Wicked in the Regency Ballroom: The Wicked Earl / Untouched Mistress. Margaret McPhee
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stand trial?’
Lucien turned his face to the window. ‘It could not be proven.’
‘Why not? If he was guilty—’
‘He was most definitely guilty, but Farquharson was careful to destroy the evidence.’ Lucien’s jaw clamped shut.
There was a moment’s silence before Madeline asked, ‘And you think he means to … to kill me too?’
He looked back across at the fear-filled little face—fear that he had put there with his revelation. He hardened his compassion. She had to know. ‘Oh, he will kill you all right, Miss Langley, and anyone who tries to stop him.’
‘I cannot believe it,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Can’t you? What do you feel when you stand close to him, when he touches you? What do you feel then, Madeline?’
She barely noticed the use of her given name. ‘Fear … loathing … repulsion.’
‘Then listen to your instinct, it speaks true.’
‘But I am bound to marry him.’ She sighed and recounted what had happened that night after Lord Tregellas had waltzed with her. ‘I cannot dishonour my papa and there is Angelina to think of.’
‘There is another way,’ Lucien said softly, and leaned forward. ‘Give me your hand, Miss Langley.’
Every sensible nerve in her body was telling her to resist. Madeline warily reached her hand towards him.
His fingers closed around hers. Her hand was small and slender and chilled. ‘You’re cold. Here, put this travelling rug around you.’ Through the darkness he felt for her, moving across to the other side of the carriage, wrapping the woollen rug across her shoulders, running his hands briskly over the sides of her now-blanketed arms. ‘The night air is chilled and you have no cloak.’
‘Lord Tregellas.’ Madeline’s plea brought him up short.
He stopped. Dropped his hands from her arms. Stayed seated by her side. Rumble of carriage wheels. Horses’ hooves. Bark of dogs. Men’s voices cursing coarse and loud. Bang of doors. Lucien let them all pass, breathing in that small space of time, waiting to utter the words he had never thought would pass his lips. ‘Miss Langley,’ he said, ‘there is one way that would most certainly prevent your marriage to Farquharson.’
‘Yes?’
There was such hope in that one little word. The subtle scent of oranges drifted up from Madeline Langley’s hair. Anticipation squeezed at Lucien’s heart. Fool! he chastised himself. Just ask her the damn question and be done with it. ‘Will you marry me?’ He felt the start of the slim body beside him, felt more than saw the shock upon her face.
‘You want me to be your wife?’ Disbelief raised her voice to a mere squeak.
‘Yes. It’s by far the best solution to our problem.’ He tried to convey that it was the logical answer for them both.
‘Lord Farquharson is my problem alone, my lord, not yours. You have no need to marry me. Why should you even care what he does to me, let alone wish to sacrifice yourself on my behalf?’
‘I have my reasons, Miss Langley. Suffice to say, it is in both our interests to stop him.’ Sacrifice was a very strong word, and the wrong word. It did not describe at all what it was that Lucien Tregellas was doing.
‘But marriage?’
Why should she find it so unbelievable? ‘Think of it as a marriage of convenience, if you prefer,’ he said, trying to make her feel easier.
‘I cannot just marry you.’
‘Why not?’
‘My family, the scandal—’
‘Would blow over. Your family will not suffer. I’ll ensure that. I’m not without influence, Madeline.’
She seemed embarrassed at the sound of her Christian name upon his lips, and glanced down nervously at her lap. He remembered how innocent she was.
‘Lord Farquharson would sue for breach of contract.’
‘It’s only money, a commodity of which I have plenty.’
A short silence, as if she was digesting his words. He heard her hands move against the blanket.
‘Such an act would publicly humiliate Lord Farquharson. He would be obliged to demand satisfaction of his honour.’
‘We both know that Farquharson has no honour.’
‘Society does not. He would call you out.’
‘So much the better.’
‘But your life would be in danger. He might injure you, or worse!’
He smiled then, a chilling smile, a smile that held in it five years of waiting, five years of hatred. The light from a street lamp glanced across his stark angular features, casting a sinister darkness to his handsome looks. ‘Have no fear of that. I promise you most solemnly that when I meet Farquharson across a field again I will kill him.’
Her breath expelled in one rush.
‘Have you any more objections, Miss Langley?’
‘It … it does not seem right, my lord.’
‘I assure you that it would be the best for everyone, involved.’
‘I-I’m a little shocked,’ she stuttered.
‘That is only to be expected,’ he said. ‘If you marry me, you would be well provided for, have anything you desire. I have no objection to you seeing your family as and when you please. You would be free to live your own life—within reason, of course. And, most importantly, you would be safe from Farquharson.’
‘What do you wish from me in return, my lord?’
He blinked at that. What did he want? All his careful thinking had not made it that far. He had not expected her to ask such a thing. And then he understood what it was she was asking, or at least thought he did. ‘Discretion,’ he replied, trying to be tactful.
When she still did not understand, he elaborated. ‘It would be a marriage in name only, Madeline. We would both go on just as before, nothing need change save your name and our living arrangements for a short while.’
She bowed her head. ‘You seem to have considered everything, my lord.’
Another silence.
‘Then you must choose, Madeline. Will you be my wife or Farquharson’s?’
She touched the fingers of her right hand against her forehead, kneading the spot between her eyes.
He could sense her tension. The small body next to his was strung taut as a bow. ‘Madeline,’ he said softly, and captured her left hand into his. ‘Your half-hour is fast expiring. Will you not give me your answer?’
She shivered. ‘Yes, my lord,’ she whispered, not daring to look round at his face. ‘I will marry you.’
His fingers communicated a brief reassurance to hers and were gone. ‘Thank you,’ he said, then thumped the roof of the carriage with his cane and thrust his face out of the window, ‘Home, please, Jackson.’
‘But … but aren’t we going back to Almack’s? What of my mama—?’
‘Speed is of the essence. I’ll send a note to your mother explaining our decision.’
‘I would prefer to tell her myself, my lord.’
The anxiety in her voice scraped at his conscience. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Madeline. You’ll see her soon enough when we’re safely married. I’ll explain all once we reach Cavendish Square.’
The carriage drove on in silence.