Читать книгу Wicked in the Regency Ballroom - Margaret McPhee - Страница 9

Madeline glanced uneasily around. It was almost time. She knew he would come for her; her actions of earlier that evening would not stop him. The stranger had been right to tell her to make her excuses, but he had never dealt with her mother. It was bad enough having to suffer Lord Farquharson’s assaults without having her own mother encourage the situation in the hope of forcing him to a wedding. Madeline shuddered at the thought.

She sneaked a glance at her mother. Mrs Langley was engrossed in chattering to Mrs Wilson. Madeline’s eyes raked the ballroom. Still no sign of Papa. Over at the far side, partly hidden by some Grecian-styled columns and lounging beside another man, was her dark defender. Their gazes locked. Her heart kicked to a canter. She felt the blush rise in her cheeks and looked hastily away. What would he think of her sitting waiting for Lord Farquharson to come and claim her for the waltz? And he was right! But what else could she do with Mama guarding her so well? A visit to the retiring room had been refused. And at the suggestion that she go home with Miss Ridgely her mama had warranted a warning glare. Even now Mama’s hand rested lightly against her arm. Madeline dared not look at the stranger again, even when she saw Lord Farquharson begin to make his way slowly, steadily, towards her. Every step brought him closer.

Madeline felt the coldness spreading throughout. Her mouth grew suddenly dry and her palms somewhat clammy. She bowed her head, coaxing her courage. I can do this. I can do this, she inwardly chanted the mantra again and again. It is in full view of everyone. What can he do to me here, save dance? But just the anticipation of being held in his grip, within his power, brought a nausea to her throat. She steeled herself against it. Willed herself to defy him. Don’t let him see that you’re afraid. She steadied her breath, curled her fingers to fists. The spot on the floor disappeared, replaced instead by a pair of large, black-leather buckle slippers. Madeline swallowed once. The shoes were connected to a pair of stockinged shins. The shins led up to a pair of fine black knee breeches. The breeches stretched tight to reveal every detail of well-muscled and long thighs. Madeline’s eyes leapt up to his face.

‘I believe this is my dance, Miss Langley,’ her dark defender said smoothly and, without waiting, plucked Madeline straight from her chair on to the floor.

Lord Farquharson came to an abrupt halt halfway across the ballroom, and stared in disbelief.

Mrs Langley’s mouth opened to squawk her protest, and then shut again. She could only sit and stare while her eldest daughter was whisked into the middle of the dance floor.

‘Well, really!’ exclaimed Mrs Wilson by her side. ‘You do know who that is?’

‘Indeed,’ replied Mrs Langley weakly. ‘That is Earl Tregellas.’

‘The Wicked Earl,’ said her friend with a disapproving frown. ‘What an earth is he doing, dancing with Madeline?’

For once in her life Mrs Langley appeared to be lost for words.

The dark-haired stranger held her with a firm gentleness. The light pressure of his hand upon her waist seemed to burn straight through the material of her dress and undergarments, to sear against her skin. The fingers of his other hand enclosed around hers in warm protection. Beneath the superfine material of his coat she could feel the strength of his muscles across the breadth of his shoulders. The square-cut double-breasted tail-coat was of the finest midnight black to match the ruffled feathers of his hair. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the most elegant tailor’s establishment in all England. A white-worked waistcoat adorned a pristine white shirt, the collar of which stood high. The white neckcloth looked to be a work of art. Madeline felt suddenly conscious of her cheap dress with its plain cream-coloured material and short puffed sleeves. As usual she had declined to wear the wealth of ribbons and bows set out by Mama. Neither a string of beads nor even a simple ribbon sat around her neck. The square-shaped neckline of her dress was not low; even so, in contrast with the other ladies, she had insisted upon wearing a pale pink fichu lest any skin might be exposed.

‘Miss Langley, you seem disinclined to follow my advice.’

The richness of his voice drifted down to her. She kept her focus fixed firmly on the lapel of his coat. What else was he to think? Hadn’t she known that it would be so? ‘I could not leave,’ she said. It sounded pathetic even to her own ears.

‘Could not, or would not? Perhaps you are in concordance with your mother’s plans to catch yourself a baron after all.’

‘No!’ Her gaze snapped up to his. His eyes were watching with a dispassion that piqued her. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘It isn’t like that at all.’

He raised a dark eyebrow as if in contradiction. ‘Perhaps you even welcome Lord Farquharson’s attentions.’ His gaze meandered down over her body, lingered momentarily upon her well-covered bosom, and dawdled back up to see the blush flood her normally pale cheeks.

She gripped at her lower lip with her teeth, as if to hold back the answer that would have spilled too readily forth. ‘If you really think that, then you may as well pass me to him this very moment.’ Her body tensed as she waited to see what he would do.

His steps were perfection, smooth and flowing, guiding her first here, then there, progressing with grace around the floor. For such a big man he was certainly light on his feet. As they turned to change direction, the irate face of Lord Farquharson swam into view. He was standing ready to catch her by the edge of the dance floor. Madeline’s eyes widened. The stranger swung her closer towards Lord Farquharson. Her heart was thumping fit to leap free from her chest. A tremble set up in her fingers. The stranger was going to abandon her into Lord Farquharson’s arms! Madeline’s eyelids flickered shut in anticipation. She readied herself for the sound of Lord Farquharson’s voice, prepared herself to feel the grasp of his hands.

‘You can open your eyes now,’ the stranger said. ‘I haven’t the least intention of releasing you to Farquharson.’

Madeline opened her eyes tentatively to find that they had progressed further around the ballroom, leaving Lord Farquharson well behind. She allowed herself to relax a little.

He felt the tension ease from her body and knew then that she hadn’t lied about her feelings for Farquharson. And although it shouldn’t have made the blindest bit of a difference, the knowledge pleased him. He wouldn’t have abandoned her to Farquharson even if she’d been screaming to get there. She seemed so small and slender in his arms, much smaller than he had realised. He looked into her eyes and saw with a jolt that they were the clear golden hue of amber. Strange that he had not noticed that during either of their previous meetings. He had never met a woman with quite that colouring before. They were beautiful eyes, eyes a man might lose himself in. The sound of Miss Langley’s voice dragged him back from his contemplation and he chided himself for staring at the chit.

She was looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for some kind of response.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘My attention was elsewhere.’ The shadow of something flitted across her face, then was gone.

‘Lord Farquharson does not look happy. You have stolen his dance,’ she said.

‘He has no damn right to dance with any woman,’ he said harshly, then, remembering the woman in his arms, said, ‘Forgive my language, Miss Langley. I did not mean to offend you.’

She smiled then, and it was a smile that lit up her face. Lucien wondered how he could ever have thought her plain. ‘Rest assured, sir, whatever else you have done, you have not offended me.’

Lucien studied her closely.

‘Indeed, you have nothing but my gratitude,’ she continued. ‘I dread to think of my circumstance now had you not intervened on my behalf.’ He could feel the warmth of her beneath his fingers; he could see it in her face. No, Madeline Langley had not encouraged Farquharson. There was an honesty about her, a quiet reserve, and a quickness of mind that was so lacking in most of the young women he had encountered.

She smiled again and he barely heard the notes of the band, concentrating as he was on the girl before him. The prim plain clothing could not completely disguise what lay beneath. The narrowness of her waist beneath his palm, the subtle rise of her breasts, those slender arms. Lucien could see very well what had attracted Farquharson. Innocence and fear and something else, something he could not quite define.

‘Who are you?’ she said, looking up at him. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

Of course she didn’t know. She wouldn’t be looking up at him so trustingly if she had known who he was. Some women attempted to court him for his reputation. Madeline Langley would not. He knew that instinctively. She would shun the wicked man Earl Tregellas was reputed to be.

A shy amusement lit the amber eyes. ‘Will you not tell me, sir?’

He hesitated a moment longer, enjoying the innocent radiance in her face. No woman looked at him like that any more. Artful coquetry, pouting petulance, flagrant fear, and, of course, downright disapproval—he had known them all. Miss Langley’s expression fell into none of those categories.

She smiled.

Lucien traced the outline of it with his eyes. He doubted that he would see her smile again once he told her his name.

The band played on. Their feet moved in time across the floor. Silence stretched between them.

‘I am Tregellas.’ There was nothing else he could say.

‘Tregellas?’ she said softly.

He watched while she tried to place the name, the slight puzzlement creasing a tiny line between her brows. Perhaps she did not know of him. And then he saw that she did after all. Shock widened the tawny glow of her eyes. The smile fled her sweet pink lips. Uncertainty stood in its stead.

‘Earl Tregellas? The Wick—’ She stopped herself just in time.

‘At your service, Miss Langley,’ he said smoothly, as if he were just any other polite gentleman of the ton.

Her gaze fluttered across his face, anxiety clouding her beautiful eyes, before she masked them with long black lashes. He thought he felt her body stiffen beneath his fingers.

‘I’m not Farquharson,’ he growled. ‘You need have no fear of me.’ Hell, he was trying to save her, not ravish her himself. And anyway, he had no interest in young ladies of Miss Langley’s ilk. Indeed, he had not paid attention to any woman in five long years, or so he reminded himself.

She raised her eyes and looked at him, really looked at him, as if she could see the man beneath, the real Lucien Tregellas.

‘No, you’re not Farquharson.’ Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

Lucien found that he could not take his eyes from hers. The censure that he expected was not there. There was nothing except an open, honest appraisal.

The music came to a halt.

‘Thank you, Miss Langley,’ he said, but whether it was for the dance or for her recognition that he and Farquharson were miles apart, he did not know. Her small hand was still enclosed in his. Swiftly he placed it upon his arm and escorted her back to her mother in silence.

And all the while he was conscious that Miss Madeline Langley had seen behind the façade that was the Wicked Earl.

‘Madeline, what on earth do you think you’re playing at?’ her mother demanded. ‘Do you know who that is?’ she whispered between clenched teeth.

‘Earl Tregellas,’ Madeline said slowly, her words slightly stilted.

‘Of all the most ill-mannered men. He takes you off without even consulting your mama! Not so much as a by your leave! How could you dance with him when Lord Farquharson’s name is written clearly upon your card against the waltz!’ Mrs Langley’s hand scrabbled for her handkerchief. ‘I declare my nerves are in a terrible state. Oh, Madeline, whatever were you thinking of? He has the blackest reputation of any man in London!’

‘I could not refuse him without causing a scene.’ She omitted to mention that she would rather have danced with the infamous Wicked Earl a thousand times over than let Lord Farquharson lay one finger upon her. ‘I did not wish to embarrass you, Mama.’

‘Embarrass me? Embarrass me?’ The words seemed to be in danger of choking Mrs Langley. ‘Never has a mother been more embarrassed by the actions of such a vexing daughter!’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘And what will Lord Farquharson think of this?’

Madeline held her tongue.

‘How could you do it, Madeline? It was as good as giving him a cut in front of the world.’ Mrs Langley’s bosom heaved dramatically.

Madeline tried to ignore the numerous stares that were being sent in her direction. She made no sign of having heard the whispers from the ladies in the seats surrounding them. ‘No one knew what was on my dance card. Most likely they would have believed it to be empty as is usual.’

The whispers grew louder.

Angelina tugged at her mother’s arm. ‘Mama,’ she said. ‘You must not upset yourself. People are staring.’

Mrs Langley surveyed the attention turned upon her family. It was not the interest she had hoped for. She noticed that even Mrs Wilson had distanced herself somewhat and was now conversing with Mrs Hammond, casting the odd look back at the Langleys. Amelia Langley held her head up high and said in a voice intended to carry, ‘Unfortunately, girls, your mama has developed one of her headaches. There is nothing else for it but to retire at once. What a shame, when we were having such a nice time. Come along, girls.’ And Mrs Langley swept her daughters from the ballroom. ‘I shall have a footman find your papa.’

The journey back to Climington Street was not pleasant. Madeline suffered several sympathetic looks from Angelina, a continuous harangue from her mother, and only the mildest expression of reproof from her father.

The harangue from Mrs Langley paused only while the family made their way into their home, and resumed once more when the front door had been firmly closed. Madeline made to follow Angelina upstairs.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ her mother screeched. ‘We shall discuss this evening’s nonsense, miss. Through to the parlour with you. Now!’

Madeline started back down the stairs.

‘Think I might just have an early night myself,’ mumbled her father and tried to slope away.

But Mrs Langley was having none of it. ‘Mr Langley,’ she cried. ‘Will you not take control of your daughter?’

It was strange, or so Madeline thought, that she was always Papa’s daughter when she had displeased Mama, which, of course, was most of the time.

The long-suffering Mr Langley gave a weary sigh and led the way through to the parlour.

‘She has made a spectacle of us this evening,’ ranted Mrs Langley. ‘And most certainly destroyed any chance of an alliance with Lord Farquharson!’

‘Calm yourself, Mrs Langley, I’m sure it cannot be quite that bad,’ said Mr Langley.

Mrs Langley’s face turned a mottled puce. Her mouth opened and closed convulsively. Madeline had never seen her look so distressed. ‘If you had not been hiding in Lady Gilmour’s conservatory all evening, then you would realise that it is worse than bad!’ she shouted.

‘Perhaps Lord Farquharson can be persuaded otherwise,’ said Mr Langley in an attempt to pacify his wife.

‘Madeline snubbed him to dance with Earl Tregellas, for pity’s sake!’

‘Really?’ mumbled Mr Langley, ‘I’m sure he’ll get over it.’

‘Get over it! Get over it!’ huffed Mrs Langley. ‘How can you say such a thing? Lord Farquharson is unlikely to look in her direction, let alone offer her marriage! She has ruined her chances. We will never be invited anywhere ever again!’ wailed Mrs Langley. Tears squeezed from her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks.

‘Now, Mrs Langley,’ Mr Langley cajoled, ‘please don’t take on so. I will sort it all out. Come along, my dearest.’ He pressed a soothing arm around his wife’s quivering shoulders.

But Mrs Langley steadfastly refused to budge. ‘What are we to do? Lord Farquharson will never have her now.’ The trickle of tears was in danger of becoming a deluge.

Madeline watched the unfolding scene, never uttering a word.

‘Speak to her, Arthur,’ Mrs Langley pleaded.

Mr Langley patted his wife, straightened, and cleared his throat. ‘So, Madeline.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘What’s all this about? How came you to dance with Lord Tregellas over Lord Farquharson?’

Madeline found that she could not tell even her dear papa what Lord Tregellas had done for her; how he had saved her from Lord Farquharson on, not one, but two separate occasions. ‘He asked me and took my arm. There did not seem any polite manner in which to decline his request.’ Indeed, there had been no request. Lord Tregellas had plucked her straight from her seat and on to the dance floor as if he had every right to do so.

‘Did you know who he was?’

‘No,’ she answered. That, at least, was true. She had not known that her dark defender was the notorious Wicked Earl, not then.

Furrows of worry ploughed across her father’s forehead. ‘But how came you to his attention, my dear?’

Somehow it seemed strangely traitorous to reveal the truth about Lord Tregellas. She didn’t understand why, just knew that it would not be what he wanted. It made no sense. Surely to tell them that he had stepped in to save her honour would have done him only good? Common sense affirmed that. Instinct fought against it … and won. ‘I do not know,’ said Madeline. She was not in the habit of lying, especially to her papa. Guilt sat heavily upon her shoulders.

‘I understand he does not normally dance. Why should he then suddenly take it into his head to dance with a quiet, unassuming and gently bred girl like you?’ Mr Langley pondered his own question.

Madeline understood exactly why Lord Tregellas had waltzed with her. She was not foolish enough to think that he actually liked her. There was nothing to recommend Madeline Langley to him, indeed to any man, when it came to that. It was simply a matter of saving her from enduring the dance within Lord Farquharson’s arms. What she did not understand was why Lord Tregellas should care. She kept her thoughts to herself and shook her head at her father’s question.

Mrs Langley snorted in the background. ‘Quiet and unassuming?’ she echoed. ‘It is clear you have spent little time of late in your daughter’s company!’

Mr Langley chose to ignore this comment. ‘Madeline,’ he said as carefully as he could, ‘Lord Tregellas is a gentleman of some renown. He may be an earl and in receipt of a large fortune, but …’ He hesitated, unsure how best to phrase the next words. ‘He has a rather dubious reputation, my dear—’

‘Everyone knows what he is reputed to have done,’ cut in her mother.

‘What did he do?’ asked Madeline.

Mrs Langley’s mouth opened. ‘He is a murderer of the very worst kind. Why do you think he’s called the Wicked Earl? He killed the—’

‘We shall not lower ourselves to become gossip-mongers, Mrs Langley,’ said her father reprovingly.

Madeline looked from one parent to the other. Even she, prim and proper Miss Madeline Langley, had heard talk of Lord Tregellas. He was said to have committed some heinous crime in the past. That fact alone made him strangely fascinating to half the women across London, although he was reputed to treat them all with a cold contempt. Madeline knew that, and still it did not matter. The man that had forced Lord Farquharson to leave her safe in the Theatre Royal, who had warned her against that fiend, and had saved her again at this evening’s ball, was not someone she could fear. He had, after all, given her every reason to trust him. ‘It was only one dance,’ she said in defence of Lord Tregellas and herself.

‘It was the waltz!’ sobbed her mother. ‘Madeline is quite ruined after this evening’s fiasco.’

Mr Langley said patiently, ‘Come now, my dear, she’s hardly ruined. It was, as she said, only a dance.’

The sobbing burst forth into a wail. ‘Oh, you understand nothing, Mr Langley!’

Mr Langley wore the weary air of a man who knew exactly what the forthcoming weeks would hold if he did nothing to resolve the situation. ‘Perhaps I could have a word with Farquharson.’

‘He’ll have nothing to do with Madeline now. All my plans lie in ruins.’

‘He’s a stout fellow. He’ll listen to reason,’ said Mr Langley.

Her mother stopped wailing and dabbed at her eyes. ‘Do you really think so?’ she hiccupped.

‘Of course,’ her father replied. ‘I’ll go round there tomorrow and explain that Madeline had no notion to dance with Tregellas, that she was taken unawares, and, as a young and inexperienced lady, had no say in the matter. Perhaps I could invite him to dinner.’

Madeline could not believe what she was hearing. Her father thought Farquharson a stout fellow? ‘Papa,’ she said. ‘Please do not. If you knew Lord Farquharson’s true nature, you would not suggest such a thing. He is not an honourable man.’

‘Mr Langley,’ said her mother, ‘pray do not heed her. She’s taken a set against Lord Farquharson and is determined to thwart my plans. He’s a wealthy and respected member of the aristocracy, a war hero and more. And he’s worth ten thousand a year. Does that sound like a dishonourable man?’

‘Papa, if you knew what he had done—’

‘Then tell me, child,’ encouraged her father.

‘Arthur!’ her mother whined.

But Mr Langley made no sign of having heard his wife’s complaint. ‘Madeline, what has happened?’

Madeline sighed. Papa would listen. He would not make excuses for Lord Farquharson or, worse still, encourage the man’s attentions. Once Papa knew the truth, she would be free of Lord Farquharson for ever. It did not matter that she would never marry. Rather that, than wedded to Lord Farquharson. No man other than that villain had ever expressed so much as an interest in her. She was four-and-twenty years old, with a string of failed Seasons behind her. She did not blame her mother and father for not sending her out on to the circuit last year. In fact, it was a blessed relief, and they did, after all, have Angelina to think about. Surely Angelina would more than compensate them for Madeline’s failings?

‘Madeline?’ her father prompted.

Madeline shook the fluttering thoughts from her head. The truth must be told—just without any mention of Lord Tregellas. Taking a deep breath, she relayed what Lord Farquharson had been about, both in the Theatre Royal and at Lady Gilmour’s ball. There was no embellishment, no dramatics, just plain facts, minus a certain earl’s involvement.

By the end of it Mr Langley was no longer looking his usual mild-mannered self. He fixed a stern eye upon his wife. ‘You knew of this, Amelia?’ Incredulity edged his voice.

‘Only about the theatre. But he did not kiss her, Arthur.’ Mrs Langley cast imploring eyes up to her husband. ‘I knew nothing of this evening. She said not one word of being alone in a bedchamber with Lord Farquharson. Had I but known …’ Mrs Langley pressed her tiny lace handkerchief to her mouth and fell silent.

A small cynical part of Madeline wondered as to her mother’s claim. Would she still have had her daughter dance with Lord Farquharson, knowing all that he had done? Mama had been unwilling to hear Madeline speak against the Baron. And social standing and money were so very important to Mrs Langley. It was a pointless question.

‘We shall discuss this further, Mrs Langley, once the matter has been satisfactorily resolved.’

Madeline had never seen her father like this before. There was a determined glare in his normally kind brown eyes, a tension in his usually relaxed stance. He rang the bell and requested that the carriage be brought back round. ‘Papa?’ said Madeline. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To see Lord Farquharson.’

Madeline felt the blood drain from her face. Visions of duelling pistols and her father lying wounded, or worse, swam in her head. She prayed that he would not do anything so foolish as call out Lord Farquharson. Not her papa, not her mild-mannered, gentle papa. ‘Please, Papa, do not go.’

‘I must, my dear,’ he said. ‘It’s a matter of honour.’

‘Arthur?’ Mrs Langley raised a trembling voice.

‘Do not wait up, I may be some time,’ said Mr Langley and walked from the parlour.

The clock on the mantel struck midnight as the front door slammed behind him.

‘So you waltzed with Miss Langley just to prevent Farquharson from doing so?’ Guy, Viscount Varington, raised a cynical brow.

The library was quiet; only the slow rhythmic ticking of the clock and the occasional spit from the fire punctuated the silence.

‘Why else?’ Lucien Tregellas didn’t even glance round at his brother, just stood by the carved marble fireplace looking into the dancing yellow flames. They glowed golden in the darkness of the library, reminding him of the lights in Madeline Langley’s eyes. Such warmth and honesty as he had not seen in any other woman’s eyes. Long dark lashes and that straight little nose … and a clean pleasant smell that reminded him of … It came to him then exactly what Miss Langley smelled of—oranges!

‘You’ve done far more damage to her reputation just by dancing with her than Farquharson ever could.’ Guy leaned across the small drum table and captured the decanter.

‘Hell’s teeth, Guy! I only danced with the girl. Farquharson would have done a damned sight worse. It wasn’t as if I ravished her.’

‘Might as well have, old chap,’ said his brother. ‘You haven’t danced in the last five years. And when you decide to take again to the dance floor, after such a long absence, you don’t choose just any old dance, but the waltz.’

‘So?’

‘So, all of London’s eyes will be upon you now to see what Tregellas meant by waltzing with the very proper Miss Langley.’ Guy filled two balloon glasses with the rich amber liquid from the decanter.

‘Then London will have a long wait.’

Guy pressed a glass into his brother’s hand. ‘Really?’

Lucien arched an eyebrow and ignored the comment.

Guy continued on, knowing full well his brother’s irritation. ‘You know, of course, that the chit will now be thrust under your nose at every opportunity. Why should Miss Langley’s mama settle for a mere baron when an earl has just waltzed right into her sight?’

‘Your puns get worse, Guy.’ Lucien’s fingers rubbed against the Tregellas coat of arms artfully engraved upon the side of his glass. ‘Mrs Langley may do her worst. I had no interest in Madeline Langley other than to stop Farquharson getting his hands on her.’

‘Had?’ queried Guy with an expression that bellied innocence.

‘Had, have, what’s the difference?’

‘You tell me,’ came Guy’s rejoinder.

Lucien took a large swig of brandy. The liquid burned a satisfying trail down to his stomach. ‘I made my meaning clear enough to Farquharson.’

‘And what of Miss Langley? Did you make your meaning clear to her, too? Perhaps she has expectations following her waltz this evening. A girl like that can’t have too many men hanging after her.’

Lucien took another gulp of brandy. ‘Miss Langley has no expectations of me.’ He thought momentarily of Madeline Langley’s clear non-judgemental gaze, and a touch of tenderness twitched at his lips. The girl didn’t have a conniving bone in her body.

‘News of your waltz with Miss Langley will be all over town by tomorrow afternoon, and you know what people will think.’ Guy paused to take a delicate sip from his glass. ‘Dallying with a respectable girl can only mean one thing in their tawdry little minds—that you have finally decided to take a wife and beget an heir.’

‘Let them think what they will,’ Lucien shrugged. ‘We both know that I have no intention of marrying, and as for the Tregellas heir …’ Lucien raised his glass in the direction of his brother ‘… I’m looking at him. Hell will freeze over before I find myself in parson’s trap.’

A peculiar smile hovered around Guy’s mouth. ‘We’ll see,’ he said softly. ‘Only the devil or a fool tempts fate.’

Not so very far away in Brooks’s Club on St James’s Street, Cyril Farquharson was also sipping brandy. His attention was not on the small circle of fashionable gentlemen with whom he was sitting. Indeed, Lord Farquharson’s thoughts were concerned with someone else entirely; and that someone was Miss Madeline Langley. The whores at Madame Fouet’s had been meagre rations to feed his appetite. Five years was a long time to starve. He had grown tired of them. They were too willing, too coarse and worldly wise, and, even though they role-played otherwise, that fact detracted something from the experience for Farquharson. And he was tired too of Tregellas’s constant watching, his constant waiting. Damn the man for curtailing the best of his pleasures. But Farquharson would be held in check no longer. He hungered for a gentlewoman, someone young and innocent and fearful, someone with that unique je ne sais quoi; in short, someone like Madeline Langley.

She had taken years in the finding, but Farquharson had known that Madeline was the one from the moment he had seen her. She was quiet and reserved and afraid of him, all the things he liked in a woman. He played with her, like a cat played with a mouse. He liked to see her discomfort when he stepped too close or lingered too long over her hand. He liked the way she tried to hide her fear and her futile efforts to avoid him. Dear, sweet, fearful Madeline. He meant to take his pleasure of her … in the worst possible way. If the empty-headed Mrs Langley was determined to dangle her delicious daughter before him in the hope of trapping him in marriage, who was he to refuse the bait? Cyril Farquharson was far too cunning to be caught. So he had enjoyed his game with Madeline Langley until Tregellas had entered the scene.

The interruption in the Theatre Royal during the play had been an irritation. Tregellas’s dance with the girl at Lady Gilmour’s ball went beyond that. It smacked of more than a desire to thwart Farquharson. Tregellas had not looked at a female in years, and now he had waltzed with the very woman that Farquharson held within his sights. Perhaps Tregellas had an interest in Miss Langley. There was an irony in that thought. Lord Farquharson mulled the matter over. By the time that he finished his brandy and headed for home, he knew just what he was going to do. In one fell swoop, not only would he secure Miss Langley to do with whatsoever he might please, but he would also effectively thwart any move that Tregellas might mean to make. And that idea appealed very much to Cyril Farquharson. He smiled at his own ingenuity and looked forward to Madeline Langley’s reaction when she learned what he meant to do.