Lucien's Fall Page 9

  The fact that he really was quite ill finally penetrated her selfish, inward conflicts. "Oh, by Jupiter," she muttered, moving toward him. "Put your arm around my shoulders and we’ll get out of here."

  "No." His voice was harsh. "I’ll walk."

  "Very well." He was the most exasperating man. "Do as you wish. Charles is leaving this morning and I must return to bid him farewell."

  He said nothing. Madeline headed for the outlet. As she turned the corner to leave him, he said, "You’ll be thinking of my mouth when you kiss him good-bye."

  She didn’t pause, only clutched her skirts and kept going. Let the black hearted wretch starve to death out here.. How dare he?

  How dare he?

  Chapter Eight

  … dying is a pleasure

  When living is a pain.

  ~ John Dryden

  Juliette and the countess of Heath had been friends since both were in their early twenties. Both prided themselves on their independence in a man’s world, the independence to choose their lovers and lives the same way a man would do. Both had used beauty and a talent for the bawdy to work themselves up in the world.

  Both were now facing the slow, steady downward spiral toward middle age. As they sat on the terrace underneath a carefully draped fabric designed to shade them from the harsh sunlight, eating sliced strawberries and fresh bread, Juliette thought she was aging rather better than her friend. Likely, Juliette thought, because her own husband had obligingly passed on, while Anna was forced to manage her dull, dowdy country earl with cunning and deftness.

  Still Anna was beautiful, as dark as Juliette was fair. Juliette enjoyed, as always, the contrast between them. It had served to set each apart all the days of their friendship.

  "How is the campaign going?" Anna asked lightly, buttering a roll. "Will we be hearing wedding bells this fall?"

  Juliette licked a sprinkle of sugar from her index finger. "I think so. Charles is quite besotted, and Madeline is a sensible girl. She’ll do what’s best."

  As if on cue, Madeline wandered out to the table, her hair brushed and neatly arranged, her skin glowing with the health and clarity only youth could boast. A deep, sharp pride ached in Juliette’s chest—her daughter was by far the most beautiful of all the girls this season. And she was brilliant, as well. In a rush of fond feeling, she touched her hand. "Good morning, dear heart! Will you have some strawberries?"

  "Please." She looked around. "Where is Lord Lanham?"

  "I’m sure I don’t know. Why ever do you ask?"

  "I thought I saw him come this way," Madeline said with a shrug. "Must have been mistaken. Perhaps he’s gone riding or something."

  "Speaking of Jonathan," Anna said, leaning forward, "it was wicked of you to invite me here while Lord Esher stays under your roof."

  "What? Why?" Juliette frowned. "Have I made some dreadful social error?"

  "My dear!" Anna laughed. "You mean you don’t know?"

  "Evidently I do not."

  Madeline spoke, reaching for cream to pour on the strawberries. "Do tell, Countess."

  Juliette looked up at the odd tone in her daughter’s voice. A drollness was not uncommon on Madeline’s sharp tongue, but there was something else here now. Juliette frowned.

  "Well," Anna said, blotting her lips, "there was a terrible scandal. I can’t think how you missed it, unless you were on the Continent at the time." She inclined her head. "Yes, perhaps you were. The summer of ’73. Or perhaps ’74."

  Juliette knew it would only lengthen the story if she attempted to rush it from Anna’s mouth. With a soft, slight sigh, she folded her hands. Madeline caught her eye and gave her a slight, wicked wink.

  "Lord Esher was only a youth, perhaps not quite twenty. I met him at a ball, and he pursued me relentlessly. At first, I resisted—I’d had other lovers by then of course, but none so young as he, or quite as forceful. I think," she said with a conspiratorial laugh, "he frightened me a little."

  A footman in livery put a fresh basket of bread on the table and whisked away the old. Madeline motioned for more tea.

  Anna continued, "Well, one thing led to another, and we became"—she smiled coyly—"intimate. He was quite passionate, even composed music for me."

  "Music!" Juliette interjected. "How quaint."

  "What sort of music?" Madeline asked, and Juliette saw a strange, intent expression on the girl’s face.

  "What difference does that make?" Juliette said. "Go on, Anna."

  "Oh, I think the music mattered rather much to Lucien," Anna said. "He studied in Vienna with the masters until his mother died—she was Russian, and you know how the Russians are!" She tittered. "I gather his father was not quite as supportive of his composing."

  "I should think not," Juliette said. "An earl who composes!" She laughed. "The singing earl! Can you imagine?"

  "Quite," Anna said, and they laughed together.

  "But what happened?" Madeline asked.

  Anna lifted her shoulders in a single shrug, the motion brimming with ennui. "I tired of him and broke it off." She leaned forward, pausing dramatically. "Do you know, he challenged my husband to a duel!"

  "No!"

  "He did! Called him out, and poor Harry was really bothered by it, poor thing. He didn’t want to hurt the young man, but after all he’d had a commission in the Navy and was quite deft with his weapons."

  "I should think so."

  "But Lucien was insistent, and Harry dutifully met him at dawn one morning. Harry only nicked him, and Lucien was humiliated, but everyone thought it just the bravest, most romantic gesture, and they all invited him to their parties after that."

  "Though all have been careful to do so when you are not there," Juliette said, and gave Anna an apologetic smile. "I’m so sorry, my dear. I’d quite understand if you returned to London just now."

  "And what of his music?" Madeline asked.

  "Oh, I wouldn’t think of leaving!" Anna said. "It might prove most interesting, after all these years. He’s grown into a rather fine man, hasn’t he?"

  Madeline leaned over and put a hand on the countess’s arm. "What of his music?" she asked again.

  "Madeline!" Juliette admonished.

  Anna smiled. "He said he’d never compose again. I laughed at him, you see." She sighed. "I didn’t really intend to wound him, but I was young then, too. Other men were bringing me jewels and furs and exotic fabrics. Lucien brought a sheet of music and a violin."

  "How quaint," Juliette said. "It’s hard to imagine the present Lucien as such a callow boy."

  Madeline stood. "It’s a terrible story," she said. "I hate the way you use people so freely, as if they were handkerchiefs to be tossed aside when soiled."

  A gleam of amusement shone in Anna’s eye. "Ah, to be so young and passionate again," she said dryly. "Do you remember, Juliette, when you vowed never to use a man for your own ends, but only to be with one for love?"

  "I was never that young," Juliette said, and was embarrassed at the edge in her words. She gestured. "Oh, Madeline, do sit down. It isn’t as if Lord Esher never recovered. He’s this very moment fleeing a difficult mistress, hiding here until her new lover calms down."

  Madeline shook her head slowly. "That isn’t the point, Juliette. It is dishonest, the way you live—taking lovers as you will, discarding them as you wish, taking them back up when it suits you."

  The girl was staring rather pointedly at Juliette, and she frowned. "What is this about?"

  "Why do you think I’m speaking to you?"

  Just enough anger edged the words to let Juliette know Madeline was indeed speaking directly to her. "We’ll discuss this later, shall we?"

  "That won’t be necessary." She flicked her skirts from the table. "It won’t make any difference what I say anyway."

  Anna laughed. Juliette frowned, watching Madeline walk away, her head high. There was something Juliette ought to be noticing, something just out of reach.

  "Oh, don’t look so worried,"
Anna teased. "She’s only earnest with youth."

  "Yes," Juliette said slowly. But she wasn’t entirely sure. She must be very alert over the next few weeks. Madeline was not a malleable, biddable creature— never had been—but Juliette would hate to see her make some terrible mistake out of a misguided and naive sense of righteousness.

  Shaking off the mood, she looked at Anna. "Did Lord Esher really compose for you?"

  * * *

  Madeline left the countesses, feeling a strange disquiet. Part of it lingered from the upset in the maze a few hours before, when Lucien had put his mouth on her palm. She’d heard women say they could still feel the imprint of a man’s lips hours or days later. Madeline only wished that were true. Instead, what she felt was that bright, hot shock of arousal all through her every time she thought of it.

  She’d been very angry with him when she left him in the maze, and now she wondered if he’d got back all right. He’d been ill, after all. Perhaps she ought to check.

  It was crushing to hear that story of his youth—it had almost made her cry to listen to the peacock countesses laughing at the earnest youth he’d been— in love enough to compose something, and then to have it flung back in his face. In love enough to call out her husband, knowing the scandal it would cause, and then be humiliated by an experienced soldier who "pitied the boy." She could just hear the earl saying it in his bluff, hearty drawl. Oh, it was excruciating to imagine it. How much worse it must have been to be a prideful, emotional young man and live through it.

  Little wonder he was cynical.

  But on top of all those mixed and disturbing emotions was another: shame. Was she not indulging in the very same behavior for which she condemned the countesses? Was she not trading her feminine gifts to gain something material? Yes, it was marriage, and it was logical, and it was done all the time. But was it really any different?

  The trouble was, Madeline knew Charles harbored genuine emotion for her. It couldn’t have been easy for him to come here, plain and round and unfashionable, to court Madeline. To his eyes, she was beautiful and bright and desirable.

  And what had Madeline done through his whole visit here? Flirted with Lucien Harrow. She pretended to avoid him, but in truth wasn’t she always hoping he’d find her? In spite of all he was, a rogue and a take with a dead heart and no direction, she found him deeply compelling. In a way, she’d even used Charles to shield her from her feelings in that way.

  Hurrying now, she felt her cheeks flame. How could she have considered marrying such a good and honorable man as Charles Devon? He deserved far better than she—someone who would at least be honest in her emotions, someone who would not be calculating the cost of window glass while he kissed her.

  She hoped she could catch him before his party left. Lifting her skirts, she ran for the stables.

  The group of them were about to depart—Charles on a fine black gelding he managed with that surprising adeptness, his wig askew as usual. A button had popped open on his waistcoat from the strain of the past days’ eating.

  "I’m so glad I caught you," she said breathlessly.

  "Must you leave right now, or may I have a moment to speak with you?"

  A small frown creased the openness of his face, a flicker of something Madeline could not quite read. "A few moments, but I’d rather not let the horses get too restless." He waved to his man. "Go on. I’ll catch up in a bit."

  "Very well, sir." The small cluster of men and horses walked from the stables into the sunlight, leaving Madeline standing alongside the horse, looking up at the marquess. Now that she was here, she didn’t quite know how to say what was in her heart.

  "I’ve come to tell you, Charles," she blurted out, "I cannot marry you."

  For the space of a heartbeat, he was silent. "I see. May I ask what brought you to this decision?"

  "I don’t love you," she said, halting on each word. "I like you," she hurried to add. "I enjoy your company. But I’m only thinking of marrying you so that I might save Whitethorn, and you deserve better than that."

  To her surprise, he smiled gently. Dismounting, he gave the reins to a stable boy and gestured for Madeline to walk outside. A gilded morning danced around them, yellow and green treetops against a full clear sky. The marquess took her arm and walked with her away from the outbuildings, to stand against a great old rowan tree, bending thick gnarled branches in canopy. He stopped and looked at it, smiling. Then he looked at Madeline.

  "It would have surprised me very much to learn you had any other reason to marry me—or anyone else—than to save your ancestral home." He looked over his shoulder and lifted a hand toward the house, neat enough but obviously in need of care. "It is a beautiful home, and deserves the devotion you give."

  "But I—"

  He lifted a hand. "I’ll not lie to you, Madeline. I am in love with you, and you’re more wife than I had a right to expect, given my appearance and my ungallant ways. I’d like to marry you, and I will take my chances that you might come to love me one day."

  His small, dignified speech gave her a pang. "Oh you are too good!" she said, and flung her arms around his neck impulsively. "I am not a good enough wife for you," she said against his shoulder.

  In a low voice he said, "Think on it, Madeline. I’ll not die of heartbreak if you decide against my suit, but it would bring me great joy if you accepted it."

  Very, very gently, he pulled back and tipped up her chin and pressed a kiss on her mouth. Just as his head closed out her vision, a sharp, clear picture of Lucien bolted through her imagination.

  "You’ll think of my mouth when you kiss him good-bye."

  Madeline felt a sharp, deep pain—regret or despair, she didn’t know.

  "All right, then?" Charles asked, holding her arms.

  Looking into his kind, sherry-colored eyes, Madeline thought what a good father he would be to her children, and what a steady husband he would make. She would stake her life on his faithfulness. "Yes. Hurry back," she said, and meant it on more levels than she could express.

  She thought he knew that, too. "Yes," he said. "That I will do."

  * * *

  The potion the cook gave Lucien, together with a few hours’ sleep in his darkened bedchamber, helped to ease the light-sharded pain in his head. It lingered, dangerously, at the base of his skull and the edges of his eyes, but for the most part, it was better.

  On his table were the notations he’d written last night. When he saw them, his headache leaped a notch. He grabbed the sheaves of paper in a great handful and dumped them in the fire. He watched the embers catch and curl the paper, erasing the clefs and quarter notes decorating the pages in black slashes and delicate dots.

  As the paper dissolved into cinders, great open wounds devouring the night’s demonic work, he could not breathe. Sorrow mixed with savage pleasure—he’d never have that work again. It was gone. Forever.

  When it was finished, he washed his face carefully and allowed his man to pull his hair into a queue and help him into fresh clothes. Even such small movements were difficult; he held his head carefully, as if it were a cracked egg.

  As he was finishing these small tasks, Jonathan appeared. "There you are," he said, coming into the room. "I was beginning to think you’d fallen into the sea or some such thing."

  "I’m here."

  "Let’s ride into the village for the afternoon. I’m bored beyond expression."

  "Bored?" Lucien turned his head carefully. "Or outcast?"

  A bitter twist touched Jonathan’s mouth, and Lucien saw the lines of strain around his eyes. "I’ve never known such a bewildering or annoying woman." He flopped in a brocade chair. "She’s driving me mad."

  With a wave, Lucien indicated he could finish on his own. Deftly, he tied a snowy cravat at his neck. "So leave her and find another."

  "I do not want another woman."

  Lucien smiled. He’d known that would be the answer. "She’s been making advances at me, man. Let her go."

 
; "I saw her. Don’t fancy she wants you, Lucien. She simply means to be sure you do not seduce her daughter, and if she sleeps with you, the virtuous Madeline will have nothing to do with you, no matter how hard you try to seduce her."

  "Is that what it is?" Lucien drawled.

  A brittle expression touched Jonathan’s mouth. "Yes." Restlessly, he jumped up and paced the room, round and round, touching a curio and the window casings and the edge of the door. "How goes your pursuit of the little dove, anyway? I saw the marquess leave this morning. That should make your way clearer."

  "Perhaps." A tiny white shard stabbed his temple. "She’s not all that simple to seduce, actually. She’s far too aware of the tricks. I spout poetry, she spouts it back at me. I offer food—she offers more." He frowned, untying the knot of his neckcloth. "Yesterday, I thought to steal a kiss and I still have not decided how she averted it." He tossed the cloth aside. "Let’s ride, then."

  It was never easy to force himself into physical activity after one of his bouts with the debilitating headaches. Sometimes riding would send him howling back to a dark room, but more often than not, it chased away the lingering traces of illness. Lucien believed in trying, anyway. There was nothing but infirmity to be gained from hiding away in the dark.

  Today it was no different. His neck and head screamed at first, but slowly the joltings of his horse ceased to be so vicious, and the fresh air worked its magic. By the time they reached the village, he felt much clearer. A good meal and a cool glass of ale might be just the thing.

  The village, named for the estate nearby, boasted quaint medieval cottages and a dark, satisfyingly ancient pub with shutters and rough tables. Lucien asked the goodwife to bring him a plate of her best, and she, blushing and curtsying, hurried off to comply.

  Over tankards of surprisingly good ale, Jonathan leaned forward. "Lucien, all jesting aside, I need this woman." The admission cost him. "Without her, I cannot sleep. I’m miserable."

  "God, you’ve done it, haven’t you?" He measured Jonathan over the rim of his cup. "And Juliette, of all women. How did you let such a thing happen?"