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

‘For how long would we be away?’ She sipped at her coffee, cradling the cup between her hands as if it were some small delicate bird.

Lucien gave a casual shrug of his shoulders. ‘A few weeks,’ he said nonchalantly.

‘Very well.’ She smiled nervously. ‘I have nothing to take with me save the clothes I am wearing.’ She smoothed her hand a little self-consciously over the skirt of the evening dress she had been wearing at Almack’s last night; the dress in which he had married her.

Then he remembered what had happened to the tapes in his haste to remove that same dress. Something inside him tightened. Surreptitiously his eyes travelled to her neckline and sleeves. Nothing seemed to be amiss. He wondered if he ought to make an excuse to view the back of her, and thought better of it. ‘That can soon be remedied. Buy anything that you like, as much as you want, whatever the cost. Two days should suffice to make your purchases. We’ll leave the day after.’

‘I was not … I didn’t mean that you should …’ A delicate pink washed her cheeks.

A slight frown marred Lucien’s brow. ‘Then you do not wish to go?’

‘Yes,’ she said looking at him a little embarrassed. ‘I want to go to Cornwall. It’s just that … my requirements are not what you seem to think. I would like—’

‘More days to shop?’

‘Oh, no.’ Heaven forbid.

‘Then what?’

She bit at her bottom lip. ‘Nothing.’

Nothing? He looked at her expectantly.

‘I had better go and get ready. Such a long day ahead.’ She flashed a brief smile and escaped out of the morning room in a flurry of steps.

It was only when she had gone that it dawned on Lucien that Madeline was as ready as she would ever be, for she didn’t even have a pelisse or a bonnet in which to dress before facing the world.

Madeline sat across from the maid and the footman in the Tregellas carriage on the way back from a truly horrendous day’s shopping. It seemed that either Mama or Lord Farquharson had lost no time in ensuring that all of London had been apprised of the fact that she had eloped with Earl Tregellas. No one else had known and the notice of their marriage would not be published in The Times until tomorrow. Not that anyone had actually said anything directly to her face. Indeed, most people did not know who she was. But even so there were several speculative glances, a few hushed whispers and one episode of finger pointing. Mrs Griffiths in Little Ryder Street, studiously polite, gave no hint of knowing that her customer was at the centre of the latest scandal sweeping the city and furnished her with the bulk of her clothing requirements very happily. Brief visits to the perfumery in St James’s Street and Mr Fox’s in King Street went in much the same way. Only when in Mr Rowtcliff’s, the shoemaker, did she actually hear anything that was being said. Two robustly large ladies were deep in conversation as she arrived.

‘Abducted a girl clean from beneath her mother’s nose,’ said the shorter and ruddier of the two.

‘And forced her to a wedding,’ nodded the other. ‘He has a soul as black as Lucifer’s, that one.’

The smaller woman screwed up her face. ‘Who is she? Does anyone know yet?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied her friend. ‘Plain little thing by the name of Miss Langley. That is, Miss Langley the elder. Got a pretty sister by all accounts. Heaven knows why he didn’t take her instead. Not quite the thing, the Langleys. House in Climington Street.’

The women exchanged a knowing look before continuing on their way, none the wiser that Madeline Langley had just witnessed every word that passed their lips.

Mr Rowtcliff and his assistant Mrs Phipps hurried back through, each with an armful of shoes and boots. ‘Of course, my lady, once we make your own shoes up they will fit like a glove. These are just some that we have that may pass in the meantime.’

Madeline bit down hard on her lip, pushed the women’s cruel words from her mind and chose some footwear as quickly as she could.

The clock struck three and still Cyril Farquharson had not roused himself from his bed. It was not that he was sleeping. Indeed, he had not slept at all since returning home from Tregellas’s townhouse last night. Anger had ensured that. The boiling of his blood had diminished to a simmer. At least now he could think beyond the desire to grind Tregellas’s face into the dirt. The Earl had outwitted him, snatching the girl to an elopement before Farquharson had realised his intent. And Farquharson’s best-laid plans lay in ruins. Madeline Langley would not be his. Her tender innocent flesh belonged to Tregellas now.

He had dismissed his initial instinct to call Tregellas out and kill him. Farquharson was no fool. Tregellas was bigger, stronger, his aim truer, his shot straighter. In a one-on-one confrontation, Tregellas would always win, just as he had won their duel five years ago. Farquharson’s leg still carried the scars to prove it. But one victory did not win the war. There were better means to that, underhand means that involved stealth and bribery and corruption. Farquharson had ever relied on others’ stupidity and greed.

Stealing Farquharson’s betrothed from beneath her mama’s nose at Almack’s was a stroke of genius. Even through his anger, Farquharson had to admire Tregellas’s move. It was an action worthy of Farquharson himself. And it sent a message loud and clear. Farquharson knew what this was about. Hadn’t he always known? A mirror of past events. Farquharson smiled. No, he would not call Tregellas out. There were easier ways to catch the Earl. He thought of Madeline Langley and the way that her hand trembled beneath his. He thought too of the fear in her pretty amber eyes and how she struggled within his grip. He wanted her and he would have her, and the fact she was Tregellas’s wife would serve to make the experience all the sweeter. After five long years, the game had begun in earnest once more.

The journey to Earl Tregellas’s country seat in Cornwall was long and tiresome. It did not matter that Lucien’s travelling coach was of the most modern design, sprung for comfort and speed. Or that the man himself had filled it with travelling rugs and hot stone footwarmers to keep her warm. Madeline’s bones ached with a deep-set weariness, not helped by the fact she had not slept properly for the past few nights. Every night was the same. Nightmares in which Cyril Farquharson’s face leered down at her, whispering that he was coming to catch her, promising that there would be no escape. She woke in a cold sweat, terror gnawing at her gut, afraid to let her eyes close lest Farquharson really did make true on those nightmarish oaths.

Lucien sat opposite her, long legs stretched out before him, looking every inch as if he was sitting back in the comfort of an armchair. The bright daylight shining in through the window showed him in clarity. The stark blue eyes were hooded with long black lashes, the harshness of his handsome features relaxed in sleep. Gentle even breaths sounded from his slightly parted lips. Madeline’s gaze lingered on that finely sculpted mouth. All signs of tension around it had vanished. No tightly reined control remained. Just hard chiselled lips. She wondered what it would be like to place a kiss upon them. Madeline licked her own suddenly dry lips, gulped back such profoundly unsuitable thoughts and concentrated on looking out of the window. The countryside surrounding the Andover Road swept by in a haze of green and brown. The daylight was white and cold. Madeline found her eyes wandering back to Lucien once more.

His skin was a pale contrast to the darkness of his angular-shaped eyebrows and the black dishevelment of his hair. Sleep stole the severity from Lucien’s face, imposing on it a calm serenity, as if it was only in sleep that he found peace. The fine lines around his eyes and mouth seemed to disappear. Indeed, the more that Madeline looked, the more she found she could not drag her eyes away. Her fingers itched to touch against that blue-stubbled jawline, that bold strong nose, those lips. Although the air within the carriage was cool, Madeline began to feel rather warm. She stared and stared some more. She was just considering the length of his legs and how muscular his thighs were through those rather tight pantaloons when she noticed that Lucien’s eyes were no longer closed. Indeed, he was regarding her with something akin to amusement.

Her eyes raised to meet that lazy stare.

He smiled, and it seemed that something of sleep must still be upon him for his face still held a peaceful look. ‘Warm enough?’ he asked.

Madeline’s cheeks grew hotter still. ‘Yes, thank you.’ Had he seen her staring?

The smile deepened.

Oh, Lord! Madeline hastily found something that necessitated all of her attention out of the window.

‘We’ll reach Whitchurch by nightfall and put up in an inn there. The White Hart usually serves me well.’

Madeline didn’t trust herself to speak, just nodded.

‘Are you hungry? There’s still some cold pie left in the lunch basket.’

‘No, thank you. I’ll wait until we reach Whitchurch.’

‘Well, in that case …’ said Lucien and closed his eyes once more.

Madeline was careful to keep her gaze well averted.

The White Hart was quite the busiest coaching inn that Madeline had ever seen. Not that she was in the habit of frequenting such places, but there had been that time that Mama had taken her and Angelina to visit Cousin Mary in Oxford. The inn seemed to consist of a maze of dimly lit, winding corridors leading from one room to another. This said, the private parlour that Lucien had arranged for them was clean and tidy, as was the place as a whole. The food that the landlord and his wife brought was simple, but wholesome. A stew of beef with carrots, a baked ham, potatoes and a seed cake. They called her my lady and were polite. No whispers followed her here. No gossip. Madeline breathed a sigh of relief and ate her stew.

‘Some ham?’ suggested her husband.

‘No, thank you.’

‘A slice of cake, then?’

‘No.’ Madeline shook her head.

Lucien’s brows twitched together. He seemed to be finding Madeline’s dinner plate worthy of a stare. ‘You don’t eat very much,’ he finally said.

‘I eat enough,’ she replied defensively. In truth, her appetite had shrunk since meeting Cyril Farquharson. She picked at her food, nothing more. Three days as Lucien’s wife had not changed that.

He said nothing more, just looked at her with those pale eyes.

Madeline knew she should not have snapped at him. It was not his fault that her bones ached and her head was so tired she could scarcely think. ‘Forgive me, Lucien. I’m just a little tired.’

‘It’s been a long day and we have an early start in the morning. We should go to bed. Finish your wine and I’ll take you up.’

His words caused Madeline’s heart to stumble. She sipped a little more of the claret, then pushed her chair back.

He looked at the half-full glass but forbore to comment on it.

‘We are to share a room?’ Madeline glanced up at her husband, surprise clear upon her face as he followed her into the room and closed the door.

‘It is not safe to sleep alone,’ he said.

‘But—’

‘No buts, Madeline. It is for a short while only and you’ll be safe. I’m not quite the monster society would paint me.’ There was a hard cynical catch to his voice. ‘I’ll go back downstairs that you might undress. Lock the door and do not open it for anyone except me.’

She nodded her head.

And he was gone.

The key turned easily within the lock as if it was kept well oiled. She turned to survey the bedchamber. The bed was situated on the right-hand side, facing out into the room and towards the warmth of the fireplace where a small fire burned. At the right-hand side of the bed and behind the door was a sturdy chest of drawers on top of which sat a pitcher and basin and a towel. A plain spindle chair and a small rug had been placed beside the fireplace.

Madeline walked over to the bed, running her hands over the bed linen, feeling the firmness of the mattress. Everything was clean and fresh, if a little worn. Such humble simplicity seemed a surprising choice for a man who held an earldom. She’d imagined him demanding something more luxurious, more ostentatious. And the landlord and his wife hadn’t cowered from Lucien. In fact, when she thought about it, their attitude hadn’t been dutiful at all. Friendly was definitely a more accurate description. Strange. Especially for a man with Lucien’s reputation.

She sat down heavily on the bed, fatigue pulling at her shoulders and clouding her mind. Her new brown pelisse slipped off easily enough, folding neatly beneath her fingers. Next came her bonnet, shoes and stockings. The dark green travelling dress proved more difficult to remove without assistance, but with perseverance and a few elaborate body contortions Madeline soon managed. She made her ablutions, resumed the protection of her shift, removed the warming pan from the bed, and climbed in. The sheets were warm against her skin, thanks to the thoughtfulness of whoever had placed the warming pan within. She stretched out her legs, wriggled her toes and, breathing in the smell of freshly laundered linen, relaxed into the comfort of the mattress. Bliss. For the first time in weeks Madeline was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

A soft tapping sounded from the door. Madeline opened one drowsy eye and peered suspiciously at the oaken structure.

The knocking grew louder.

The pillow was so soft and downy against her head, the covers so enticingly warm.

‘Madeline,’ a male voice whispered.

Madeline forced the other eye open, levered herself from beneath the sheets and padded through the darkness of the room towards the sound. Her hand touched to the key and stilled.

‘Madeline, it’s Lucien.’

Her fingers hesitated no longer. The key turned. The door cracked open by the smallest angle, letting in the candlelight of the well-lit landing. Lucien was looking right back at her. The piercing gaze of his eyes blasted away any remnants of sleep from Madeline’s mind. She said nothing, just opened the door wider and watched with a beady eye while he entered. There was only one bed: Madeline waited to see what her husband intended.

He locked the door before moving to the chair by the glowing hearth. First his coat was discarded, followed closely by his neckcloth and waistcoat. The bottom drawer in the chest opened to reveal a blanket. Lucien extracted it, kicked off his boots, sat himself down in the chair, and pulled the blanket over his body. All in less than two minutes.

Madeline’s toes were cold upon the floor. She still lingered beside the door.

‘Goodnight, Madeline,’ he said and, leaning back in the chair, closed his eyes.

Her mouth opened, then closed. ‘Goodnight.’ She climbed back beneath the covers, looked again at the figure of her husband slumped awkwardly in the small chair. The bed was spacious and warm. Madeline bit at her lip. Offering to share the bed might be misconstrued. And he could have taken two rooms for the night instead of only one. Madeline stifled the guilt and closed her eyes against the discomfort of the chair, only to open them several times to check upon Lucien’s immobile figure. Sleep crept unobtrusively upon her and Madeline’s eyes opened no more.

Chapter Seven

‘Madeline.’ His voice was honeyed, but beneath the sweetness she knew there was venom. ‘My love,’ he whispered against her ear. His lips, hard and demanding, trailed over her jaw. ‘Did you think that you could escape me, my sweet?’ Bony fingers clawed at her arms, raking her flesh, tearing at her dress. ‘There’s a name for women like you.’

‘No,’ she whispered.

‘I know the truth,’ he said, his mouth curving to reveal those small sharp teeth. She looked up into the eyes of Cyril Farquharson. ‘And I’m coming to get you. Tregellas cannot stop me from taking what is mine.’

‘No.’ Madeline shook her head, denying the words she dreaded so much. Nausea churned in her stomach. Fear prickled at her scalp and crept up her spine.

The blow hit hard against her cheek. Breath shuddered in her throat. She staggered back, searching for an escape, running towards the door. Her skirts wound themselves around her legs, contriving to trip her, pulling her back to him. She fought against them, reaching out towards the doorknob. Her fingers grasped at the smooth round wood. Turned.

Pulled. The door held fast. The handle rattled uselessly within her clasp. Panic rose. She wrenched at it, scrabbled at it, kicked at the barrier. And then she felt the hot humid breath against the back of her neck and the gouge of his nails as he tore her round to face him.

‘No, please, Lord Farquharson, I beg of you. Please do not!’

Cyril Farquharson only laughed and the sound of it was evil to the core. He was laughing as he ripped open her bodice to expose her breast, and still laughing as he raised the dagger ready to plunge it into her heart.

‘No!’ Madeline screamed. ‘No! No!’

‘Madeline.’

Madeline’s eyes flew open with a start to find herself sitting up in the bed with a man’s strong arms around her. Fear surged strong and real. Farquharson? She struggled against him.

‘It’s all right.’ The voice was calm and soothing. ‘You’ve had a nightmare.’ Cool fingers stroked at her head and then ran over her cheeks to gently tilt her face round to look at his. ‘Farquharson isn’t here. It’s just a bad dream.’

‘Lucien?’ The word trembled, as did the rest of her. Her heart still kicked in her chest and her throat felt like its sides had stuck together. Slowly she remembered the room in the White Hart and saw the dying embers of the fire across on the hearth.

Firm lips touched to her forehead, murmuring words of comfort. ‘Go back to sleep, Madeline. I’m here, nothing can harm you.’

The darkness was so thick as to mask him. Just the hint of the angle of a jaw and the suggestion of a nose. She moved her hands up to his face, lightly caressing his features. ‘Lucien?’ she said again, touching her fingers against the stubble on his chin.

‘Yes,’ came the deep reassuring voice that she had come to recognise. He eased her back down against the bed, pulling the covers up and tucking them around her. ‘You should go back to sleep. You’re safe. I’ll be watching over you.’ His fingers trailed a tender caress against her cheek as he moved away.

His skin had felt cold against hers. Madeline sat back up, peering towards the fireplace. ‘Lucien?’

‘Mmm?’ There was the sound of a woollen blanket being arranged and the creak of the wooden chair beneath his weight.

The air within the room was not warm. Madeline shivered against its chill. No wonder he was freezing, sitting in that uncomfortable little chair all night with just one thin blanket against the plummeting temperature. ‘You … you could come and sleep over here.’

Silence. As if he hadn’t heard what she’d just suggested.

But Madeline had felt his weariness and the chill in his limbs. ‘There’s plenty of room for us both and it’s nice and warm. Much better, I’d guess, than that chair.’

A moment’s hesitation and then from the other side of the room, ‘Thank you, Madeline, but my honour does not allow me.’

Madeline stifled a snort. Lord, but he had the pride of the devil. She dozed for what was left of the night, stealing looks into the darkness, guarding against the return of Farquharson, even if it was in her dreams.

The next day both Lucien and Madeline were tired and wan-faced. A hasty breakfast and then their journey resumed, moving slowly, increasingly closer to Cornwall and the Tregellas country estate. They travelled along the Dorchester Road, making good progress despite the chill wind. A brief stop at the Three Swans in Salisbury for lunch and then they pushed on, travelling further south as the daylight dimmed and the dark clouds gathered. The rain, when it started at first, was a collection of a few slow drops. But each drop was heavy and ripe, bursting to release a mini deluge. One drop, then another, and another, faster and faster, until the road was a muddied mess of puddles, and the rain battered its din against the coach’s feeble body. They put up for the night at The Crown in Blandford, a coaching inn that had none of the welcome of the White Hart, and was filled with travellers wishing to escape the worst of the downpour. Only the production of several guineas served to procure them a room for the night and the shared use of a small parlour. They ate hurriedly, exchanging little conversation, listening to the hubbub of noise that drifted in from the public room, and the batter of wind and rain against the windows.

Lucien downed the remainder of the brandy and scanned the faces around the room. Old men, young men, peasants, servants, farmers and gentlemen. The weather was an effective leveller of class. Even the odd woman, hag-faced, sucking on a pipe, or young with an obvious display of buxom charm. But thankfully the face that Lucien sought was not present. He wondered how long it would be before Farquharson would come after them, for he had not one doubt that he would. Now he knew that Farquharson would never call him out. The weasel wasn’t man enough to face him again across an open field. Farquharson would use different methods altogether. The lure had worked, just not in the way that Lucien might have imagined. Farquharson would be part of the gossip: an object of ridicule, someone to be pitied. That was not something that Cyril Farquharson was likely to suffer for long. With cold and deliberate calculation Lucien had unleashed the demon. Farquharson would come for him now, at long last. Finally, after all these years. The satisfaction was tempered by the knowledge that he would not be Farquharson’s only target.

He remembered the expression on Farquharson’s face the last time he had looked at Madeline, when he had spoken so cruelly to the woman who was now Lucien’s wife. She was a softer, easier target for revenge and one that would enable Farquharson to score Lucien’s old wounds afresh. And in that memory he realised that it was Madeline that Farquharson would target. Lucien’s mouth compressed to a hard line. He had promised her safety. And, by God, she would have it. When Farquharson came, Lucien would be ready. He blinked the fatigue from his eyes, wondering if Madeline would be beneath the covers yet. Then he sat the glass upon the wooden counter and slowly took himself up the stairs that led to their chamber.

He shifted restlessly in the small hard chair, feeling the ache in his shoulders and back growing stronger by the minute. His head was foggy with exhaustion, his eyes gritty and sore. Yet still merciful sleep eluded him. The memory of Farquharson jabbed at him like a sharp stick, taunting him with the terrible deeds from their shared past. Deeds that had stolen Lucien’s peace, destroyed the man he used to be, and made him the cold hard cynic he was now. The mean fire had long since burned out; grey raked ashes lay in a cold pile. Lucien huddled beneath the layers of his coat and the blanket, and tried to breathe warmth into his fingers. He pushed the thoughts far from his mind, struggled to escape from their oppression. Another sleepless night stretched ahead. He should be used to it by now. Then he heard it: the small movement from the bed; the change from her soft even breaths to staccato gasps; a mumbled cry; the twisting of her body beneath the sheets.

He trod quietly across the wooden flooring and leaned towards the bed.

‘No, Lord Farquharson …’ A whisper of torment that wrenched at his heart.

Lucien’s teeth clenched tighter. Last night had not been in isolation then. Madeline too knew what it was to suffer the terror of the night demons. There was an irony in the fact that the same man lay at the root of both their nightmares. He reached a hand out towards her, touched it gently against her face. The skin was wet beneath his fingers. Sobs racked her body. He could feel her fear, understand her terror. ‘Madeline,’ he whispered, trying to pull her from its grasp.