Wicked in the Regency Ballroom: The Wicked Earl / Untouched Mistress

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.