Lord Tregellas was more of a man than she ever could have dreamt of. She blushed to think that he could show her any interest … and that she actually welcomed it. Were she to be seen leaving Almack’s in the company of the Wicked Earl, she would be ruined. Strangely, the prospect of her own ruination in that manner did not seem such a terrible atrocity. Life with Lord Farquharson seemed far worse. But what Lord Tregellas was suggesting would not only ruin her, but also her family and that was something she could not allow. She shook her head again. ‘No.’
‘I mean only to help you. You should know something of Lord Farquharson’s history before you take your wedding vows. You said that you trusted me. Then give me half an hour of your time, nothing more, to let me tell you of Farquharson’s past and of a way you may evade him.’
Madeline bit at her lip and remained unconvinced. It would be wrong of her to go with him. She had her family to think about.
It was as if the Earl read her mind. ‘He’s a danger not only to you, but to your sister and your parents, too. And you need not be concerned that our departure together shall be noticed. I assure you it will not.’
‘My family are truly in danger?’ His gaze held her transfixed. He was a stranger, a man reputed by all London to be wicked. She should not believe him. But inexplicably Madeline knew that she did.
‘Yes.’ He released his hold upon her, stepping back to increase the space between them. ‘We’re running out of time, Miss Langley. Do you come with me, or not?’
A sliver of tension stretched between them. Pale ice blue merged with warm amber. Madeline looked a moment longer. It seemed so right. Reputations could be wrong. There was nothing of Lord Farquharson in the man that faced her. Lord Tregellas would not hurt her. ‘Half an hour?’ she said.
‘Half an hour,’ he affirmed and reached his hand for hers.
The interior of the Tregellas closed carriage was dark, only the occasional street light illuminated the dimness.
Lucien could see the stark whiteness of Madeline Langley’s face against the black backdrop. Huge eyes, darkly smudged beneath, and cheeks that were too thin. He doubted that the girl had slept or eaten since the announcement of her betrothal. Guilt stuck in his throat. He swallowed it down. He had done what he could to save Miss Langley. He need have no remorse. Or so he told himself. But telling and believing were two different things. ‘It’s not much further now.’
‘We will be back in time, won’t we?’ She nibbled at her lip.
The knot of guilt expanded to a large tangle. ‘Of course.’
She relaxed a little then, leaning back against the dark drapery in the corner. Her implicit trust stirred his heart.
‘Miss Langley.’ He ensured that his voice was without emotion. He could not tell her all of it, but he would tell her enough. The girl was not stupid. She would realise that he was right. ‘Cyril Farquharson is not to be toyed with. He is evil, pure and unadulterated. What you have seen of his behaviour is nothing compared to that of which he is capable.’ Lucien paused, tightening the rein on his self-control. ‘He is a man that delights in plucking the most tender of blooms to crush beneath his heel.’
‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.
‘Exactly that.’
‘I don’t understand. What did he do?’
Lucien slid another bolt across the barrier to the memories. ‘He took a woman, a young and foolish woman, and …’
Madeline waited.
‘… killed her.’
Only the sound of their breathing filled the carriage.
‘Killed her?’ He could hear the horror in Miss Langley’s words. ‘Who was she? Why did he not stand trial?’
Lucien turned his face to the window. ‘It could not be proven.’
‘Why not? If he was guilty—’
‘He was most definitely guilty, but Farquharson was careful to destroy the evidence.’ Lucien’s jaw clamped shut.
There was a moment’s silence before Madeline asked, ‘And you think he means to … to kill me too?’
He looked back across at the fear-filled little face—fear that he had put there with his revelation. He hardened his compassion. She had to know. ‘Oh, he will kill you all right, Miss Langley, and anyone who tries to stop him.’
‘I cannot believe it,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Can’t you? What do you feel when you stand close to him, when he touches you? What do you feel then, Madeline?’
She barely noticed the use of her given name. ‘Fear … loathing … repulsion.’
‘Then listen to your instinct, it speaks true.’
‘But I am bound to marry him.’ She sighed and recounted what had happened that night after Lord Tregellas had waltzed with her. ‘I cannot dishonour my papa and there is Angelina to think of.’
‘There is another way,’ Lucien said softly, and leaned forward. ‘Give me your hand, Miss Langley.’
Every sensible nerve in her body was telling her to resist. Madeline warily reached her hand towards him.
His fingers closed around hers. Her hand was small and slender and chilled. ‘You’re cold. Here, put this travelling rug around you.’ Through the darkness he felt for her, moving across to the other side of the carriage, wrapping the woollen rug across her shoulders, running his hands briskly over the sides of her now-blanketed arms. ‘The night air is chilled and you have no cloak.’
‘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
