[Samuel Barbara] Lucien's Fall(Book4You) (12 page)

Little wonder he was cynical.

But on top of all those mixed and disturbing emotions was another: shame. Was she not indulging in the very same behavior for which she condemned the countesses?

Was she not trading her feminine gifts to gain something material? Yes, it was marriage, and it was logical, and it was done all the time. But was it really any different?

The trouble was, Madeline knew Charles harbored genuine emotion for her. It couldn’t have been easy for him to come here, plain and round and unfashionable, to court Madeline. To his eyes, she was beautiful and bright and desirable.

And what had Madeline done through his whole visit here? Flirted with Lucien Harrow. She pretended to avoid him, but in truth wasn’t she always hoping he’d find her?

In spite of all he was, a rogue and a take with a dead heart and no direction, she found him deeply compelling. In a way, she’d even used Charles to shield her from her feelings in that way.

Hurrying now, she felt her cheeks flame. How could she have considered marrying such a good and honorable man as Charles Devon? He deserved far better than she—someone who would at least be honest in her emotions, someone who would not be calculating the cost of window glass while he kissed her.

She hoped she could catch him before his party left. Lifting her skirts, she ran for the stables.

The group of them were about to depart—Charles on a fine black gelding he managed with that surprising adeptness, his wig askew as usual. A button had popped open on his waistcoat from the strain of the past days’ eating.

"I’m so glad I caught you," she said breathlessly.

"Must you leave right now, or may I have a moment to speak with you?"

A small frown creased the openness of his face, a flicker of something Madeline could not quite read. "A few moments, but I’d rather not let the horses get too restless."

He waved to his man. "Go on. I’ll catch up in a bit."

"Very well, sir." The small cluster of men and horses walked from the stables into the sunlight, leaving Madeline standing alongside the horse, looking up at the marquess.

Now that she was here, she didn’t quite know how to say what was in her heart.

"I’ve come to tell you, Charles," she blurted out, "I cannot marry you."

For the space of a heartbeat, he was silent. "I see. May I ask what brought you to this decision?"

"I don’t love you," she said, halting on each word. "I like you," she hurried to add.

"I enjoy your company. But I’m only thinking of marrying you so that I might save Whitethorn, and you deserve better than that."

To her surprise, he smiled gently. Dismounting, he gave the reins to a stable boy and gestured for Madeline to walk outside. A gilded morning danced around them, yellow and green treetops against a full clear sky. The marquess took her arm and walked with her away from the outbuildings, to stand against a great old rowan tree, bending thick gnarled branches in canopy. He stopped and looked at it, smiling. Then he looked at Madeline.

"It would have surprised me very much to learn you had any other reason to marry me—or anyone else—than to save your ancestral home." He looked over his shoulder and lifted a hand toward the house, neat enough but obviously in need of care.

"It is a beautiful home, and deserves the devotion you give."

"But I—"

He lifted a hand. "I’ll not lie to you, Madeline. I am in love with you, and you’re more wife than I had a right to expect, given my appearance and my ungallant ways. I’d like to marry you, and I will take my chances that you might come to love me one day."

His small, dignified speech gave her a pang. "Oh you are too good!" she said, and flung her arms around his neck impulsively. "I am not a good enough wife for you," she said against his shoulder.

In a low voice he said, "Think on it, Madeline. I’ll not die of heartbreak if you decide against my suit, but it would bring me great joy if you accepted it."

Very, very gently, he pulled back and tipped up her chin and pressed a kiss on her mouth. Just as his head closed out her vision, a sharp, clear picture of Lucien bolted through her imagination.

"You’ll think of my mouth when you kiss him good-bye."

Madeline felt a sharp, deep pain—regret or despair, she didn’t know.

"All right, then?" Charles asked, holding her arms.

Looking into his kind, sherry-colored eyes, Madeline thought what a good father he would be to her children, and what a steady husband he would make. She would stake her life on his faithfulness. "Yes. Hurry back," she said, and meant it on more levels than she could express.

She thought he knew that, too. "Yes," he said. "That I will do."

…

The potion the cook gave Lucien, together with a few hours’ sleep in his darkened bedchamber, helped to ease the light-sharded pain in his head. It lingered, dangerously, at the base of his skull and the edges of his eyes, but for the most part, it was better.

On his table were the notations he’d written last night. When he saw them, his headache leaped a notch. He grabbed the sheaves of paper in a great handful and dumped them in the fire. He watched the embers catch and curl the paper, erasing the clefs and quarter notes decorating the pages in black slashes and delicate dots.

As the paper dissolved into cinders, great open wounds devouring the night’s demonic work, he could not breathe. Sorrow mixed with savage pleasure—he’d never have that work again. It was gone. Forever.

When it was finished, he washed his face carefully and allowed his man to pull his hair into a queue and help him into fresh clothes. Even such small movements were difficult; he held his head carefully, as if it were a cracked egg.

As he was finishing these small tasks, Jonathan appeared. "There you are," he said, coming into the room. "I was beginning to think you’d fallen into the sea or some such thing."

"I’m here."

"Let’s ride into the village for the afternoon. I’m bored beyond expression."

"Bored?" Lucien turned his head carefully. "Or outcast?"

A bitter twist touched Jonathan’s mouth, and Lucien saw the lines of strain around his eyes. "I’ve never known such a bewildering or annoying woman." He flopped in a brocade chair. "She’s driving me mad."

With a wave, Lucien indicated he could finish on his own. Deftly, he tied a snowy cravat at his neck. "So leave her and find another."

"I do not want another woman."

Lucien smiled. He’d known that would be the answer. "She’s been making advances at me, man. Let her go."

"I saw her. Don’t fancy she wants you, Lucien. She simply means to be sure you do not seduce her daughter, and if she sleeps with you, the virtuous Madeline will have nothing to do with you, no matter how hard you try to seduce her."

"Is that what it is?" Lucien drawled.

A brittle expression touched Jonathan’s mouth. "Yes." Restlessly, he jumped up and paced the room, round and round, touching a curio and the window casings and the edge of the door. "How goes your pursuit of the little dove, anyway? I saw the marquess leave this morning. That should make your way clearer."

"Perhaps." A tiny white shard stabbed his temple. "She’s not all that simple to seduce, actually. She’s far too aware of the tricks. I spout poetry, she spouts it back at me.

I offer food—she offers more." He frowned, untying the knot of his neckcloth.

"Yesterday, I thought to steal a kiss and I still have not decided how she averted it." He tossed the cloth aside. "Let’s ride, then."

It was never easy to force himself into physical activity after one of his bouts with the debilitating headaches. Sometimes riding would send him howling back to a dark room, but more often than not, it chased away the lingering traces of illness. Lucien believed in trying, anyway. There was nothing but infirmity to be gained from hiding away in the dark.

Today it was no different. His neck and head screamed at first, but slowly the joltings of his horse ceased to be so vicious, and the fresh air worked its magic. By the time they reached the village, he felt much clearer. A good meal and a cool glass of ale might be just the thing.

The village, named for the estate nearby, boasted quaint medieval cottages and a dark, satisfyingly ancient pub with shutters and rough tables. Lucien asked the goodwife to bring him a plate of her best, and she, blushing and curtsying, hurried off to comply.

Over tankards of surprisingly good ale, Jonathan leaned forward. "Lucien, all jesting aside, I need this woman." The admission cost him. "Without her, I cannot sleep.

I’m miserable."

"God, you’ve done it, haven’t you?" He measured Jonathan over the rim of his cup. "And Juliette, of all women. How did you let such a thing happen?"

"I don’t know." He flushed, and stared mulishly toward the back of the room.

"Does one choose when to fall in love?"

Lucien shrugged.

"I did not know I’d even done it until you and I came here. Or at least I didn’t know how deeply I’d fallen." He gripped his tankard and leaned forward. "I’ve had my share of women, Lucien, but you’ve a special knack with them. They all fall in love with you. How do I make Juliette fall in love? How do I snare her?"

"Snare her for what?"

"To marry her, of course."

Lucien threw back his head and laughed. "You can’t be serious!"

Grimly, Jonathan waited. "I assure you I’m quite serious." His voice grew rough.

"I must have her."

The goodwife brought Lucien’s food—a thick mutton stew with chunks of onion and carrot, and a hunk of bread alongside. Lucien nodded, giving her a wink. "Thank you."

He gave his attention to the food for a few bites and let Jonathan drink another cup of ale. Then he said, "If I wanted Juliette, I would ignore her. She’s the sort of woman who cannot abide being ignored."

Jonathan perked up. "I can see that might be true. Go on."

"There isn’t much else. I’d flirt madly with the other women." A wickedness bloomed in his mind. Jonathan did not know of Lucien’s affair with the countess of Heath. Or if he did, he’d never said so. "Use her friend the countess, and make sure Juliette knows you’ve slept with her."

Jonathan looked doubtful. "I might lose her completely if I sleep with her friend,"

"You might," Lucien agreed. "But you’ll certainly lose her now."

"Perhaps I ought to seduce her daughter," Jonathan said, and gave Lucien a lift of one brow.

"And perhaps I’d be forced to call you out."

"Ah!" Jonathan smiled. "Careful, Lucien, that you do not fall yourself."

"No," he said comfortably. "I fell early and raw, and learned my lesson well. My heart was mortally wounded. What no longer exists cannot be engaged."

He paused, thinking of Anna in those days—nearly ten years ago. He’d been sure he would die of the pain and turmoil and embarrassment. "Hard to imagine being so young again." Then with a sort of honor he wasn’t aware he possessed, he said, "It was, in fact, Lady Heath, who so wounded me. Perhaps you’d be well advised to beware."

"What does not exist cannot be engaged," Jonathan echoed. He lifted his cup.

"And what is engaged cannot be misplaced. Countess Heath is an attractive woman, but she is not Juliette."

"No." He suddenly remembered the passionate embrace he’d glimpsed in the library. "Forgive me for saying so, Jonathan, but I happened to pass by the library yesterday eve, It did not seem you were, er, having trouble with Juliette at that moment.

In fact, neither of you reappeared all evening, as I recall. That would suggest some harmony."

Jonathan lowered his head, staring into the bottom of his tankard with a grim expression. "It is complicated." He had the grace to look abashed. "God, I wonder if anyone else saw us."

"As it happens, Madeline did." He remembered her expression, the flush on her forehead and chin as well as her cheeks, the limpid look of her eyes. It had undone him a little. "We did not linger."

Jonathan said nothing.

They let the subject go and turned to a friendly game of dice. By the time they were ready to return, it was late afternoon. Lucien’s headache was gone for another day, and the rigidness of Jonathan’s mouth had eased. Lucien thought his friend might be a little drunk.

When they rode back to Whitethorn, long gold sunlight slanted through the trees; highlighting the destruction the storm had wrought—the boarded windows and broken plants and mangled greenhouse. Lucien had a sudden thought. "You say they haven’t the funds to maintain Whitethorn?"

"No, they don’t."

Lucien smiled. "I’ve a wicked thought, then. Let me find my man and send him to the village for some men to work for me, for her." He clapped his friend on the back. "If I fix her greenhouse, leaving her funds to fix the rest, she’ll be happily in my debt."

"Yes."

"I amaze even myself at times," Lucien said unabashedly. He leaped up the front steps cheerily, and at the top, caught a wisp of sound. He paused.

From the open French doors to the music room came the sound of a violin. A Marais composition Lucien had never much liked. It was insincere, lacking real emotion.

And yet, whoever it was on the violin certainly played with vigor—if not expertise. He winced as she missed a finger placement, making a flat where none was intended. "It’s not flat," he muttered under his breath. And yet, the violinist went on happily, oblivious to the missed note.

"Oh, there you are!" The pair of countesses—the Peacock Countesses, Madeline called them, much to his amusement—appeared at the doors. It was Juliette greeting them, a swallowed-canary look about her. "We were just wondering where you’d got to."

"Why, Lucien," Anna said, holding out her hand, "what a magnificent man you’ve become." A hard glitter lit her dark eyes.

"And how old you’ve grown," he said, ignoring her to bend over Juliette’s hand.

At the last moment, he turned it over and pressed his mouth to her palm instead, and lingered. If she was not to interfere with his seduction of Madeline, she had to believe her seduction of him was working. When he straightened, he let his eyes wash over her bosom appreciatively, lingeringly, then he gave her his practiced and most devilish smile.