Farquharson stared in sullen resentment, but said not one word.
‘And I need not mention that he will, of course, be the perfect gentleman in doing so.’
It seemed to Madeline that there was some kind of unspoken battle of wills between the two men. Lord Farquharson was looking at the stranger as if he would gladly run him through with the sharpest of swords. The stranger, on the other hand, was smiling at Lord Farquharson, but it was a smile that would have cleaved a lesser man in two.
Lord Farquharson grudgingly took her arm. This time he seemed most disinclined to make contact with her sleeve, touching her as if she were a fragile piece of porcelain. ‘Miss Langley,’ he ground out from between gritted teeth, ‘this way, if you please.’ He then proceeded to lead her briskly back down the corridor, retracing the path along which he had dragged her not so many minutes before.
Although Madeline could not see him, she knew that the dark-haired stranger stalked their every step. His presence was her only protection from the fiend by her side. She wanted to shout her thanks to him. But she could not. She did not even dare to turn her head back. They moved in silence, their progress accompanied only by the muffled steps of their shoes upon the carpet. It was not until they reached the landing leading to Lord Farquharson’s box that the man spoke again.
‘I trust you’ll enjoy what is left of the play, Miss Langley.’ He executed a small bow in her direction before turning his attention once more to Farquharson. ‘Lord Farquharson,’ he said, ‘perhaps you have not noticed quite how clear and unimpeded the view is from these boxes.’ He looked meaningfully at Lord Farquharson and waited for them to step through the curtain that led into the Baron’s box.
‘There the two of you are,’ said her mother. ‘I hope that a little turn with Lord Farquharson has you feeling better, my dear.’ Mrs Langley did not notice that her daughter failed to answer.
Angelina eyed her sister with concern.
Madeline sat down in the chair, taking care to make herself as narrow as possible lest Lord Farquharson’s hands or feet should happen to stray in her direction. But he made no move to speak to her, let alone touch her. The air was still ripe with the spicy smell of him. She stared down at the stage, seeing nothing of Mr Kemble’s performance, hearing nothing of that actor’s fine and resonant voice. Her mind was filled with the image of a dark-haired man and how he had arrived from nowhere at the very hour of her most desperate need: a tall, dark defender.
She could not allow herself to think of what would have happened had the stranger not appeared. Whatever her mother thought, Lord Farquharson was no gentleman, and Madeline meant to speak the truth of him in full as soon as they were home. But who was he, the dark-haired stranger? Certainly his was a face she would not forget. Classically handsome. Striking. Forged in her mind for ever. A shiver rippled down her spine. Something, she would never know what, made her glance across to the boxes on the opposite side of the theatre. There, in one of the best boxes in the house, was her dark defender, looking right back at her. He inclined his head by the smallest degree in acknowledgement. Madeline’s breath caught in her throat and a tingling crept up her neck to spread across her scalp. Before anyone could notice, she averted her gaze. But, try as she might, she could not rid herself of the foolish notion that her life had just changed for ever.
‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’ said Mrs Langley to her elder daughter. ‘Trying your hardest to undo all of my good work!’
‘Mama, he is not the man you think,’ replied Madeline with asperity.
‘Never was a mother so tried and tested by a daughter.’
Madeline controlled her temper and spoke as quietly and as calmly as she could manage. ‘I’m trying to tell you that Lord Farquharson came close to compromising me at the theatre tonight. He is no gentleman, no matter what he would have you believe.’
‘What on earth do you mean, child?’ Mrs Langley clutched dramatically at her chest.
‘He tried to kiss me tonight, Mama.’
‘Kiss you? Kiss you?’ Mrs Langley almost choked. ‘Lord Farquharson tried to kiss you?’ Her cheeks grew suddenly flushed.
‘Yes, indeed, Mama,’ replied Madeline with a sense of relief that her mother would at last understand the truth about Lord Farquharson.
‘Lord, oh Lord!’ exclaimed her mother. ‘Are you certain, Madeline?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Mrs Langley stood closer to Madeline. ‘Why did you not speak of this before?’
‘He frightens me. I tried to tell you that I disliked him.’
Her mother stared at her. ‘Dislike? What has “dislike” to do with it? Now, my dear…’ she took Madeline’s hand in her own ‘…you must tell me the whole of it.’
Madeline detected excitement in her mother’s voice. ‘I’ve told you what happened. He tried to kiss me.’
‘Yes, yes, Madeline, so you say,’ said Mrs Langley with undisguised impatience. ‘But did he do so? Did Lord Farquharson kiss you?’
Madeline bit at her lip. ‘Well, not exactly.’
‘Not exactly!’ echoed her mother. ‘Either he kissed you or he did not. Now, what is it to be?’
‘He did not.’
Mrs Langley pursed her lips and squeezed Madeline’s hand. ‘Think very carefully, Madeline. Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Mrs Langley gave what could almost have been a sigh of disappointment. ‘Then, what stopped him?’
Madeline found herself strangely reticent to reveal the dark-haired stranger’s part in the affair. It seemed somehow traitorous to speak of him. And her mother was sure to misunderstand the whole episode. Surely there was nothing so very wrong with a little white lie? ‘He…he changed his mind.’
‘Gentlemen do not just change their minds over such matters, Madeline. If he did not kiss you, it’s likely that he never intended to do so.’
‘Mama, he most certainly meant to kiss me,’ insisted Madeline.
A speculative gleam returned to Mrs Langley’s eye. ‘Did he, indeed?’ she said. ‘You do understand, of course, that were his lordship to compromise you in any such way then, as a man of honour, he would be obliged to offer for you.’
‘Mama! How could you even think such a thing?’
‘Come now, Madeline,’ her mother cajoled. ‘He is a baron and worth ten thousand a year.’
‘I would not care if he were the King himself!’ Madeline drew herself up, anger and outrage welling in her breast.
Mrs Langley sucked in her cheeks and affected an expression of mortification. ‘Please afford me some little measure of respect. I’m only your mother, after all, trying my best to catch a good husband for a troublesome daughter who refuses the best of her mother’s advice.’
Madeline knew what was coming next. She had heard its like a thousand
