Lucien's Fall Read online

"I don’t understand what you mean."

  "A field of some sort, that has a vibration influenced by outside factors. One must be of a certain nature or frame of mind to perceive the vibrations at Pompeii, and with the flowers, the light must be at a certain hue."

  Madeline considered that, pursing her lips as she glanced over her shoulder toward the willow tree at the center of the concentric circles that made the garden. The soft green leaves veritably glowed against the pearl-gray sky. White roses, beautifully displayed now that Madeline had pruned the bushes, made blurry marks against the light, with the yellow climbers against the wall almost dazzling. "The colors are all more vivid in this light," she said.

  "Yes, to some degree." He turned, barely touching her shoulder to point toward the farther reaches of the garden, to the still-wild beds that had not been cleared. "Look at that red one."

  Amid the dark green foliage, the flower blazed, almost impossibly bright against the dim morning, its color so vivid it was almost painful to look upon. Before she could speak, Lord Esher strode to the bush and clipped it, bringing it back to her.

  He held it loosely in his long-fingered hand. "It’s so beautiful, I want to eat it."

  Madeline laughed. "It sounds odd, but I know what you mean. It’s not enough to simply look at it— it’s so impossibly fleeting and vivid you want to absorb it on as many levels as possible."

  "Yes." As with the flowers, his eyes were doubly blue in the strange gray light. He put the flower against his nose and inhaled, closing his eyes as he did so.

  A strange, sharp pang rushed through Madeline’s chest. His black lashes, long as a child’s, lay in a wide sweep against his high, elegantly hewn cheekbones. The bright soft petals of the flower touched a jaw not yet shaved this morning, and the contrast of rough and hard against delicate and sweet made her ache.

  He opened his eyes, then deliberately put the flower against his mouth and tasted it. He grinned. "Not much flavor or scent, really. We’re meant, I think, only to look at it."

  One delicate petal snagged against his mouth, and tore. Madeline backed away, unaccountably upset, and bent her head to her work. "You may have all the time in the world, my lord. But I have work that must be done."

  "And I promised to help you, not distract you."

  "Your presence is a distraction," she said. "I think perhaps I’d rather not share this quiet morning time. If you want to help me, please come back later."

  He said nothing for a moment. Madeline dared not look at him but kept her eyes on her task. He stood still, but some emotion emanated from him, turbulent and unidentifiable. "I meant nothing untoward, Madeline."

  "I did not give you leave to call me by my Christian name."

  "Forgive me." The turbulence increased, and he took a step forward. "I was only—"

  She looked up, her heart rushing. "Trying to seduce me."

  "No!" The word was vehement, and Madeline stepped back once again. "I vow it—for once, I was not—it was only conversation."

  She did not know whether to believe him. And he seemed more dangerous for her own indecision. It was not Lord Esher who was to blame for his extraordinary appeal, she noted with some embarrassment. It was she who responded to it so vehemently.

  "Very well, you may stay," she said abruptly.

  "No." The word was heavy. "No, you’re right. I lied."

  Madeline lifted her head.

  He put the flower in her hand. "It was all designed for seduction. The flower, the conversation." He gestured toward his clothes. "Even my being here this morning."

  Madeline turned the flower in her fingers slowly. "Do you have any idea who you are under all those disguises?"

  "None at all."

  "It doesn’t matter, you know," she said, gathering her shears, "whether you came out here to seduce me, or win my favor as you put it, or to discover something lost, which I think is more likely."

  He lifted an ironic brow.

  Madeline ignored it. "The fact remains you’ve halved my work this morning, and I’m grateful."

  His eyes narrowed. Instead of taking the shears, however, he shook his head. Without a word, he left her, striding into the morning mist with a rigidness on his spine. Madeline watched after him for a moment, admiring with some small part of her woman’s heart the taut, muscled length of his legs.

  A puzzle.

  At the end of the garden, he turned around. For a long, long moment, he simply looked at her with no expression at all on his handsome face. Madeline bore it for a time, then she put him out of her mind and trimmed her roses.

  When she looked up again, he was gone.

  * * *

  Juliette, restless and weary, climbed from her bed, disturbed by something she couldn’t name—only knew it had taken her from sleep. Jonathan had not slept with her last night. He started his foolishness about marriage again, and she’d been forced to send him away when he appeared at her door. There were rules.

  She missed him with a vague, aching hollowness in her belly. Trailing her amber silk dressing gown behind her, she rubbed the hollowness with her palm and drew open the drapes over the long French windows. A dreary, misty morning greeted her and she leaned against the wall, gazing out on the grounds.

  From here, she had an eagle’s-eye view of the maze and rose gardens, and also of the open meadow, lined by elms, that lay beyond. Madeline’s gardens. How fiercely she protected them!

  And there the girl was, amid the roses with her basket of tools at her feet. Even from this distance, Juliette could see the muddy hem of her old gown. She smiled fondly. In truth, the girl had a rather dazzling talent for flowers, inherited from both sides of the family. The earl’s ancestors had built the gardens, of course, but Juliette’s mother, too, had had a passion for flowers. Although she died when Juliette was twelve, and the flowers she coaxed out of the mean back garden in the rough London slum where Juliette had grown up had hardly compared with this grandeur, Juliette remembered that small plot with great joy. It had been the only spot of joy in her mother’s short, hard, brutal life.

  Too bad she did not live to see Juliette’s stunning success and the granddaughter that so resembled her. Where Juliette was blond, Madeline was dark, with the same creamy English skin as the grandmother she’d never seen, didn’t even know existed.

  Only Juliette and a handful of trusted servants knew all the secrets of Juliette and Madeline’s lives. And this gray, gloomy morning, Juliette wished she could tell Madeline of her true parentage, that she looked like a grandmother long dead; that her love of flowers had come from that long-dead woman.

  As she stared at the girl in the dim light, a figure emerged, dashed toward one end of the garden and came back to give Madeline a flower. Juliette grasped the edge of the drapes.

  Lucien Harrow. There was no mistaking that elegant, graceful figure. Unlike most of the dandies in his crowd, Lucien was a restless, physical man, and it showed in his trim body. He was rather roughly dressed and appeared to be working with Madeline on the roses.

  Juliette narrowed her eyes. Not bloody likely he was doing it without good reason. And Juliette knew just what that reason was.

  She frowned.

  For months, even before Madeline’s return, Juliette had researched the possibilities of a husband for the girl. It was important to Juliette that the man not only be rich enough to save Whitethorn, but that he have a reputation for kindness—and that he not have a wandering eye. Madeline was a biddable girl to some extent, but she’d not tolerate unfaithfulness, however fashionable it was at the moment. Her husband would be husband to her in more than name, or a wife he would not have.

  Her quest brought her directly to the doorstep of Charles Devon, the marquess of Beauchamp. She had contrived to meet him and had rattled at length about her beautiful, intelligent stepdaughter, showing him the miniature Madeline had sent from Milan. By the time Madeline had actually returned from her extended tour of the Continent, the marquess was like a ripe peach, ready to be
plucked.

  Her joy had known no bounds when the marquess took one look at Madeline—the girl was quite astonishingly beautiful—and fell irretrievably in love.

  Perfect.

  Except for the presence of Lord Harrow. Briefly, she considered sending him away. But that wouldn’t do—it might even rouse his anger and cause him to seduce Madeline for sheer spite.

  In the garden, the pair stood a few feet apart, a wide tension radiating from them. Neither saw what to Juliette was plain; an arc of sexual tension sizzled between them at every meeting. Madeline was skeptical; Lucien amusedly and lazily in pursuit. But there was potential for great disaster there. Juliette could feel it in her bones.

  There was, really, only one possible option: she would seduce him herself. It might mean losing Jonathan. The thought was almost insanely painful— but he’d soon tire of her anyway. It was better this way. She’d chase away a lover who’d grown too tiresomely passionate with his avowals of love, and reel in a new one who knew the rules and would not break them.

  And Madeline would be appalled, forever protected from the advances of Lord Esher.

  Perfect.

  Chapter Six

  Among thy fancies, tell me this,

  What is the thing we call a kisse?

  ~ Robert Herrick

  Madeline dithered over her gowns before supper. It was the time of her monthly, and she felt thick and moody. Her hair on her neck was hot and heavy. Her bodice was constricting. Beyond the window, as if to reflect her mood, the sky was thick and dark and gray. From far off came the sound of thunder.

  "Must you pull it so tight!" she snapped to the maid tugging her corsets closed. "I can scarce breathe."

  "Aye," the maid returned calmly. "Yer mum sent up this new brocade and bid me tell you wear it."

  Madeline eyed the gown, a watered silk the same passionate dark pink as the rose Lucien had plucked in the garden yesterday morning. It would suit her coloring, setting off her dark hair and the olive notes of her skin—her papa had often teased her about being a changeling child, switched by fairies for a Spanish baby.

  But the bodice of the gown was so low it barely covered her nipples. The fashion was low cut, but this was ridiculous. When Madeline put it on, she felt miserably self-conscious and found her hand straying to be certain she had not inadvertently exposed more of her breast than she wished.

  "I hate this dress."

  "It’ll suit ye well, my lady. You’ll see." The girl smoothed a hand over Madeline’s cheek. "I’ll bring ye a bit of my special medicine in a little, all right?"

  Madeline nodded gratefully.

  Juliette sailed in, smelling of the cloves and pine nuts in her Imperial Water. She wore a Caraco gown in shades of plum. "How do you like the dress, my sweet? I think it will drive the marquess to distraction."

  "I don’t think he’s the sort of man who allows himself to be inflamed by improper displays of women’s bodies." The corset pinched as the maid laced the dress. Madeline yelped. "Leave me be. I’ll have my mother’s help now."

  The girl looked a little wounded, but Juliette shook her head as if to say, "Pay her no heed," and mollified, the girl left.

  Juliette picked up the laces. "All men are inspired and motivated by lust, my dear," she said. "Never forget it."

  "Not Charles," Madeline returned stubbornly. She tugged the bodice fretfully. "And I’m not wearing this. It’s cut too deep."

  "Charles, too. Turn around." She frowned when Madeline did as she asked. "I see what you mean. Where is that gold lace fichu?"

  "I gave it away. It itched." She took another from her drawer, letting loose a scent of lavender as it unfurled. It was gauzy and light. Madeline crossed it over her chest demurely and began to tuck the ends into her bodice.

  "Oh, not like that! It will ruin the effect completely!" Summarily, she took it from Madeline’s hands and rolled it into an elegant twist that she tucked into the edges of the bodice. Madeline’s nerves screamed, but she forced herself to be still until Juliette was done.

  When her stepmother was finished, Madeline moved before she snapped at Juliette. Taking up an exquisitely simple diamond pin, she tucked it into her dark hair and admired the subtle wink of it. "Yes"

  Juliette kissed her. "Wonderful, ma cherie."

  They walked down to the salon together. A quartet of musicians played in the corner, viols and clavichord, a sweet background note. Lightning flashed against the long French windows, illuminating the gray-green fronds of the trees tossing in a powerful wind. "It’s going to be quite a storm," Madeline commented.

  The marquess joined them, bowing deeply over Madeline’s hand. His wig was rather more solid tonight and didn’t slip forward the way it often did. He’d left it unpowdered. The sable color gave life to his complexion, a brightness to his eyes. "You look especially well this evening, Charles," Madeline said.

  "Thank you." His mouth was dry on her hand. "I might say the same for you, but it would be blasphemous to compare my humble health to your blazing beauty."

  Madeline chuckled. "Quite poetic, my lord."

  "Ah, there’s Lord Esher," Juliette exclaimed. "I have an important matter to discuss with him. Excuse me."

  With a pang, Madeline glanced up. Lucien—for she’d come to think of him as Lucien, not Lord Esher, which sounded stuffy and elderly—paused at the door, as if deciding whether the company were to his taste. He cast his gaze toward the quartet, and Madeline saw him wince before he turned toward the rest of the room. His expression darkened when his gaze fell upon a new member of their party, Anna Stiles, the countess of Heath, an old friend of Juliette’s who liked to escape her elderly husband whenever possible. Lucien, staring at her, looked quite as thundering as the sky, but the countess only smiled.

  "Looks like we’ll have a quite a storm," Charles said conversationally.

  Madeline returned her attention to the man alongside her. "Yes," she said. "You’re almost certainly correct this time." From the corner of her eye, she watched Juliette in her plum gown sail through the room.

  From a corner, Jonathan suddenly appeared and waylaid her with a hand to her arm. He bent close to whisper something in her ear. Juliette tried to pull away, but Jonathan held her steadily, and in moments, Juliette appeared to sway toward him.

  Then, abruptly, Juliette yanked away. With a sharp, quiet word that Madeline could only guess at, Juliette stormed through the little knots of people toward Lucien. Madeline looked back at Jonathan, and quickly away, for there was on the young man’s face an expression of naked yearning of such vastness it pierced her clear through.

  "Poor chap," Charles said. "He’s quite besotted, isn’t he?"

  "I’m afraid so." Madeline watched Juliette approach Lucien, who stood lazily at one end of the room, gazing at the party with an air of aloof amusement. Juliette, tiny and perfect, her bosom as creamy and white as rose petals, smiled up at him. ’Whatever she said caused Lucien to laugh.

  A tiny wave of something unpleasant washed through Madeline. With effort she said dryly, "It looks as if my stepmother has marked other prey."

  "Indeed." He offered his arm. "Shall we walk?"

  Tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, she said, "Perhaps we ought to wander over there and chat with Jonathan. He looks quite devastated."

  "Yes, let’s do."

  But before they could move, Jonathan spun on his heel and left the room. Into the air rang Juliette’s high, clear laughter. Madeline narrowed her eyes. "I’ve despised her cruelty since I was a young girl."

  "She was not cruel as long as your father lived. Perhaps it broke her heart when he died."

  "Grief does not excuse cruelty." She saw Lucien lean forward as Juliette chattered, her color high, as if she were aroused. As Lucien bent over, his thick dark hair captured the light of the candles nearby him, and produced a deep mahogany gleam. As if in admiration, he touched Juliette’s shoulder, and his elegant, long fingers stayed there on her bare skin.

  A
single, sharp pain shot through Madeline’s heart, and she turned away. "They deserve each other."

  Charles gave her a measuring gaze, and for an instant, Madeline wondered what he made of her behavior. But he said mildly, "Of course."

  * * *

  The dining room faced the gardens and the maze, giving a view of splashes of color and the tall trees. As the small party trailed into the room for supper, a violent flash of lightning blazed over the sky, almost immediately followed by a hard crack of thunder. A collective cry rustled through the guests, and there was even one short, tiny scream from Lady Heath.

  Madeline frowned. "I don’t think this is an ordinary storm," she said to the marquess, who lightly held her hand over his elbow. It was a familiar gesture, and a greater liberty than he’d hitherto taken, but Madeline allowed it. It was a comfort. He was a comfort—so solid and steady and calm. "Look how heavy those clouds are! Practically black!"

  "It’s the wind that concerns me. The farmers at Kirkton will be fretting it, I reckon. The new wheat won’t take kindly to it."

  As if to underscore his words, a full-throated gust roared over the balustrade and slammed into the windows with such force one of the doors blew open and crashed into the wall. Another cry went up.

  It was the quick-footed Lucien who caught the door before a second gust could catch it and break the small panes. "It’s all right," he said, lifting a hand to the guests. "Just wasn’t fastened properly."

  Madeline wondered fleetingly if she ought to check the greenhouse, but servants were already carrying in the first course. She decided to wait until after dinner.

  As she was about to sit down, Jonathan appeared. He looked smoothed, as if nothing had bothered him earlier at all. To the marquess he said, "Will you do me a great favor, my lord? Go take my place nearby the countess and allow me to sit with Lady Madeline."

  Madeline gave Charles a slight nod. Already Lucien and Juliette were laughing and teasing at the head of the table. How artful she is! Madeline thought, watching her stepmother bend close to Lord Esher—just close enough to be seductive.