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

‘Lord Tregellas.’ Madeline’s plea brought him up short.

He stopped. Dropped his hands from her arms. Stayed seated by her side. Rumble of carriage wheels. Horses’ hooves. Bark of dogs. Men’s voices cursing coarse and loud. Bang of doors. Lucien let them all pass, breathing in that small space of time, waiting to utter the words he had never thought would pass his lips. ‘Miss Langley,’ he said, ‘there is one way that would most certainly prevent your marriage to Farquharson.’

‘Yes?’

There was such hope in that one little word. The subtle scent of oranges drifted up from Madeline Langley’s hair. Anticipation squeezed at Lucien’s heart. Fool! he chastised himself. Just ask her the damn question and be done with it. ‘Will you marry me?’ He felt the start of the slim body beside him, felt more than saw the shock upon her face.

‘You want me to be your wife?’ Disbelief raised her voice to a mere squeak.

‘Yes. It’s by far the best solution to our problem.’ He tried to convey that it was the logical answer for them both.

‘Lord Farquharson is my problem alone, my lord, not yours. You have no need to marry me. Why should you even care what he does to me, let alone wish to sacrifice yourself on my behalf?’

‘I have my reasons, Miss Langley. Suffice to say, it is in both our interests to stop him.’ Sacrifice was a very strong word, and the wrong word. It did not describe at all what it was that Lucien Tregellas was doing.

‘But marriage?’

Why should she find it so unbelievable? ‘Think of it as a marriage of convenience, if you prefer,’ he said, trying to make her feel easier.

‘I cannot just marry you.’

‘Why not?’

‘My family, the scandal—’

‘Would blow over. Your family will not suffer. I’ll ensure that. I’m not without influence, Madeline.’

She seemed embarrassed at the sound of her Christian name upon his lips, and glanced down nervously at her lap. He remembered how innocent she was.

‘Lord Farquharson would sue for breach of contract.’

‘It’s only money, a commodity of which I have plenty.’

A short silence, as if she was digesting his words. He heard her hands move against the blanket.

‘Such an act would publicly humiliate Lord Farquharson. He would be obliged to demand satisfaction of his honour.’

‘We both know that Farquharson has no honour.’

‘Society does not. He would call you out.’

‘So much the better.’

‘But your life would be in danger. He might injure you, or worse!’

He smiled then, a chilling smile, a smile that held in it five years of waiting, five years of hatred. The light from a street lamp glanced across his stark angular features, casting a sinister darkness to his handsome looks. ‘Have no fear of that. I promise you most solemnly that when I meet Farquharson across a field again I will kill him.’

Her breath expelled in one rush.

‘Have you any more objections, Miss Langley?’

‘It … it does not seem right, my lord.’

‘I assure you that it would be the best for everyone, involved.’

‘I-I’m a little shocked,’ she stuttered.

‘That is only to be expected,’ he said. ‘If you marry me, you would be well provided for, have anything you desire. I have no objection to you seeing your family as and when you please. You would be free to live your own life—within reason, of course. And, most importantly, you would be safe from Farquharson.’

‘What do you wish from me in return, my lord?’

He blinked at that. What did he want? All his careful thinking had not made it that far. He had not expected her to ask such a thing. And then he understood what it was she was asking, or at least thought he did. ‘Discretion,’ he replied, trying to be tactful.

When she still did not understand, he elaborated. ‘It would be a marriage in name only, Madeline. We would both go on just as before, nothing need change save your name and our living arrangements for a short while.’

She bowed her head. ‘You seem to have considered everything, my lord.’

Another silence.

‘Then you must choose, Madeline. Will you be my wife or Farquharson’s?’

She touched the fingers of her right hand against her forehead, kneading the spot between her eyes.

He could sense her tension. The small body next to his was strung taut as a bow. ‘Madeline,’ he said softly, and captured her left hand into his. ‘Your half-hour is fast expiring. Will you not give me your answer?’

She shivered. ‘Yes, my lord,’ she whispered, not daring to look round at his face. ‘I will marry you.’

His fingers communicated a brief reassurance to hers and were gone. ‘Thank you,’ he said, then thumped the roof of the carriage with his cane and thrust his face out of the window, ‘Home, please, Jackson.’

‘But … but aren’t we going back to Almack’s? What of my mama—?’

‘Speed is of the essence. I’ll send a note to your mother explaining our decision.’

‘I would prefer to tell her myself, my lord.’

The anxiety in her voice scraped at his conscience. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Madeline. You’ll see her soon enough when we’re safely married. I’ll explain all once we reach Cavendish Square.’

The carriage drove on in silence.

Chapter Five

Tregellas’s townhouse in Cavendish Square was not a house at all, not in the sense that Madeline knew. Mansion was the word she would have used in its stead. It was a large imposing building set back in a fine garden. The hallway alone was bigger than the parlour and dining room put together in the Langleys’ home. Floors beautifully laid with Italian marble, walls covered with exquisite neo-classical plasterwork—all nymphs and cherubs, wreaths and festoons—expensive oriental rugs, windows elaborately dressed with rich curtains, huge crystal chandeliers that shimmered in the light of a hundred candles. Madeline stared around her in awe.

‘This way, Miss Langley.’

Lord Tregellas steered her down a passageway and into the most palatial, enormous drawing room she had ever seen. But it wasn’t the luxurious décor or the expensive furniture that drew Madeline’s eye. That was accomplished much more readily by the two gentlemen standing before the fireplace, one of whom she had just seen at Almack’s Assembly Rooms, dancing with her sister: Viscount Varington and Colonel Barclay. Realisation dawned. She peered round at Lord Tregellas with great wide eyes. ‘You used your friends to distract Mama and Angelina!’

‘I did not think that Mrs Langley would welcome my direct approach.’

That was putting it mildly. Mama would have run squawking to Lord Farquharson as fast as her legs would carry her. Madeline’s brow wrinkled. But what, then, were the gentlemen doing here?

The men stepped forward, the taller of the two electing to speak. ‘Miss Langley, honoured to make your acquaintance at last.’ When he looked into her face she saw that he had the same pale blue eyes as Lord Tregellas. ‘I am Varington, and this is our good friend, Barclay.’

‘Your servant, Miss Langley,’ said the Colonel.

Then Madeline saw who was sitting quietly in the background. And the sight stilled the breath in her throat and brought a tremble to her legs. The elderly clergyman had dozed off in the comfort of the wing chair. The faint catch of a snore resonated in the silence of the room. ‘Lord Tregellas!’ Madeline swung round to find the Earl directly at her back. ‘You cannot … I did not think … Tonight?’

‘I took the liberty of procuring a special licence,’ Lord Tregellas said.

A snuffling and then a yawn. ‘Lord Tregellas, please do forgive me. Must have nodded off. One of the vices of old age, I’m afraid. And this …’he rummaged in his pocket, produced a pair of small round spectacles, and perched them on the end of his nose ‘… must be the bride.’ He peered short-sightedly in Madeline’s direction. ‘Lovely girl.’

Madeline blinked back at him, wondering if the clergyman could see at all.

‘Now …’ the clergyman placed an ancient liver-spotted hand on her shoulder ‘… I should check that this handsome devil hasn’t abducted you from beneath your mother’s nose.’ The clergyman chortled at the hilarity of his joke.

Viscount Varington smothered a cough and grinned at Tregellas.

Lord Tregellas showed not one sign of having heard anything untoward.

‘As if Lucien would have any need to do such a thing! Known him since he was a boy, and his brother there, too.’ The clergyman glanced across at the Viscount.

Madeline followed his gaze. So Lord Varington and Lord Tregellas were brothers. That explained the similarity in their looks.

‘Knew their father, too, God rest his soul.’ The clergyman patted her shoulder. ‘Sterling fellows, all three. Why, I remember in the old days—’

Lord Tregellas cleared his throat. ‘Reverend Dutton, Miss Langley is rather tired after her journey.’

‘Of course. Know the feeling myself.’ He peered in Lord Tregellas’s direction. ‘And you, sir, are no doubt impatient to make this lovely lady your wife. Now, where did I put it …?’ The clergyman patted at his pockets and gave Madeline a rather confused look. ‘Had it a minute ago.’

She felt Lord Tregellas step close against her back, looking over her head, impatience growing sharper by the minute. Her scalp prickled with the proximity of his large and very male body.

‘Ah, here we are!’ A battered old book was waved before them and the clergyman cleared his throat. ‘Dearly beloved, ye have brought this child here to be baptized … Oops, wrong one,’ mumbled Reverend Dutton. ‘Getting ahead of myself there somewhat. You won’t need that one for a little while yet.’

Madeline’s face flamed.

Lord Tregellas stiffened behind her.

‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of these witnesses, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.’ He stopped and beamed at Madeline. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ Lord Tregellas moved round to stand at her right-hand side and the rest of the old clergyman’s words passed as a blur. This was a binding ceremony in the eyes of both God and the law. By the end of it she would be Lord Tregellas’s wife; his wife, no less. Not half an hour ago she had been sitting in Almack’s, existing minute by minute, doomed by a promise to marry Lord Farquharson, empty save for despair. Now the threat of Cyril Farquharson was gone, removed in one fell swoop by the man standing by her side.

‘Madeline.’

His voice invaded her thoughts, pulling her back to the present, to the reality of her situation.

‘Madeline,’ he said again.

She looked up into those stark eyes. Saw a tiny spark of anxiety in them. Knew he was waiting for her answer. He was a stranger, she had only spoken to him on three evenings, and this was one of them. And he was Earl Tregellas. Tregellas, for goodness’ sake. The Wicked Earl! How did she even know that what he had told her about Lord Farquharson was true? What she was doing was madness. Absolute insanity. She should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. Well, only a little, if truth be told. He had spoken of instincts and trusting them. Every instinct in Madeline’s body told her that Lord Tregellas would not hurt her. He had saved her twice from Farquharson. Now he was prepared to give her his name to save her yet again. If she refused him, she knew full well what awaited her—Cyril Farquharson. Just the thought of that man conjured real fear.

His fingers touched to hers as if willing her to speak the words.

And she did.

More voices, more words, warmth of his hand on hers, touch of cold metal upon the third finger of her left hand. Then, with a brush of Lord Tregellas’s lips against her cheek, it was done. There would be no going back. She had just become Earl Tregellas’s wife, while all the while her mama sat unknowing, waiting for her in Almack’s.

‘Hell, I thought for a minute that she meant to refuse me in front of Reverend Dutton.’ Only Tregellas and his brother remained. Colonel Barclay had volunteered to see the clergyman safely home, and the critical letter had been dispatched to Mrs Langley via Lucien’s most trusted footman. Lucien filled two glasses, loosened his neckcloth, and sat down in the buttoned wing chair opposite his brother. Heavy burgundy-coloured curtains hung at the library window, blotting out the night beyond. The room was dark save for a single branch of candles upon the desk by the window and the flames that danced within the fireplace.

Guy helped himself to one of the glasses. ‘What would you have done if she had? The best-laid plan would have crumbled beneath a simple refusal.’

Lucien’s dark eyebrows angled dangerously. That would have necessitated the introduction of plan B.’

‘Plan B?’ echoed Guy intrigued.

The firelight exaggerated the clean angles and planes of Lucien’s face and darkened his eyes. ‘The one in which Miss Langley spends the night unchaperoned in the bachelor residence of Earl Tregellas. Come morning, without so much as touching her, I would have ensured that Miss Langley had no other choice but to marry me.’

‘My God, that’s wicked. Wicked but effective.’

Lucien shrugged and took a swig of brandy. ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures. It would have been in her best interest. And the Wicked Earl is, after all, expected to execute such things.’ But the blunt words did not prevent the stab of guilt at the thought of his betraying Miss Langley’s trust.

‘Then old Dutton’s reference to abducting Miss Langley from beneath her mama’s nose was even more applicable than we thought,’ laughed Guy.

‘I did not abduct her,’ said Lucien. ‘She came most willingly once I had explained the situation.’

‘And why not? I do not think there was much chance of her turning down your offer, Lucien. Half the women in London would give their right arm to become Lady Tregellas, no matter what they might say to the contrary. Little Miss Langley has done rather nicely out of your arrangement. Her mama could not have done half so well. Discarded a baron and came up with an earl.’

‘Guy,’ Lucien argued, ‘it isn’t like that.’

‘Why did you marry her? Like you said, you could have just kept her here for the night. That alone would have been enough to make Farquharson discard her and call you out. Then Farquharson would have been dead, Miss Langley safe, and you in a position to choose a more suitable bride.’

‘Miss Langley’s reputation would have been ruined. For what that counts for in this town, she might as well be dead, as be carved up by the tabbies. What kind of man do you take me for?’

Guy rolled his eyes and gave a cynical sigh. ‘To hear you speak, one might be pardoned for thinking they were talking to a bloody saint! Have you forgotten what you’ve spent the last five years doing, big brother? A one-man crusade to deliver vengeance on Farquharson.’

‘That’s irrelevant. I’m trying to protect her, not ruin her life.’

‘Oh, come, Lucien. Face facts. This isn’t really about the girl at all. It’s about appeasing your conscience and killing Farquharson.’

Lucien refilled their glasses. ‘Have a care that you don’t go too far, Guy,’ he warned.

‘Not far enough and not soon enough,’ said Guy. ‘Hell knows why I agreed to help you in the first place.’

‘Then why did you?’

In one swig Guy downed the remainder of his brandy. ‘Because you’re my brother, and I’m a fool, and … like you, I would not see Farquharson do to Miss Langley what he did to Sarah.’ He sighed. ‘It’s just that marriage seems rather drastic. If you think there’s not going to be any repercussions over this, you’re sadly mistaken, Lucien. When it comes to an heir, the Langleys aren’t exactly the best of breeding stock.’

‘You need not worry, Guy. I’ve told you already, as far as I’m concerned, you’re my heir. This marriage doesn’t alter that.’

Guy faced his brother with growing exasperation. ‘Unless you mean to leave the marriage unconsummated, then I don’t see how you can be so …’His eyes narrowed and focused harder on Lucien. ‘That’s exactly what you’re planning, isn’t it?’

Lucien tipped some more brandy down his throat. ‘As you said, little brother, although I might not have chosen to put it quite so bluntly, this marriage satisfies my need to protect an innocent woman and lure Farquharson to a duel, nothing else. I’ll see that Miss Langley is safe and has everything that she wants. But that’s as far as it goes. Our lives will resume as normal.’ He raked a hand through his ebony ruffle of hair. ‘All aspects of it.’

‘I think you may have underestimated the effects of married life.’ Guy replaced his empty glass upon the drum table.

‘And I think we’d better ready ourselves for a visit from Farquharson and Mr Langley.’

Guy waited until his brother reached the door before saying, ‘By the way, if Farquharson finds out that you haven’t bedded the girl, he’ll push to have the marriage annulled.’

‘Then we had better convince him otherwise,’ came the reply. But as Lucien closed the library door quietly behind him, unease stroked between his shoulder blades and the faint echo of oranges teased beneath his nose.

He took the stairs two at a time and knocked at the door that led to the Countess’s rooms. ‘Madeline,’ he said through the wooden structure, wondering as to the woman whom he had delivered here to this same door not twenty minutes since. He had warned her that Farquharson would come. It was not a matter of if, rather when. He remembered how pale she had looked and the slight tremor in her small cold hand as it lay in his. His grandmother had been a small woman, but her ring had swamped Madeline’s slender finger. He reminded himself for the umpteenth time that he had done what he had to to help the girl, to save her from Farquharson, but that didn’t stop him from feeling a brute.

She feared Farquharson … and trusted a man who had practically kidnapped her from an evening’s dancing. Why else would she have agreed to marry him? Guilt tapped harder at his heart. She trusted him, little knowing that he had sealed her fate from the moment she had climbed into his carriage. ‘Hell,’ he cursed through gritted teeth. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. The guilt was supposed to get better, not worse. He wondered what would have happened had he been forced to resort to plan B. Thank God it had not come to that. Madeline need never even know of its existence. At least this way she would feel that the choice had been hers. ‘Madeline,’ he said a bit louder and slowly opened the door that led to his wife’s bedchamber.

The room was empty; well lit, warm, luxurious, but empty. The only signs that Madeline had even been there were the slight crinkling of the bedcover as if she’d sat on top of it, and that faint familiar scent. Something rippled down Lucien’s spine. ‘Madeline,’ he said louder still, moving swiftly to the small dressing room and bathroom that led off from the main bedchamber. But Madeline wasn’t there either. ‘Madeline!’ It was almost a shout. Where the hell was she? Didn’t she know that Farquharson was out there, coming for them? He felt the pulse throb in his neck.

It was a long time since Lucien had felt fear, but it was fear for Madeline that was now pulsing the blood through his veins with all the force of Thor’s hammer. He reacted instantly, backing out of the room, moving smoothly, steadily towards the staircase. Adrenalin flooded through his muscles, lengthening his stride, tightening his jaw. The candle flames in the wall sconces billowed in the draught created by his progress, casting the long dark shadow of a man against the wall. He had almost reached the top of the stairs when he saw her treading up them.

‘Madeline.’ Her name snapped from his lips. His stride didn’t even falter, just continued right on up to her with the same determined speed. His arms closed around her, pulling her up against him, reassuring himself that it was really her, that she was safe. His lips touched to the sleek smoothness of her hair, his cheek grazing against the top of her head that reached just below his chin. The scent of oranges, so light, so clean, engulfed his nostrils. She was soft and malleable beneath his hands, warm and feminine. ‘Madeline.’ In that word was anger and relief in dual measure. ‘Where have you been?’ He knew that his voice was unnecessarily harsh. Her face raised to look up into his. Those amber eyes were dark and soulful, as if she was hurt, as if something had been shattered. All the anger drained away, to be replaced with relief. He made no effort to release his hands from her back. ‘Where were you?’ His eyes scanned her face, taking in the tension around her mouth and the pallor of her cheeks.

‘I was looking for you,’ she said in a quiet steady voice. ‘I wanted to ask you about when Lord Farquharson comes.’ Then she turned her gaze away. ‘I went to the drawing room, I thought you would be there.’

Lord, he was a fool. The girl had been through the mill. He supposed that this evening had not exactly been the wedding of which most women dreamed of. And Madeline was as likely to have had her dreams as any. It had been a long night and it wasn’t over yet. The worst was still to come. Farquharson would come before the night was over. Of that he could be sure. Without thinking he pulled her against him and dropped a kiss to the top of her head. ‘I was in the library with Guy, and I was coming to find you to discuss the same thing.’ He found he was strangely reluctant to disengage himself from her. He did so anyway, taking her hand in his. ‘Come,’ he said, leading her slowly back the way he had walked. ‘You should rest while you can. And what I have to say is rather delicate and requires some privacy. Your bedchamber is probably the best place.’ The irony of his last sentence struck him. She made no resistance, just followed where he would lead, but something had changed, he could see it in her eyes. He just didn’t know what.

Madeline perched at the edge of the pretty green striped armchair, beside the fire.

Lucien leaned against the mantelshelf above the fireplace, his foot resting against the white marble slabs.

She watched the warm glow of firelight illuminate his face. Such classically handsome features that could have come straight from one of the statues of Apollo displayed in the antiquities rooms of the British Museum, except she had always envisaged Apollo as golden and this man’s colouring was as stark as a raven’s wing against snow. Ebony hair, darkly shaped eyebrows and eyes of a blue so pale as to draw the attention of any woman who breathed. She could see why women still cast desirous looks in his direction despite the blackness of his reputation. Just to look at him caused a flutter in her stomach. Madeline stilled the flutter with a heavy hand. She did not know what the emotion was that caused the ache in her breast, just knew that it was there, raw and sore, since she’d overheard his words through the library door, since she knew that he had been untruthful.

Trust. So foolishly given, against all sense of reason, against all that society whispered him to be. She had deemed her own judgement better. And she had been proven wrong. His voice calling her name had been so filled with alarm and anger that she’d been sure that he knew of her eavesdropping. Not that she’d intended to do any such thing. She had been looking for him. That much was true. But it hadn’t been the drawing room to which she’d been directed by the young footman. Her knuckles had been poised to knock when she’d heard his voice, and that of Lord Varington. Despite knowing that it was against every shred of decency to listen, that was exactly what she had done. Now she would suffer the hurt of learning the truth. She waited for what he had to say.

‘Madeline.’ He sighed and raked his fingers through the ruffle of his hair, with the merest hint of agitation. ‘Farquharson will come tonight, hoping to forestall the marriage ceremony and … and subsequent events.’

She barely heard his words, rerunning the memory of his hands pulling her to him, the feel of his mouth against her hair, almost as if he cared for her. But Madeline knew otherwise. His voice had held relief. Why? The lie had slipped from her tongue; drawing room was so much easier to say than library. Lucien Tregellas did not need to know what she had heard.