Lucien's Fall Read online

  To escape him, escape her growing attraction to him, Madeline spent long hours in the music room. He never followed her there. Protected by music, Madeline found a measure of peace.

  The Marais concerto she was working on defied her every attempt to get it right. There was a trill of notes through the middle she never quite mastered no matter how she practiced, and today she took up the instrument with the intent of doing so. Surely if she just did not give up, the errors would smooth away— she’d be able to understand just what she was doing incorrectly.

  She stood before the long, Elizabethan windows of the room, watching a soft gray drizzle wash the landscape clean. The verdant carpets of lush grass were almost painfully bright to look upon, and in combination with the gray sky, somehow poignant. Madeline sighed and tried her piece again, listening carefully for the mistakes she so often repeated. She played it from the beginning, straight through, then practiced the middle section that was proving so frustrating, then started over from the top again.

  She was deeply engrossed when a voice came from the doorway, rough and unexpected, startling her. "That is not a flat there."

  She turned to find Lucien coming into the room, looking tired but otherwise magnificent. His face was cleanly shaved, his hair brushed into a neat, glossy queue tied with black ribbon. His coat was freshly brushed, his boots polished to a high gleam. In the grayish light, his blue eyes blazed.

  "Pardon me?" she said.

  He crossed the room and took the bow out of her hand, then the violin. Not a "May I" or "Do you mind," just summarily took it. Madeline frowned at him.

  Lucien caught the frown. "It’s been weeks you’ve been massacring this piece, and I never liked it to begin with. If I show you where you’re going wrong, perhaps you’ll move on, hmm?"

  She crossed her arms. "Or perhaps I’ll play it all the more."

  "No, you won’t." He smiled. "I know musicians better than that—no one is ever content to stay with the one they’ve mastered."

  "But as you’re too well aware, I’m no musician."

  "You’re fair," he said. "Unschooled rather than untalented, really. You must come by it from Juliette."

  He touched the bow to the strings, lightly, testing, and made an adjustment to the tuning. Rainy light came through the windows, bathing him in translucent, silent beauty. There was in the way he held the instrument an exquisite grace, even with the scratches and marks the work in the garden had left on his hands. His fingers were long and elegant, and perfectly sure. Experimentally, he bowed again, adjusting, frowning, adjusting again. Madeline could barely distinguish the small changes he made.

  When it was tuned to his satisfaction, he looked at her. "This is what you’re playing," he said, and illustrated, exactly, down to the sour notes she couldn’t quite cure. "Do you hear?"

  "Yes, of course." It embarrassed her a little, but she had been trying to master it for a long time and was weary of it. She shifted, putting her hands on her hips. "How do I fix it?"

  He smiled. "So simple." He showed her, and the change was only a few minor things, adjustments that cleaned and clarified. "You’re not quite hitting the notes through this section. Slow down a little. Your left hand is moving too quickly for your right." He played, illustrating, and it was perfect. "You try."

  Madeline accepted the instrument back from him and played the song hesitantly, then a little more surely. "Like that?"

  He nodded, but she could tell by the hard look around his mouth it was still not quite right. He moved suddenly, and came behind her, putting his hand under her left elbow, another on her spine. "Straighten your back," he said.

  She did so, all too vividly aware of his touch. One hand touched her shoulder, and her neck. "Posture is everything with a violin," he said.

  Madeline wondered if he heard the deepening of the Russian sound to his voice when he spoke of music, and it gave her a secret pleasure to notice. Probably when he’d spoken of music or been taught, it had not been in English. Knowing something so quietly intimate about him made her relax a little. Madeline let her body straighten, pull into the lines it should have for this.

  "Good," he said, and ran a palm over her spine. She tried not to react, but a tiny trembling touched her limbs. He stepped close and kept one hand below her elbow, just barely touching it. The other roamed on her side, on her ribs, very close to her breast. His breath fell on her ear. "Try again."

  Madeline ignored his proximity and played. She played it wrong, on purpose, just enough wrong that it seemed she knew what he’d told her and only just missed. He let her go, as she’d known he would, and took the violin from her hands.

  "Like this," he said, and played it. The sound rolled from the instrument, rich and vibrant, utterly unlike the small quietness of her own hesitant bowing. She crossed her arms hard across her chest and watched him.

  He played the trill of notes that troubled her, then stopped a moment, his gaze on the violin. His face held an odd intensity. For the first time since she’d met him, his attention was wholly fixed on something besides herself. "This violin has a beautiful sound," he commented quietly, more to himself than to Madeline.

  She dared say nothing to disturb the moment. He ran an open hand along the curves of neck and body, sweeping around them as sensually as if they belonged to a woman. There was longing in the gesture, a hesitant and pained hunger. Below that, there was more, too—a swelling wildness that frightened her.

  "Lucien, perhaps—"

  He began to play. The notes were, at first, light and full. Free. Madeline thought of Lucien racing across the lawn the first moment she’d seen him, and that feeling of heedless liberty she’d sensed about him.

  He played with the deft, rare control of a natural musician, and in the gray cold light, he seemed a dark flame. The music swirled and danced and doubled back upon itself, changing now, becoming overlaid with something else, something dark and ominous, something terrifying that stomped away the light gaiety of the first section. It roared out now, quick and harsh and overwhelming. Madeline backed up a step.

  Lucien did not notice. It was plain he was lost, lost in his music, lost in the power of expressing it, lost in the sorrow and the swelling potency of the emotion he unleashed from the body of her violin.

  She heard one section of notes that she recognized—it was the piece he’d thrown in the fire that morning of their picnic.

  What happened to his music?

  It was here, plucking painful chords within her, circling and swooping and unerringly striking emotions she did not wish, at this moment, to feel. It was stormy, passionate, filled with a rage so vast Madeline wondered how he bore it.

  His body became the music, bending, swaying, joining it, until he seemed to become a note, a leap, a sorrow. She thought of him defying the high wall at the ruined castle, and riding his horse too hard, and throwing the paper in the fire, and she understood far, far more than she wished of Lucien Harrow.

  There were tears on her cheeks and she held up her hands to cover her ears. "Stop!" she cried.

  But the music kept rolling out, a pause, an echo of the first light notes, obliterated by the dark crashing chords, over and over, like a giant’s foot stomping out all the life and beauty in the world.

  "Stop!" she cried again.

  And he finally heard her, finally came back to himself. A fine sheen of perspiration clung to his brow, and she saw his breath came hard, as if he’d been running. He stared at her, the brilliant blue of his eyes almost searing in the gray light. His hair had been shaken loose in his passion, and wisps of it clung to the moisture on his face. In his hands, he held the violin and bow, and he was utterly, utterly still, his posture rigid.

  "My God," he said, the words barely a whisper.

  Madeline didn’t move. She saw his throat move as he swallowed, saw that his hands trembled a little.

  "My God," he said again, and moved forward to give the instrument to her. His movements were very controlled, very rigid, as
if he were a marionette. He paused, and Madeline moved forward, unsure what she could say to ease that stricken expression on his face.

  But his music had burned away all her words, and she couldn’t summon any. He stared down at her for a long moment more, and then turned on his heel and left her.

  Madeline, holding the bow that still carried the warmth of his fingers, closed her eyes. She was falling in love with him.

  That could not happen.

  Hastily, she put the violin aside and rushed from the music room to her own chamber. With shaking hands, she pulled a sheet of paper from her desk and dipped her pen. The first effort left a blob of ink on the sheet, and she started again.

  My dear Charles, she wrote,

  I find I am most anxiously looking forward to your return to Whitethorn. You will not believe the amount of work the men have got done on the windows. Nearly all are finished now.

  She hesitated, wondering how to communicate urgency without appearing forward, to hint to him there was danger to their plans if he did not come back to Whitethorn posthaste. Biting her lip, she wrote carefully:

  Lord Esher generously provided workmen, as well, insisting he wished to help, and that we’d be doing him a great favor by accepting. His men have worked, at his order, almost exclusively on the gardens and greenhouse, which, as you know, are very dear to my heart. You’ll scarce recognize them, I daresay.

  Many of the guests have left, and others come in their places, but Lord Esher and Lord Lanham show no sign of leaving. Perhaps they’ll be with us all summer.

  I do hope to see you soon, and I do hope we needn’t wait a long time to be married..

  Fondly,

  Madeline.

  Satisfied the marquess would understand her missive, she sealed and posted the letter, feeling much relieved.

  * * *

  By supper, Lucien was quite thoroughly drunk. He’d started on port at noon and steadily made his way through whatever else he might find for the rest of the day. As they waited for supper to be called, he downed two more glasses of wine to be sure food didn’t sober him any.

  Jonathan noted his state with a lifted brow. "What sorrows can you be drowning in this bucolic setting, Lucien?" He plucked the full glass of wine from Lucien’s hands and gave it to the butler, waving him on.

  Lucien scowled. "Not all of us have found eternal love and bliss," he said, pleased when the words came out on a perfectly ironic note. "I’m weary of the place. Getting drunk seemed a good tonic."

  Jonathan nodded—superciliously to Lucien’s way of thinking. A taste of bright rage welled in his throat, and he clamped it back, reaching instead for the dull calm of the port-induced haze. "I’m bored," he said again. "Nothing mysterious about that."

  Just then, Madeline came into the salon. Lucien felt a shock of awareness and heat penetrate the fuzzy haze surrounding him. She’d done her hair up in some elaborate pile of pins and jewels and braids. It glittered and shone. Her dark eyes burned in her pale face, and her dress was the green one she’d worn the first night; it showed her creamy shoulders, the luxurious swell of her white breasts, the fragile, graceful line of her collarbone. He stared at her.

  As if she sensed his intent gaze, she glanced at him, and it seemed across the room, through all the crowd and noise and milling conversation, that he was again alone with her in the music room, and music was pouring out from him like the waters from a broken dam, and she was stricken and staring and roused— He tore his gaze away, feeling nauseous from so much wine. There was no headache, which he thought odd, until he remembered the music had been given rein, hadn’t it? It made him want to laugh. Instead he caught Jonathan’s measuring gaze. "What are you lookin’ at?"

  "Not a thing," Jonathan replied.

  It occurred to Lucien that his friend was completely sober, that he had a mature and calm aspect about him that had not previously been there. "Why are you so full?" he asked, and waved at the butler, who nodded and poured him another glass.

  "Full?" Jonathan echoed. "I don’t know what you mean."

  Lucien noted the calmness again, and the only answer it could be struck him with force. "You can’t mean she’s going to marry you."

  Jonathan ever so slightly smiled. "I believe she will."

  "Well." Lucien took only a small sip this time, unwilling to have the glass taken again. "Well," he repeated. "How in the world did you manage it?"

  "It isn’t settled yet, but she only needed one very rich man to secure Whitethorn. Since Madeline is going to marry the marquess"—Jonathan smiled— "Juliette is free to marry as she chooses."

  "Neatly done." Cynically, however, he shook his head. "I wonder Jonathan, if you have any idea how foolhardy you are."

  A blaze burned in the bright green eyes. "Watch yourself."

  Lucien lifted a hand, waving the comment away. The mistake most often made about Jonathan Child was that his blond, angelic good looks made people underestimate him. "I only speak from long experience," Lucien said. "Juliette and Anna are among the most notorious women in England."

  Jonathan said nothing, but a sudden bright expression on his face made it plain the subject of his amour had appeared. Lucien tossed back the port for strength and looked up. Juliette sailed toward them, afloat on her belled skirt. A great, round diamond glittered in the hollow of her delicate throat, and for one minute, Lucien was reminded of Madeline—in this she was like her mother, those delicately beautiful shoulders and arms in contrast to the full breasts.

  No, he remembered, fuzzily, they were not blood relations, but stepmother and daughter. Perhaps it was only in the way they displayed their gifts or something in the way Madeline moved. Madeline was sweeter, younger, innocent, so did not have the practiced air about her that Juliette carried, but her mannerisms were much the same.

  The butler took his glass. Lucien pinned him with a glare. "Another," he said distinctly.

  Juliette joined them, and Jonathan took her gloved hand to kiss. "You look magnificently beautiful, as always," he said.

  A shimmer of pure light glowed in her face for a fleeting instant, but Lucien witnessed it with a sense of being thunderstruck; Juliette was in love with Jonathan! In love.

  To celebrate, or whatever was appropriate to such a strange event, Lucien had another drink.

  * * *

  Madeline twice thought Lord Esher would claim his kiss during the evening—that sultry gaze he’d given her as she came into the salon seemed to promise it.

  The first time was as they were called to dinner. Madeline lost a button on her slipper and sent her partner in ahead. She was grateful for the delay, which would mean Lucien was seated already and she could sit as far away from him as need be. It wasn’t as if the table were filled every night, and certainly would not be tonight.

  But as she came from the salon, she saw Lucien coming from the opposite direction. In his pale blue coat, he was the very epitome of elegance and danger, the embodiment of every rake and rogue who’d walked these halls at Whitethorn for two centuries. His eyes were too bright and burned with an unholy light.

  "It seems we are both tardy," he said, holding out his arm. "Allow me to escort you in to dinner."

  Madeline had no choice but to accept. Gingerly, she put her hand on his elbow. Gloves on her fingers and satin oil his coat prevented any tactile sensation, but Madeline could not halt the sudden, vivid picture of him this afternoon, bathed in that clear, cold light of the music room, his arm crooked so naturally, so easily, to play the violin.

  He paused outside the dining room. "You are so beautiful. I think we’re alone enough right now that I might steal that kiss, are we not?"

  She lifted her head, thinking two things at once— Oh, yes, we are alone and it will be at last finished, and No, if you kiss me, I will die.

  She didn’t know which one he saw in her eyes, but he said, "No, I think I will wait."

  It was only then she realized he was quite rippingly drunk. His breath was thick with the scent o
f it, and his gait was ever so slightly unsteady as they walked into the room. Juliette looked up as they came in, her eyes holding the faintest . . . what? disapproval? worry? before the serenity of her earlier expression returned. Lucien led Madeline to a seat next to Lady Heath and took his own chair nearby Jonathan.

  To her horror, Madeline realized her hands were trembling. She could not, for a moment, even lift her fork.

  The countess leaned close. "My dear, I do hope you’re not foolishly contemplating a liaison with Lucien Harrow?"

  "Of course not!" To prove she was calm and ordinary, Madeline picked up her fork and stabbed a small chunk of tomato on her plate. It skidded and flew into her lap. "Oh, bother," she said with a sigh. "I’m afraid I’m still not used to these silly gloves."

  With an annoyed gesture, she yanked one of them off. Some evil part of her looked down the table to where Lucien was leaning back in his chair, a glass of port in his hand, staring back at her—that curious burn in his gaze. Lifting her chin, she tugged the other glove off and let it fall to her lap. Not even the slightest smile broke the gravity of his face.

  And once again they were alone, music pouring into the room from the violin, notes of shattering sorrow and terrible power—and Lucien was staring, stricken at what had come from him. Madeline closed her eyes and prayed fervently that Charles would return quickly.

  "My dear," the countess said, "run as fast as you can."

  Madeline gave a guilty start at her words. Calmly, she said, "I assure you, Countess, you’ve no need to worry over my virtue." Archly, she looked at her. "If, indeed, it is my virtue you worry about."

  A spark leaped in the still-beautiful eyes. "You are so young—and need better looking after than Juliette has given."

  "I think you regret laughing at the young man he was."

  "Not at all, my dear." Anna leaned forward. "You have yet to learn one secret women in our set must know—and that is that a woman must never allow her heart to be touched, else all is lost."

  "If her heart is never touched," Madeline countered, "what point is there to anything else?"