Читать книгу Wicked in the Regency Ballroom: The Wicked Earl / Untouched Mistress - Margaret McPhee, Margaret McPhee - Страница 7

The ballroom was ablaze with candlelight from three massive crystal-dropped chandeliers and innumerable wall sconces. The wooden floorboards had been scraped and polished until they gleamed, and the tables and chairs set around the periphery of the room were in the austere neo-classical style of Mr Sheraton. The hostess, Lady Gilmour, was holding court in a corner close to the band and its delightful music. Despite the heat, the French doors and windows that lined the south side of the room remained closed. It was, after all, still only February and the year had been uncommonly cold. Indeed, frost was thick upon the ground and the night air held an icy chill. With the Season not yet started, London was still quiet, but Lady Gilmour had managed to gather the best of London’s present high society into her townhouse. Everybody who was anybody was there, squashed into the noisy bustle of the ballroom, and spilling out into the hallway and up the sweep of the staircase.

Mrs Langley was in her element as Lord Farquharson had managed to obtain an invitation for her entire family. She was making the most of the evening and taking every opportunity to inveigle as many introductions as possible. Mr Langley, having found an old friend, had slipped discreetly away, leaving his wife to her best devices.

‘Lady Gilmour,’ gushed Mrs Langley, ‘how delightful to meet you. May I introduce my younger daughter, Angelina? This is her first Season and we have such high hopes for her. And this is my elder daughter, Madeline. She is such a dear girl,’ said Mrs Langley. ‘She has engaged the interest of a certain highly regarded gentleman. I cannot say more at the minute other than …’ Mrs Langley leaned towards Lady Gilmour in a conspiratorial fashion and lowered her voice to a stage whisper ‘… we are expectant of receiving an offer in the very near future.’

Madeline, who had been smiling politely at Lady Gilmour, cringed and turned a fiery shade of red. ‘Mama—’

‘Tush, child. I’m sure that Lady Gilmour can be trusted with our little secret.’ Mrs Langley trod indelicately on Madeline’s slipper. Her smile could not have grown any larger when Lady Gilmour offered to introduce Angelina to a small group of other débutantes. Looking fresh and pretty in a ribboned white creation that had cost her poor papa a considerable sum he could not afford, Angelina followed in Lady Gilmour’s wake.

‘Keep up, Madeline,’ whispered Mrs Langley as Madeline trailed at the rear. ‘What a perfect opportunity for Angelina.’

Less than fifteen minutes later, Angelina’s dance card for the evening was filled. A crowd of eager gentlemen stood ready to sweep the divine Miss Angelina off her feet. Mrs Langley’s head swam dizzy with excitement, so much so that she clear forgot all about her plans for Madeline and Lord Farquharson. ‘Oh, I do wish your father was here to see this. Where is Mr Langley?’

‘He’s talking to Mr Scott,’ answered Madeline, happy that her father had managed to escape.

‘Typical!’ snorted Mrs Langley. ‘Angelina is proving to be a success beyond our wildest dreams and her father’s too busy with his own interests to even notice.’ Mrs Langley shook her head sadly, but her spirits could not remain depressed for long, especially when Angelina took to the floor with Lord Richardson, who was the second son of an earl. ‘La, is she not the most beautiful child on the floor?’ demanded Mrs Langley, clutching at Madeline’s hand.

‘Yes, Mama,’ agreed Madeline with a soft smile. ‘She is indeed beautiful.’

‘And elegant,’ added Mrs Langley.

‘Elegant, too,’ said Madeline.

‘And graceful.’

‘Yes.’

Mrs Langley looked fit to burst with pride. ‘That’s my baby out there, my beautiful baby. Oh, how it brings it all back. I was just the same when I was eighteen.’

Mrs Langley and Madeline were so taken up with Angelina’s progress around the dance floor that they did not notice the arrival of Lord Farquharson.

‘Mrs Langley, Miss Langley,’ he said, lingering a little too long over Madeline’s hand. ‘I hope I’m not too late to claim a few dances from the delightful Miss Langley.’

Madeline’s lips tightened. ‘I’m afraid I’m not dancing tonight, my lord. I twisted my ankle earlier in the day.’

Mrs Langley drew her a scowl before announcing, ‘I’m sure that your ankle is much repaired, Madeline. And a dance with Lord Farquharson shall not tax you too much.’

‘But—’ started Madeline.

‘Madeline.’ Her mother threw her the ‘wait until I get you home’ look.

Grudgingly Madeline held the card out to Lord Farquharson, who smiled and tutted and lingered over the empty spaces beside each dance name.

‘Can it be that Miss Langley has kept her dance card free for my sake? Is it too much for my heart to hope?’

Mrs Langley cooed her appreciation of the sugary compliment.

Madeline examined a scuff on the floor and waited until he pressed the card back into her hand. It was now warm and slightly damp to the touch. She held it gingerly by the edge and scanned to see which dances he had selected. A lively Scotch reel and, heaven help her, the waltz!

Lord Farquharson’s slim white fingers took hold of one of her hands. ‘Just in the nick of time,’ he said as the band struck up. ‘I believe this is my dance, Miss Langley.’ And with that he whisked her out to join the lines of bodies upon the floor.

The dance had a nightmarish quality about it. Not only was Madeline thrust into the limelight, a place in which she was never happy, but she had Lord Farquharson squeezing her hand, whispering in her ear and peering down the bodice of her dress for the entirety of the time. She was perforce obliged to smile politely and skip daintily about, as if she were enjoying the occasion immensely. It seemed to Madeline that a piece of music had never lasted so long. She progressed down the set, birling in the arms of every man in turn, each one granting her but a brief respite from Farquharson’s company, for no sooner had she thought it than the dance had led her to meet in the middle of the set with Lord Farquharson once more. At long last the music ceased, and Lord Farquharson returned her to her mother. His eyes glittered with something that Madeline did not understand.

‘She has the grace of a swan,’ he said to Mrs Langley.

Mrs Langley, who had seen Madeline tread on Lord Farquharson’s toes no less than four times, miss several steps, and drop her handkerchief halfway through, marvelled that a gentleman could be so forgiving of her elder daughter’s failings. ‘Dear Lord Farquharson, you are so kind to Madeline.’

They smiled at one another.

Madeline looked away and counted to ten—slowly.

Mrs Langley raved about Angelina’s growing posse of admirers. Was the young man with blond hair merely a baronet? Angelina could do so much better. Let them move here to better see Angelina’s progress around the floor. And they simply must gain an introduction to a patroness of Almack’s. Mrs Langley could not survive without securing tickets for one of the assembly room’s famous balls. It would be quite the best place to catch a husband for Angelina. And so the time passed. Madeline did not mind. She preferred her place in the background, quietly observing what was going on around her. Nodding her head and smiling politely, but never really engaging. At least there was no Lord Farquharson forcing his attention upon her. Even so, he managed to catch her eye across the room on several occasions as if to remind her of what lay ahead: the waltz. Madeline’s throat grew dry and tight at the very thought. She could see him watching her through the crowd, licking his lips, smiling that smile that made her blood run cold.

Quite suddenly Madeline knew that she could not do it; she could not let him rest his hands upon her and draw her close, pretending to be the perfect gentleman when all along he was just biding his time, waiting for an opportunity to strike. And strike he would, like the snake in the grass that he was. She shuddered. No matter what Mama thought, Lord Farquharson was not honourable. He would ruin her and there would be no offer of marriage. He did not want her as a wife any more than Madeline wanted him as a husband. What his lordship wanted was something quite different. Madeline drew a deep breath and determined that, come hell or high water, she would keep herself safe from Lord Farquharson’s attentions. Mrs Langley scarcely noticed when Madeline whispered that she was going to find her papa.

Mr Langley was not anywhere in the grand ballroom. Nor could he be found in the magnificence of Lady Gilmour’s entrance hall. Madeline followed the stairs up, searching through the crowd for a sight of her father. It seemed he was not there either. She spent a little time within the ladies’ retiring room, just because she was passing that way, and enquired of several ladies within if they had seen a gentleman by the name of Mr Langley. But the ladies looked at her as if she had just come up from the country and said that they knew no Mr Langley. So that was that.

She left and was about to make her way back downstairs when a hand closed tight around her wrist and pulled her to the side.

‘Miss Langley, what a pleasant surprise to find you up here.’ Lord Farquharson pressed his mouth to the back of her hand. ‘But then perhaps you were looking for me.’ He stepped closer and did not release his grip on her wrist.

Madeline knew that the people surrounding them afforded her protection from the worst of Lord Farquharson’s intent. But she also knew that she could not risk drawing attention to herself or her situation lest they think the worst. ‘No,’ she said, and tried surreptitiously to disengage herself.

But Lord Farquharson had a grip like an iron vice, and tightened it accordingly. ‘Tut, tut, why don’t I believe you?’ he laughed.

‘I’m looking for my papa. Have you seen him?’ Madeline hoped that Lord Farquharson did not know just how much he frightened her.

The sly grey eyes watched her. ‘I do believe that I saw him not two minutes since, Miss Langley. But it was in the strangest of places.’ Lord Farquharson’s face frowned with perplexity.

In the strangest of places. Yes, that sounded most like where Madeline’s papa would be found. Papa hated large social occasions and would frequently wander off to hide in the most obscure of locations. ‘Where did you see him, my lord?’

Lord Farquharson’s grip loosened a little. ‘On the servants’ stairwell at the other side of that door.’ He gestured to an unobtrusive doorway at the other end of the landing. ‘He seemed to be wandering upstairs, although I cannot imagine why he should be heading in such a direction.’

Madeline could. Anywhere away from the hubbub of activity. Papa would not notice more than that. ‘Thank you, Lord Farquharson.’ She looked pointedly at where he still held her.

‘You’ve not forgotten my waltz?’

How could she? ‘No, my lord, I’ve not forgotten.’

‘Good,’ he said, and released her.

Lord Farquharson fluttered a few fingers in her direction, then turned and walked briskly down the main staircase.

Madeline waited until she could see that he had gone before heading towards the servants’ stairwell.

‘Papa?’ she called softly as she wound her way up the narrow staircase. The stone stairs felt cold through her slippers. ‘Papa?’ she said again, but only silence sounded. The walls on either side had not been whitewashed in some time and, as there was no banister, bore the marks of numerous hands throughout the years. A draught wafted around her ankles and the band’s music dimmed to a faint lilt in the background.

The stairwell delivered her to the rear of the upper floor. She stepped out, scanning the empty landing. Several portraits of Lord Gilmour’s horses peered down at her from the walls. Where could Papa be? A number of doors opened off the landing, to bedchambers, or so Madeline supposed. She stopped outside the first, listening for any noise that might indicate her father’s presence. Nothing. Her knuckles raised and knocked softly against the oaken structure.

‘Papa,’ she whispered, ‘are you in there?’

Madeline waited. No reply came. The handle turned easily beneath her fingers. Slowly she pushed the door open and peeked inside. It was a bedchamber, decorated almost exclusively in blue and white. A large four-poster bed stood immediately opposite the door. Mr Langley was clearly not there. Madeline silently retreated, pulling the door to close behind her. Quite suddenly the door was wrenched from her grasp, and Madeline found herself pulled unceremoniously back into the bedchamber. The door clicked shut behind her. Madeline looked up into the eyes of Lord Farquharson.

‘My dear Madeline, we meet again,’ he said.

Madeline kicked out at him and grabbed for the door handle. But Lord Farquharson was too quick. He embraced her in a bear hug, lifting her clear of the door.

‘Now, now, Madeline, why are you always in such a hurry to get away?’

‘You tricked me!’ she exclaimed. ‘You never even saw my father, did you?’ How could she have been so stupid?

Lord Farquharson’s shoulders shrugged beneath the chocolate brown superfine of his coat. ‘You’ve found me out,’ he said and pulled her closer.

She could feel the hardness of his stomach, and something else, too, pressing against her. ‘Release me!’

‘The Earl won’t save you this time, my dear. He’s not even here. I checked.’

Madeline refused to be bated. Speaking to him, pleading with him, would be useless. Cyril Farquharson would not listen to reason. She willed herself to stay calm, forced herself to look up into his eyes, to relax into his arms.

Lord Farquharson’s eyes widened momentarily, and then he stretched a grin across his face. ‘I think we begin to understand one another at last.’

Madeline sincerely doubted that.

Lord Farquharson’s grip lessened. ‘Madeline,’ he breathed, ‘you are such a fearful little thing.’ The intent in his gaze was so transparent that even Madeline, innocent as she was, could not mistake it. ‘I will not hurt you.’ His fingers scraped hard down the length of her arm.

Apprehension tightened in her belly. ‘But you are doing so already, my lord,’ she said, drawing back her leg and delivering her knee to Lord Farquharson’s groin with as much force as she could muster. She did not wait to see the effect upon Lord Farquharson, just spun on her foot and ran as fast as she could, banging the door shut behind her. Across the landing, down the stairwell, running and running like she had never run before. The breath tore at her throat and rasped in her ears. Her feet touched only briefly against each stair. And still she ran on, pulling her skirts higher to prevent them catching around her legs. Anything to flee that monster. She rounded the corner, dared a glance back, and then slammed hard into something large and firm. A gasp escaped her. She stumbled forward, her feet teetering on the edge of the stair, arms flailing, reaching for some anchor to save her fall.

A pair of strong arms enveloped her, catching her up, pulling her to safety. Please God, no. How could Lord Farquharson be here so quickly? She had been so sure that he was behind her; even thought she’d heard the pounding of his feet upon the stairs. But it was only the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears. ‘No!’ She struggled within his arms, reaching to find some purchase against the smooth surface of the walls.

‘Miss Langley?’ The deep voice resonated with concern.

Madeline ceased her fight. She recognised that voice. Indeed, she would have known it anywhere. She looked up into a pair of pale blue eyes. It seemed that her heart skidded to a stop, before thundering off again at full tilt. For the arms wrapped around her belonged to none other than her dark defender. She glanced nervously behind, fearful that Lord Farquharson would creep upon them.

Her defender raised one dark eyebrow. ‘I take it Farquharson is behind this—again?’

Madeline nodded nervously. ‘He …’ Her voice was hoarse and low. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘He’s upstairs in one of the bedchambers.’ Only when she said it did she realise exactly how that must sound.

His eyes narrowed and darkened. She felt the press of his hands against her skin. ‘Farquharson.’ The word slipped from his throat, guttural and harsh in the silence surrounding them. He set her back upon the stair and brushed past her. Anger radiated from his every pore. He began to climb quickly and quietly up the narrow stairwell.

‘No!’ shouted Madeline, twisting to follow him. Her feet thudded after his. ‘No,’ she shouted again. ‘It’s not what you think. He didn’t—’ She reached ahead, grabbed for the tails of his coat disappearing round the next bend and tugged. ‘Wait!’

The man stopped suddenly and looked back down at her.

She released her grip on his coat and leaned back, panting against the wall.

‘What do you mean, Miss Langley?’

‘He tried to kiss me,’ she said, still catching her breath. ‘But I managed to get away before he could succeed.’

She could see the tension in the muscles of his neck and around the stiff set of his jaw. His eyes were sheer ice. ‘Did you learn nothing from the last time? What the hell were you doing alone in a bedchamber with Farquharson?’

Madeline’s mouth gaped in shock. ‘He tricked me. I didn’t know he would be there. I was looking for my father.’

‘And your father is likely to be hiding in one of Lady Gilmour’s guest bedchambers?’ He raised a cynical eyebrow.

‘It is not unlikely,’ she said quietly.

Long fingers raked his hair, ruffling it worse than ever. ‘Miss Langley, if you are too foolish to know it already, I will tell you in no uncertain terms. Lord Farquharson is a dangerous man. You would be wise to steer well clear of him.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to do, but my mother wishes to promote a match between Lord Farquharson and myself. She’s determined to encourage his interest.’

‘Is your mother insane?’

Madeline’s lip began to tremble. She clamped it down with a firm nip of her teeth. It was one thing to know she would be left upon the shelf, and quite another to have so handsome a gentleman imply the same bluntly to her face.

‘I mean no insult, but believe me, Miss Langley, when I say that Lord Farquharson has no interest in marriage.’

Lord, he thought she was hopeful of such a thing! ‘And I have no interest in Lord Farquharson,’ she said curtly. She turned away and started to retrace her steps back down the stairwell, then hesitated and faced him once more. ‘Thank you, Mr….’

He made no effort to introduce himself.

‘Both for tonight and last week. I’m indebted to you for your intervention.’

Those pale eyes watched her a moment longer before he said, ‘Don’t thank me, Miss Langley, just stay away from Farquharson.’

She chewed at her bottom lip, wondering whether to tell him. He would think the worst of her if she did not, and somehow the stranger’s opinion mattered very much to Madeline. ‘Sir,’ she said shyly.

‘Miss Langley,’ he replied and crooked his eyebrow.

The lip received several nasty nips from her teeth. She looked at him, and then looked at him some more.

‘Was there something you wished to tell me, Miss Langley?’

Madeline twisted her hands together. ‘It’s … just that Lord Farquharson has claimed me for the waltz. Perhaps he will not recover in time, but—’

‘Recover?’ her defender enquired. ‘What in Hades did you do to him?’

‘My father showed me how to disable a man by using my knee, should the occasion ever arise.’

His mouth gave only the smallest suggestion of a smile. ‘And the occasion arose.’

‘Yes,’ she said simply.

They looked at one another.

‘Find whatever excuse you must, Miss Langley, but do not waltz with Farquharson.’

Madeline seriously doubted that the Prince Regent himself could come up with an excuse acceptable to her mother. But there was always the chance, after the incident in the bedchamber, that Lord Farquharson would have changed his mind over dancing with her. ‘I’ll try,’ she said. And she was gone, her feet padding softly down the cold stone stairs that would lead her back to the ballroom.

‘There you are, Madeline. Where is your papa? Did you not tell him of Angelina’s success?’ Mrs Langley was all of a flutter.

Madeline opened her mouth to reply.

‘Never mind that now. You’ve missed so much. You will not believe what has just happened.’ She clapped her hands together in glee. ‘Mr Lawrence was taken quite ill, something to do with what he ate at his club earlier in the day.’

‘Poor Mr Lawrence,’ said Madeline, wondering why Mr Lawrence’s malady so pleased her mother.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs Langley. ‘It meant that he could not dance with Angelina as he promised.’ Her excitement bubbled over in a giggle.

‘Mama, are you feeling quite well?’

Mrs Langley touched a hand to her daughter’s arm. ‘You’ll never guess what happened.’

Madeline waited expectantly.

‘The Duke of Devonshire stepped in to take his place and danced with Angelina!’ She clasped her hand to her mouth. ‘Isn’t it just too, too good?’

Madeline glanced across the dance floor to see a rather dashing-looking young man with twinkling blue eyes and warm sand-coloured hair twirl her sister through the steps of a country dance. Angelina was glancing up at the man through long lashes, her golden curls bouncing against the pretty flush of her cheeks. ‘Yes, it is wonderful.’

‘Wonderful indeed!’ Mrs Langley breathed.

Madeline cleared her throat. ‘Mama, my head hurts quite dreadfully.’

‘Mmm,’ mused Mrs Langley, barely taking her eyes from Angelina’s dancing form. ‘You do look rather pale.’

‘I wondered whether Papa might take me home in the carriage. I’m sure that he wouldn’t mind.’

‘I tell you of Angelina’s success and in the next breath you’re asking to go home.’

‘Mama, it isn’t like that. Lord Farquharson—’

‘Lord Farquharson!’ interrupted her mother. ‘I begin to see how this is going. Your papa may not realise what you’re up to, but I most certainly do!’ Mrs Langley turned on Madeline, her mouth stretched to a false smile in case anyone should think that Mrs Langley and her daughter were having anything but the most pleasant of chats. ‘You are so determined to refuse a dance with Lord Farquharson that you will destroy the evening for us all. You think to thumb your nose at a baron and care not a jot if you ruin your sister’s chances.’

‘No, Mama, you and Angelina will stay here, nothing would be ruined for her.’

‘Are you so wrapped up in your own interest that you cannot see Angelina has the chance to catch a duke? That child out there,’ said her mother, ‘has only kindness in her heart.’ Mrs Langley glanced fleetingly at her younger daughter upon the dance floor. ‘Not one word has she uttered about Lord Farquharson’s preference for you. Not one!’

‘Little wonder! She is relieved that she does not have him clutching for her hand.’ As soon as the words were out Madeline knew she should not have said them. Oh, Lord. She shut her eyes and readied herself for her mother’s response.

Mrs Langley’s eyes widened. The false smile could no longer be sustained and slipped from her face. ‘Madeline Langley, you go too far. Your papa shall hear of this, indeed he shall. All these years I’ve slaved to make a lady of you, so that you might make a decent marriage. And now, when I’m on the brink of bringing all my hard work to success, you threaten to ruin all, and not only for yourself.’

Madeline counted to ten.

‘Pray do not look at me in that superior way as if I know not of what I speak!’ Mrs Langley’s small lace handkerchief appeared.

Madeline continued to fifteen.

‘You have not the slightest compassion for your poor mama’s nerves. And all the while Mr Langley makes your excuses. Well, not any more.’

And twenty.

‘You are not going home,’ Mrs Langley announced. ‘You will sit there and look as if you are having a nice time, headache or not. When the time comes, you will dance with Lord Farquharson and you will smile at him, and answer him politely. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Mama, there’s something I must tell you of Lord Farquharson,’ said Madeline.

Her mother adopted her most stubborn expression. ‘I know all I need to know of that gentleman, Madeline. You will waltz with him just the same.’

Madeline looked at her mother in silence.

‘Mama. Madeline.’ Angelina appeared at her mother’s shoulder. As if sensing the atmosphere, she glanced from her mother’s flushed face to her sister’s pale one. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, nothing is wrong, my angel,’ replied Mrs Langley with a forced smile. ‘Madeline was just saying how much she was looking forward to dancing this evening.’

Angelina coiled an errant curl around her ear. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I came to war—I came to tell Madeline that Lord Farquharson is over there looking for her.’

‘How fortuitous,’ said Mrs Langley.

Fortuitous was not the word Madeline would have chosen. She turned her head in the direction Angelina had indicated.

Lord Farquharson raised his glass to her in salutation. Even across the distance Madeline could see the promise upon his face.

‘What is it, Lucien? First you insist on uprooting me from a very cosy hand of cards at White’s, then you trail me here after Farquharson, and now you’ve got a face like thunder on you.’ Guy, Viscount Varington, regarded his brother across a glass of champagne.

‘Farquharson’s up to his old tricks again.’ Lucien rotated the elegant glass stem between his fingers. The champagne inside remained untouched.

‘You cannot forever be dogging his steps. Five years is a long time. Perhaps it’s time to leave the past behind and move forward.’

Lucien Tregellas’s fingers tightened against the delicate stem. ‘Move on and forget what he did?’ he said bitterly. ‘Surely you jest?’

Guy looked into his brother’s eyes, eyes that were a mirror image of his own. He smiled a small, rueful smile.

‘Farquharson has not changed. He’s been a regular visitor to a certain establishment in Berwick Street these years past, slaking his needs, and you know for what manner of taste Madame Fouet’s house caters. I could do nothing about that. Even so, I always knew that it would not be enough for him. He wants another woman of gentle breeding, another innocent. And I’ll kill Farquharson rather than let that happen.’ There was a stillness about Lucien’s face, a quietness in his voice, that lent his words a chilling certainty.

‘You think he will try again, even with you waiting in the wings?’

‘I know he will,’ came the grim reply. ‘He’s planning it even as we speak, and that foolish chit over there is practically falling over herself to be his next victim.’

Guy followed his brother’s gaze across the room to the slender figure of the girl seated by the side of an older woman.

‘Miss Langley thinks to catch herself a baron. Or, more precisely, her mama does. Miss Langley herself appears to be strangely resistant to any advice to the contrary that I might offer.’ A scowl twitched between his brows.

‘Then leave her to it,’ said Guy with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘If the girl refuses to be warned off, then perhaps she deserves Farquharson.’

Lucien’s gaze still had not shifted from Miss Langley, his eyes taking in her downcast face, her rigid posture. ‘No woman deserves that fate.’

A wry little laugh sounded, and Guy drained the remainder of the champagne from his glass. ‘What would London say if they knew that the notorious Earl Tregellas, the man of whom they are all so very afraid, is on a mission to safeguard every virgin in this city from Farquharson’s roving eye? There’s a certain irony in that, wouldn’t you say?’

‘There’s no comparison between me and Farquharson,’ Lucien said. The fragile glass snapped between his fingers. He set the broken pieces down on the tray of a passing footman.

‘Calm down, big brother. I loath what Farquharson is as much as you.’

‘No. I assure you, you do not.’

‘Your feelings are understandable, given what happened,’ said Guy quietly.

A muscle twitched in Lucien’s jaw.

‘What about the girl? Is she really in danger?’ Guy glanced again at Miss Langley.

‘She’s in much more danger than she could ever realise,’ replied his brother, looking him directly in the eye.

Earl Tregellas and Viscount Varington, two of society’s most infamous bachelors, albeit for vastly differing reasons, turned their gaze upon the slight and unassuming figure of Miss Madeline Langley.