crudely. ‘For all of the rumours, Tregellas is only a man, like any other. He would have to be superhuman to have had her in that time!’
‘Lord Farquharson, must you be so blunt?’ complained Mr Langley, but there was a light of revived hope in his eyes.
‘Madeline, my dove, you must tell us the truth,’ said Farquharson, edging closer towards Madeline. ‘We will not be angry with you.’ His eyes opened wide in an encouraging manner.
Lucien stepped forward, forming a barrier between Madeline and the two men. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ he asked in a quiet voice that could not hide the threat beneath.
Farquharson’s eyes narrowed, exaggerating the fox-like character of his features. His mouth opened to speak—
‘Lucien speaks the truth.’ Madeline shifted to stand by her husband’s side before Lucien knew what she planned. He felt her small hand slip into his. ‘I married him because I love him. And for that same reason I lay with him in the bed upstairs. He is my husband in truth; that fact cannot be undone, for all that both of you would wish it.’
Lucien’s heart swelled. He felt the faint tremble of her hand and knew what it cost her to say those words. His fingers squeezed gently against hers, his gaze dropping to the courageous stance of her slight frame.
‘I’m sorry, Papa. I hope that you may come to forgive me.’
Farquharson’s fury would be leashed no longer. ‘And what of me, Madeline? Where are your pretty words of apology for me?’ His anger exploded across the room. ‘Or don’t I count? Doesn’t it matter that you have just publicly humiliated me?’
‘Lord Farquharson, please!’ Mr Langley exclaimed.
‘I gave you my heart, Madeline, and this is how you repay me. It would have been kinder to decline me at the start.’
‘I tried to tell—’
But Farquharson was in full rant. ‘But no. You encouraged me, led me to believe that you would welcome my addresses. And now you run to Tregellas because you think to catch yourself an earl rather than an honest humble baron. There’s a name for women like you!’
‘Farquharson!’ The word was little more than a growl from Lucien’s mouth. ‘Don’t dare speak to my wife in—’
Farquharson continued unabated. ‘He only wants you because you were mine. He’s an evil, jealous, conniving bastard, and believe me when I say that—’
Lucien struck like a viper, his fist contacting Farquharson square on the chin.
Farquharson staggered back, reeling from the shock, his hand clutching at his jaw.
‘Now get the hell out of my house,’ said Lucien.
Farquharson drew his hand away and looked at the blood that speckled his fingers. ‘Don’t think you’ll get away with this, Tregellas. You’ve gone too far this time.’
‘Impugned your honour?’ suggested Lucien. ‘What do you mean to do about it?’
Mr Langley inhaled loudly.
Madeline’s face paled.
‘You’ll find out soon enough, Tregellas,’ said Cyril Farquharson, making his way towards the door. ‘And as for you, my sweet …’ his gaze lingered over Madeline ‘… you had better start praying. He’s not named the Wicked Earl for nothing. You’ll rue the day you cast me over for him.’ Farquharson peered round at Arthur Langley. ‘Come along, Mr Langley,’ he instructed. ‘There is nothing more than can be done this night.’
Mr Langley cast one last glance at his daughter and then followed. The last Madeline saw of her father was his face, pale and haggard and filled with hurt. The door banged and Mr Langley and Lord Farquharson were gone.
Lucien stood alone at the library window, the heavy burgundy curtains closed around his back. From the room behind came three chimes of the clock. The night sky was a clear inky blue; a waxing moon hung high amidst a smattering of tiny stars. The orangey-yellow glow of the street lamps showed the road to be empty aside from the sparkling coating of frost. Across the square the houses sat serene and dark, not even a chink of light escaping their windows. It seemed that all of London was asleep, all curled in their beds. The hectic humdrum of life had ceased—for now. Somewhere in the distance a dog howled; it was a lonely eerie sound that resonated all the way through to Lucien’s bones. It struck a chord. Lucien knew what it was to be lonely.
His thoughts shifted to the woman that lay upstairs: Lady Tregellas, his wife. It had been Madeline who had saved the evening, Madeline who had convinced Farquharson and her father that the marriage was real. He heard again her words, I married him because I love him. Such a quiet voice, but so strong in conviction that he had almost believed her himself. God only knew how much he wished it could be true. That any woman could love the man he had become: the man from whom God-fearing women fled, the man whose name was used to frighten naughty children into doing what they were told. It was something he would not ask of Madeline. He had promised her safety and that is exactly what he would give. The bargain they had agreed did not include anything else.
A marriage to ease the terrible guilt that had gnawed day and night at his soul these past five years. A marriage to bring Farquharson to his knees once and for all. That was all he wanted. The memory of Madeline’s small soft hand slipping into his, the sweet smell that surrounded her, the feel of that long silky hair beneath his fingers. Lucien shut his eyes against it. Such thoughts were not allowed. He could not. He would not. She deserved better than that. He parted the curtains to move back into the library, refilled his brandy glass, sat down in his favourite wing chair, and waited for the rest of the night to pass.
Madeline lay in the great four-poster bed in the bedchamber of the wife of Earl Tregellas. She had tossed and turned and sighed, and still sleep would not come. Wife. The word refused to enter her brain. Legally she was Lucien’s wife. In the eyes of God and the Church she was his wife. But she didn’t feel it. She still felt like plain Miss Madeline Langley, the same as she was yesterday and the day before, and the day before that. It was only the world around her that had changed. The threat of Farquharson had vanished. Mama, Papa and Angelina were fast asleep on the other side of town. Her own bed in the little bedchamber in Climington Street was empty while she lay here alone.
Her eyes travelled again to the mahogany door in the wall that separated her bedchamber from Lucien’s. Was he asleep? Did the fact that he was now married mean anything to him? Anything other than a means to bait Farquharson, and protect herself? She wondered why her safety and Farquharson’s demise meant so much to him, enough to marry a woman far beneath him, who was so plain as to have been unable to engage a single gentleman’s attention, save for Cyril Farquharson. But then again, Lucien barely knew her enough to stand up for a dance, let alone care if she suffered under Farquharson’s hands. And she barely knew him.
He had called Farquharson a murderer and said that her own life was at risk, so much so that he had been prepared to hold her hostage overnight to ensure her agreement to a marriage he promised would protect her. He had underestimated her loathing of Lord Farquharson if he thought that necessary. Madeline had the feeling that she had stepped inside something very dark where there were no answers to her questions. Maybe the answers lay with the woman that Farquharson had killed, if, indeed, Lucien had been telling the truth.
Madeline shivered. She thought of those ice-blue eyes and the cold handsome perfection of his looks. Thought, too,
