Wicked in the Regency Ballroom: The Wicked Earl / Untouched Mistress. Margaret McPhee
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realised that it was Madeline that Farquharson would target. Lucien’s mouth compressed to a hard line. He had promised her safety. And, by God, she would have it. When Farquharson came, Lucien would be ready. He blinked the fatigue from his eyes, wondering if Madeline would be beneath the covers yet. Then he sat the glass upon the wooden counter and slowly took himself up the stairs that led to their chamber.
He shifted restlessly in the small hard chair, feeling the ache in his shoulders and back growing stronger by the minute. His head was foggy with exhaustion, his eyes gritty and sore. Yet still merciful sleep eluded him. The memory of Farquharson jabbed at him like a sharp stick, taunting him with the terrible deeds from their shared past. Deeds that had stolen Lucien’s peace, destroyed the man he used to be, and made him the cold hard cynic he was now. The mean fire had long since burned out; grey raked ashes lay in a cold pile. Lucien huddled beneath the layers of his coat and the blanket, and tried to breathe warmth into his fingers. He pushed the thoughts far from his mind, struggled to escape from their oppression. Another sleepless night stretched ahead. He should be used to it by now. Then he heard it: the small movement from the bed; the change from her soft even breaths to staccato gasps; a mumbled cry; the twisting of her body beneath the sheets.
He trod quietly across the wooden flooring and leaned towards the bed.
‘No, Lord Farquharson …’ A whisper of torment that wrenched at his heart.
Lucien’s teeth clenched tighter. Last night had not been in isolation then. Madeline too knew what it was to suffer the terror of the night demons. There was an irony in the fact that the same man lay at the root of both their nightmares. He reached a hand out towards her, touched it gently against her face. The skin was wet beneath his fingers. Sobs racked her body. He could feel her fear, understand her terror. ‘Madeline,’ he whispered, trying to pull her from its grasp.
‘No!’ she sobbed louder.
His mouth tickled against her ear. ‘Madeline, wake up. It’s a nightmare. You’re safe.’
‘Lucien?’
He stroked her hair and wiped the dampness from her cheek. ‘You’re safe,’ he whispered again and again, lying his length on top of the covers, pulling her into his arms.
Gradually he felt the tautness of her body relax as she snuggled into him. Her breathing slowed, the frenzied beat of her heart steadied against his chest. He inhaled the scent of her, revelled in the feel of her softness, of her trust, and knew that he didn’t deserve it. He swallowed down temptation and with steadfast resolve gently began to ease a space between them. He had just managed to roll away when he felt the sudden grip of her hand around the flat of his stomach.
‘Please stay,’ she whispered into the darkness.
And Lucien knew that he was lost. He could no sooner ignore the plea in her voice than he could cut off his own arm. She was afraid. She needed him, he told himself, and ignored the stubborn little voice deep down inside that told him that he needed her, too.
‘Come beneath the covers.’
‘Madeline.’ There was an agony of denial in his whisper as he gently shook his head.
‘I’m so cold.’
‘Oh, God,’ Lucien ground out and promptly climbed beneath the covers of the bed.
She didn’t feel cold. In fact, Lucien would have sworn that she was positively warm. He lay motionless by her side, trying not to feel the slight body that rose and fell against him. She snuggled in closer and wrapped her arm around him. Lucien closed his eyes and enjoyed the soft gentleness of his wife, basking in her smell and her warmth. Slowly, he floated on a feather cushion of bliss into the black comfort of sleep.
Madeline felt the chill in her husband’s body and opened herself against him, sharing her warmth. Her hand slid over the soft lawn of his shirt, resting against the strong muscle beneath. She noticed how strange a man’s body felt in comparison with her own—all taut hardness, large, long and lean, with such a suppressed strength that her eyes flickered open, straining through the darkness to see him. He lay rigid as a flagpole, completely immobile, as if he exerted some kind of tense control over his muscles and limbs, almost fighting sleep. It appeared that Lucien Tregellas was not a man who allowed his guard to slip. He might feign an easiness of style, as if he did not care what happened around him, but it seemed to Madeline that there was something dark and watchful about her husband. What was it that he guarded so carefully against? The only time she had seen the guard drop was yesterday in the travelling coach when he had fallen asleep. Peace had touched his face then. There was nothing of peace in the large body now lying beside her own.
She lay her palm flat against his ribs and snuggled in close so as to feel the beating of his heart. She breathed in the scent of him—a heady mix of bergamot and the underlying smell that was uniquely Lucien. Cyril Farquharson and the stuff of Madeline’s nightmare drifted far away. All she knew, all she felt, was the presence of the man lying next to her, filling her nostrils, beneath the tips of her fingers, against her breast and waist and thighs. Warming. Strong. Sure. No matter that theirs was a marriage of convenience, a marriage in name only—nothing had ever felt so right as the man that she called husband. She closed her eyes against him, felt the tight muscles beneath her fingers relax. His breathing eased, letting go, the guard slipping slowly and steadily, until she knew that he slept. She smiled a little smile of contentment into his chest, placed a kiss through the lawn of his shirt, and gave herself up to follow the same path.
Lucien awoke with an unusual sense of calm contentment. He lay quite still, trying to capture the essence of the fragile moment, reticent to lose it. The first strains of daylight filtered through the thin curtains stretched across the window. Lucien opened one bleary eye and reality jolted back into place. As the warm body beside him nestled in closer, he realised the exact nature of his predicament. A woman’s soft body was curved into his, like a small spoon lying atop another. Her feet touched against his leg, her back fitted snug all the way up from his abdomen to his chest. Not only did he find that his arm was wrapped possessively around her, but his hand was resting against the small mound of her breast. As if that were not bad enough, her buttocks were pressed directly against his groin. Worst of all, Lucien was in a state of blatant arousal. The breath froze in his throat.
Madeline gave a little sigh and wriggled her hips closer into him.
Lucien captured the groan before it left his mouth, and gently removed his hand from the place it most certainly should not have been. Sweat beaded upon his brow. No woman had ever felt this good, like she belonged in his arms. He could have lain an eternity with Madeline thus and never wished to resume his life. Except that he must not. Never had he wanted to love a woman as much as he wanted to love Madeline right at that moment. Every inch of his body proclaimed its need. Lucien gritted his teeth. A fine protector he would be if he took advantage of her. Little better than Farquharson. Not like Farquharson, a little voice whispered. She’s your wife. You care for her. Lucien slammed the barrier down upon those thoughts. What he cared about was justice and retribution. He eased a distance between their bodies, but he had reckoned without Madeline.
From the depths of her dream Madeline felt him slipping away and sought to recapture the warm contentment that he had offered. She rolled over and thrust an arm over his retreating body.
Lucien stifled the gasp. Hell, but was a man ever so tempted? For a brief moment he allowed himself to relax back into her, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his, inhaling her scent, sweeping his hand lightly over her back to rest upon the rounded swell of her hips. ‘Madeline.’ Her name was a gentle sigh upon his lips. In the greyness of the dawn he studied her features: the long black lashes sweeping low over her eyes, the straightness of her little nose, the softness of her lips parted slightly in the relaxation of slumber. Lucien swallowed hard as his gaze lingered over her mouth. He experienced the urge to cover her lips with his; to kiss her long and deep and hard; to show her what a husband and his wife should be about. But he had promised both her and himself that he would not.
He heard again her question of that night that now seemed so long ago, although it was scarcely four nights since: What do you wish from