Lucien's Fall Read online

  With a wild sense of the absurd, Madeline wondered why no one moved. There were five women, only one man, and yet they were all as frozen as Madeline. He had cast some spell, that was it. A spell to capture them all in his web.

  He kissed her. His mouth, so dear and lost, shattered her terror. She opened her mouth to him, hearing herself make a soft, low noise as his tongue swirled against her mouth and within.

  LucienLucienLucien

  A joy as thick as honey moved in her, and she touched his face, touched his hair, kissed his neck. It was his groan that brought her around.

  "No!" she cried and broke away. "No, I am engaged!" She backed into the wall, grasping the skirt of her dress in her hands. "This is my wedding dress!"

  Lucien only stared at her, his breath coming hard. Brilliant lights played over his jeweled irises. Emotions stirred on his mobile mouth. Madeline thought he was going to leave her.

  But instead, he made a sudden move and snared her in his arms. "No, you will not marry."

  He lifted her easily, and Madeline wanted to weep at the pleasure of his touch, at the mastery in his command, but she knew, too, that she was wrong to go with him. "Lucien, no! Juliette will kill you!"

  She struggled hard and he nearly dropped her. It seemed to inflame him. With an abrupt turn, he pushed her against the wall and kissed her again, using his knee and the wall to brace her so he could hold her chin. "Tell me you do not want me and I will let you go," he said, and kissed her again. "Tell me."

  He tasted of loneliness and forgotten songs and rain. She alone could ease that sorrow—not to save him, but to ease his descent. She closed her eyes. "I cannot."

  Noise broke behind them, and he shifted again, stalking with her through the shop. As he flung open the door and carried her into the rain, Madame and her girls and even Electra—the spell broken with Lucien’s departure—cried out behind them.

  Setting her atop his waiting horse, he mounted behind her. He clasped her into his lap with one strong arm, and flung his cloak around them both. Thus enveloped, they rode into the dark rain.

  And with his breath on her ear, with his arm around her body, Madeline knew a terrible thing— there would be no other man in her heart. Not as long as she lived. Lucien Harrow had claimed her the first time he looked at her, and she would forever belong to him. She turned and put her face against his neck, breathing in the precious scent of his skin.

  Once they were out of the teeming streets of London, he rode beneath the sheltering arms of a birch tree and lifted her face and kissed her. And on his lips she tasted his love of her, his need that was as wild and great as her own.

  "This is wrong, Lucien," Madeline whispered. "I am promised to the marquess."

  "Yes." He clasped her face. "But the music is in me when I hold you," he said, and his voice seemed unutterably tired. "I only need to hear it one more time."

  "I am to be married in three weeks," she said, but didn’t turn her face from his touch. Her heart swelled near to bursting when he bent and touched his lips to hers, gently, and his eyes closed. A soft sigh came from his mouth.

  "Only come with me a little while," he said. "Only a little while and I vow I’ll not bother you again."

  "Yes," she whispered.

  With an exhausted sigh, he pulled her close and bent his head to put his cheek against her neck. "I have missed you." His fingers tightened on her back. "So much."

  "Yes," she said again, and they rode on.

  * * *

  "What?"

  Electra, the little maid Juliette had hired to be a companion to Madeline, stood by the hearth, shivering in her wet clothes. "He just took her, mum. There wasn’t anything we could do."

  Juliette had been strong enough to sit in the salon downstairs most of the day. The crackling fire gave cheer against the dark day, but now it seemed extraordinarily loud. Juliette could not quite take in what Electra was telling her. "He kidnapped her?"

  A troubled frown flickered over the girl’s face. "I don’t know as I’d say so exactly. She went willing enough."

  Juliette let go of a wordless, furious cry. Then she called the housekeeper. "Mrs. Reed!"

  She flung off the blankets she’d been wrapped in and stood up. For a brief moment, blackness fuzzed the edges of her vision, but it cleared quickly. Anger, she thought, was a very good cure.

  The housekeeper came in. "My lady! What are you doing?"

  "My daughter," she said distinctly, "has run off with that bloody rake Lucien Harrow, and I mean to find her and drag her home—by the roots of her hair if necessary." She straightened, coughing only a little. "Don’t just stand there, Electra. Help me upstairs—I must be dressed. Send another girl to help us, Mrs. Reed, and see that my carriage is brought around immediately."

  "But, my lady—"

  "Do as I say."

  She was dressed in record time, a wig covering her hair, a quick dusting of powder obscuring the hollows under her eyes. The dress she wore was too loose across the bust and in the waist, and Juliette simply shrugged off the corsets. They made it hard to breathe anyway.

  Outside, in the dark day, she had one spell of coughing she thought might never end. She clung to the door of the coach, unable to catch her breath for long moments. The housekeeper stood nearby, wringing her hands. "My lady, let me send someone else! This’ll be the death of you."

  "No." Juliette straightened with as much dignity as she could muster, "I must do it myself."

  Mrs. Reed gestured to a footman. "Stay with her."

  He stepped forward. Juliette accepted his strong assistance with gratitude and settled in her velveteen seat, smoothing her skirt. To the driver she gave Jonathan’s address.

  At his house, she paused a moment, nerves shivering in her limbs. She had missed Jonathan most desperately, and didn’t know how she would feel, looking at him again.

  As she stepped out of the carriage, she saw the draperies in an upper room shift, and a quiver passed through her. Nerves and fury and longing tangled so tightly she thought she’d swoon. For a single moment, she clung to the footman, steadying herself.

  Then she donned her haughtiest attitude to confront the butler, a pinch-mouthed man she’d never liked. "I must see Lord Lanham," she said. "Now."

  "He is not in, my lady. I will tell him you called."

  "This will not wait," she said, and pushed by him. "Jonathan!" she called from the central hallway. Stairs circled overhead, five flights up. "Jonathan, I must speak to you regarding Madeline and Lord Esher!"

  "My lady!" the butler protested, taking Juliette’s arm. "I tell you—"

  She shook him off. "Jonathan!" she cried. "He’s kidnapped her!"

  From above came the sound of a door. Juliette gave the butler a triumphant little smile. Jonathan appeared on the second floor, leaning over the balcony. "What are you yelling?"

  Juliette looked up, and her heart caught. His thick butter-colored hair was loose on his shoulders, shoulders that were bare, as were his feet. He wore only a pair of very wrinkled breeches, and bore around his mouth the very distinct look of a man engaged in sex. Juliette felt weak, indeed, and for the beat of a few seconds, she could not think why she’d come. "Jonathan"

  His lips pursed. He bent over the rail and leaned his arms on the railing. "What do you want, Juliette?"

  The posture put his arms into high relief, showing the curve of bicep, the concave stretch of stomach, the firm round of his hip. "I, er. . . I came..."

  She felt dizzy and without breath. With one gloved hand she touched her forehead, trying to pull herself together.

  For one long moment, Jonathan met Juliette’s gaze. The sardonic look left his face. His green eyes were bleak, without joy. Juliette ached to go up the stairs, Her heart felt thrice its usual size. His gaze wavered.

  "What do you want?"

  Pride reasserted itself. Juliette lifted her chin. "Do you know where Lucien Harrow might have taken my daughter?"

  He looked at her, as if considerin
g. "You can’t save her, Juliette. She’s in love—strange as that may be for one of your ilk to understand. And the terrible thing is, Lucien thinks he loves her."

  "I don’t care if they love each other as passionately as Romeo and Juliet. She is marrying the marquess in three weeks." Heat and dizziness enveloped her. "I will not allow her to ruin her life."

  "As you’ve ruined yours?"

  Juliette refused to be baited. "You left me, Jonathan."

  "You deserved it."

  "Did I? True love forgives sins made for love," she said, and a sense of peace filled her. "She is my blood, my only child, and I’ll not sacrifice her to the whims of a rake." She narrowed her eyes. "Do you know where he’d take her?"

  For a moment, it didn’t seem he’d answer. She saw the war in his green eyes. At last he said, "He might have gone to a cottage called Rosewood."

  Juliette smiled. "Thank you." For one minute, she allowed herself to inhale the scent of him that lingered in the foyer, allowed herself to impress the unbearably sexy sight of him against the railing in her mind. She would not see him again, not even if he wished it.

  Somehow the truth had come clear to her. The nagging cough was not some ailment brought on by overexertion or any of those other things she’d been telling herself. Like her mother before her, she had contracted consumption. And judging by the feeling in her chest, there was not much time left to her. Calmly, she said, "I’ll never forget you, Jonathan." She went again into the dark wet day. There was one stop more she had to make before she sought out this cottage. She would see the earl of Monthart and be certain he knew what his son had done now: kidnapped the daughter of a peer, in broad daylight from a dress shop!

  For she did not want Lucien Harrow simply destitute now. Nothing would do but that he be dead or exiled forever. It was the only way Madeline would be safe from him.

  Chapter Twenty

  For love all love of other sights controls,

  And makes one little room an everywhere.

  ~ John Donne

  Under the shelter of an overgrown arbor from which dripped yellow roses in heavy, wet, profusion, Lucien dismounted and held up a hand for Madeline. She allowed herself to be assisted, then stepped away, an expression of wonder on her face as she looked at the cottage and the roses surrounding it.

  Lucien stared at her hungrily, his eyes as starved for the look of her as his hands were for her skin, his mouth for her lips, his ears for the sound of her voice.

  Her hair clung in long wet tendrils to her neck, and one lock trailed over her breasts to disappear within her bodice. The magnificent gown was ruined, but the white silk clung to her body with elegant caress, the beads glinting whenever she took a breath. Behind her, as if designed to be a backdrop for her dark loveliness, the yellow roses cascaded over trellises and crept over the drive. Even in the rain their fragrance was pervasive. She lifted a hand to touch one, and the gesture put her form in perfect outline.

  For a tiny protesting voice sounded in his mind—what if this action of his ruined her life? What if she did not marry the marquess after all? What if she could not be forgiven this second transgression? What if— She turned her head and looked up at him. The dress slipped on her shoulder once again, and Lucien could not breathe for need. He stepped forward and bent to kiss that naked shoulder, that swell of breast, those perfect lips. A soft, anguished cry came from her. He carried her inside.

  It was warm within, a fire burning well on the hearth. He smelled meat and bread, but there was only Madeline in his arms, Madeline against his body, Madeline’s kiss on his mouth, Madeline’s hair on his hands. He kicked the door shut behind him. "I cannot breathe for needing you," he said, and put her on the bed.

  He shed his shirt and his boots, but waited on his breeches, for Madeline shivered on the quilts in the wet silk, her wet hair a tangle. With a single gesture, he flipped the quilt over her, and covered her with himself, holding her quilts and all against him.

  He kissed her brow, lingering between her eyebrows, sliding down her nose, at last claiming her mouth. She worked her arms from the blankets and pulled him closer, her hands splaying against his back. He shifted, putting himself against her leg, letting her feel the need he had for her, the need to be deeply embraced. At his movement, she made a low, longing sound.

  He kissed her mouth and her chin and her ear. He tasted the long white column of her throat and opened his mouth to draw circles on the swell of her breast with his tongue. The dress, though loose on the shoulders, was too tight to pull down and Lucien was impatient to wring from her the cry he longed to hear. Bracing himself on his elbows, he gathered her breasts into his hands and settled his hot mouth over the cold, wet fabric, the cold beads, and found the flesh already risen to a point below the silk.

  He moved his tongue against that rigidness, and the cry he awaited came from her throat. Low and hungry.

  There was no waiting then, not after so many nights of longing, so much time wanting. Lucien hauled her into his lap so he could reach the laces of her dress. Her thighs embraced his hips, and he felt the nakedness of her heat against his erection. He fumbled with the laces. He managed to unknot them and tugged at them expertly, and the bodice slid down, showing her chemise, which he pulled from her shoulders in a hard tug. There was a sound of tearing fabric, and a small cry from Madeline, but then her naked arms were free and she wrapped them around his neck, her tender inner elbow against his ear. Her breasts brushed his chest, and he lowered his head to suckle there even as he shoved up the skirts to take her buttocks in his hands.

  And somehow, at last, his manhood was free and he was sliding his heat into the depths of her, and they were joined, truly and completely, her dress bunched around her waist, her legs sprawled around them, his breeches only nominally out of the way. Her hair was pinned and not pinned, tumbling halfway on one side.

  Nothing mattered but Madeline, staring solemnly into his eyes, her hands on his face, her fingers touching his lips now, and now tracing his chin, and now his nose. Slowly he moved within her. Slowly she moved her hands on his face. Slowly she put her fingers on his mouth and kissed between them, her tongue a light and exploratory thing against his.

  And in his inner ear, there was music, the music of Madeline inside of him, all her colors woven into a brilliant tapestry of singular beauty—a sound of violins and violas and a tumble of surprising harps. It danced in him, the music, as Madeline urged him into quicker pace. Their mouths locked in a deep kiss, their bodies joined deeply, and all at once, he felt the explosion building between them.

  With suddenness and power, she began to tremble and pulse around him. In response, his own body shattered. They fell together to the bed, shivering, trembling.

  She curled into him. "How can this be wrong, Lucien? How can it be—"

  Urgently, Lucien covered her mouth with his own, wishing he had not told her that day in the maze that he loved her. It had been a game that day, another tool in his arsenal. Now he wanted the words back, so he could whisper them softly to her when they were real.

  He loved her. For the first time in his miserable life, he’d fallen in love. And if he’d not been so intent upon dishonor, he could have taken her to wife, saved her gardens, lived like a normal man in a normal way.

  Instead he’d flung his blessings to the winds, letting whoever would carry them take them away. He tossed away sex, riches, time, and the title that was his by right. He’d refused his music and sulked for the loss of it.

  Lying now in Madeline’s embrace, it seemed to him the whole society was twisted—it let men squander the best part of themselves, their youth and energy, while awaiting lands and titles. It encouraged waste and decadence.

  Music pulsed in him. He pressed his cheek to hers, wishing he could say he loved her.

  Tonight, as Madeline slept in his bed, he would write. He would set the music free, and this time he would not burn it. He would give it to Madeline instead of the words he’d uttered too soon.
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  * * *

  Beyond the small cottage, a violent storm raged. Madeline heard the howling wind and furious rain with a strange sense of distance. She liked it—there was no going anywhere as long as it raged. Thunder and lightning boomed and flashed through the heavens, and it rained and rained and rained.

  Lucien had found a simple loose muslin night tail for her to put on. It barely covered her, so thin was the fabric, but there was something tantalizing about the high neck and long sleeves covering her and not covering her. It made her feel richly seductive.

  She didn’t ask whom it belonged to, nor did he volunteer. Instead, they lazed on the bed, touching each other, eating, drinking, kissing. He ladled soup into bowls for them and cut bread, which Madeline spread with butter. From a jug they drank cider as cold and crisp as a stream.

  Madeline drifted off to sleep. When she awoke, he was writing, the quill in his left hand. His right hand stroked her thigh, but absently, as if he only did it to comfort himself. It was oddly arousing for Madeline, however, those long fingers stroking up and down, up and down restlessly, sometimes curling into the crook of her knee, sometimes sliding all the way to her ankle.

  His pen flew over the page, making notations, dipping into the ink, flying again. And as he wrote, he hummed, almost tonelessly. Madeline heard a pattern or rhythm rather than true notes. Every so often, he paused, and he stared into space, and the humming grew louder and he touched her belly or stroked her breast without even seeming to realize he did it.

  Madeline simply looked at him, touched by the small details that made him. Over his ear, his hair grew in soft curls, like a child’s, giving the harsh aspect of his face a curiously vulnerable look. She had not realized he was left-handed, either, but it seemed somehow fitting.

  His right hand dipped over her waist, slid down her hip, moved back upward again. His head bobbed ever so slightly, and he inclined his head, as if he were listening. Which of course he was.