Lucien Tregellas - Margaret McPhee Mills & Boon Historical

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Farquharson,’ he growled. ‘You need have no fear of me.’ Hell, he was trying to save her, not ravish her himself. And anyway, he had no interest in young ladies of Miss Langley’s ilk. Indeed, he had not paid attention to any woman in five long years, or so he reminded himself.

      She raised her eyes and looked at him, really looked at him, as if she could see the man beneath, the real Lucien Tregellas.

      ‘No, you’re not Farquharson.’ Her voice was scarcely more than a whisper.

      Lucien found that he could not take his eyes from hers. The censure that he expected was not there. There was nothing except an open, honest appraisal.

      The music came to a halt.

      ‘Thank you, Miss Langley,’ he said, but whether it was for the dance or for her recognition that he and Farquharson were miles apart, he did not know. Her small hand was still enclosed in his. Swiftly he placed it upon his arm and escorted her back to her mother in silence.

      And all the while he was conscious that Miss Madeline Langley had seen behind the façade that was the Wicked Earl.

      ‘Madeline, what on earth do you think you’re playing at?’ her mother demanded. ‘Do you know who that is?’ she whispered between clenched teeth.

      ‘Earl Tregellas,’ Madeline said slowly, her words slightly stilted.

      ‘Of all the most ill-mannered men. He takes you off without even consulting your mama! Not so much as a by your leave! How could you dance with him when Lord Farquharson’s name is written clearly upon your card against the waltz!’ Mrs Langley’s hand scrabbled for her handkerchief. ‘I declare my nerves are in a terrible state. Oh, Madeline, whatever were you thinking of? He has the blackest reputation of any man in London!’

      ‘I could not refuse him without causing a scene.’ She omitted to mention that she would rather have danced with the infamous Wicked Earl a thousand times over than let Lord Farquharson lay one finger upon her. ‘I did not wish to embarrass you, Mama.’

      ‘Embarrass me? Embarrass me?’ The words seemed to be in danger of choking Mrs Langley. ‘Never has a mother been more embarrassed by the actions of such a vexing daughter!’ She dabbed at her eyes. ‘And what will Lord Farquharson think of this?’

      Madeline held her tongue.

      ‘How could you do it, Madeline? It was as good as giving him a cut in front of the world.’ Mrs Langley’s bosom heaved dramatically.

      Madeline tried to ignore the numerous stares that were being sent in her direction. She made no sign of having heard the whispers from the ladies in the seats surrounding them. ‘No one knew what was on my dance card. Most likely they would have believed it to be empty as is usual.’

      The whispers grew louder.

      Angelina tugged at her mother’s arm. ‘Mama,’ she said. ‘You must not upset yourself. People are staring.’

      Mrs Langley surveyed the attention turned upon her family. It was not the interest she had hoped for. She noticed that even Mrs Wilson had distanced herself somewhat and was now conversing with Mrs Hammond, casting the odd look back at the Langleys. Amelia Langley held her head up high and said in a voice intended to carry, ‘Unfortunately, girls, your mama has developed one of her headaches. There is nothing else for it but to retire at once. What a shame, when we were having such a nice time. Come along, girls.’ And Mrs Langley swept her daughters from the ballroom. ‘I shall have a footman find your papa.’

      The journey back to Climington Street was not pleasant. Madeline suffered several sympathetic looks from Angelina, a continuous harangue from her mother, and only the mildest expression of reproof from her father.

      The harangue from Mrs Langley paused only while the family made their way into their home, and resumed once more when the front door had been firmly closed. Madeline made to follow Angelina upstairs.

      ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ her mother screeched. ‘We shall discuss this evening’s nonsense, miss. Through to the parlour with you. Now!’

      Madeline started back down the stairs.

      ‘Think I might just have an early night myself,’ mumbled her father and tried to slope away.

      But Mrs Langley was having none of it. ‘Mr Langley,’ she cried. ‘Will you not take control of your daughter?’

      It was strange, or so Madeline thought, that she was always Papa’s daughter when she had displeased Mama, which, of course, was most of the time.

      The long-suffering Mr Langley gave a weary sigh and led the way through to the parlour.

      ‘She has made a spectacle of us this evening,’ ranted Mrs Langley. ‘And most certainly destroyed any chance of an alliance with Lord Farquharson!’

      ‘Calm yourself, Mrs Langley, I’m sure it cannot be quite that bad,’ said Mr Langley.

      Mrs Langley’s face turned a mottled puce. Her mouth opened and closed convulsively. Madeline had never seen her look so distressed. ‘If you had not been hiding in Lady Gilmour’s conservatory all evening, then you would realise that it is worse than bad!’ she shouted.

      ‘Perhaps Lord Farquharson can be persuaded otherwise,’ said Mr Langley in an attempt to pacify his wife.

      ‘Madeline snubbed him to dance with Earl Tregellas, for pity’s sake!’

      ‘Really?’ mumbled Mr Langley, ‘I’m sure he’ll get over it.’ ‘Get over it! Get over it!’ huffed Mrs Langley. ‘How can you say such a thing? Lord Farquharson is unlikely to look in her direction, let alone offer her marriage! She has ruined her chances. We will never be invited anywhere ever again!’ wailed Mrs Langley. Tears squeezed from her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks.

      ‘Now, Mrs Langley,’ Mr Langley cajoled, ‘please don’t take on so. I will sort it all out. Come along, my dearest.’ He pressed a soothing arm around his wife’s quivering shoulders.

      But Mrs Langley steadfastly refused to budge. ‘What are we to do? Lord Farquharson will never have her now.’ The trickle of tears was in danger of becoming a deluge.

      Madeline watched the unfolding scene, never uttering a word.

      ‘Speak to her, Arthur,’ Mrs Langley pleaded.

      Mr Langley patted his wife, straightened, and cleared his throat. ‘So, Madeline.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘What’s all this about? How came you to dance with Lord Tregellas over Lord Farquharson?’

      Madeline found that she could not tell even her dear papa what Lord Tregellas had done for her; how he had saved her from Lord Farquharson on, not one, but two separate occasions. ‘He asked me and took my arm. There did not seem any polite manner in which to decline his request.’ Indeed, there had been no request. Lord Tregellas had plucked her straight from her seat and on to the dance floor as if he had every right to do so.

      ‘Did you know who he was?’

      ‘No,’ she answered. That, at least, was true. She had not known that her dark defender was the notorious Wicked Earl, not then.

      Furrows of worry ploughed across her father’s forehead. ‘But how came you to his attention, my dear?’

      Somehow it seemed strangely traitorous to reveal the truth about Lord Tregellas. She didn’t understand why, just knew that it would not be what he wanted. It made no sense. Surely to tell them that he had stepped in to save her honour would have done him only good? Common sense affirmed that. Instinct fought against it…and won. ‘I do not know,’ said Madeline. She was not in the habit of lying, especially to her papa. Guilt sat heavily upon her shoulders.

      ‘I understand he does not normally dance. Why should he then suddenly take it into his head to dance with a quiet, unassuming and gently bred girl like you?’ Mr Langley pondered his own question.

      Madeline understood

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