Читать книгу Wicked in the Regency Ballroom: The Wicked Earl / Untouched Mistress - Margaret McPhee, Margaret McPhee - Страница 11

Anger resonated from Farquharson. His grey eyes darkened and there was a slight snarl about his lips. The waves of his deep red hair had been arranged to perfection. A slight shimmer of perspiration beaded above his lip. ‘I tell you, sir, he’s lying. Madeline is a gently reared woman. Do you honestly believe that she would abandon her mother and sister midway through an evening at Almack’s to elope with this … this scoundrel?’

‘I must confess, Lord Farquharson, that such an action seems most out of character for Madeline,’ said Mr Langley wringing his hands. He turned to the tall dark-haired man standing by the drawing-room fireplace. ‘You have shown us the marriage certificate, my lord, which does indeed appear to prove that you are now legally married to my daughter, but how do we know that Madeline consented to wed you? She is … she was betrothed to Lord Farquharson. To my knowledge she is not even acquainted with you.’

‘Then your knowledge is wrong, sir,’ said Lucien succinctly. He had no argument with Arthur Langley. The man was only doing what he thought right to protect his daughter. Lucien wondered that Langley ever could have agreed to marry Madeline to that snake in the first place. But then again, Langley wouldn’t have stood a chance against Farquharson.

‘He bloody well abducted her!’ snarled Farquharson. ‘Everyone knows of his reputation. He’s downright evil.’

‘Lord Farquharson,’ said Mr Langley, ‘I understand your distress, but rest assured that it does not measure in comparison with the extent of mine. We are all gentlemen here, I hope, and as such we should try to keep our language accordingly.’

‘Please excuse my slip, Mr Langley,’ said Farquharson from between stiffened lips.

Lucien looked at Arthur Langley. ‘The matter is easily enough resolved, sir. Call back tomorrow and speak with Madeline yourself. She will soon set your mind at ease.’

‘No!’ Farquharson moved to stand between the seated figure of Mr Langley and the tall, broad frame of Tregellas. ‘He seeks to buy time in which to consummate the marriage. Let him bring her out to face us now, before he has had time to intimidate her. By tomorrow the poor child will be so distraught she won’t know what she’s saying.’

‘Madeline is resting. It would be unfair to subject her to such scrutiny.’ Lucien’s teeth gritted with the rage that roared within him. That Farquharson had the audacity to accuse anyone else of the heinous crimes for which he himself was responsible!

Farquharson turned to plead his case with Mr Langley, dropping his voice to a more controlled volume. ‘Please, Mr Langley, I beg of you,’ he wheedled. ‘Do not subject Madeline to rape at this man’s hands. Look at his state of undress. He was readying himself for the task.’ He stared down into the older man’s eyes that were heavy with fatigue and worry. ‘We’ve arrived in the nick of time,’ he said convincingly. ‘There’s still time. Demand that he bring her out now. If she was party to this crime, as he claims, then why is he disinclined to do so?’

‘Lord Farquharson has a point,’ said Arthur Langley slowly. ‘I find myself unwilling to accept your word alone, sir. I cannot rest contented without seeing my daughter. Let me hear the words from her own lips and only then will I believe it.’ His skin was washed an unhealthy grey and the skin beneath his eyes hung in heavy pouches.

Lucien rang the bell, whispered a word in the suddenly appeared butler’s ear, and straightened. ‘As you wish, Mr Langley.’

Farquharson glanced at Mr Langley’s profile, then glared across the room at Lucien. ‘If you’ve so much as harmed one hair on my betrothed’s head …’

Ice-blue eyes locked with smoky grey. ‘Madeline’s my wife now, Farquharson.’

The tension in the room magnified one hundredfold. The challenge in Lucien’s voice was as blatant as a slap on the face.

Arthur Langley stared from one man to the other.

A soft tapping sounded and the door swung open to reveal Madeline.

Lucien’s heart turned over at the sight of her: small and slender, his dressing gown covering from her shoulders to her toes and beyond. Eyes the colour of warm aged honey sparkled in the candlelight and lips parted in expectation. Her dark blonde hair was mussed and beddy, its long tresses sweeping sensuously down to her waist. From the hint of a blush that sat across her cheeks to the little bare toes that peeped from beneath the edge of his robe, Madeline had the look of a woman who had just been loved. Lucien found the words emptied from his head, every last rehearsed phrase fled. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time, wondering that this woman could be his wife.

‘Lucien,’ she said softly and moved to stand by his side.

‘Good God!’ Mr Langley uttered weakly.

Farquharson stared, eyes bulging, panting like an enraged bull.

‘You see, Lord Farquharson,’ said Lucien, ‘Madeline is my wife in every sense of the word, and completely by her own volition.’

The drop of a pin would have shattered against the silence that followed his words.

‘Madeline?’ Mr Langley staggered to his feet. ‘Is what he says true? Did you willingly elope with Lord Tregellas?’ The brown eyes widened, scanning every inch of his daughter’s face.

‘Yes, Papa,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to hurt you, or Mama, or Angelina.’

Farquharson’s lips curled to reveal his small white teeth. ‘He is forcing her to this. The poor child is scared for her life!’

‘I assure you that is not the case. Madeline has nothing to fear from me.’ The emphasis on Lucien’s last word did not go unnoticed.

Mr Langley slowly shook his head, his eyes crinkling into closure, his shoulders rounding as if the burden upon them had suddenly become too much to bear. ‘Madeline, how could you? I thought that I knew my own daughter, but it seems that I’m wrong.’

‘No, Papa …’ Madeline made a brief move towards her father, only to find Lucien’s hand upon her arm.

Farquharson saw his chance. ‘See how he controls her! He’s trying to trick us!’

Mr Langley’s eyes slowly opened.

‘There has been insufficient time for him to have wedded and bedded her!’ Farquharson said 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, of the heat of his touch and the warmth in his voice. And of how his relief had washed over her as he wrapped her in his arms out in the hallway, and the gratitude in his eyes when he faced her after Farquharson and her papa had gone. No, Madeline thought, she had not escaped unchanged at all. Lucien Tregellas had awakened something deep within her. And that something was not part of their arrangement. A marriage of convenience, he had called it. A marriage to suit them both. Better this a thousand times over than facing Farquharson. It was the escape of which she could only have dreamt. She should have been basking in cosy contentment. But she wasn’t. When she finally found sleep, it was with the thought of the strong dark man who had made himself her husband.

The following morning Madeline and Lucien sat at opposite sides of the round breakfast table in the morning room. Sunshine flooded in through the windows, lighting the room with a clear pale clarity. The smells of eggs and ham, chops and warm bread rolls pervaded the air. Lucien poured a strong brown liquid into her cup, added a dash of cream, and soon the aroma of coffee was all that filled Madeline’s nostrils.

‘Did you sleep well?’ The answer was plain to see in her wan cheeks and the dark circles below her eyes, but he asked the question anyway.

Madeline nodded politely. ‘Yes, thank you. And you?’

‘Very well, thank you,’ he lied.

An awkward little silence followed.

‘Would you care for some eggs, or a chop, perhaps?’

‘No, thank you. The coffee will suffice.’ She gave a small half-smile and looked around the room, unsure of what to say next.

Lucien helped himself to some ham and rolls. ‘I was thinking,’ he said.

Madeline’s eyes wandered back to him.

‘Perhaps it would be better if we went away for a short while. It would let the worst of the gossip die down and allow your parents to grow accustomed to the idea of our marriage.’

‘Go away where?’ she asked.

Steam rose from Lucien’s coffee cup. ‘I have an estate in Cornwall. The house is close to Bodmin Moor and not so very far from the coast. There is not much shopping, but you could have a mantua maker take your measurements before we leave and have whatever you wish sent down from London.’ Lucien paused, trying to think of something else with which to make Cornwall sound enticing to a woman. ‘There is also the latest fashion for sea bathing in which you might care to indulge, and a very pretty beach at Whitesand Bay.’ He omitted to mention the positively arctic temperature of the sea at this time of year.

Shopping? Sea bathing? Madeline tried to look pleased. ‘It sounds very nice.’

Lucien continued, ‘There are frequent house parties in the locality and assembly rooms in the town of Bodmin some few miles away.’ Fourteen miles to be precise, but he did not want to put Madeline off.

‘For how long would we be away?’ She sipped at her coffee, cradling the cup between her hands as if it were some small delicate bird.

Lucien gave a casual shrug of his shoulders. ‘A few weeks,’ he said nonchalantly.

‘Very well.’ She smiled nervously. ‘I have nothing to take with me save the clothes I am wearing.’ She smoothed her hand a little self-consciously over the skirt of the evening dress she had been wearing at Almack’s last night; the dress in which he had married her.

Then he remembered what had happened to the tapes in his haste to remove that same dress. Something inside him tightened. Surreptitiously his eyes travelled to her neckline and sleeves. Nothing seemed to be amiss. He wondered if he ought to make an excuse to view the back of her, and thought better of it. ‘That can soon be remedied. Buy anything that you like, as much as you want, whatever the cost. Two days should suffice to make your purchases. We’ll leave the day after.’

‘I was not … I didn’t mean that you should …’ A delicate pink washed her cheeks.

A slight frown marred Lucien’s brow. ‘Then you do not wish to go?’

‘Yes,’ she said looking at him a little embarrassed. ‘I want to go to Cornwall. It’s just that … my requirements are not what you seem to think. I would like—’

‘More days to shop?’

‘Oh, no.’ Heaven forbid.

‘Then what?’

She bit at her bottom lip. ‘Nothing.’

Nothing? He looked at her expectantly.

‘I had better go and get ready. Such a long day ahead.’ She flashed a brief smile and escaped out of the morning room in a flurry of steps.

It was only when she had gone that it dawned on Lucien that Madeline was as ready as she would ever be, for she didn’t even have a pelisse or a bonnet in which to dress before facing the world.

Madeline sat across from the maid and the footman in the Tregellas carriage on the way back from a truly horrendous day’s shopping. It seemed that either Mama or Lord Farquharson had lost no time in ensuring that all of London had been apprised of the fact that she had eloped with Earl Tregellas. No one else had known and the notice of their marriage would not be published in The Times until tomorrow. Not that anyone had actually said anything directly to her face. Indeed, most people did not know who she was. But even so there were several speculative glances, a few hushed whispers and one episode of finger pointing. Mrs Griffiths in Little Ryder Street, studiously polite, gave no hint of knowing that her customer was at the centre of the latest scandal sweeping the city and furnished her with the bulk of her clothing requirements very happily. Brief visits to the perfumery in St James’s Street and Mr Fox’s in King Street went in much the same way. Only when in Mr Rowtcliff’s, the shoemaker, did she actually hear anything that was being said. Two robustly large ladies were deep in conversation as she arrived.

‘Abducted a girl clean from beneath her mother’s nose,’ said the shorter and ruddier of the two.

‘And forced her to a wedding,’ nodded the other. ‘He has a soul as black as Lucifer’s, that one.’

The smaller woman screwed up her face. ‘Who is she? Does anyone know yet?’

‘Oh, yes,’ replied her friend. ‘Plain little thing by the name of Miss Langley. That is, Miss Langley the elder. Got a pretty sister by all accounts. Heaven knows why he didn’t take her instead. Not quite the thing, the Langleys. House in Climington Street.’

The women exchanged a knowing look before continuing on their way, none the wiser that Madeline Langley had just witnessed every word that passed their lips.

Mr Rowtcliff and his assistant Mrs Phipps hurried back through, each with an armful of shoes and boots. ‘Of course, my lady, once we make your own shoes up they will fit like a glove. These are just some that we have that may pass in the meantime.’

Madeline bit down hard on her lip, pushed the women’s cruel words from her mind and chose some footwear as quickly as she could.

The clock struck three and still Cyril Farquharson had not roused himself from his bed. It was not that he was sleeping. Indeed, he had not slept at all since returning home from Tregellas’s townhouse last night. Anger had ensured that. The boiling of his blood had diminished to a simmer. At least now he could think beyond the desire to grind Tregellas’s face into the dirt. The Earl had outwitted him, snatching the girl to an elopement before Farquharson had realised his intent. And Farquharson’s best-laid plans lay in ruins. Madeline Langley would not be his. Her tender innocent flesh belonged to Tregellas now.

He had dismissed his initial instinct to call Tregellas out and kill him. Farquharson was no fool. Tregellas was bigger, stronger, his aim truer, his shot straighter. In a one-on-one confrontation, Tregellas would always win, just as he had won their duel five years ago. Farquharson’s leg still carried the scars to prove it. But one victory did not win the war. There were better means to that, underhand means that involved stealth and bribery and corruption. Farquharson had ever relied on others’ stupidity and greed.

Stealing Farquharson’s betrothed from beneath her mama’s nose at Almack’s was a stroke of genius. Even through his anger, Farquharson had to admire Tregellas’s move. It was an action worthy of Farquharson himself. And it sent a message loud and clear. Farquharson knew what this was about. Hadn’t he always known? A mirror of past events. Farquharson smiled. No, he would not call Tregellas out. There were easier ways to catch the Earl. He thought of Madeline Langley and the way that her hand trembled beneath his. He thought too of the fear in her pretty amber eyes and how she struggled within his grip. He wanted her and he would have her, and the fact she was Tregellas’s wife would serve to make the experience all the sweeter. After five long years, the game had begun in earnest once more.

The journey to Earl Tregellas’s country seat in Cornwall was long and tiresome. It did not matter that Lucien’s travelling coach was of the most modern design, sprung for comfort and speed. Or that the man himself had filled it with travelling rugs and hot stone footwarmers to keep her warm. Madeline’s bones ached with a deep-set weariness, not helped by the fact she had not slept properly for the past few nights. Every night was the same. Nightmares in which Cyril Farquharson’s face leered down at her, whispering that he was coming to catch her, promising that there would be no escape. She woke in a cold sweat, terror gnawing at her gut, afraid to let her eyes close lest Farquharson really did make true on those nightmarish oaths.

Lucien sat opposite her, long legs stretched out before him, looking every inch as if he was sitting back in the comfort of an armchair. The bright daylight shining in through the window showed him in clarity. The stark blue eyes were hooded with long black lashes, the harshness of his handsome features relaxed in sleep. Gentle even breaths sounded from his slightly parted lips. Madeline’s gaze lingered on that finely sculpted mouth. All signs of tension around it had vanished. No tightly reined control remained. Just hard chiselled lips. She wondered what it would be like to place a kiss upon them. Madeline licked her own suddenly dry lips, gulped back such profoundly unsuitable thoughts and concentrated on looking out of the window. The countryside surrounding the Andover Road swept by in a haze of green and brown. The daylight was white and cold. Madeline found her eyes wandering back to Lucien once more.

His skin was a pale contrast to the darkness of his angular-shaped eyebrows and the black dishevelment of his hair. Sleep stole the severity from Lucien’s face, imposing on it a calm serenity, as if it was only in sleep that he found peace. The fine lines around his eyes and mouth seemed to disappear. Indeed, the more that Madeline looked, the more she found she could not drag her eyes away. Her fingers itched to touch against that blue-stubbled jawline, that bold strong nose, those lips. Although the air within the carriage was cool, Madeline began to feel rather warm. She stared and stared some more. She was just considering the length of his legs and how muscular his thighs were through those rather tight pantaloons when she noticed that Lucien’s eyes were no longer closed. Indeed, he was regarding her with something akin to amusement.

Her eyes raised to meet that lazy stare.

He smiled, and it seemed that something of sleep must still be upon him for his face still held a peaceful look. ‘Warm enough?’ he asked.

Madeline’s cheeks grew hotter still. ‘Yes, thank you.’ Had he seen her staring?

The smile deepened.

Oh, Lord! Madeline hastily found something that necessitated all of her attention out of the window.

‘We’ll reach Whitchurch by nightfall and put up in an inn there. The White Hart usually serves me well.’

Madeline didn’t trust herself to speak, just nodded.

‘Are you hungry? There’s still some cold pie left in the lunch basket.’

‘No, thank you. I’ll wait until we reach Whitchurch.’

‘Well, in that case …’ said Lucien and closed his eyes once more.

Madeline was careful to keep her gaze well averted.

The White Hart was quite the busiest coaching inn that Madeline had ever seen. Not that she was in the habit of frequenting such places, but there had been that time that Mama had taken her and Angelina to visit Cousin Mary in Oxford. The inn seemed to consist of a maze of dimly lit, winding corridors leading from one room to another. This said, the private parlour that Lucien had arranged for them was clean and tidy, as was the place as a whole. The food that the landlord and his wife brought was simple, but wholesome. A stew of beef with carrots, a baked ham, potatoes and a seed cake. They called her my lady and were polite. No whispers followed her here. No gossip. Madeline breathed a sigh of relief and ate her stew.

‘Some ham?’ suggested her husband.

‘No, thank you.’

‘A slice of cake, then?’

‘No.’ Madeline shook her head.

Lucien’s brows twitched together. He seemed to be finding Madeline’s dinner plate worthy of a stare. ‘You don’t eat very much,’ he finally said.

‘I eat enough,’ she replied defensively. In truth, her appetite had shrunk since meeting Cyril Farquharson. She picked at her food, nothing more. Three days as Lucien’s wife had not changed that.

He said nothing more, just looked at her with those pale eyes.

Madeline knew she should not have snapped at him. It was not his fault that her bones ached and her head was so tired she could scarcely think. ‘Forgive me, Lucien. I’m just a little tired.’

‘It’s been a long day and we have an early start in the morning. We should go to bed. Finish your wine and I’ll take you up.’

His words caused Madeline’s heart to stumble. She sipped a little more of the claret, then pushed her chair back.

He looked at the half-full glass but forbore to comment on it.

‘We are to share a room?’ Madeline glanced up at her husband, surprise clear upon her face as he followed her into the room and closed the door.

‘It is not safe to sleep alone,’ he said.

‘But—’

‘No buts, Madeline. It is for a short while only and you’ll be safe. I’m not quite the monster society would paint me.’ There was a hard cynical catch to his voice. ‘I’ll go back downstairs that you might undress. Lock the door and do not open it for anyone except me.’

She nodded her head.

And he was gone.

The key turned easily within the lock as if it was kept well oiled. She turned to survey the bedchamber. The bed was situated on the right-hand side, facing out into the room and towards the warmth of the fireplace where a small fire burned. At the right-hand side of the bed and behind the door was a sturdy chest of drawers on top of which sat a pitcher and basin and a towel. A plain spindle chair and a small rug had been placed beside the fireplace.

Madeline walked over to the bed, running her hands over the bed linen, feeling the firmness of the mattress. Everything was clean and fresh, if a little worn. Such humble simplicity seemed a surprising choice for a man who held an earldom. She’d imagined him demanding something more luxurious, more ostentatious. And the landlord and his wife hadn’t cowered from Lucien. In fact, when she thought about it, their attitude hadn’t been dutiful at all. Friendly was definitely a more accurate description. Strange. Especially for a man with Lucien’s reputation.

She sat down heavily on the bed, fatigue pulling at her shoulders and clouding her mind. Her new brown pelisse slipped off easily enough, folding neatly beneath her fingers. Next came her bonnet, shoes and stockings. The dark green travelling dress proved more difficult to remove without assistance, but with perseverance and a few elaborate body contortions Madeline soon managed. She made her ablutions, resumed the protection of her shift, removed the warming pan from the bed, and climbed in. The sheets were warm against her skin, thanks to the thoughtfulness of whoever had placed the warming pan within. She stretched out her legs, wriggled her toes and, breathing in the smell of freshly laundered linen, relaxed into the comfort of the mattress. Bliss. For the first time in weeks Madeline was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

A soft tapping sounded from the door. Madeline opened one drowsy eye and peered suspiciously at the oaken structure.

The knocking grew louder.

The pillow was so soft and downy against her head, the covers so enticingly warm.

‘Madeline,’ a male voice whispered.

Madeline forced the other eye open, levered herself from beneath the sheets and padded through the darkness of the room towards the sound. Her hand touched to the key and stilled.

‘Madeline, it’s Lucien.’

Her fingers hesitated no longer. The key turned. The door cracked open by the smallest angle, letting in the candlelight of the well-lit landing. Lucien was looking right back at her. The piercing gaze of his eyes blasted away any remnants of sleep from Madeline’s mind. She said nothing, just opened the door wider and watched with a beady eye while he entered. There was only one bed: Madeline waited to see what her husband intended.

He locked the door before moving to the chair by the glowing hearth. First his coat was discarded, followed closely by his neckcloth and waistcoat. The bottom drawer in the chest opened to reveal a blanket. Lucien extracted it, kicked off his boots, sat himself down in the chair, and pulled the blanket over his body. All in less than two minutes.

Madeline’s toes were cold upon the floor. She still lingered beside the door.

‘Goodnight, Madeline,’ he said and, leaning back in the chair, closed his eyes.

Her mouth opened, then closed. ‘Goodnight.’ She climbed back beneath the covers, looked again at the figure of her husband slumped awkwardly in the small chair. The bed was spacious and warm. Madeline bit at her lip. Offering to share the bed might be misconstrued. And he could have taken two rooms for the night instead of only one. Madeline stifled the guilt and closed her eyes against the discomfort of the chair, only to open them several times to check upon Lucien’s immobile figure. Sleep crept unobtrusively upon her and Madeline’s eyes opened no more.