Lucien's Fall Read online

  "You are disgusting," she said, and her voice was low and breathless. "You accuse Jonathan of—of—"

  "Doing mother and daughter?" he drawled.

  "Yes! And you’re the one attempting it!"

  He smiled bitterly. "Not that I expect you to believe me, but I have not touched your stepmother."

  "I saw you."

  Carefully, he turned, narrowing his eyes. A tendril of her dark hair trailed over her shoulder, making a line he could follow with his mouth over her collarbone, down the slope of her chest, and swaying into a curl on the white swell of her breast. His chest tightened. "Be careful what you think, Madeline. Thinking you see and really seeing are not the same."

  Her gray eyes blazed, made bright by the flush on her cheekbones. Her agitation was not entirely anger, and if he wished to be truly relentless, he would press his advantage now. She’d tumble to her emotions in this moment, tumble to him, thrash and cry out— "I wish you would leave Whitethorn," she said.

  He stared at her, willing her to remember what had passed between them this afternoon. He thought of her breasts, plump and round and tipped with coral. Her mouth softened, the slightest bit. Lucien turned away to hide his arousal. "I know."

  She waited another moment, but when he did not turn, she slammed the door. Lucien lifted a bottle and drank. It was better that she believed he seduced both mother and daughter. It was evidently what Juliette wanted the girl to believe, and he had to applaud her cunning. She had followed him from the salon and stalked him until he paused in a quiet place, and proceeded to seduce him. Her dress came loose and she stood naked to the waist in the dark, cloudy night, and he had to admit the sight had been a splendid one.

  But not even the slightest twinge of arousal had moved him. That had shamed her. They’d argued.

  And Lucien had made a mortal enemy.

  It was, perhaps, best if he left Whitethorn before things grew more complicated. He’d leave Madeline to her marquess, Juliette to Jonathan, his music in oblivion.

  But just now he was driven to the paper, to the ink. In the humid, close night, he heard a transition that had eluded him, and he scribbled it down. Just now, he had to catch that little turn at the end of the fourth bar. Just now...

  Shirtless, barefoot, with a bottle of port, a fat tallow candle, and a pot of ink at his elbow, Lucien sat in his chair and wrote.

  * * *

  Juliette waited for Jonathan. She left a candle burning on her night table and sat on the chaise longue nearby the door to the balcony, dressed in a diaphanous wrapper he liked. Her hair she left dressed, as he also liked, and her maid had repaired the mussed powder on her face.

  She felt unwell, sick at heart, with a thick weight of sorrow and shame in her chest, a weight utterly unfamiliar. It had been so humiliating to offer herself so boldly to Lucien and have him refuse. It had never happened—no man had ever turned her down.

  Which only meant she must be, after all, getting old.

  Wearily, she leaned her head on a pillow, closing her eyes for only a moment. How lucky she’d been to find Jonathan! Perhaps, after all, she should take him up on his offer of marriage. If society chuckled at her behind its hand, how would it be different than the whispers she’d endured as the dressmaker’s daughter?

  Except she’d grown used to a certain deference, both to her beauty and her power.

  These thoughts chased themselves in her mind, like squirrels after their tails. She smiled as she thought of the tiny gray squirrel babies she’d fed all spring from her window. Squirrels.

  She started awake much later, feeling the stiffness in her neck and wrists from such an awkward position. The candle spluttered, nearly out, and she could hear no sounds from the rest of the house. Blinking, stiff, coughing, she sat up and peered at the clock on her mantel. It was past three.

  With considerable effort she got to her feet and padded over to the mirror, the damp cough rattling her lungs as she bent to examine the damage her nap had done her face. Remarkably little. She pushed a curl from her forehead.

  Odd Jonathan had not come to her. With a wash of fear, she wondered if he’d somehow learned of her attempt to dally with Lord Esher. Although she had been prepared to lose him to save Madeline’s virtue, the disastrous seduction attempt had proved nothing. What a dreadful irony if she lost him over it.

  Refreshed by her little nap, she donned a silk dressing gown and took up a candle to guide her way through the halls to Jonathan’s room. She scratched at the door and waited, noticing with a small part of her mind that there was noise yet coming from Lord Esher’s chamber—the man never slept!

  There was no answer at Jonathan’s door, so Juliette pushed in. He wasn’t there. Had not been there at all, she guessed. With a trill of worry, she backed out and headed downstairs, looking for him.

  He was not in the drawing room or library. She asked of the footman dozing by the door where he might have gone, and he, befuddled, shrugged. A gentleman had gone to town, but he’d returned long since.

  Juliette lifted her skirts to once again climb the stairs. She coughed but could not dislodge the tight feeling in her chest. Fear. As she moved back to her room, she tried to recall when she’d last seen him—if he’d been anywhere about when she followed Lucien out to the garden.

  No. She was simply tired and overwrought from the events of the day. There was likely some perfectly reasonable excuse for his absence, and she’d hear it in the morning and laugh at her dread this evening.

  In the morning, when she’d had some rest, she would laugh.

  * * *

  If dinner had been trying, the next day was worse, Madeline thought the next afternoon. A relentless drizzle poured from a dark sky all day long, trapping everyone indoors with their roiling emotions. Madeline stayed as long as she was able in the greenhouse, but even she had to eat eventually.

  Reluctantly, she wandered into the salon, hoping to snag a few little cakes to nestle in her apron, and perhaps some buttered bread. She didn’t intend to issue protest tonight—she simply would not appear for supper. Nor would she allow Juliette to bully her into it. To that end, she didn’t bother to change her gown before joining the guests, but went looking for tea wearing the faded muslin she worked in.

  The salon was a large room, facing the same view of lawns, maze, and drive as the dining and music rooms. Two sets of French doors complemented the row of long mullioned windows, letting in all possible light. The walls were painted light blue and accented in gold. Carved chairs and armoires and delicate sofas were scattered about the room; crystal and brass and enamel tastefully anointed surfaces.

  It was Juliette’s room, light and airy and gay, as she was. The blue of the walls and the patterned carpet reflected the blue of her eyes; the copious light romped over her flawless skin—and made parody of her imitators’ every flaws.

  This afternoon, not even the long windows could chase away the gloom; Madeline was struck by the chill the glass allowed when she entered, and tugged her shawl around her more closely. A quick glance at the room showed a knot of guests playing cards to one side, and one of the squires’ wives embroidering serenely nearby a window. Ubiquitous servants lingered nearby the tables set for tea, ready to pour and serve the tasty bits of food provided. Madeline made her way to them, hoping to escape without having to converse with anyone.

  The hope was futile. As she took a small warm bun from a basket, Juliette’s voice pinned her, "Madeline, come here, darling."

  Madeline sighed at the footman, who took her bun back with only the faintest trace of amusement, and turned, bracing herself for whatever politics there were to manage today.

  The four lords and ladies, as she’d come to think of them, Juliette, Anna, Jonathan, and Lucien, were arranged around a small low table. It looked as if they were playing a game, but Madeline didn’t recognize the arrangement of cards laid out on the table.

  She tried not to see Lord Esher, but her gaze tripped on his long legs, encased in dark green
breeches that fit the hard shape altogether too well. A feeling of heat filled her mouth. He ignored her, his gaze fixed on something beyond the windows. Stung, Madeline ignored him, too. "I’m sorry, Mama," she said. "I’ve much work to do and cannot stay. I only stopped to get a cup of tea."

  Juliette sat in a darker place than usual, and when Madeline came close, she was appalled at her appearance. Not even her thick powder could hide the ravaged look of her face, the hollows under her eyes and cheekbones. Her eyes were faintly red and a bit swollen, as if she’d been weeping or had not slept. Juliette was so vain, Madeline could not believe she had even allowed herself to be seen in such a state, and that worried her more. Moving forward in concern, she began, "Mama—"

  Lucien leaped up quickly, and took her arm. "I’m so glad you’ve come," he said in a smooth tone. "Show me the pastry we discussed, will you? I’d so like to take it to my cook in London."

  Nonplussed, she looked up at him, and he tugged her elbow. "Please," he said, but the word was an order.

  Her anger and feeling of betrayal flooded back, and Madeline less than politely removed her arm from his grip. Planning to ignore him entirely, she turned back to the little group, about to speak. It was only then that she registered the strange tension emanating from the trio at the table. Jonathan sat very close to Lady Heath, who fanned herself lazily, a triumphant expression on her face. Jonathan’s face held no expression as he met her gaze, but she knew he’d had his revenge.

  Madeline swallowed and looked up at Lucien. She nodded.

  They strolled to the pastry tables, hands folded tightly, Lucien’s behind his back, Madeline’s locked at her waist. He looked better this morning, and there was even something radiant about him somehow. "I vow I did not touch her," he said; "It matters little to me if you believe it, but I’m loath to lose my oldest friend over any woman."

  "And I, sir," she parried, "care little for the friendship of rogues, but very much for the feelings of my stepmother."

  His tone was cool, his eyes emotionless, so much so that Madeline wondered if she had dreamed the passionate interlude in the maze. "Well, then, we have a common purpose."

  "It will not matter." Madeline looked over her shoulder at the trio. Juliette looked disturbingly dull. "I pity them both."

  "Do you?" he said, and now the voice was dangerous, low, resonant. "Why?"

  Madeline worried her fingers, aware that Lucien had moved closer. She fixed her eyes on his coat sleeve and remembered with a sudden flush how that fabric had felt against her naked flesh. "They love too deeply."

  "As I love you?"

  Madeline lifted her eyes. Anger filled her. "Do not begin again, my lord. You are a shallow, shallow man with no knowledge of love at all."

  "How can you be so sure?" he asked. "How can you profess to know what is in my heart?"

  The aloof amusement in his gaze infuriated her. "I’ll not discuss it," she said with a voice so level she gave herself a mental cheer. Impossible to stand so close to him without smelling that elusive man-note that was his alone; without sensing the heat of his skin. She forced herself to meet his impudent gaze, so dark and seductive as he smiled down at her.

  "What will you discuss, my little plum?" He bent close to say into her ear, "Or perhaps we should not talk at all."

  Madeline ducked her head and pushed by him, unwilling to fall under his spell again.

  He grabbed her arm. "See to your stepmother, Madeline. I feel she’s made herself quite ill with regret. I dislike seeing her so distraught."

  The unexpected compassion seared her. Without looking at him, she hurried back to the table and bent over Juliette’s chair. "I hope you both will forgive us," she said to Jonathan and Lady Heath, "but I require the Countess and her clear eye in my chamber."

  "Of course," Anna cooed.

  "We’ll see you at dinner, I hope?" Jonathan said, rising. His gaze burned toward Juliette, but Madeline shielded her stepmother with her body. "Both of you?"

  "Yes."

  But once Madeline had helped Juliette to her dark chamber, she doubted Juliette would be doing anything for the rest of the day. Her flesh burned with fever, and a deep cough erupted from her lungs as Madeline pulled off her gown and unlaced her undergarments. Her body, always thin but for the weight of breasts, had grown almost scrawny. Madeline wondered how long she had been losing weight.

  "I don’t feel very well," she said as Madeline tucked her in. "It must be a summer cold."

  Madeline frowned. "I’ll bring some tea. Shall I send for a doctor?"

  "No." The word was adamant.

  As she lay back, she started to cough violently. Madeline gathered several pillows and propped her up halfway, her mind whirling. There was something she felt she was overlooking, something important. She touched Juliette’s brow, and her hand came away with a thick coating of powder. With a frown, she went to the pitcher and bowl on the washstand nearby the window, dipped a cloth into the water, and brought it back to the bed.

  "You’ll have to rest upright like this until that cough clears a little." Gently, Madeline washed the beautiful face. Below the white powder, the flesh was very pale. "I wish you’d wear a little less powder. It hides you."

  "A woman my age cannot afford to go out unpainted," Juliette replied wearily. She coughed again and turned her face away. Madeline, to her chagrin, saw tears. "Oh, do not weep!" she cried, putting her hand on Juliette’s thin arm. "Nothing matters so much as that!"

  "He’s gone," she said. "I’ve lost him."

  "No," Madeline said, soothing. "No, he loves you. He came to me for advice on how to win your hand— did you know?’

  "Really?"

  "Yes, just a few days ago. I told him I’d think about it, but perhaps I need not. All you need do is give him your love, freely and steadfastly, and all will be well."

  "I am so weary," Juliette said. "So weary."

  "Go to sleep, then." Madeline stroked her brow, humming quietly under her breath. Juliette fell asleep. For a long while, Madeline sat with her, listening to the rattling exhalations.

  When it was plain Juliette had slipped into the deep rest of exhaustion, Madeline left her to get ready for supper, her hopes of an evening cloaked off to herself completely ruined. At the kitchen, she stopped to have a special tea prepared for Juliette’s cough, and insisted one of the younger maids should be allowed to go upstairs to sit with Juliette.

  Then, with a strange sense of impending doom, Madeline dressed for supper.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The thirst that from the soul doth rise

  Doth ask a drink divine.

  ~ Ben Jonson

  After the little scene in the salon, Lucien spent the remainder of the day riding, in spite of the annoying drizzle. It didn’t bother his horse, nor did it bother him, and they had the meadows and lanes to themselves. It was quiet and refreshing.

  He had nearly decided to leave Whitethorn, and the afternoon’s odd events tipped the balance. In the morning, he would go back to London. Surely the boy so intent on defending Herotica’s honor had learned the truth about her by now and wouldn’t be so quick to run Lucien through. He was getting too old for duels and skipping town. He hadn’t the heart for it anymore.

  Without really intending to do it, he rode out to the ruins of the castle. Hobbling the horse under a sheltering spread of branches, he shed his coat and made his way through the ruins to the crumbling tower.

  It would have been certain suicide to attempt the climb along the wall in the rain; instead he took the steps to the top of the tower and gazed out around him. A timeworn embrasure provided a convenient seat, and Lucien leaned against it. It looked serene— the vibrant treetops, the rolling stretch of meadows, the deserted lanes, all obscured and softened by the drizzling rain. Whitethorn was a beautiful estate, one to be proud of. Lucien understood why Madeline wanted to fight for it.

  A clump of grass grew in the crack of the embrasure. Idly, Lucien plucked a stalk and chewed it, taking pl
easure in the dusky taste on his tongue when he bit it.

  In the landscape, he saw her. There, that newly plowed stretch of dark earth, was her hair. And the undulating meadows, rising and falling in such womanly splendor, were her body. The sky, pale and smooth, was her flesh—that flower, so red, her lips.

  Even in fancy, even in such an abstract way, the thought of her aroused him. He could not bear leaving Whitethorn until he’d bedded her. If he could coax her into his bed for one long night, he could walk away. It was the chase that consumed him. Once conquered, women were all alike.

  How to accomplish it, though? She was a perplexingly resistant woman. Even when she was nearly mad with need the other day in the maze, she’d managed to halt him. Of course, his own lust had been so engaged he had less finesse than usual, too. Ordinarily, he didn’t lose his head until the conquest was assured.

  He frowned, watching a pair of starlings flitter around an overhang. That was part of his trouble. Madeline made him forget himself, so he forgot everything he’d learned about how to seduce women, how to wear down their defenses, and immersed himself in the feeling of Madeline around him, against him, kissing him. He lost himself in her, and no matter how he resolved to maintain his control, it all evaporated when he touched her.

  He had to have her. Soon. He would create with his music a moment when she was vulnerable, when there would be nothing to interfere with her losing control, nothing to bring her back to herself. Together, they would lose themselves.

  A shiver walked his spine at the thought.

  Afterward, when dawn broke and their night was done, Lucien would walk away without complaint and bear her hatred as the inevitable price. The marquess was so besotted he’d care little whether Madeline was virgin or not, and they’d go on with their lives as planned. In odd moments, Madeline would remember that single, stunning night.

  His heart felt tight as he imagined it. What would he be doing while she had her serene life and thought of him? Would he think of her? Would he be at last the earl of Monthart and live a life of some usefulness? His father was a cruel man, stiff-lipped and disapproving. He made life hell for his dependents, not only his son, but all the local labor, the people in the town, anyone who had to look to him for compassion. He had none.