquharson has not changed. He’s been a regular visitor to a certain establishment in Berwick Street these years past, slaking his needs, and you know for what manner of taste Madame Fouet’s house caters. I could do nothing about that. Even so, I always knew that it would not be enough for him. He wants another woman of gentle breeding, another innocent. And I’ll kill Farquharson rather than let that happen.’ There was a stillness about Lucien’s face, a quietness in his voice, that lent his words a chilling certainty.

‘You think he will try again, even with you waiting in the wings?’

‘I know he will,’ came the grim reply. ‘He’s planning it even as we speak, and that foolish chit over there is practically falling over herself to be his next victim.’

Guy followed his brother’s gaze across the room to the slender figure of the girl seated by the side of an older woman.

‘Miss Langley thinks to catch herself a baron. Or, more precisely, her mama does. Miss Langley herself appears to be strangely resistant to any advice to the contrary that I might offer.’ A scowl twitched between his brows.

‘Then leave her to it,’ said Guy with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘If the girl refuses to be warned off, then perhaps she deserves Farquharson.’

Lucien’s gaze still had not shifted from Miss Langley, his eyes taking in her downcast face, her rigid posture. ‘No woman deserves that fate.’

A wry little laugh sounded, and Guy drained the remainder of the champagne from his glass. ‘What would London say if they knew that the notorious Earl Tregellas, the man of whom they are all so very afraid, is on a mission to safeguard every virgin in this city from Farquharson’s roving eye? There’s a certain irony in that, wouldn’t you say?’

‘There’s no comparison between me and Farquharson,’ Lucien said. The fragile glass snapped between his fingers. He set the broken pieces down on the tray of a passing footman.

‘Calm down, big brother. I loath what Farquharson is as much as you.’

‘No. I assure you, you do not.’

‘Your feelings are understandable, given what happened,’ said Guy quietly.

A muscle twitched in Lucien’s jaw.

‘What about the girl? Is she really in danger?’ Guy glanced again at Miss Langley.

‘She’s in much more danger than she could ever realise,’ replied his brother, looking him directly in the eye.

Earl Tregellas and Viscount Varington, two of society’s most infamous bachelors, albeit for vastly differing reasons, turned their gaze upon the slight and unassuming figure of Miss Madeline Langley.

Chapter Three

Madeline glanced uneasily around. It was almost time. She knew he would come for her; her actions of earlier that evening would not stop him. The stranger had been right to tell her to make her excuses, but he had never dealt with her mother. It was bad enough having to suffer Lord Farquharson’s assaults without having her own mother encourage the situation in the hope of forcing him to a wedding. Madeline shuddered at the thought.

She sneaked a glance at her mother. Mrs Langley was engrossed in chattering to Mrs Wilson. Madeline’s eyes raked the ballroom. Still no sign of Papa. Over at the far side, partly hidden by some Grecian-styled columns and lounging beside another man, was her dark defender. Their gazes locked. Her heart kicked to a canter. She felt the blush rise in her cheeks and looked hastily away. What would he think of her sitting waiting for Lord Farquharson to come and claim her for the waltz? And he was right! But what else could she do with Mama guarding her so well? A visit to the retiring room had been refused. And at the suggestion that she go home with Miss Ridgely her mama had warranted a warning glare. Even now Mama’s hand rested lightly against her arm. Madeline dared not look at the stranger again, even when she saw Lord Farquharson begin to make his way slowly, steadily, towards her. Every step brought him closer.

Madeline felt the coldness spreading throughout. Her mouth grew suddenly dry and her palms somewhat clammy. She bowed her head, coaxing her courage. I can do this. I can do this, she inwardly chanted the mantra again and again. It is in full view of everyone. What can he do to me here, save dance? But just the anticipation of being held in his grip, within his power, brought a nausea to her throat. She steeled herself against it. Willed herself to defy him. Don’t let him see that you’re afraid. She steadied her breath, curled her fingers to fists. The spot on the floor disappeared, replaced instead by a pair of large, black-leather buckle slippers. Madeline swallowed once. The shoes were connected to a pair of stockinged shins. The shins led up to a pair of fine black knee breeches. The breeches stretched tight to reveal every detail of well-muscled and long thighs. Madeline’s eyes leapt up to his face.

‘I believe this is my dance, Miss Langley,’ her dark defender said smoothly and, without waiting, plucked Madeline straight from her chair on to the floor.

Lord Farquharson came to an abrupt halt halfway across the ballroom, and stared in disbelief.

Mrs Langley’s mouth opened to squawk her protest, and then shut again. She could only sit and stare while her eldest daughter was whisked into the middle of the dance floor.

‘Well, really!’ exclaimed Mrs Wilson by her side. ‘You do know who that is?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Mrs Langley weakly. ‘That is Earl Tregellas.’

‘The Wicked Earl,’ said her friend with a disapproving frown. ‘What an earth is he doing, dancing with Madeline?’

For once in her life Mrs Langley appeared to be lost for words.

The dark-haired stranger held her with a firm gentleness. The light pressure of his hand upon her waist seemed to burn straight through the material of her dress and undergarments, to sear against her skin. The fingers of his other hand enclosed around hers in warm protection. Beneath the superfine material of his coat she could feel the strength of his muscles across the breadth of his shoulders. The square-cut double-breasted tail-coat was of the finest midnight black to match the ruffled feathers of his hair. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the most elegant tailor’s establishment in all England. A white-worked waistcoat adorned a pristine white shirt, the collar of which stood high. The white neckcloth looked to be a work of art. Madeline felt suddenly conscious of her cheap dress with its plain cream-coloured material and short puffed sleeves. As usual she had declined to wear the wealth of ribbons and bows set out by Mama. Neither a string of beads nor even a simple ribbon sat around her neck. The square-shaped neckline of her dress was not low; even so, in contrast with the other ladies, she had insisted upon wearing a pale pink fichu lest any skin might be exposed.

‘Miss Langley, you seem disinclined to follow my advice.’

The richness of his voice drifted down to her. She kept her focus fixed firmly on the lapel of his coat. What else was he to think? Hadn’t she known that it would be so? ‘I could not leave,’ she said. It sounded pathetic even to her own ears.

‘Could not, or would not? Perhaps you are in concordance with your mother’s plans to catch yourself a baron after all.’

‘No!’ Her gaze snapped up to his. His eyes were watching with a dispassion that piqued her. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘It isn’t like that at all.’

He raised a dark eyebrow as if in contradiction. ‘Perhaps you even welcome Lord Farquharson’s attentions.’ His gaze meandered down over her body, lingered momentarily upon her well-covered bosom, and dawdled back up to see the blush flood her normally pale cheeks.

She gripped at her lower lip with her teeth, as if to hold back the answer that would have spilled too readily forth. ‘If you really think that, then you may as well pass me to him this very moment.’ Her body tensed as she waited to see what he would do.

His steps were perfection, smooth and flowing, guiding her first here, then there, progressing with grace around the floor. For such a big man he was certainly light on his feet. As they turned to change direction, the irate face of Lord Farquharson swam into view. He was standing ready to catch her by the edge of the dance floor. Madeline’s eyes widened. The stranger swung her closer towards Lord Farquharson. Her heart was thumping fit to leap free from her chest. A tremble set up in her fingers. The stranger was going to abandon her into Lord Farquharson’s arms! Madeline’s eyelids flickered shut in anticipation. She readied herself for the sound of Lord Farquharson’s voice, prepared herself to feel the grasp of his hands.

‘You can open your eyes now,’ the stranger said. ‘I haven’t the least intention of releasing you to Farquharson.’

Madeline opened her eyes tentatively to find that they had progressed further around the ballroom, leaving Lord Farquharson well behind. She allowed herself to relax a little.

He felt the tension ease from her body and knew then that she hadn’t lied about her feelings for Farquharson. And although it shouldn’t have made the blindest bit of a difference, the knowledge pleased him. He wouldn’t have abandoned her to Farquharson even if she’d been screaming to get there. She seemed so small and slender in his arms, much smaller than he had realised. He looked into her eyes and saw with a jolt that they were the clear golden hue of amber. Strange that he had not noticed that during either of their previous meetings. He had never met a woman with quite that colouring before. They were beautiful eyes, eyes a man might lose himself in. The sound of Miss Langley’s voice dragged him back from his contemplation and he chided himself for staring at the chit.

She was looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for some kind of response.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘My attention was elsewhere.’ The shadow of something flitted across her face, then was gone.

‘Lord Farquharson does not look happy. You have stolen his dance,’ she said.

‘He has no damn right to dance with any woman,’ he said harshly, then, remembering the woman in his arms, said, ‘Forgive my language, Miss Langley. I did not mean to offend you.’

She smiled then, and it was a smile that lit up her face. Lucien wondered how he could ever have thought her plain. ‘Rest assured, sir, whatever else you have done, you have not offended me.’

Lucien studied her closely.

‘Indeed, you have nothing but my gratitude,’ she continued. ‘I dread to think of my circumstance now had you not intervened on my behalf.’ He could feel the warmth of her beneath his fingers; he could see it in her face. No, Madeline Langley had not encouraged Farquharson. There was an honesty about her, a quiet reserve, and a quickness of mind that was so lacking in most of the young women he had encountered.

She smiled again and he barely heard the notes of the band, concentrating as he was on the girl before him. The prim plain clothing could not completely disguise what lay beneath. The narrowness of her waist beneath his palm, the subtle rise of her breasts, those slender arms. Lucien could see very well what had attracted Farquharson. Innocence and fear and something else, something he could not quite define.

‘Who are you?’ she said, looking up at him. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

Of course she didn’t know. She wouldn’t be looking up at him so trustingly if she had known who he was. Some women attempted to court him for his reputation. Madeline Langley would not. He knew that instinctively. She would shun the wicked man Earl Tregellas was reputed to be.

A shy amusement lit the amber eyes. ‘Will you not tell me, sir?’

He hesitated a moment longer, enjoying the innocent radiance in her face. No woman looked at him like that any more. Artful coquetry, pouting petulance, flagrant fear, and, of course, downright disapproval—he had known them all. Miss Langley’s expression fell into none of those categories.

She smiled.

Lucien traced the outline of it with his eyes. He doubted that he would see her smile again once he told her his name.

The band played on. Their feet moved in time across the floor. Silence stretched between them.

‘I am Tregellas.’ There was nothing else he could say.

‘Tregellas?’ she said softly.

He watched while she tried to place the name, the slight puzzlement creasing a tiny line between her brows. Perhaps she did not know of him. And then he saw that she did after all. Shock widened the tawny glow of her eyes. The smile fled her sweet pink lips. Uncertainty stood in its stead.

‘Earl Tregellas? The Wick—’ She stopped herself just in time.

‘At your service, Miss Langley,’ he said smoothly, as if he were just any other polite gentleman of the ton.

Her gaze fluttered across his face, anxiety clouding her beautiful eyes, before she masked them with long black lashes. He thought he felt her body stiffen beneath his fingers.

‘I’m not Farquharson,’ he growled. ‘You need have no fear of me.’ Hell, he was trying to save her, not ravish her himself. And anyway, he had no interest in young ladies of Miss Langley’s ilk. Indeed, he had not paid attention to any woman in five long years, or so he reminded himself.

She raised her eyes and looked at him, really looked at him, as if she could see the man beneath, the real Lucien Tregellas.

‘No, you’re not Farquharson.’ Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

Lucien found that he could not take his eyes from hers. The censure that he expected was not there. There was nothing except an open, honest appraisal.

The music came to a halt.

‘Thank you, Miss Langley,’ he said, but whether it was for the dance or for her recognition that he and Farquharson were miles apart, he did not know. Her small hand was still enclosed in his. Swiftly he placed it upon his arm and escorted her back to her mother in silence.

And all the while he was conscious that Miss Madeline Langley had seen behind the façade that was the Wicked Earl.

‘Madeline, what on earth do you think you’re playing at?’ her mother demanded. ‘Do you know who that is?’ she whispered between clenched teeth.

‘Earl Tregellas,’ Madeline said slowly, her words slightly stilted.

‘Of all the most ill-mannered men. He takes you off without even consulting your mama! Not so much as a by your leave! How could you dance with him when Lord Farquharson’s name is written clearly upon your card against the waltz!’ Mrs Langley’s hand scrabbled for her handkerchief. ‘I declare my nerves are in a terrible state. Oh, Madeline, whatever were you thinking of? He has the blackest reputation of any man in London!’

‘I could not refuse him without causing a scene.’ She omitted to mention that she would rather have danced with the infamous Wicked Earl a thousand times over than let Lord Farquharson lay one finger upon her. ‘I did not wish to embarrass you, Mama.’

‘Embarrass me? Embarrass me?’ The words seemed to be in danger of choking Mrs Langley. ‘Never has a mother been more embarrassed by the actions of such a vexing daughter!’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘And what will Lord Farquharson think of this?’

Madeline held her tongue.

‘How could you do it, Madeline? It was as good as giving him a cut in front of the world.’ Mrs Langley’s bosom heaved dramatically.

Madeline tried to ignore the numerous stares that were being sent in her direction. She made no sign of having heard the whispers from the ladies in the seats surrounding them. ‘No one knew what was on my dance card. Most likely they would have believed it to be empty as is usual.’

The whispers grew louder.

Angelina tugged at her mother’s arm. ‘Mama,’ she said. ‘You must not upset yourself. People are staring.’

Mrs Langley surveyed the attention turned upon her family. It was not the interest she had hoped for. She noticed that even Mrs Wilson had distanced herself somewhat and was now conversing with Mrs Hammond, casting the odd look back at the Langleys. Amelia Langley held her head up high and said in a voice intended to carry, ‘Unfortunately, girls, your mama has developed one of her headaches. There is nothing else for it but to retire at once. What a shame, when we were having such a nice time. Come along, girls.’ And Mrs Langley swept her daughters from the ballroom. ‘I shall have a footman find your papa.’

The journey back to Climington Street was not pleasant. Madeline suffered several sympathetic looks from Angelina, a continuous harangue from her mother, and only the mildest expression of reproof from her father.

The harangue from Mrs Langley paused only while the family made their way into their home, and resumed once more when the front door had been firmly closed. Madeline made to follow Angelina upstairs.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ her mother screeched. ‘We shall discuss this evening’s nonsense, miss. Through to the parlour with you. Now!’

Madeline started back down the stairs.

‘Think I might just have an early night myself,’ mumbled her father and tried to slope away.

But Mrs Langley was having none of it. ‘Mr Langley,’ she cried. ‘Will you not take control of your daughter?’

It was strange, or so Madeline thought, that she was always Papa’s daughter when she had displeased Mama, which, of course, was most of the time.

The long-suffering Mr Langley gave a weary sigh and led the way through to the parlour.

‘She has made a spectacle of us this evening,’ ranted Mrs Langley. ‘And most certainly destroyed any chance of an alliance with Lord Farquharson!’

‘Calm yourself, Mrs Langley, I’m sure it cannot be quite that bad,’ said Mr Langley.

Mrs Langley’s face turned a mottled puce. Her mouth opened and closed convulsively. Madeline had never seen her look so distressed. ‘If you had not been hiding in Lady Gilmour’s conservatory all evening, then you would realise that it is worse than bad!’ she shouted.

‘Perhaps Lord Farquharson can be persuaded otherwise,’ said Mr Langley in an attempt to pacify his wife.

‘Madeline snubbed him to dance with Earl Tregellas, for pity’s sake!’

‘Really?’ mumbled Mr Langley, ‘I’m sure he’ll get over it.’ ‘Get over it! Get over it!’ huffed Mrs Langley. ‘How can you say such a thing? Lord Farquharson is unlikely to look in her direction, let alone offer her marriage! She has ruined her chances. We will never be invited anywhere ever again!’ wailed Mrs Langley. Tears squeezed from her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks.

‘Now, Mrs Langley,’ Mr Langley cajoled, ‘please don’t take on so. I will sort it all out. Come along, my dearest.’ He pressed a soothing arm around his wife’s quivering shoulders.

But Mrs Langley steadfastly refused to budge. ‘What are we to do? Lord Farquharson will never have her now.’ The trickle of tears was in danger of becoming a deluge.

Madeline watched the unfolding scene, never uttering a word.

‘Speak to her, Arthur,’ Mrs Langley pleaded.

Mr Langley patted his wife, straightened, and cleared his throat. ‘So, Madeline.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘What’s all this about? How came you to dance with Lord Tregellas over Lord Farquharson?’

Madeline found that she could not tell even her dear papa what Lord Tregellas had done for her; how he had saved her from Lord Farquharson on, not one, but two separate occasions. ‘He asked me and took my arm. There did not seem any polite manner in which to decline his request.’ Indeed, there had been no request. Lord Tregellas had plucked her straight from her seat and on to the dance floor as if he had every right to do so.

‘Did you know who he was?’

‘No,’ she answered. That, at least, was true. She had not known that her dark defender was the notorious Wicked Earl, not then.

Furrows of worry ploughed across her father’s forehead. ‘But how came you to his attention, my dear?’

Somehow it seemed strangely traitorous to reveal the truth about Lord Tregellas. She didn’t understand why, just knew that it would not be what he wanted. It made no sense. Surely to tell them that he had stepped in to save her honour would have done him only good? Common sense affirmed that. Instinct fought against it…and won. ‘I do not know,’ said Madeline. She was not in the habit of lying, especially to her papa. Guilt sat heavily upon her shoulders.

‘I understand he does not normally dance. Why should he then suddenly take it into his head to dance with a quiet, unassuming and gently bred girl like you?’ Mr Langley pondered his own question.

Madeline understood exactly why Lord Tregellas had waltzed with her. She was not foolish enough to think that he actually liked her. There was nothing to recommend Madeline Langley to him, indeed to any man, when it came to that. It was simply a matter of saving her from enduring the dance within Lord Farquharson’s arms. What she did not understand was why Lord Tregellas should care. She kept her thoughts to herself and shook her head at her father’s question.

Mrs Langley snorted in the background. ‘Quiet and unassuming?’ she echoed. ‘It is clear you have spent little time of late in your daughter’s company!’

Mr Langley chose to ignore this comment. ‘Madeline,’ he said as carefully as he could, ‘Lord Tregellas is a gentleman of some renown. He may be an earl and in receipt of a large fortune, but…’ He hesitated, unsure how best to phrase the next words. ‘He has a rather dubious reputation, my dear—’

‘Everyone knows what he is reputed to have done,’ cut in her mother.

‘What did he do?’ asked Madeline.

Mrs Langley’s mouth opened. ‘He is a murderer of the very worst kind. Why do you think he’s called the Wicked Earl? He killed the—’

‘We shall not lower ourselves to become gossip-mongers, Mrs Langley,’ said her father reprovingly.

Madeline looked from one parent to the other. Even she, prim and proper Miss Madeline Langley, had heard talk of Lord Tregellas. He was said to have committed some heinous crime in the past. That fact alone made him strangely fascinating to half the women across London, although he was reputed to treat them all with a cold contempt. Madeline knew that, and still it did not matter. The man that had forced Lord Farquharson to leave her safe in the Theatre Royal, who had warned her against that fiend, and had saved her again at this evening’s ball, was not someone she could fear. He had, after all, given her every reason to trust him. ‘It was only one dance,’ she said in defence of Lord Tregellas and herself.

‘It was the waltz!’ sobbed her mother. ‘Madeline is quite ruined after this evening’s fiasco.’

Mr Langley said patiently, ‘Come now, my dear, she’s hardly ruined. It was, as she said, only a dance.’

The sobbing burst forth into a wail. ‘Oh, you understand nothing, Mr Langley!’

Mr Langley wore the weary air of a man who knew exactly what the forthcoming weeks would hold if he did nothing to resolve the situation. ‘Perhaps I could have a word with Farquharson.’

‘He’ll have nothing to do with Madeline now. All my plans lie in ruins.’

‘He’s a stout fellow. He’ll listen to reason,’ said Mr Langley.

Her mother stopped wailing and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Do you really think so?’ she hiccupped.

‘Of course,’ her father replied. ‘I’ll go round there tomorrow and explain that Madeline had no notion to dance with Tregellas, that she was taken unawares, and, as a young and inexperienced lady, had no say in the matter. Perhaps I could invite him to dinner.’

Madeline could not believe what she was hearing. Her father thought Farquharson a stout fellow? ‘Papa,’ she said. ‘Please do not. If you knew Lord Farquharson’s true nature, you would not suggest such a thing. He is not an honourable man.’

‘Mr Langley,’ said her mother, ‘pray do not heed her. She’s taken a set against Lord Farquharson and is determined to thwart my plans. He’s a wealthy and respected member of the aristocracy, a war hero and more. And he’s worth ten thousand a year. Does that sound like a dishonourable man?’

‘Papa, if you knew what he had done—’

‘Then tell me, child,’ encouraged her father.

‘Arthur!’ her mother whined.

But Mr Langley made no sign of having heard his wife’s complaint. ‘Madeline, what has happened?’

Madeline sighed. Papa would listen. He would not make excuses for Lord Farquharson or, worse still, encourage the man’s attentions. Once Papa knew the truth, she would be free of Lord Farquharson for ever. It did not matter that she would never marry. Rather that, than wedded to Lord Farquharson. No man other than that villain had ever expressed so much as an interest in her. She was four-and-twenty years old, with a string of failed Seasons behind her. She did not blame her mother and father for not sending her out on to the circuit last year. In fact, it was a blessed relief, and they did, after all, have Angelina to think about. Surely Angelina would more than compensate them for Madeline’s failings?

‘Madeline?’ her father prompted.

Madeline shook the fluttering thoughts from her head. The truth must be told—just without any mention of Lord Tregellas. Taking a deep breath, she relayed what Lord Farquharson had been about, both in the Theatre Royal and at Lady Gilmour’s ball. There was no embellishment, no dramatics, just plain facts, minus a certain earl’s involvement.

By the end of it Mr Langley was no longer looking his usual mild-mannered self. He fixed a stern eye upon his wife. ‘You knew of this, Amelia?’ Incredulity edged his voice.

‘Only about the theatre. But he did not kiss her, Arthur.’ Mrs Langley cast imploring eyes up to her husband. ‘I knew nothing of this evening. She said not one word of being alone in a bedchamber with Lord Farquharson. Had I but known…’ Mrs Langley pressed her tiny lace handkerchief to her mouth and fell silent.

A small cynical part of Madeline wondered as to her mother’s claim. Would she still have had her daughter dance with Lord Farquharson, knowing all that he had done? Mama had been unwilling to hear Madeline speak against the Baron. And social standing and money were so very important to Mrs Langley. It was a pointless question.

‘We shall discuss this further, Mrs Langley, once the matter has been satisfactorily resolved.’

Madeline had never seen her father like this before. There was a determined glare in his normally kind brown eyes, a tension in his usually relaxed stance. He rang the bell and requested that the carriage be brought back round. ‘Papa?’ said Madeline. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To see Lord Farquharson.’

Madeline felt the blood drain from her face. Visions of duelling pistols and her father lying wounded, or worse, swam in her head. She prayed that he would not do anything so foolish as call out Lord Farquharson. Not her papa, not her mild-mannered, gentle papa. ‘Please, Papa, do not go.’

‘I must, my dear,’ he said. ‘It’s a matter of honour.’

‘Arthur?’ Mrs Langley raised a trembling voice.

‘Do not wait up, I may be some time,’ said Mr Langley and walked from the parlour.

The clock on the mantel struck midnight as the front door slammed behind him.

‘So you waltzed with Miss Langley just to prevent Farquharson from doing so?’ Guy, Viscount Varington, raised a cynical brow.

The library was quiet; only the slow rhythmic ticking of the clock and the occasional spit from the fire punctuated the silence.

‘Why else?’ Lucien Tregellas didn’t even glance round at his brother, just stood by the carved marble fireplace looking into the dancing yellow flames. They glowed golden in the darkness of the library, reminding him of the lights in Madeline Langley’s eyes. Such warmth and honesty as he had not seen in any other woman’s eyes. Long dark lashes and that straight little nose…and a clean pleasant smell that reminded him of…It came to him then exactly what Miss Langley smelled of—oranges!

‘You’ve done far more damage to her reputation just by dancing with her than Farquharson ever could.’ Guy leaned across the small drum table and captured the decanter.

‘Hell’s teeth, Guy! I only danced with the girl. Farquharson would have done a damned sight worse. It wasn’t as if I ravished her.’

‘Might as well have, old chap,’ said his brother. ‘You haven’t danced in the last five years. And when you decide to take again to the dance floor, after such a long absence, you don’t choose just any old dance, but the waltz.’

‘So?’

‘So, all of London’s eyes will be upon you now to see what Tregellas meant by waltzing with the very proper Miss Langley.’ Guy filled two balloon glasses with the rich amber liquid from the decanter.

‘Then London will have a long wait.’

Guy pressed a glass into his brother’s hand. ‘Really?’

Lucien arched an eyebrow and ignored the comment.

Guy continued on, knowing full well his brother’s irritation. ‘You know, of course, that the chit will now be thrust under your nose at every opportunity. Why should Miss Langley’s mama settle for a mere baron when an earl has just waltzed right into her sight?’

‘Your puns get worse, Guy.’ Lucien’s fingers rubbed against the Tregellas coat of arms artfully engraved upon the side of his glass. ‘Mrs Langley may do her worst. I had no interest in Madeline Langley other than to stop Farquharson getting his hands on her.’

‘Had?’ queried Guy with an expression that bellied innocence.

‘Had, have, what’s the difference?’

‘You tell me,’ came Guy’s rejoinder.

Lucien took a large swig of brandy. The liquid burned a satisfying trail down to his stomach. ‘I made my meaning clear enough to Farquharson.’

‘And what of Miss Langley? Did you make your meaning clear to her, too? Perhaps she has expectations following her waltz this evening. A girl like that can’t have too many men hanging after her.’

Lucien took another gulp of brandy. ‘Miss Langley has no expectations of me.’ He thought momentarily of Madeline Langley’s clear nonjudgemental gaze, and a touch of tenderness twitched at his lips. The girl didn’t have a conniving bone in her body.

‘News of your waltz with Miss Langley will be all over town by tomorrow afternoon, and you know what people will think.’ Guy paused to take a delicate sip from his glass. ‘Dallying with a respectable girl can only mean one thing in their tawdry little minds—that you have finally decided to take a wife and beget an heir.’

‘Let them think what they will,’ Lucien shrugged. ‘We both know that I have no intention of marrying, and as for the Tregellas heir…’ Lucien raised his glass in the direction of his brother ‘…I’m looking at him. Hell will freeze over before I find myself in parson’s trap.’

A peculiar smile hovered around Guy’s mouth. ‘We’ll see,’ he said softly. ‘Only the devil or a fool tempts fate.’

Not so very far away in Brooks’s Club on St James’s Street, Cyril Farquharson was also sipping brandy. His attention was not on the small circle of fashionable gentlemen with whom he was sitting. Indeed, Lord Farquharson’s thoughts were concerned with someone else entirely; and that someone was Miss Madeline Langley. The whores at Madame Fouet’s had been meagre rations to feed his appetite. Five years was a long time to starve. He had grown tired of them. They were too willing, too coarse and worldly wise, and, even though they role-played otherwise, that fact detracted something from the experience for Farquharson. And he was tired too of Tregellas’s constant watching, his constant waiting. Damn the man for curtailing the best of his pleasures. But Farquharson would be held in check no longer. He hungered for a gentlewoman, someone young and innocent and fearful, someone with that unique je ne sais quoi; in short, someone like Madeline Langley.

She had taken years in the finding, but Farquharson had known that Madeline was the one from the moment he had seen her. She was quiet and reserved and afraid of him, all the things he liked in a woman. He played with her, like a cat played with a mouse. He liked to see her discomfort when he stepped too close or lingered too long over her hand. He liked the way she tried to hide her fear and her futile efforts to avoid him. Dear, sweet, fearful Madeline. He meant to take his pleasure of her…in the worst possible way. If the empty-headed Mrs Langley was determined to dangle her delicious daughter before him in the hope of trapping him in marriage, who was he to refuse the bait? Cyril Farquharson was far too cunning to be caught. So he had enjoyed his game with Madeline Langley until Tregellas had entered the scene.

The interruption in the Theatre Royal during the play had been an irritation. Tregellas’s dance with the girl at Lady Gilmour’s ball went beyond that. It smacked of more than a desire to thwart Farquharson. Tregellas had not looked at a female in years, and now he had waltzed with the very woman that Farquharson held within his sights. Perhaps Tregellas had an interest in Miss Langley. There was an irony in that thought. Lord Farquharson mulled the matter over. By the time that he finished his brandy and headed for home, he knew just what he was going to do. In one fell swoop, not only would he secure Miss Langley to do with whatsoever he might please, but he would also effectively thwart any move that Tregellas might mean to make. And that idea appealed very much to Cyril Farquharson. He smiled at his own ingenuity and looked forward to Madeline Langley’s reaction when she learned what he meant to do.

Chapter Four

Madeline did not see her father again until the next morning. All the night through she had lain awake, unable to find sleep; tossing and turning beneath the bedcovers, until her cheeks burned red with the worry of it all. Papa was well meaning, but he had no real appreciation of the malice contained in a man like Lord Farquharson. It seemed that Madeline could see the cruel grey eyes and the sneer stretched across Lord Farquharson’s lips. Dear Lord in heaven, Papa didn’t stand a chance! Lord Farquharson would dispense with her gentle father before Mr Langley had so much as taken his second breath. What good did Papa think that complaining would do? None, as far as Madeline could see. And God forbid that he took it into his head to challenge Lord Farquharson! She did not even know if her father owned a pair of duelling pistols. Papa was far too sensible to call Lord Farquharson out. Wasn’t he?

The bed linen was very crumpled and Madeline very tired by the time morning came. The foggy dullness of her brain contrasted with the tense agitation of her body. She rose early, washed, dressed, took only the smallest cup of coffee and waited in the quiet little dining room, ignoring the heated salvers of ham and eggs. Her stomach was squeezed so tight by anxiety that even the smell of the food stirred a wave of nausea. It was not until after nine o’clock that her father finally appeared, with her mother in tow.

Mrs Langley was surprisingly calm in the light of what had yesterday been cited as the biggest catastrophe of the century. In fact, Madeline might even have gone so far as to say that her mother was looking rather pleased. At least Papa did not seem to have taken any hurts. His arm was not in a sling nor did he limp. His eyes were bagged with tiredness, but were not blackened from bruising. Indeed, he had not one visible scratch upon him. Madeline breathed a sigh of relief. Tension’s hold slackened a little. ‘Papa!’ she breathed. ‘Thank goodness you’re safe.’ She ran to him and placed her arms around him in a grateful embrace. ‘I was so worried.’

Mr Langley did not return Madeline’s tremulous smile. Rather, he reached out a tired old hand and pulled her gently to him. ‘Madeline,’ he said, and there was sadness in his voice.

Something was wrong. Madeline felt it immediately. She started back and stared up into his eyes. ‘What is it, Papa? What has happened?’ It did not make sense. He was home, returned safely, hurt, it seemed, by nothing more than Farquharson’s words. The first hint of apprehension wriggled down Madeline’s spine. What had Lord Farquharson said? And then a worse thought made itself known. ‘You have not…killed him, have you?’ she asked.

‘No, child.’ Mr Langley shook his grizzled head. ‘Although, I begin to think that I would be better placed if I had.’

‘Then what…?’

Mrs Langley touched a hand to her husband’s arm; she could no longer hide her smile. ‘Pray tell Madeline the good news, Mr Langley,’ she said.

Madeline looked up into her father’s face and waited for the words to fall.

‘Lord Farquharson apologised for his lapse of control. He said that his normal behaviour was overcome by the magnitude of his feelings for you.’

The first tentacles of dread enclosed around Madeline’s heart. ‘And?’ Her voice was nothing more than a cracked whisper.

‘He has offered to do the decent thing. Lord Farquharson wishes to marry you, Madeline.’

His words clattered harsh against the ensuing silence.

She stared at her father, resisting the enormity of what he had just said.

Mr Langley’s palm dabbed against Madeline’s back as if to salve the hurt he had just dealt her. ‘As a gentleman he should never have tried to compromise you. But the deed is done and he would redeem himself by making you his wife. He said it was ever his wish since first he saw you. I believe he does care for you, my dear. Perhaps in time you will come to be happy together.’

‘No.’ Madeline shook her head. ‘No!’ The word reverberated around the room. ‘I cannot marry him, Papa. I will not!’

Mrs Langley came forward then. ‘Your father has already agreed it. Lord Farquharson is already organising a party at which your betrothal will be announced. The invitations are to be written and sent today.’

‘The party can be cancelled.’

The smile wiped from Mrs Langley’s face. ‘You see how she tortures me, Mr Langley!’ she cried. ‘She would rather make fools of us before all of London than do as she is bid.’

None of it seemed real. They were but players upon a stage, mouthing lines that would wreck her life for ever. Madeline struggled to shake the thick fleece that clouded her thoughts. ‘Papa, please, I cannot do this.’

‘Madeline,’ he said gently, and it seemed as if his heart were breaking. ‘If you really cannot bear to marry Lord Farquharson, then I am obliged to take other steps. He has impugned your honour. As your father, I cannot just sit back and let that happen. If word were to get out of your meeting with Farquharson in Lady Gilmour’s bedchamber, then your reputation would be utterly tarnished, and even Angelina would not remain unharmed.’ His eyes shuttered in anguish, and prised open again. ‘Either he marries you or I must call him out. The guilt is Farquharson’s, not yours, never doubt that, my dear, but we both know that society will not view it that way, and I cannot let you suffer their persecution should the matter come to light.’ His fingers fluttered against her hair, drawing her face up to look at him. ‘I will not force you to this marriage, Madeline. The choice is yours to make. If you truly cannot bear to have Farquharson as your husband, then so be it.’

Mrs Langley gripped at her husband’s arm, pulling it away from Madeline. ‘Oh, Mr Langley, you cannot seriously mean to challenge his lordship?’ Her voice rose in a panic. ‘Duelling is illegal…and dangerous. You might be killed!’ She clung to him, tears springing to her eyes. ‘And what good would it do? Madeline’s reputation will be ruined if she does not marry him, regardless of the outcome of any duel. I beg of you, Mr Langley, do not give her the choice. Madeline must wed him and be done with it.’

‘It is a matter of honour, Mrs Langley, and I shall not force her to wed against her will,’ said Mr Langley.

Madeline’s teeth clung to her lower lip. Her throat constricted ready to choke her. She would not cry. She would not.

‘You may have some little time to think on your decision, but if you decide against the marriage, Madeline, speed might yet prevent the sending of the invitations.’

Mrs Langley was tugging at her husband’s hand. ‘No, Arthur, no, please!’

For Madeline there was, of course, no decision to be made. Marry Lord Farquharson, or have her father risk his life. The choice was not a difficult one, and in its making, a cold calm settled upon her. Tears and fear and anger would come later. For now, Madeline moved like an automaton.

Mr Langley turned to go.

‘Wait, Papa…’ Madeline stayed him with a hand ‘…I’ve made my choice.’

Her father’s kindly brown eyes looked down into hers.

‘I will marry Lord Farquharson.’

Mrs Langley’s face uncrinkled.

‘Are you certain, my dear?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ Such a little word to tilt the axis of the world.

An uncertain smile blossomed on Mrs Langley’s face. ‘It will not be so bad, Madeline. You’ll see. His lordship will make up for his mistakes, I’m sure he will.’ She patted at her daughter’s arm. ‘And he is a baron.’

Madeline barely felt her touch. Yes, Lord Farquharson would more than make up for his mistakes, just not in the way her mother thought. There had been nothing of care or affection in his eyes. Whatever he meant to do, Madeline knew that it would not be with her welfare or her wishes in mind. Neither would matter once she was his wife. He could do what he pleased with her then, and no one would mind in the slightest. Farquharson’s wife. The ball of nausea within her stomach started to grow. ‘Please excuse me, Mama, Papa. I feel suddenly rather…tired.’

‘Of course, my dearest,’ said Mrs Langley.

Her father looked drained, wrung out. ‘It’s for the best,’ he said.

Madeline tried to smile, tried to give him some small measure of false assurance, but her lips would do nothing but waver. ‘Yes,’ she said again, and slipped quietly from the room.

‘Hell!’ Earl Tregellas’s curse drew the attention of several of the surrounding gentlemen dotted around the room.

‘Lucien?’ Guy watched the rigidity grip Lucien’s jaw and saw the telltale tightening of his lips. He leaned forward from his chair, all previous lounging forgotten, keen to know exactly what was printed in today’s copy of The Morning Post that had wrought such a reaction from his brother. Lucien normally preferred to keep his emotions tightly in check in public.

Lucien Tregellas threw an insolent stare at those gentlemen in White’s lounge area who were fool enough to be still expressing an interest. The grandfather clock over by the door ticked its languorous pace. A few newspapers rustled. The chink of porcelain and glass sounded. And the normal quiet drone of conversation resumed. ‘Come, Guy, I’ve a mind to get out of here.’ He folded the newspaper in half and threw it nonchalantly on to the small occasional table by his elbow.

Both men rose, and, with their coffee still unfinished on the table, left the premises of White’s gentlemen’s club without so much as a backward glance.

Lucien’s curricle was waiting outside, the horses impatiently striking up dust from the street. ‘Do you mind if we walk?’

Guy shook his head. Things must be bad.

A brief word to his tiger and Lucien’s curricle was gone, leaving the brothers alone in the late winter’s pale sunlight.

They walked off down St James’s Street. ‘Well?’ said Guy.

Lucien made no reply, just clenched his jaw tighter to check the unleashing of the rage that threatened to explode. To any that passed it would seem that Earl Tregellas was just out for a casual morning stroll with his brother. There was nothing in his demeanour to suggest that anything might be awry in his usual lifestyle. Lucien might disguise it well, but Guy was not indifferent to the tension simmering below the surface of his brother’s relaxed exterior. That Lucien had failed to prevent his outburst in White’s was not a good sign.

‘Are you going to tell me just what has you biting down on your jaw as if you were having a bullet extracted?’

Lucien’s long stride faltered momentarily and then recovered. ‘Lord Farquharson entertained a small party last evening in Bloomsbury Square to announce his betrothal to Miss Madeline Langley, elder daughter of Mr Arthur Langley and Mrs Amelia Langley of Climington Street.’

Guy stopped dead on the spot. ‘He means to marry her?’

‘It would appear so.’ There was a harshness in Lucien’s features, an anger that would not be suppressed for long.

‘But why?’ Guy turned a baffled expression upon Lucien.

‘Keep walking, Guy.’ Lucien touched a hand briefly to his brother’s arm.

‘Why not just turn his attention to another, easier target? By Hades, I would not have thought him to be so desperate for Miss Langley above all others. The girl has nothing particular to recommend her. She doesn’t even look like—’ Guy caught himself just in time. ‘Sorry, Lucien, didn’t mean to…’

‘I warned him if he ever tried to strike again that I would be waiting. Perhaps he thought that I was bluffing, that I would just sit back and let him take Madeline Langley. I did not think he would resort to marriage to get his hands on her.’

They walked in silence for a few minutes before Guy slowly said, ‘Or he may have misinterpreted your defence of Miss Langley.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Lucien. ‘Why on earth would he think that I have any interest in the girl?’

Guy raised a wry eyebrow. ‘For the same reason that half of London did only yesterday.’

‘What else was I supposed to do? Watch him run his lecherous hands all over her? Let him force her to a dance she did not want…and more?’

‘It seems that Miss Langley has changed her opinion of Farquharson. She might not have wanted to dance then, but she wants to marry him now.’

Lucien thought of the fear and revulsion on Miss Langley’s face as that brute had tried to force himself upon her; of her terror when she’d quite literally run straight into him on that servants’ stairwell; and her loathing at the prospect of waltzing with Farquharson. ‘I cannot believe that it is so.’

‘There’s nothing so fickle as women. You should know that, Lucien. Saying one thing, then changing their minds at the drop of a hat. It’s amazing what the odd bauble or two can buy these days.’

‘Madeline Langley isn’t like that. You’ve seen her, Guy. She isn’t that sort of woman.’

‘Plain and puritanical maybe, Lucien, but still as likely to yield to temptation as any other. The Langleys are not wealthy. The pretty golden looks of the younger Langley chit are bound to catch her a husband. Not so with the elder Miss Langley. Perhaps she decided Farquharson was preferable to life as an old maid.’

Lucien shook his head. ‘No.’ He could not imagine Miss Langley agreeing to touch Farquharson, let alone marry him.

‘Let it rest, Lucien,’ his brother advised. ‘You’ve done all you can to save the girl. If she’s foolish enough to become his wife, then there’s nothing more you can do. Your conscience, at least, is clear.’

‘My conscience is anything but clear. My actions have brought about this situation.’

‘You don’t know that,’ countered Guy.

‘I threw down the gauntlet and Farquharson took it up.’

‘Perhaps he planned to marry her all along.’

‘Perhaps. Whatever the reasoning, I cannot let Miss Langley become his wife.’

‘Oh, and just how do you propose to stop the wedding? Stand up and announce the truth of what Farquharson did? Stirring up the past will release Miss Langley from the betrothal, but at what cost? It’s too high a price, Lucien.’

‘I’ll find another way.’

Guy sighed. ‘What is Miss Langley to you? Nothing. She’s not worth it.’

‘Whatever Madeline Langley may or may not be worth, I’ll be damned if I just abandon her to Farquharson. You know what he’ll do.’

‘He might have changed, learned his lesson over the years.’

Lucien drew his brother a look of withering incredulity. ‘Men like Farquharson never change. Why else has he been visiting Madame Fouet’s all these years?’

‘Face it, Lucien. Short of marrying Miss Langley yourself, there’s not a cursed thing you can do to stop him.’

A silence hiccupped between them.

A crooked smile eased the hardness of Lucien’s lips. ‘You might just have an idea there, little brother.’

Guy laughed at the jest. ‘Now that really would be beyond belief, the Wicked Earl and Miss Langley!’ Still laughing, he grabbed his brother’s arm. ‘What you need is a good stiff drink.’

‘Amen to that,’ said Lucien.

The more that Lucien thought on it, the more sense it seemed to make. He knew what would happen if Farquharson married Miss Langley, knew that he could not stand by and let another woman walk to her death, willing or not. For all that his brother said, Lucien still could not bring himself to believe in Miss Langley’s sudden capitulation. Could she really want Farquharson as a husband? Lucien drank deeper and stared unseeing into the dying embers of the fire. Did the answer to that question even make any difference? Farquharson was Farquharson. No woman, knowing the truth about him, would willingly agree to so much as look at the man. Lucien remembered too well that of which Farquharson was capable. Mercifully the brandy anaesthetised the worst of the pain that the memories triggered. He emptied the contents down his throat and reached for the decanter again.

Farquharson. Farquharson. Farquharson. For five long years Lucien had thought of little else. Nothing but that and his own vow to ensure that Farquharson never struck again. Then Miss Madeline Langley had entered the picture and history was suddenly in danger of repeating itself, while all he could do was watch it happen. Lucien’s lip curled at the very thought. His eyes closed tight against the spiralling anger. When they opened again, he was perfectly calm, his thinking never clearer. Lucien Tregellas knew exactly what he was going to do. Raising the stakes was a risky move but, if played well, would resolve the situation admirably. Guilt prickled at his conscience. He quashed it. Even if he was using her for revenge, Miss Langley would also benefit from the arrangement. And besides, being with him would be infinitely safer for the girl than being with Farquharson.

Madeline sat demurely on the gilt-legged chair, her mother positioned on one side, Angelina on the other. Since the announcement of her betrothal to Lord Farquharson, Madeline had been elevated in her mother’s order of things. There had been trips to cloth warehouses, milliners, drapers and Burlington Arcade. Shopping, shopping and more shopping. Life had taken on a frenzied whirl of dances and parties and balls. The little house in Climington Street looked more like a florist’s shop following the daily arrival of Lord Farquharson’s bouquets. And now, Mrs Langley had managed to obtain the ultimate in social acceptance—vouchers for Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Amelia Langley had finally arrived, and the look on her face told the world that she knew it was so.

Through it all Madeline appeared as the ghost of the person she had been. She moved mechanically, her emotions disengaged by necessity. It was the only way to get through this, the only way to survive Lord Farquharson’s little visits to take afternoon tea with the Langley household, to bear his hand upon her arm, the touch of his lips to her fingers. It was the shell of Madeline Langley who allowed Lord Farquharson to lead her out on to dance floor after dance floor, to whisper promises of love into her ear, to take her up in his chaise around Hyde Park at the most fashionable of hours for all the world to see. The real Madeline Langley was curled up tight in a ball somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of that protection. So it was Madeline’s shell, and not Madeline herself, who sat that night in Almack’s.

It did not matter that they were in the famous assembly rooms. It did not matter that the night was chilled, or that the air within the dance rooms was stuffy and hot. It did not even matter when one of the ladies patronesses gave permission for Madeline to waltz with Lord Farquharson, or when his fingers lingered about her waist, or when he gazed with such promise into her face. Madeline saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. And by being so, Madeline’s shell could do what it had to do.

‘Madeline, Mrs Barrington has promised me the recipe for a wonderful lotion that clarifies the skin and removes any blemish or shadow. It will do wonders for your complexion, my dear.’

Madeline sat, like she had done on every other occasion since learning of her betrothal to Lord Farquharson, and said nothing.

Colonel Barclay materialised as if from nowhere. ‘My dear Mrs Langley, may I introduce a good friend of mine, Viscount Varington. He has been admiring you and your daughters from across the room for some time now. I have taken pity on the poor man and decided to put him out of his misery by bringing him here for a word from your sweet lips.’

The tall, dark and extremely handsome Lord Varington swooped down to press a kiss to Angelina’s hand. ‘Miss Langley,’ he uttered in a sensuously deep voice. ‘Such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, at last.’ And delivered her a look of dangerous appreciation.

Angelina smiled and glanced up at him through downcast lashes.

‘I can see from where Miss Langley gets her golden beauty.’ He touched his lips to Mrs Langley’s hand.

Mrs Langley tittered. ‘La, you flatter me too much, sir.’

‘Not at all,’ said Lord Varington, his pale blue eyes bold and appraising. ‘Is it possible that Miss Langley is free for this next dance? A most improbable hope, but…’

Angelina scanned down her dance card, knowing full well that Mr Jamison’s name was scrawled against the dance in question, and indeed that every successive dance had been claimed. Her eyes flickered up to the hard, handsome face waiting above them.

Lord Varington smiled in just the way that he knew to be most effective, showing his precisely chiselled features to perfection. He cast a smouldering gaze at Angelina.

Angelina opened her mouth to explain that she could not in truth dance with him.

But Mrs Langley was there first. ‘How fortuitous your timing is, my lord. It seems that Mr Jamison is unwell and is unable to stand up with Angelina as he promised. She, therefore, is free to dance with you, my lord.’

‘I can breathe again,’ murmured Lord Varington dramatically, and took Angelina’s hand into his with exaggerated tenderness.

‘Oh, my!’ exclaimed Mrs Langley and fanned herself vigorously as Angelina disappeared off on to the floor in Lord Varington’s strong muscular arms.

It was only then that she noticed that Madeline was missing.

Lucien tucked Madeline’s hand into the crook of his arm and continued walking through Almack’s marbled vestibule.

‘My lord, what is wrong? The note the girl brought said that you needed to speak with me urgently.’ Madeline felt his pale blue eyes pierce a crack in the shell that she had so carefully constructed.

‘And so I do, Miss Langley, but not here.’ He scanned the entrance hall around them, indicating the few bodies passing in chatter. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘Dangerous?’ Madeline’s voice faltered, the crack growing exponentially wider. ‘I don’t understand—’

Lord Tregellas stopped behind one of the large Ionic pillars and gently pulled her closer. ‘Miss Langley,’ he interrupted, ‘do you trust me?’

‘Yes.’ The shell shattered to smithereens. ‘Of course I do.’ Logic deemed that she should not, instinct ensured that she did.

A strange expression flitted across his face and then was gone. ‘Then come with me.’

For the first time in two weeks Madeline felt her heart leap free of the ice that encased it. Surely she had misheard him? She looked into his eyes and what she saw there kicked her pulse to a canter.

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