Lucien's Fall Read online

  She stepped back. He lifted his head, affecting a quizzical expression that could not entirely hide the glitter of amusement in his eyes. "Do not be alarmed, Lady Madeline. She jests."

  His voice was as rich as the breath of a cello, and it was oddly alluring to have him so close, to see from a few inches the depth of those eyes, to smell the dusky fragrance of his skin. He held her hand and her gaze for a beat longer than was proper, a tiny smile playing at the edges of his sensual mouth.

  Madeline frowned, yanking her hand away. "Do not attempt such flirtations with me, Lord Esher. I’m afraid I find men of your ilk transparent and boring."

  He tucked his hands behind his back, allowing her to put distance between them. But his grin was crooked and set alive a dimple in the cheek. "Are we?"

  "Yes."

  "Madeline, how rude of you!" Juliette said, amused.

  Madeline, knowing her stepmother applauded her silently, said, "No ruder than men who think of women as little toys."

  Lord Esher laughed. "What a wise daughter you’ve raised, Countess," he said. His gaze never strayed from Madeline’s face, and she found the steadfast perusal unsettling.

  "Stepdaughter," Juliette said, and spatted him with her fan.

  "Oh?"

  Juliette lifted her chin. "I am not near of an age to have a grown daughter! Her mother died in childbed. ’Twas tragic."

  "Ah. I remember the story now. You wed the earl soon after, though, did you not?"

  The countess pouted, very prettily. "Yes. But I was a mere child."

  Madeline looked toward the long windows showing the setting sun framed by damask drapes, amused in spite of herself. Juliette, who was the daughter of a dressmaker, did not like being teased about her humble beginnings. Lord Esher evidently knew it. Madeline glanced at him from the corner of her eye.

  Boldly, he admired Madeline’s figure, making no pretense of doing anything else. The nearly violent blue of his eyes touched her shoulders and breasts and waist with approval.

  Juliette caught the examination. "I did train the girl, so you needn’t work your charms—she’s immune to the wiles of seduction."

  "Is she now?"

  "Quite," Madeline said.

  Mockingly, he dipped his head. "Then all I may do is bow."

  Madeline inclined her head in return, just as mockingly, a smile on her lips for the first time. If he did not exert himself too much—and why would he— she’d grow used to his extraordinary appeal very quickly. It was only the suddenness of his appearance that made her feel so unsettled. She’d had crushes on far more magnetic rakes than this.

  A stirring at the front of the salon caught her attention. Madeline turned, hoping it would be the marquess. A man came through the door, nodding distractedly at the guests.

  Madeline stared for a long moment. He was not the piggish creature she’d feared, nor was he at all handsome. Too plump, too soft. His clothes were a bit askew, as if he’d hurried or been careless, and his forehead already showed two half-moons of skin where his hair was falling out.

  Behind her, Madeline felt the presence of Lord Esher. His voice fell in her ear. "I hope you won’t mind one single compliment, earnestly extended." The warmth of his breath brushed her earlobe.

  She looked over her shoulder.

  The smile faded from his face, leaving a sober and intense expression. "You are the most exquisitely fey and beautiful creature I’ve ever seen."

  The tiny hairs on her neck raised. Abruptly, she flicked her fan. "If that’s sincere, I’m the queen of England."

  His crooked smile returned, and he straightened as Juliette moved close to Madeline, nudging her. "Psst. There is your husband, child. At the door."

  Madeline stared at the marquess, knowing her life hung in this moment. As she waited, the marquess caught sight of her, and the round, unremarkable face was transformed by a smile of deep and singular sweetness. He gave her a small, courtly bow.

  Her heart pinched.

  "Our troubles are over, my sweet," Juliette murmured, urging Madeline forward. "Go to him."

  For an instant longer, Madeline hung back. All her dreams of romance, of love, were swept away. She might one day grow fond of this round little man, but she would never love him.

  As if to point out the contrast, the heated, moist breath of Lord Esher brushed her shoulder, a whisper of a caress as dangerous as a serpent’s tongue. "One would think the marquess a perfect man for a woman who so dislikes men of my ilk."

  A tiny shudder rippled over her arms. "Yes," she said with more certainty than she felt, and moved forward. She smiled at the marquess as graciously as she was able, feeling a cool brush of air replace the breath of Lord Esher against her neck.

  She did not allow herself to look back.

  Chapter Two

  Fain would I change that note

  To which fond love hath charm’d me.

  ~ Anonymous

  Lucien had a headache. Mild at the moment, but the smell of perfume in the salon aggravated it, and he found himself hoping supper would soon be called. Food might help.

  The party was not particularly large, seven men and an equal number of women. In comparison to London affairs, it was minuscule indeed. But as Lucien watched the group assemble into knots according to friendship and alliance, he knew there were endless possibilities for amusement.

  Next to him, Jonathan glowered and tried not to watch every move Juliette made. By the door, Juliette fawned over the young marquess, while her stepdaughter less enthusiastically, but politely, allowed her hand to be kissed.

  "Why’s the countess angling for a marriage between those two?" Lucien asked Jonathan.

  Jonathan, involved in a pinch of snuff, wiggled his nose in satisfaction. "Look around. Whitethorn is suffering. The countess has done well to hold it all together, but the old earl was a notorious gambler and pissed away most of the estate before he died."

  Lucien narrowed his eyes to watch the trio by the door. Lady Madeline smiled politely at the young marquess, but in subtle signs Lucien saw her reluctance to be with him: in her hands, clutched tightly together in front of her, in the way she only halfway faced him, as if she might flee at any moment; in the rigidness of her jaw. "The girl doesn’t look particularly thrilled at the notion."

  "Can you blame her?"

  Lucien gave his friend a wry smile. "No." The marquess was young, but that youth was the only thing he had on his side. Plump and dull and earnest, his already thinning hair covered with a hedgehog wig, he was hardly the stuff of a girl’s dreams.

  And yet, the young man was obviously and thoroughly smitten with Madeline. His eyes shone with a naive worship Lucien found almost painful to observe.

  Jonathan lazily snapped his snuff box closed and tucked it back into the pocket of his waistcoat. "Why don’t you offer for her, Lucien?"

  "Marry?" Lucien echoed in genuine amusement. "Why don’t you do it? Snuggle yourself close to the countess?"

  His face darkened. "I haven’t the fortune they need. You do."

  Lucien looked intently at his friend and realized Jonathan had already offered and been turned down. Curious. He glanced back to the glorious Madeline— and for one instant, he gave the notion of marriage a fleeting consideration. One had to do it eventually. It might as well be to one as beautiful as this, whom a man might enjoy for the brief time before boredom set in.

  "Wouldn’t that please my father to no end?" he said dryly. He lifted his glass of port and sipped of it, thinking of Madeline’s arch acknowledgment of his status as a rake, and her disdain. She’d not marry him even if he offered.

  "It would please your father, actually," Jonathan said. "He’s likely to cut you off if you continue to defy him the way you have."

  "His only son? He’s a cold bastard, but I doubt he’d go that far."

  "You have cousins."

  Lucien blinked at a trickle of sharp, light-edged pain that seeped through his skull. In truth he had several cousins and an uncle, all
of whom would be delighted to get their hands on the Monthart fortune. "So let them take it."

  A derisive noise escaped Jonathan’s throat. "We’ll see how your tune changes when one of them succeeds in stealing it away from you."

  "They won’t."

  "Suit yourself."

  "A man so intent on being a lapdog to a woman ought not be so free with advice," Lucien said.

  Anger flashed in Jonathan’s eye. "If you weren’t my oldest friend, I’d call you out for that."

  The light-studded knife twisted in Lucien’s brain, blinding him momentarily. Harshly, he said, "So do it. I’d be inclined to let you kill me."

  "God, you’re in a temper. What ails you?" He frowned. "Surely you can’t be worried over that boy!"

  "What boy? God, no." Lucien frowned and waved the notion away. Helena, his most recently discarded mistress, had stirred the passions of a melodramatic young actor, who vowed to avenge Helena’s "humiliation" at Lucien’s hands. "No. He’s misguided, as he’ll learn soon enough."

  Jonathan clipped his watch closed with a sharp snap. "Well, whatever it is spoiling your mood, overcome it, will you? Juliette is rather counting on a smooth evening here tonight."

  Lucien made no reply. Smooth evenings bored him. Again his gaze strayed to the girl, speaking earnestly now to the marquess. Her skin carried a peculiar luminosity he found quite extraordinary. It almost blended with the shards of light in his headache, and he found himself a bit adrift in a rather fanciful vision of her, clad only in that thick dark hair. "Marriage, no," he said, half to himself.

  "Not seduction, Lucien," Jonathan protested. "Juliette will quite have your head."

  "Is that so?" he drawled, and paused just long enough to plant doubt in Jonathan’s mind before he said, "No. Innocents are rather dull." He let his gaze linger instead on Juliette, who caught the bold examination and tilted her head proudly in acknowledgment. "I much prefer women of some experience."

  Jonathan said nothing, but Lucien felt him grow rigid next to him. A mottled red stained his cheeks below the loose blond hair, giving brilliance to his green eyes. Lucien didn’t miss the amused and challenging glance Juliette shot toward Jonathan.

  "She’s going to drive me mad," Jonathan said, his mouth twisting as if he tasted something vile.

  "It’s a fatal mistake to fall in love, Jonathan. She’ll use it against you."

  "She’s doing it now," Jonathan said, "flirting with you.,’

  "So flirt another way."

  Jonathan smiled, very slowly. "Best not meddle in things you don’t understand, my friend." He left the room.

  His departure caught Juliette’s attention. Her coquettish mask evaporated and Lucien thought he caught the tiniest of frowns on her smooth brow. With a murmured word, she left the marquess and Madeline alone and hurried from the room.

  Curious, Lucien thought.

  * * *

  By the time the meal was announced, Lucien’s headache had trebled. Each step from the salon to the dining room caused a new explosion behind his brow, and he had to struggle to keep his expression even.

  As they settled around the table, he concentrated on the quartet providing music from one corner of the room. A mistake. While they were passably good musicians, they fell short of true inspiration, and their dropped notes, sliding sharps, and unpleasing flats grated on his ears, harshly exaggerating his headache.

  In the dining room he saw that the countess pinned down the top of the table, with Jonathan and himself seated on either side of her. To Lucien’s right, across the table, sat Lady Madeline and the marquess. At Lucien’s side sat a matron of the small hamlet, her wrinkled bosom dressed in violets, her powder rather grimly patted into the crevices. Lucien thought she must be at least ninety, and he was surprised to find her a quite learned and agreeable companion, who distracted him from both his headache and his rather disturbing attraction to Lady Madeline.

  Serious she was, and quite different from the rest of the women at the table. Her eyes, a cool gray in color, showed a sharp intelligence. He liked intelligent women. They bored him less quickly, and often had bold and pleasing sexual imaginations to go with their clever repartee.

  He gestured toward a footman for his glass to be refilled. The smells of the meal sat ill upon his stomach, and he plucked disinterestedly at the roast pheasant, unable to summon any appetite. The wine sloshed in his empty belly, but enough of it might numb the growing pain in his head. After dinner he could slip away unnoticed, or perhaps walk outside for a time. Fresh air sometimes chased away the worst of his headaches.

  Luckily he wasn’t called upon to make much conversation. The woman next to him started a lively debate on the merits of early or late shearing with the squire to her right, and Juliette’s attention was on Jonathan. By the flushed expression on both their faces, Lucien guessed there were things going on below the table he’d rather not examine.

  A footman took his plate and replaced it with an aspic that quivered sloppily, its shiny edges gleaming against the candles. Looking at it, Lucien felt faintly nauseous.

  To distract himself, he gazed again toward Madeline and her marquess. He seemed a plain enough fellow who ate rather a lot but didn’t seem particularly lascivious about it. He chatted politely, but uncomfortably patted his wig more than once, as if afraid it might slip. Which it did each time the marquess patted it.

  Whatever the girl thought of her courting lord and his struggles didn’t show on her face. Except once. Lucien caught her taking a deep, heartfelt sigh. Her expression at that moment—oddly stricken, somehow sorrowful—was so fleeting Lucien wondered if he’d really seen it at all. The rest of the time, she was the very model of civility and good breeding. Juliette had trained her well.

  She was an exquisite creature. Thick ebony hair, piled artlessly on her head, pointed out the clear, light gray of her eyes, eyes at once smoky and bold and naive; a mouth—oh, yes, quite a mouth—cut wide and full for passion, and as yet unawakened.

  As if she could hear the lascivious turn of his thoughts, Madeline looked up, straight at him. Her expression was cool, disguising any thought. Lucien touched his chin, wondering what sort of seduction it would take to shake free that aloof and haughty expression, and if it would be worth it.

  Her hands rested at the edges of her plate, and her body was still, as unmoving as statuary in the gardens. He pursed his lips, touching his mouth with his finger as he considered.

  Under his gaze, her breath caught. Only a bit, but he saw the quick rise of her breast, the smallest flare of her nostrils. He smiled, letting her know he had seen her reaction.

  She tilted her chin, and the disdainful brow rose eloquently before she turned away to listen to something the man to her left was saying. Lucien smiled, satisfied. That coolness, then, was shallow, hiding currents of feeling at which Lucien could only guess.

  A smooth, lyrical voice spoke against his ear:

  Juliette’s dulcet voice, a voice that had lifted the daughter of a dressmaker to the glittering heights of countess. "Not that chicken, Wolf."

  Lucien allowed himself a lazy smile. "I wouldn’t think of it."

  "No?"

  "Virgins bore me," he drawled. "I am curious, however. Why have we not seen her till now? Surely she’s past the age of a debut."

  A flicker of annoyance crossed the exquisite face. "She would not allow it."

  "Would not allow it?" he echoed.

  "She preferred to continue her education on the Continent. Had to go to Italy and explore the gardens."

  "Odd choice for a young girl."

  "She is not impressed with society, as you may have gathered."

  "But what else is there for the daughter of an earl?"

  "Just so."

  Lucien glanced back over his shoulder. In the flickering blaze of candles, her thick lustrous hair gleamed like the pelt of some elegant animal, and emeralds winked through the dark strands. He was caught by the flawless curve of her cheek, faintly rosy, unpain
ted and unpowdered. There was an appealing arrogance in the tilt of her head, a disdain he found more alluring than all the perfumes of Arabia.

  He shifted his gaze. "She’s a beauty, Countess," he commented with just the right note of lust in his throat. "Wise of you to marry her to the marquess before she falls into the clutches of some fiend."

  Juliette’s color rose. "Beware, Lord Esher." He saw she struggled to maintain her composure, but a hint of shrillness betrayed her. "I am mindful that men of your ilk find challenges irresistible."

  "True."

  She leaned forward, and Lucien allowed himself to admire frankly the display of creamy shoulders and bosom which her golden gown exposed. "Listen closely, Lord Esher. If you cross me, I’ll not bother with cutting you at parties or arranging a duel, as has contented so many of your lovers."

  He chuckled, raising his hands in mock terror. "What, assassinate me?"

  She smiled, her eyes glittering like cold jewels. Under the table her hand crawled up his leg. Her meaning was completely clear. "Not even so easy as that."

  Lucien inclined his head in acquiescence. He had no doubt she meant exactly what she said. "Very well, madam. I shall look elsewhere for my prey." As if he meant her, he let his gaze drop to her lips, as if wondering what taste they would carry. Slowly, he raised his eyes to hers again and smiled.

  The mark was true. A sultry look bloomed in her eye, and her vanity was appeased.

  God, it was too perfect! As he met that avaricious gaze, Lucien made up his mind to seduce the girl. What rake worthy of the name could resist? Juliette, no small rake herself, fairly begged to be taken down a notch, and she seemed utterly sure he would listen to her bidding.

  Deflowering a virgin from a family his father would approve deeply could only add sweetness to the pot. It wasn’t as if he had any pressing business the next few months—in fact he would likely be forced to duel a foolish lad in London if he returned.

  Yes, he would seduce Madeline, under the watchful eye of her guardian, and meanwhile let Juliette think he was intent on seducing her.