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.
‘The marriage certificate will prove him too late.’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘There is also the matter of the …’ He paused and rephrased what he had been about to say. ‘It is important that we do not leave him any loopholes to exploit.’ He looked at her expectantly.
Madeline felt his gaze upon her. ‘No, my lord.’
‘You need not call me that, Madeline. You’re my wife now. My name is Lucien.’
‘Lucien,’ she whispered into the silence of the room. The name sounded too intimate upon her lips.
Lucien rubbed his fingers against the strong angles of his jawline. ‘As it stands there is such a loophole for Farquharson to find.’
Whatever was he talking of? She was married to him. He had said that would be enough to save her from the fiend. Had he lied about that too? ‘What loophole?’
‘There are certain expectations following a wedding.’
‘My lord?’
‘Lucien,’ he corrected.
‘Lucien, then,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand. You said that marriage to you would protect me from Lord Farquharson. Now you’re saying that it does not.’
He pulled the matching chair out from the side of the fireplace and dragged it so that it sat before her. Then he perched his large frame on its dainty green cushion and leaned forward to take both her hands within his. ‘No, Madeline. What I’m saying is …’ his thumbs caressed her fingers as if seeking to apply a balm to his words ‘… if it is discovered that the marriage has not been consummated, then it is possible for an annulment to be sought. It is not an easy process, but Farquharson may use anything that is available to him.’
Madeline stiffened and felt the blood warm in her cheeks. ‘But you said that you did not wish to … that it was not necessary.’ Her pulse picked up its rate. The butterflies stirred again in her stomach.
‘No, no,’ he said quickly, his thumbs sliding in fast furious strokes. ‘You’re quite safe.’
Was she? Beneath that sensuous stroking Madeline was starting to feel quite unlike herself. She became acutely aware of just how close his body was to hers, of the warmth that it generated, much hotter than any fire could ever be. The scent of his cologne surrounded her, causing an unexpected tightening in her breasts.
‘We need only pretend.’ One hand loosed to touch a finger gently to her chin. ‘Don’t look so afraid. I did not mean to frighten you.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ she said, and knew that she lied. But it was not Lucien Tregellas that frightened her, but the strength of the feelings that he ignited in her, feelings that the very righteous Madeline Langley had no right to feel. And then she remembered that she wasn’t even Madeline Langley any longer, but someone else altogether.
A loud thumping set up below. Someone was at the front door, someone intent on kicking it in by the sound of things.
‘Quickly!’ Lucien pulled her over to stand by the bed and peeled off his coat with a speed surprising for such a tight-fitting garment. The coat was thrown to the floor, closely followed by his waistcoat and neckcloth. ‘Take out your hairpins and remove your dress.’
‘My dress?’ Madeline gasped.
‘Make haste, Madeline,’ he said and began to tug his shirt out of his breeches. ‘We must make it look as if we have lain together.’
‘Oh, my!’ Madeline’s face blushed scarlet as she swiftly averted her eyes and made to follow his instructions. Pins scattered all over the bedchamber rug beneath their feet and soon her hair was long and flowing. Her heart thumped as loud as the banging at the door. She struggled to loosen the tapes at the back of her dress, but her fingers were shaking so badly that they fumbled uselessly. ‘Lucien,’ she breathed in panic, ‘I cannot—’
In one fluid motion her new husband ripped the dress open; the remainder of the tapes dangled torn and useless. His fingers brushed against her petticoats and shift, burning a path across the skin exposed above them. Madeline almost gasped aloud at the ensuing shimmer, but Lucien gave no sign of having been similarly affected. Together they stripped what remained of the dress from her. She stepped out of it, leaving it in a pile upon the floor.
‘Your petticoats and stays, too.’ His gaze dropped lower, ‘Slippers and stockings as well,’ he instructed.
Madeline did as she was bid, until she faced him wearing only her shift. As she clutched her arms across her front in embarrassment, she felt his fingers run through her hair, rubbing and raking, until neat tidiness was no more. She thought she heard him stifle a groan. Maybe he was worried that Farquharson wouldn’t be convinced. And then quite suddenly he stopped and stood back, scanning her appearance.
‘Very good,’ he said rather hoarsely, then touched his hand to her shoulders. ‘Rumple the bedcovers as if we have lain there. I’ll have Sibton bring you my dressing gown. Put it on over your shift and then wait here until I send for you. All you need do is agree with everything that I say and do not offer any other information. I will deal with all else.’
She nodded her agreement. No matter that he had misled her, she would rather marry Beelzebub himself than Cyril Farquharson.
‘All will be well, Madeline.’ His fingers slid against her face. ‘I’ll see Farquharson in hell before I let him touch you.’
Then he was gone, leaving only the trace of his cologne and the scald of his fingerprints against Madeline’s cheek.
Madeline sat on the edge of the bed, tense and alone, Lucien’s dressing gown wrapped around her. She had rolled the sleeves up as best she could, but still the blue-and-red paisley-patterned silk swamped her, making her feel like a little girl dressing up. She touched the sleeve against her nose, breathed in the clean smell of him, and somehow felt reassured. The strains of Lord Farquharson’s voice reached even here. Righteous indignation layered over malice and rage. And still he ranted on. The clock marked the pace of time, second by second, minute by minute. Lucien would send for her soon.
Gingerly she touched her fingers to where his had lingered, wondering that she could react to him in such a way. Her blood surged too strong, too fast. She closed her eyes, letting the sensation flood over her, trying to understand the nature of it. Her body was taut, but not through fear, primed as if readied, waiting, wanting. Wanting!
Madeline’s
