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.
‘Miss Langley.’ His voice was rich and mellow. ‘We do not have much time. If you wish to escape Farquharson, come with me.’
Come with me. It was the dream that she dare not allow herself to dream. Lord Tregellas had saved her before. Perhaps he could save her now. But even in the thinking Madeline knew it was impossible. No one could save her, not even Tregellas. Foolish hope would only lead to more heartache. Slowly she shook her head. ‘I cannot.’
His hands rested on her upper arms. ‘Do you desire to marry him?’ His voice had a harsh edge to it.
‘No!’ she whispered. Now that her shell was broken she felt every breath of air, suffered the pain from which she had sought to hide. ‘You know that I do not.’
His voice lost something of its harshness. ‘Then why have you accepted him?’
She could not tell him. Not here, not like this, not when she knew that in three more weeks she would be Lord Farquharson’s wife. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Too long for here?’
‘Yes.’ She felt the brush of his thumb against her bare skin between the puff of her sleeve and the start of her
