[Samuel Barbara] Lucien's Fall(Book4You) (13 page)

Jonathan, into the breach, grabbed Anna’s forgotten hand. "Forgive his manners, my lady," he said, bending with a courtly gesture as elegant as Lucien’s was practiced.

Lucien didn’t miss the way Juliette’s eyes darted toward her lover. A flash of anxiousness whisked over her face and was gone. "Come, let’s all have tea, shall we?"

She led them into the vast, marbled foyer. Through a gilded door to the music room, Lucien saw a figure silhouetted against the light, slim and simple— Madeline. As he watched, she bent into the instrument, still earnestly playing with an inexactitude that made him wince and plucked his heart all at once. It took all he had to resist the lure of going into that room, taking that instrument from her— A dulcet voice spoke into his ear.

"A pity it isn’t a composition of yours, my dear," Anna said. "But you don’t do that anymore, do you?"

Before he could turn, violence in his chest, she laughed lightly. She wandered toward the veranda, waving her fan lazily, casting him an amused glance over her shoulder.

He held her gaze steadily, furiously. No verbal answer was required.

In the music room, Madeline missed her note again. Lucien turned on his heel and bolted up the stairs. Anna’s derisive laughter floated after him.

She like Fate can wound a Lover

Goddess like, too, can Recover;

She can Kill, or save from dying,

The Transported Soul is flying."

—Thomas D’Urfey

The workmen started arriving
midmorning the next day. Madeline was gathering shredded tree limbs and rose branches when the first group arrived, three men she recognized from the village, with a wagon piled high with supplies.

The front man gave her a note. "Milord bade me gi’ it to ye," he said, and shifted on his feet restlessly. Small pox scars ravaged his face, but his eyes were clear and there was no smell of gin on him.

Madeline broke the seal on the note.

My dear Madeline,

I knew you would not accept such an offering from me directly, so I made
arrangements from afar. These men are here to do your bidding, and I’ve arranged to be
billed for any costs they incur. I’ve ordered them to begin with the house windows and
move to the rest as they are able.

You are under no circumstances to misread my gesture as a measure of coercion.

You must know the money is of no consequence to me—and I so dislike seeing you suffer
and worry; consider this a gift from a friend only and freely accept it in the spirit it was
given.

I expect I will return to Whitethorn within a fortnight and we might then discuss
our other plans. Until then, I remain,

Your ever faithful

and affectionate,

Charles Devon, Marquess of Beauchamp

Madeline looked at the workmen. "I’m very sorry, but I cannot pay you. You’ll have to go back—and take the supplies with you."

The headman looked over his shoulder. "Milord already paid us for a fortnight.

All three of us, and enough for lunch, too, so ye needn’t worry about new mouths to feed."

"Is that so." The expression was less a question than an admission of surprise. She took a breath. "Well, then, I expect I shall have to show you what needs doing."

She’d no sooner got them going on removing the shattered glass in the dining room than a second group of workmen wandered up the lane, four this time. Sturdy, strong men. Madeline met them at the steps. "May I help you? If you’ve come about the windows and storm damage, I’m afraid the positions have already been filled."

The lead man, a burly man with forearms like hams, pulled his forelock a little uncertainly. "We were already paid to help w’yer gardens, milady. And the greenhouse?"

He stepped forward. "I did some repair work last year in London, to one of the great houses there. I have me references."

"Who paid you?"

"Weren’t no one I recognized—a London-lookin’ lord."

"No powder or wig?" she guessed.

"That’s him."

"He sent no note with you?"

"No, milady."

Madeline eyed the group of them for a moment. In sudden decision, she said,

"Wait here."

Catching her skirts in one hand, she stormed up the stairs. It was one thing for Charles to expend such lavish amounts on her since she intended to marry him. It was quite another for Lucien Harrow to do so. At his door, she scratched perfunctorily, then barged in.

The dark silence surprised her. The drapes had not yet been opened, and she stormed across the room to yank the cord, letting gold morning light in to spill over the fading Arabian carpet and the bed with its curtains drawn. She reached for them, then hesitated, awash suddenly with what she was doing. What if there were some woman with him—a village girl or a servant or even one of the guests? Most everyone had drifted back to London, but the countess of Heath was not without her charms, and they had once been lovers.

No. He had gone too far. She flung open the bed curtains.

The bed was empty. It didn’t even look touched.

With a frown, Madeline glanced around. A pair of boots littered the floor, carelessly flung where he’d taken them off, and a yellow silk brocade waistcoat hung over the back of a chair.

And there, slumped against the back of a chaise lounge, was Lucien Harrow, dressed in his clothes from the day before, a scattering of papers all over the floor around him. A pot of ink and a newly cut pen rested on the small desk beside him. He snored softly.

Tiptoeing, Madeline bent to pick up one of the sheets of paper. Music. Scrawled, hard to read, for it had obviously been written in some haste and in poor light. She peered at it, trying to pick out something she knew. There, a glissando, sweet and light, moving in to a more somber series in a minor key. Haltingly, she tried to hum a little of it.

"What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?" Lucien roared. He snatched the paper from her hand and threw it in the fire.

Before she could answer, or even react a little, he turned with a sound like a wounded and dangerous animal, feverishly scooping the rest of the paper into a pile he then threw into the coals. There wasn’t enough fire to burn them quickly. He grabbed a poker and jabbed at them violently.

It was only then Madeline thought to move. "Don’t!" she cried, and dived for the sheaf of papers. His poker narrowly missed her hand, but she managed to snatch them off the coals before more than just the edges had sparked.

Lucien caught her by the arms and yanked her backward, reaching for the papers.

Madeline yelped but held them out of his reach, turning and freeing herself to scramble away. He came after her. "You have no right" he cried, grabbing her again.

He was right, of course—Madeline had stormed into his room and invaded his privacy—but there had been something in that small glimpse of the music that she longed to know better. It seemed horridly important that she not let him burn the work. He held her hard against him, her back to his chest, his left arm a vise around her ribs, his right reaching for the sheaf of papers in her hand. They struggled silently, Madeline holding it just out of his reach, grunting as she struggled against him.

"Let me go," she cried.

"Give me the papers."

She suddenly became aware of the intimacy of the embrace. He held her so tightly his breath was moist with heat on her neck, and his arm was close beneath her breasts, lifting them even higher into the low square of her bodice. Against the length of her, his body was hard, muscular, uncompromising. Her breath caught.

He heard it and stilled. "Why did you come here this morning, Madeline?" He yanked her closer, and with a savageness that frightened her, bit her neck lightly. "Did you decide after all to come to me?" His hand lifted dangerously close to her breast, and with a single, violent move, he turned her, slamming her against the wall behind them. It jarred her teeth.

Lucien leaned over her, intentionally close, his breath coming faster than normal.

So close she could smell him—port and spice and fire. "Did you come for a taste of me?"

She stared up at him, at the burning of his eyes, darkened now with violence. His mouth did not have any softness about it, and there was only heat and darkness and anger in him. She lowered her eyes. "No." She shoved the papers into his chest, afraid of him.

"Take your notes and burn them. I don’t care."

He snagged her when she would have ducked under his arm. "No, you don’t," he said silkily. "You came to my web, little fly, and now I’m going to eat you." He half dragged her to the fire. "First, we’ll let these burn."

She yanked, but he held her easily with one arm. It was the first time she realized how much larger he was than she. The lingering sensation of his teeth scraping over the flesh of her neck still burned, and it burned lower, too, with a wildness she did not like.

Her heart was pounding with both fear and hunger.

Desperately, she knew she had to flee. When he let down his guard a little, she let her weight drop all at once. The sudden dead weight pulled him off balance. He dropped the poker with a clang against the flagstone hearth. At the same moment, a flash of light burst as the paper caught fire. Madeline and Lucien tumbled to the floor. He fell on top of her, pinning her. The naked flesh of his chest, exposed by the unbuttoned shirt, touched lightly the swell of her breasts over her bodice, and Madeline let go of an involuntary gasp at the sensation.

He held her hands above her head. "Are you one of those women who need to think the decision is beyond them? Do you need to feel forced to avoid responsibility?"

Thick disdain dripped from his mouth. "Are you Clarissa, needing to be ravished?"

"No!" she spat out.

Her head spun dizzily, and her body was alive with sensations she didn’t dream existed—a pounding in her chest and in the tips of her breasts. Her mouth felt empty, as if it needed filling.

"I don’t like it this way," he said. "I don’t like playing the forceful game at all.

But a kiss I can steal without guilt."

Madeline tried to turn her head, but he caught her chin in his hand and put his mouth over hers. At the first heated touch of his lips, she knew she was lost.

It was a long, slow, deep kiss that was nothing like the dry whisper of Charles’s mouth. Lucien’s kiss was wet, and not neat, and sinuous. It filled the empty places of her mouth, made the pounding in her breasts and belly ache more fiercely. It stole her breath.

Wild panic grew in her, and he yet held her tightly; she couldn’t move. She wanted to arch against him, wanted that hot, too wet, mouth against other parts of her, and the knowledge was damning. With a cry, she turned her head away.

Undaunted, Lucien availed himself of her neck, supping at the mark he’d made with his teeth—and Madeline shuddered. He touched his tongue to the lobe of her ear, and licked her jaw with slow, excruciating intent. Madeline trembled violently but managed to hold herself rigid.

"Let me go," she said, balling her hands into fists. Her voice was raw and deep, unlike her ordinary daily voice, and it shamed her. "Please," she whispered. "Please, let me go."

Abruptly, he did just that. One moment, he was hot and hard against her, the next he was lust not there, and Madeline lay on the floor, her clothes akimbo, her cap gone.

With embarrassment on her face, she rolled to her side and got to her feet, smoothing her clothes.

Lucien stalked over to the window, putting his back to her. "Leave me, please," he said roughly. His hair, too, had come undone in their struggle. Wisps clung to his face, which was damp with sweat. He wiped a forearm over it. "Leave me, Madeline, I’m warning you," he said again, still without looking at her.

With as much dignity as she could muster, Madeline picked up her cap from the floor. "I invaded your privacy," she said unsteadily, "and for that, I apologize." She lifted her chin. "However, I came to ask you if you’ll come down and send away the men who came to the door this morning to fix the greenhouse."

"No."

"Pardon me?"

He turned, his face unreadable. "I said, no. I’ll not send them away. You need the help, do you not? Isn’t it for Whitethorn you marry?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"I only free you, my lady, to do as you wish, not as you must. Is that too much a quandary for you?"

"Such a noble speech," she said sharply. "It is not for Whitethorn you do it, but to have your way, so I am in your debt. I dislike that feeling."

"Is it so much simpler to be indebted for life, than for a single night?"

Madeline frowned, feeling swayed by his reasoning. "Better honor than disgrace."

"Is it?" he said, and his voice was thick with cynicism. "I do wonder about that."

"Having tasted honor, I know which I prefer."

"Ah, but there is much freedom in disgrace."

"I fervently hope I never taste such freedom." The primness in her voice annoyed her. "Come—send your men away."

"They’ve already been paid," he said. "Consider it a gift. I’ll count the kiss I stole just now as payment enough, unless you choose to pay more." He looked at her, full on, deeply and intensely.

It took extreme effort to say calmly, "There will be no further payments, Lord Esher. I am going to marry Charles, and that is that. You waste your time."

He did not argue. "Very well, then. Consider it my pleasure, a tribute to the gardens that were destroyed in my youth."

Madeline nodded. "Thank you."

He did not reply, only stared out the window with a rigidness on his spine, the paper on the hearth smoking in black curls.

She fled, running down the hall as if a devil nipped at her heels. There was no clear thought in her mind at first, only a sense that she desired sanctuary. The maze—no, it was marred with Lord Esher’s laconic teasing yesterday. And in the greenhouse, she’d think of his thumb on her lips, and in the rose garden, the tearing petals of the flowers against his mouth.

Even the library—that dim and musty retreat—was marred with his presence and the stain of sex.