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
