Lucien's Fall Read online

  "Nonsense." Firmly, she dragged him toward the stairs, her skirts in one hand. "One moment to say hello. She can wave at you sleepily and then you can be on your way. What will it hurt?" she asked over her shoulder. "I know she’ll be dreadfully disappointed if she hears you’ve been here and she was asleep."

  She kept up a steady patter all the way to Madeline’s door. Without even a little scratch, she opened the door.

  And froze. Beside her, the marquess, too, froze in silence and shock.

  From the windows streamed bright lemon-colored sunshine, that fell over the floor, touching the carpet and the wooden bedposts and the gathered, undrawn curtains around the bed. On that bed, tangled and naked and sound asleep against the white sheets, were Lucien Harrow and Madeline.

  For one searing moment, Juliette stared, thinking how beautiful they were, their long youthful limbs entwined, Madeline’s head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped closely around her as if he would not let her go. Long black hair fell from two heads and tangled around them. "Oh, my God," Juliette said, stunned, and covered her mouth to keep from screaming the words.

  Next to her, the marquess took her arm and tried to lead her away from the sight. "You couldn’t have known," he said kindly, and tugged on her arm.

  Oblivious, Lucien and Madeline slept on.

  "No!" With a cry, Juliette roared across the room. The sound roused the lovers, but their fog was deep and they didn’t untangle very quickly. Not quickly enough. Juliette grabbed a slipper from the floor and swung it down with all her might on Lucien’s leg. "Get up, you fools!" she screamed. "You’ve been found out! Rise up and take your punishment!"

  Lucien came to awareness first, and he turned to hide Madeline from view, blocking her with his body until he could cover her with the quilt bunched at the foot of the bed. Juliette beat him as he moved, and he didn’t wince at all, only blocked the worst of her mean blows as he took care of Madeline.

  And from behind Juliette came strong arms— Charles Devon, calm as ever—lifting her from her feet, holding her flailing hands close to her body.

  Lucien dragged a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around his waist as if there was nothing amiss. "Take her to the salon, Charles," he said. "I will be there momentarily."

  "No, you bastard!" Juliette cried. "No! You’ll be gone from here, or I’ll kill you myself. You despoiled my daughter! In my house!"

  Now, servants and guests, drawn by the noise, had begun to peek around the doorway, and Charles held Juliette close. "Hush before you wake everyone," he said in a stem voice. "The moment can be salvaged if you will be still."

  Stunned, shaking, Juliette let the shoe drop. When Charles let her go, she looked over her shoulder at Madeline, mussed and ruddy cheeked and weeping. "I am so ashamed of you," she said darkly, and left the room with as much dignity as she could muster.

  * * *

  In the dead silence that followed the wild scene, Lucien pulled on his clothes. Madeline huddled in the bed, her back to him, the sheet drawn to her breasts. Long, long streamers of loose, hip-length hair half covered, half exposed her, and he felt himself grow aroused once more. Impossible.

  Emotions welled in him—tenderness and regret and hunger and sorrow. He no more wanted to leave her now than to cut off a leg, but there was no choice. Against her flesh, the bones of her spine stuck out, and he bent over to kiss it, smoothing a hand over her hair. "Madeline," he said helplessly, and pressed his forehead against her nape. "Look at me."

  She buried her face into the pillows, a low keening sound coming from her. One hand was curled into a fist against her ear, and the knuckles were white.

  Guilt joined the other emotions in his heart, and he pulled her around, pulled her beautiful, naked, precious form into his embrace and rocked her, smoothing that long hair all around her. "Somehow it will all work out, Madeline, I swear it. Right now, I’ll go and tell them I seduced you, that it was none of your doing." He swallowed, thinking of the night. So perfectly had they meshed! "I’ll offer for you, but Juliette would rather murder me, I’m sure."

  Her weeping slowed as she nested close. He touched her thigh. Her breasts, so inviting, pressed into his coat, and he ached have her again. How could he contemplate never holding her again? With a great effort of will, he put her away from him and took a breath. "I’ll make it all right."

  From the bed, she looked up at him, her eyes full of regret and sorrow. She touched his face. "Never forget," she whispered.

  With a groan, he fell on her, body to body once more, even if his was sheathed in clothes, and kissed her with all the passion he knew. "Never," he said.

  Then somehow, he stood up and straightened his clothes, donned his jacket and smoothed his hair. And marched out of her room, knowing he would never be allowed within thirty yards of her again.

  Not as long as he lived.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The pleasure of possessing

  Surpasses all expressing.

  But ’tis too short a blessing,

  And love too long a pain.

  ~ John Dryden

  For long moments after Lucien left her, Madeline huddled in the bed. It seemed to her that she should never move again, that if she simply stayed where she was, time could not progress and there would be no consequences.

  But that was the act of a coward, to hide. She’d been a willing participant in her own seduction. She had not sent him from her. She had joined with him eagerly—and now she would pay the price.

  Not for the world would she have wished to so disappoint Charles. He was a good man and deserved better. Madeline had thought herself as high-natured as he, but she’d been proved wrong. Perhaps her blood had been infected by simply living in this house all these years, watching parades of lovers trailing by.

  Nor would Madeline have wished Juliette to learn of her fall to temptation. Juliette, who’d done so much to capture the attention of the marquess for her; who’d sold her precious jewels and silks to buy gowns to make Madeline beautiful and give a party to which the marquess could come. Juliette had even tried to seduce Lucien and lost her own lover, just to divert Lucien’s attention.

  It was a gross betrayal Madeline had indulged.

  As she washed, carefully, for her body was very tender, she wondered how it was that something done in the dark could seem so right, and when it was examined in the bright morning, all the seams and perfidy showed.

  Except—oh, how beautiful Lucien had been at dawn!

  She would not think of that.

  With as much dignity as she could muster, she went down to the library. Only Juliette still remained, and Madeline wondered if she’d taken too long getting dressed. Juliette stood beneath the stained glass window that celebrated the Virgin Mary. The soothing browns of her robes fell into the room to spill onto the carpet. Madeline entered and stood still, waiting for Juliette to take notice of her.

  At last, Juliette turned. Her face was tired, her eyes weary. "I awakened this morn feeling more alive than I have in years," she said conversationally, plucking absently at a fall of lace on her sleeve. "I was so happy to see the marquess—we were so happy to go find you—"

  Madeline held up a hand. "Please" she protested.

  "How could you? After all we’ve done? All you’ve done? It’s so unlike you!"

  "I don’t know," she whispered, her head bowed. "I have no defense." She looked at Juliette. "I don’t know."

  With a cry, Juliette gestured wildly, shoving everything from the top of the small secretary onto the floor. A bottle of ink broke with a tinkle, and big brass statues crashed to the floor. "You are an ungrateful child!"

  Madeline winced, and lowered her head, clasping her arms around her chest. A vast, yearning loneliness engulfed her—always Juliette had been her rock of stability. "I am so sorry," she said. "If it will please you, I will go to London and try to find another husband."

  "NO" Juliette paced toward the desk, her wrapper trailing behind her, and paused. "Only God kno
ws how you snagged so wise and humble a man when you are so filled with treachery, but the marquess still wishes to marry you, if you are willing."

  Madeline stared. "He does?"

  "He is aware of Lord Esher’s reputation. You are not the first young woman he’s ruined, you know."

  The statement, and its attendant reality, crushed her. "No," she whispered. "I don’t suppose I am."

  "I’ve sent him packing, and his two-timing friend as well. Even Lady Heath will be gone by nightfall, and she’ll not soon darken my doorway, either, I can tell you."

  Crushed, stunned, overwhelmed, Madeline only looked at her stepmother. Two bright patches of color burned on her cheekbones.

  "I will ride to the earl of Monthart’s estate this afternoon. Lord Esher has felled his last virgin."

  "What will you do?" Madeline asked, fearful.

  "I intend to see him disowned."

  "No." The word was simple and strong. "He did not come to my room and storm the door. I am not without blame."

  "No, you are not," Juliette agreed. "But you will pay in ways you have yet to discover. He will not, unless I seek vengeance."

  "Please don’t."

  Juliette gave her a brittle glance. "For a girl who has so betrayed everyone around her, you are bold."

  She bowed her head. "Perhaps it is better if I do not marry the marquess. He surely deserves better."

  "Never say that again," Juliette said. She crossed the room and took Madeline’s chin in her hand. "You have erred, surely, but you are still a good woman and will make a good wife to him." Juliette peered into her face. "Will you be all right, my dear?"

  Madeline blinked back a furious wash of tears that filled her eyes then. "Yes," she choked out. But she wasn’t at all sure it was true.

  Letting her go, Juliette donned a brisk attitude. "As I said I ride to the earl of Monthart today. Jonathan and Lucien have been ordered to collect their things and go immediately back to London. The marquess will return tonight to hear your answer. I will have an intimate meal prepared for the pair of you, and you’ll do your best to put things right."

  Wordless, Madeline nodded.

  Before she could humiliate herself by bursting into tears of grief and shame, Madeline tore away from Juliette and ran from the room. In her own chamber, she found the maid stripping the sheets from her bed, and she wanted to cry out "No!"

  Instead, as calmly as she could, she turned around and took the back stairs to the greenhouse. Here she could be alone. Here she could grieve and make sense of all the days ahead. Days she would spend without Lucien.

  She wept away the agony in her heart. She allowed every moment of their night together to filter into her mind, where she looked at it carefully, smelled it and tasted it, and, like an outgrown gown, folded it away. When the whole night had been thus examined, she closed the trunk lid and locked it up.

  Lucien Harrow was a rake and ne’er-do-well who would likely die drunk or in a duel, or possibly both. Like some beautiful animal that wandered in from the wild to be fed and then wandered back, he was not a creature meant for domestication, for dogs and rides and children.

  In one night, he’d given her the best of his sexual expertise. He’d shown her the mysteries of love as only a well-practiced rake could show them, and for that, Madeline was grateful. She would take what she’d learned and use it to make her union with the marquess a happier one. She had learned very much about how to pleasure a man, and it was useful material.

  Drying her eyes, she straightened. A hip bath to wash her hair and the smell of Lucien from her, a nap to rest her weary heart, and she’d be ready to greet the marquess this evening.

  Calmly, she went in search of a maid.

  * * *

  Honed with purpose, Juliette bustled about, ordering her carriage and the proper accompaniment, choosing her gown—a rich brown velvet, she decided, embroidered simply and fit close to her figure. It was a little loose around the waist, but fit nicely against her bosom. It never hurt to be dazzling when one was outraged. She’d never met the earl of Monthart, but he was a man like any other, she was sure. And he’d sired Lucien Harrow, had he not?

  There was a bright fire in her as she traveled. A hot bright flame that burned away the sorrows she’d known this day, that meant her life would be forever changed. Madeline had betrayed her trust. Her long friendship with Lady Heath was finished, for Juliette would not forgive Anna’s theft of Jonathan.

  Jonathan. Even the sound of his name, echoing in her brain, hurt. When she’d ordered him from the grounds of Whitethorn, his expression had been one of extreme ennui. She’d thought he might protest, that he might finally realize what was going to happen to them if he did not relent.

  She was proud of herself. She’d matched his aloofness with arrogance of her own, masking her sorrow well. If he was gone from her, so be it. There would be other lovers—for both of them. She wasn’t the sort of woman to sit around bemoaning the fate of a love affair.

  But the true fuel in her ability to maintain a sane facade was her fury with Lucien Harrow. She said his name under her breath, and the very syllables seemed made of poison.

  How dare he boldly deflower her daughter in her own house while he was full on her food and wine? How dare he take her daughter—pure and strong and good—and foul her like a whore in a brothel?

  How dare he?

  He had come into the library this morning without even a tinge of regret on his face. She saw the rough red marks on his neck, and once again her rage had been so violent, she threw a book at him. He ducked and the book smashed into the far wall.

  With his usual grace, he stood up. "I would most earnestly like to make your daughter my wife," he said.

  "No," Juliette said.

  "No," Charles said. Lucien’s eyes blazed and he didn’t speak at all to Juliette, but to Charles, who was pouring brandy in a glass. He put it in Juliette’s hand and bade her drink it. With shaking hands, she’d lifted it to her lips.

  "My lord," Lucien said in a low voice, "if I were a gentleman, I’d not have the reputation I’ve made for myself. If you wish to run me through, I shouldn’t be surprised."

  "Dueling is a foolish and absurd way to manage grievances," the marquess said stiffly. He met Lucien’s eyes steadily. "I’ll thank you to leave here now, however, and do not return. I’m sure honor is quite beyond you, but perhaps you might find it in yourself to be kind and leave her alone henceforth."

  "Very well." With a quick bow, he turned away. "My best wishes to you both.’

  "Oh, no, you don’t!" Juliette cried. "You won’t get away that easily!" She rushed in front of him and put herself in the doorway. "I will ruin you. Lucien Harrow. I warned you I would not be content with cutting you at parties and all the rest of that foolishness. I’ll see you ruined from the source."

  He gave her a disdainful glance. "Do your worst," he said, and left.

  He didn’t think she could do it, Juliette knew. Carefully she patted her skirts. Wouldn’t he be surprised to learn just how far her sphere of influence reached?

  It was the only joy she could find in the day at all.

  * * *

  Madeline allowed herself to be dressed and brushed and powdered for her supper with Charles. She stared at herself in the mirror, wondering if she looked different to anyone other than herself, She wore the same green gown in which she’d met both Lucien and Charles—only a few weeks before .—and it seemed to her that she looked very different. There was no shine in her eyes tonight, no matter how she attempted to appear cheerful. Her smile was as false as Lord Moorhead’s wooden teeth, and she was still, in spite of her nap, very tired. Her body was sore all over, in private, unnamable places, and each time one place or another gave her a twinge, she thought of Lucien’s hands or mouth or body upon her.

  It was not the best state in which to greet the marquess. When the maids had finished, she waved them outside and sat down at her dressing table to catch her breath. Beyond the long El
izabethan windows of her room she saw a line of clouds coming in, blotting out the rays of sunlight on the western horizon. A storm tonight. Good.

  She didn’t know what she should do—act as if nothing had happened? No. That seemed to insult the intelligence of them both. Hang her head apologetically? The very idea made her cringe.

  The truth was, she had behaved very, very badly and nothing would make it better. Dithering would do the least good of all. Steeling herself with a deep breath, Madeline went down.

  She found the marquess in the small salon. He, too, wore green—a pale green satin coat and a silk brocade waistcoat in the same color. His stockings were clean and white, his red-heeled shoes quite dapper. Against the gold-and-white baroque room, he looked at home, and in full possession of his world.

  He heard her, and turned, his hands clasped behind his back. The sherry-colored eyes were unreadable, very calm in his simple English face. "Good evening," he said.

  Madeline felt rooted to her spot. Her feet would not move. "Good evening."

  A bewigged and liveried footman poured a glass of wine from a crystal decanter and put it on a silver tray he carried toward Madeline. She took it gratefully and sipped some. Still she couldn’t move. Her gaze darted to the table, small and intimate, that servants had moved to sit before a pair of glass doors open to the stray summer breezes coming from the garden. Had it been only last night, Madeline thought, that Lucien had kissed her against that very balustrade?

  The thought made her blush. "Charles—"

  At the same moment, he said, "I don’t wish—"

  They stopped. Charles lifted a hand and indicated she should state her mind first. She bit her lip. "I am not very good at pretending things are all right when they clearly are not." At Last her feet unstuck themselves and she moved toward him. "Honestly, I don’t know what to say or how to act."

  His face was sober. "Nor do I, Madeline."

  "So will we stand here and stare at each other?"

  "No." He cleared his throat as discreetly as possible. "My wish is to make you comfortable enough that I might make my own apology."