Lucien's Fall Read online

  With a snap, Juliette actually heard her long grudge break. "What more indeed," she said. There was so little time—she might as well use what she could for spreading joy.

  * * *

  Madeline loved the autumn. It was by far her favorite season, and this year was no exception. She was, perhaps, even happier than normal with it, for her garden was finally and truly on its way to being itself again.

  In the chilly fog of an October morning, she clipped dead roses and pinched out buds on sunny orange and yellow chrysanthemums, humming under her breath. It was "Lucien’s Song," as she thought of it—that concerto of such beauty that he’d written and given to her. In time, she would like to learn to play it. For now it was still too painful to think of.

  She wondered with a little pang what he was doing just now. Riding? Breakfasting? Had he forgotten her?

  They’d heard the tale of Lucien Harrow’s Great Transformation. That was how Madeline always thought of it, in capital letters, because the change was so large. He had ceased his round of parties and seductions and retired to the country where he tended his estates with an even and sensible hand.

  She knew she’d had a part in that transformation. That Lucien had sought something from her, had taken nourishment from the love she bore him, and been healed. If she were another sort of woman, she supposed she’d be content with that.

  Unfortunately, she was not. She grieved for him. It stunned her how he’d infected her life in a couple of months. His presence was everywhere: in her gardens and the maze and the music room; in her bedroom and the salon and on the drive. She thought of him when she rode and when she climbed the castle tower and when she wore her green dress.

  Yes, she grieved. To her surprise, the things she remembered had less to do with his lovemaking— though she had to admit she thought of that too— than with his irrepressible spirits. His teasing. His buoyant energy. His sharp, witty observations. He’d become her friend during his time at Whitethorn, a fact she hadn’t realized until he was gone.

  With a sigh, she cut loose a pink rose and lifted it to her nose. The edges of the blossom were slightly blackened—not many frostless nights left. Soon her gardening would all be indoors.

  She bent to pick up her basket, and a soft sound on the air caught her ear. She lifted her head. There it was again—music. It sounded like music.

  With a puzzled frown, she moved toward it, thinking it came from the maze. Outside, she paused, listening, certain for a moment that she’d utterly lost her mind.

  No, there it was. A little clearer, now. She thought it was a violin. Her heart jumped, and she very slowly entered the maze.

  And once within, the fog obscured all directional clues. She moved toward the center, hearing now that it was a violin, but not where it came from. Streamers of ground mist tangled around her ankles; she drew her shawl around her more closely.

  Now she could hear the music clearly. It was the piece Lucien had composed here, then at Rosewood, the one she thought of as a tribute to Pompeii—the first part so light and free, as Pompeii must once have been. She thought of Lucien jumping the hedge the first day she saw him. So free.

  She stopped, listening to the strange echoes, the muted singularity of the instrument in the fog. She smelled the faintly spicy odor of the box leaves, and damp, bruised grass. From the hidden place, Lucien played the second movement of the piece—Vesuvius stomping down, crushing the lightness, transforming and smothering everything.

  And she thought of Lucien, so haggard, throwing his composition into the fire. She thought of him with his bruised face, making love to her, with such yearning and despair.

  With sudden insight, she lifted her head. As he headed into the third part, the cacophonous, wild noise she’d thought represented the explosions of Vesuvius, she thought of him storming the dress shop and carrying her away. She lifted her skirts and began to run, toward the middle of the maze.

  She rounded one wall and another, listening to the crescendo build, to the crashing terrible climax— And then there was a sharp, pregnant, expectant pause. As she rounded the last corner, into the center, where he stood in a dark blue greatcoat, his hair caught back, Lucien began to play very, very softly the refrain from the first movement. His eyes glowed turquoise against the dark of the day, against the dark of his hair and his coat and all the darkness and dankness around them.

  But Lucien’s face was full of light. And the shadows had gone. And he played for Madeline the sound of his fall, with a smile on his beautiful mouth. She stopped, listening to the soft sound of that golden day he’d ridden up the drive, and tears welled in her eyes.

  When he finished, he lowered the violin.

  "I thought it was Pompeii," Madeline said, aching with her love for him, for the beauty that had been unleashed from his soul.

  He nodded. "As did I." His smile was rueful. "Instead it was my fall to love."

  Madeline covered her mouth. She didn’t know what to say, how to express the enormity of emotions that swelled in her just then. She couldn’t speak. She felt frozen.

  With uncharacteristic hesitance, Lucien put the violin on the stone bench and straightened. His cheeks were extraordinarily red from the cold morning. He touched his chin, looked at her. "Will you have me, Madeline?" he said, at last.

  The simplicity of his words took her aback, and she didn’t know what he meant. "Have you?" she echoed. She gave a little laugh.

  And something in her burst. She didn’t care how, she didn’t care when, she didn’t care about anything except that he was standing there in front of her, whole and sober and strong. So far he’d come to meet her, so carefully he’d planned it. With a cry, she launched herself over the grass and ran to him. She flung her arms around his neck and felt him catch her up with a soft groan.

  "Madeline," he said into her hair.

  She caught his face and kissed him. The taste of his mouth was like crisp apples, like October evenings, like all the dearest parts of morning.

  "I love you," he whispered. "I could not say it before, because I said it when I didn’t mean it, and then there was no way to call the words back. But there are only those words to say it—I love you."

  "Yes, I know."

  He clutched her close.

  He opened his mouth to speak and Madeline kissed him. "Stop talking," she said. "Just stop talking and love me."

  "Oh, yes," he breathed. "Yes that I can do."

  And he kissed her, deeply, sweetly, like a husband and a lover, not a rake at all. Madeline knew a wild dizzy sense of rightness, that it should be this man, with all the music in his soul, who would give her children to raise to love the maze and gardens that would be part of their legacy.

  He lifted his head, and a strangely bashful expression was on his mouth. "I wonder if you might come to London this week with me."

  "Why?"

  Now there was undeniably a creeping color in his cheeks, not caused by the cold. "The symphony is to play my concerto. I’d like you to be there."

  Madeline kissed him, long and hard. "It would be a joy." Seriously she touched his beautiful face. "I love you, Lucien Harrow."

  The old devilish grin flashed on his dark face. "You can’t help it."

  Madeline buried her face in his shoulder. "You’re right," she whispered.

  Then she let him go. "Let’s go tell Juliette."

  Together they left the maze and wandered out into the open ground, hand in hand.

  ~~###~~

  For Tony and Lisa Putman,

  who gave me a larger world.

  ~~~~

  Many thanks to my critique group, Linda Stachler, Janet Greer, and Sharon Stealy; to Kathy Fischer-Brown, who always comes up with the right music or the perfect book; and to the able and talented women of GEnie Romance Exchange. And as always, thanks to the Sisters—you know who you are.

  BARBARA SAMUEL O'NEAL

  Barbara Samuel (who also writes as Barbara O’Neal) is the bestselling author of more than 40 book
s, and has won Romance Writers of America’s RITA award an astounding six times, and she has been a finalist 13 times. Her books have been published around the world, including France, Germany, Italy, and Australia/New Zealand, among others. One of her recent women’s fiction titles, The Lost Recipe for Happiness (written as Barbara O’Neal) went back to print eight times, and her book How to Bake a Perfect Life was a Target Club pick in 2011.

  Whether set in the turbulent past or the even more challenging present, Barbara’s books feature strong women, families, dogs, food, and adventure—whether on the road or toward the heart.

  Now living in her hometown of Colorado Springs, Barbara lives with her partner, Christopher Robin, an endurance athlete, along with her dog and cats. She is an avid gardner, hiker, photographer and traveler who loves to take off at dawn to hike a 14er or head to a faraway land. She loves to connect with readers and is very involved with them on the Internet.

  You may read more about Barbara’s books at her main website, find her at her A Writer Afoot blog and on Facebook.

  Visit Barbara on the Web!

  www.BarbaraSamuel.com

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  ~~~

  BONUS MATERIAL

  Please enjoy excerpts of some of Barbara's other Books:

  Excerpt: The Black Angel

  Excerpt: Night of Fire

  Excerpt: Dancing Moon

  Excerpt: A Winter Ballad

  Excerpt: A Bed of Spices

  Excerpt: Heart of a Knight

  Additional titles, including those from other genre, are listed at the end of the excerpts or click HERE to jump there.

  Barbara is very active writing new books and converting her backlist into eBooks. To find the most up to date information, please visit her website.

  THE

  BLACK

  ANGEL

  (Excerpt)

  by

  Barbara Samuel

  The St. Ives Family Series - Book One

  PROLOGUE

  Hyde Park, London

  1781

  Lady Adriana St. Ives rode well, the result of a childhood spent more savage than civilized. On this dark, wet morning, she rode astride, and rode hard, her hair uncombed and streaming down her back as she raced to beat the dawn threatening at the edge of the horizon. Wet leaves slapped at her face and arms, and her skirts were soaked. Later, she would pay with a fever.

  But all that mattered now was that she halt the folly about to take place here, a duel between her brothers and Everett Malvern, Baron of Wye, the King's nephew, and until last week, Adriana's lover.

  "Please," she whispered to whatever celestial beings might still be listening to her.

  She broke from the trees into a wide, grassy clearing. Relief washed cold down her spine, for they had not yet begun. Her brother Julian, tall as a cedar, his wheat-colored hair shining even in the gloom, stood sober and straight beside a phaeton. Their half brother, Gabriel, as handsome and swarthy as the pirates of their childhood games, stood next to him, the box of pistols in his hands.

  Thank God.

  She slowed, her breath coming in ragged gasps from her chest. Not even enough air left for a cry.

  And then movement from the trees on the opposite side of the clearing caught the edge of her vision and Adriana jerked her head around to see Everett Malvern. The rake was visibly in his cups, weaving as he tossed off his woolen cloak and gestured for his pistol to be put in his hand. The fine satin waistcoat and breeches that had begun the night before in such splendor were now stained with the night's revels, and the elegant, almost pretty face framed with golden curls was decidedly less attractive by the morning light. His sleeves, trimmed with tumbles of Belgian lace, fell over his hands, and he laughed uproariously to his entourage, who only summoned the most polite of chuckles in response. They knew, even if Malvern did not, that he faced a most deadly—and furious—opponent.

  Adriana narrowed her eyes. The fool. Only he was arrogant enough to think he'd go unwounded at Julian's hand. His second, a foppish dandy named Stead whom Adriana disliked heartily, plainly understood the danger. He tugged at Malvern's sleeve, his mouth moving with words Adriana could not hear. Malvern shook the hand away and swaggered out to face Julian, who stood cold and still in the midst of the clearing, his dark gold hair glittering with moisture.

  Humiliation and anger and regret welled up in Adriana, but there was no time to indulge it. "Wait!" she cried, dismounting, and ran forward.

  The men glanced at her, but quickly turned back again, all intent upon this foolish duel. She tried to rush, tripped on her skirts and tumbled in the wet grass. The jolt slammed her teeth together and jarred her entire head.

  She scrambled to her feet, putting her hand in a muddy puddle, and stumbled forward.

  Too late.

  In horror, Adriana halted, tasting blood on her tongue where she'd bitten it. Sweat and cold mist dampened her clothes, and her breath still came raggedly. Hands limp at her sides, she watched them take their paces.

  Turn.

  And fire.

  Involuntarily, she slammed her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes closed. A man cried out in surprise. Her eyes flew open.

  Blood bloomed in the shape of a peony over Malvern's chest. Adriana saw the stain leak into the embroidered satin of his waistcoat, spreading like doom, saw the surprise steal away his drunkenness. Abruptly unfrozen, she raced forward and grabbed Julian's arm. "God, Julian, you've killed him! You killed the Duke's bastard."

  Julian dropped the pistol, and the icy calm over his face shattered. He raised gray eyes to Adriana's face, and in them she glimpsed misery and resolve. "He'll trouble you no more."

  She flung her arms around him, weeping. "I am so ashamed," she whispered against Julian's neck.

  Gabriel touched her back, her hair, and she embraced him fiercely. "Take care of him," she whispered, then pulled away. "Now, go. Go!"

  Without a word, they turned together, and disappeared into the mist of the dark morning.

  Chapter 1

  Hartwood Hall, England

  1786

  Just before the bells awakened her on her wedding day, Lady Adriana St. Ives dreamed of her brothers. They rode white horses over a muddy road, and even in the damp, they looked splendidly heroic, one so fair, the other so dark. There was urgency in the air all about them; their hair and cloaks flew, and the horses' hooves kicked up a spray of mud over the men's legs. Firm intent marked their faces.

  They were coming. Coming to save her.

  Bolting awake, she found herself alone in her cold chamber, blinking at the pale light coming through mullioned windows. Only her own bed. And no sound of horses beyond. She fell back to the pillows, heart pounding, and blinked at the dark-beamed ceiling.

  A dream. Only a dream. But after a moment she rose, taking a wrapper from the chair, and padded over to the window to peer out. The grounds of Hartwood Hall spread in wet emerald beauty below a drizzly sky, the leaves of the boxwood glistening along the edge of the road. A road that was empty, as she'd known it would be.

  She leaned her forehead against a pane of glass, the improbable hope withering in her breast. It had been almost five years since Julian and Gabriel had fled England after defending her honor, or rather, avenging her shredded pride. She was quite certain they were dead, drowned at sea or captured by Indians or fallen to some exotic fever.

  No, there would be no rescue from her brothers, as there had been when they were children, playing pirate in the lush landscape of their father's Martinique estates. But that did not keep her from wishing to be saved.

  Shivering a little in the damp, she walked over to her desk and took out her pen, and ink, and a small bound book. She and her sister Cassandra had both acquired the habit of journals, a way to amuse themselves on the long passages between the islands and home. Long, long, long days for children. She began to write:

  In an hour, I must allow them to know I have
awakened, but this last hour is mine, perhaps the last I can call my own for a good many years. It is, at the outside, the last in which I will be free.

  At noon, I am to be married to a man I have never seen, a distant Irish cousin my father thought would make me a suitable husband.

  Cassandra has been most insistent I should resist this match, as have all those glittering renegades who grace her salon. They are too scandalous and mixed a lot to approve this move I must make in behalf of my family. They thought me too much like them, I think, seeing in me a freedom of character and heart that does not truly live in my soul, thinking those months of passion with Malvern meant I have some wild freedom of attitude, which is not true. In fact, I am only a ruined spinster who so disgraced herself that she is lucky to find even an Irishman for husband.

  But it is to Papa that I owe my allegiance. He worried so much about us toward the last! If he chose this Black Angel for me, I suppose he imagined some good would come of it.

  But foolishly, I've harbored a fantasy that somehow my brothers would hear of this marriage, and come home in time to set things right. Foolishness, but I know Papa never gave up watching for them to return, either, so at least I am not alone. They were likely slain in the uprising that cost Papa his fortune, but I feel I would know if they were dead, if their spirits no longer walked the earth.

  Ah, I promised myself I would not be maudlin, but here it is, a gray cold morning, and I find I cannot help myself. I miss them most terribly.

  Now I've splotched the page and my ink will smear. For it is Julian who is most emphatically in my thoughts this morn, golden Julian who tossed all away to avenge his sister in a duel. And disappeared to save his neck. Now, to do my part to save our estates, I must take this rake they call Black Angel as my husband and somehow make the best of it. For all of us.

  With a sense of finality, she scattered sand over the page, then bent to add coal to the fire. In the passageway beyond her door, she heard the first stirrings of her sisters, probably the youngest two, by the excitement and hushed giggling. Fondly, she smiled, and the tight knot of worry eased a little.