Margaret McPhee - Wicked in the Regency Ballroom

‘Your petticoats and stays, too.’ His gaze dropped lower, ‘Slippers and stockings as well,’ he instructed.

Madeline did as she was bid, until she faced him wearing only her shift. As she clutched her arms across her front in embarrassment, she felt his fingers run through her hair, rubbing and raking, until neat tidiness was no more. She thought she heard him stifle a groan. Maybe he was worried that Farquharson wouldn’t be convinced. And then quite suddenly he stopped and stood back, scanning her appearance.

‘Very good,’ he said rather hoarsely, then touched his hand to her shoulders. ‘Rumple the bedcovers as if we have lain there. I’ll have Sibton bring you my dressing gown. Put it on over your shift and then wait here until I send for you. All you need do is agree with everything that I say and do not offer any other information. I will deal with all else.’

She nodded her agreement. No matter that he had misled her, she would rather marry Beelzebub himself than Cyril Farquharson.

‘All will be well, Madeline.’ His fingers slid against her face. ‘I’ll see Farquharson in hell before I let him touch you.’

Then he was gone, leaving only the trace of his cologne and the scald of his fingerprints against Madeline’s cheek.

Madeline sat on the edge of the bed, tense and alone, Lucien’s dressing gown wrapped around her. She had rolled the sleeves up as best she could, but still the blue-and-red paisley-patterned silk swamped her, making her feel like a little girl dressing up. She touched the sleeve against her nose, breathed in the clean smell of him, and somehow felt reassured. The strains of Lord Farquharson’s voice reached even here. Righteous indignation layered over malice and rage. And still he ranted on. The clock marked the pace of time, second by second, minute by minute. Lucien would send for her soon.

Gingerly she touched her fingers to where his had lingered, wondering that she could react to him in such a way. Her blood surged too strong, too fast. She closed her eyes, letting the sensation flood over her, trying to understand the nature of it. Her body was taut, but not through fear, primed as if readied, waiting, wanting. Wanting!

Madeline’s eyes flickered open with a start. Guilt washed a rosy hue across her cheeks. She buried the feelings back down where they belonged, deep in place from where they should never find release. Her heart was beating so loud she barely heard the discreet knock at the door. Thud. Thud. Thud. Her heart galloped. Her cheeks burned hotter.

‘My lady.’ The hushed voice sounded through the wood.

Madeline jerked back to reality. She rose from the bed, painfully aware of just what it was she was being summoned to do. Persuade Lord Farquharson that she had already lain with her husband, while all the while knowing the irony of the truth. Lucien did not want a wife. Most certainly he did not want to consummate his marriage. A mutually convenient agreement, he had said. Lucien would protect her; she did not doubt that for a minute. He would give her his name, let her live in his house, see that she did not want for money or anything that it might buy. She would be his Countess. She would be safe from Farquharson. It should have been everything that Madeline could want. So why did she have this feeling of loss and longing? There was no time to speculate. Drawing deep on her breath and her courage, she opened the bedchamber door and went to face what waited below.

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.