The dark-haired stranger held her with a firm gentleness. The light pressure of his hand upon her waist seemed to burn straight through the material of her dress and undergarments, to sear against her skin. The fingers of his other hand enclosed around hers in warm protection. Beneath the superfine material of his coat she could feel the strength of his muscles across the breadth of his shoulders. The square-cut double-breasted tail-coat was of the finest midnight black to match the ruffled feathers of his hair. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the most elegant tailor’s establishment in all England. A white-worked waistcoat adorned a pristine white shirt, the collar of which stood high. The white neckcloth looked to be a work of art. Madeline felt suddenly conscious of her cheap dress with its plain cream-coloured material and short puffed sleeves. As usual she had declined to wear the wealth of ribbons and bows set out by Mama. Neither a string of beads nor even a simple ribbon sat around her neck. The square-shaped neckline of her dress was not low; even so, in contrast with the other ladies, she had insisted upon wearing a pale pink fichu lest any skin might be exposed.
‘Miss Langley, you seem disinclined to follow my advice.’
The richness of his voice drifted down to her. She kept her focus fixed firmly on the lapel of his coat. What else was he to think? Hadn’t she known that it would be so? ‘I could not leave,’ she said. It sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
‘Could not, or would not? Perhaps you are in concordance with your mother’s plans to catch yourself a baron after all.’
‘No!’ Her gaze snapped up to his. His eyes were watching with a dispassion that piqued her. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘It isn’t like that at all.’
He raised a dark eyebrow as if in contradiction. ‘Perhaps you even welcome Lord Farquharson’s attentions.’ His gaze meandered down over her body, lingered momentarily upon her well-covered bosom, and dawdled back up to see the blush flood her normally pale cheeks.
She gripped at her lower lip with her teeth, as if to hold back the answer that would have spilled too readily forth. ‘If you really think that, then you may as well pass me to him this very moment.’ Her body tensed as she waited to see what he would do.
His steps were perfection, smooth and flowing, guiding her first here, then there, progressing with grace around the floor. For such a big man he was certainly light on his feet. As they turned to change direction, the irate face of Lord Farquharson swam into view. He was standing ready to catch her by the edge of the dance floor. Madeline’s eyes widened. The stranger swung her closer towards Lord Farquharson. Her heart was thumping fit to leap free from her chest. A tremble set up in her fingers. The stranger was going to abandon her into Lord Farquharson’s arms! Madeline’s eyelids flickered shut in anticipation. She readied herself for the sound of Lord Farquharson’s voice, prepared herself to feel the grasp of his hands.
‘You can open your eyes now,’ the stranger said. ‘I haven’t the least intention of releasing you to Farquharson.’
Madeline opened her eyes tentatively to find that they had progressed further around the ballroom, leaving Lord Farquharson well behind. She allowed herself to relax a little.
He felt the tension ease from her body and knew then that she hadn’t lied about her feelings for Farquharson. And although it shouldn’t have made the blindest bit of a difference, the knowledge pleased him. He wouldn’t have abandoned her to Farquharson even if she’d been screaming to get there. She seemed so small and slender in his arms, much smaller than he had realised. He looked into her eyes and saw with a jolt that they were the clear golden hue of amber. Strange that he had not noticed that during either of their previous meetings. He had never met a woman with quite that colouring before. They were beautiful eyes, eyes a man might lose himself in. The sound of Miss Langley’s voice dragged him back from his contemplation and he chided himself for staring at the chit.
She was looking at him expectantly, as if waiting for some kind of response.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘My attention was elsewhere.’ The shadow of something flitted across her face, then was gone.
‘Lord Farquharson does not look happy. You have stolen his dance,’ she said.
‘He has no damn right to dance with any woman,’ he said harshly, then, remembering the woman in his arms, said, ‘Forgive my language, Miss Langley. I did not mean to offend you.’
She smiled then, and it was a smile that lit up her face. Lucien wondered how he could ever have thought her plain. ‘Rest assured, sir, whatever else you have done, you have not offended me.’
Lucien studied her closely.
‘Indeed, you have nothing but my gratitude,’ she continued. ‘I dread to think of my circumstance now had you not intervened on my behalf.’ He could feel the warmth of her beneath his fingers; he could see it in her face. No, Madeline Langley had not encouraged Farquharson. There was an honesty about her, a quiet reserve, and a quickness of mind that was so lacking in most of the young women he had encountered.
She smiled again and he barely heard the notes of the band, concentrating as he was on the girl before him. The prim plain clothing could not completely disguise what lay beneath. The narrowness of her waist beneath his palm, the subtle rise of her breasts, those slender arms. Lucien could see very well what had attracted Farquharson. Innocence and fear and something else, something he could not quite define.
‘Who are you?’ she said, looking up at him. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
Of course she didn’t know. She wouldn’t be looking up at him so trustingly if she had known who he was. Some women attempted to court him for his reputation. Madeline Langley would not. He knew that instinctively. She would shun the wicked man Earl Tregellas was reputed to be.
A shy amusement lit the amber eyes. ‘Will you not tell me, sir?’
He hesitated a moment longer, enjoying the innocent radiance in her face. No woman looked at him like that any more. Artful coquetry, pouting petulance, flagrant fear, and, of course, downright disapproval—he had known them all. Miss Langley’s expression fell into none of those categories.
She smiled.
Lucien traced the outline of it with his eyes. He doubted that he would see her smile again once he told her his name.
The band played on. Their feet moved in time across the floor. Silence stretched between them.
‘I am Tregellas.’ There was nothing else he could say.
‘Tregellas?’ she said softly.
He watched while she tried to place the name, the slight puzzlement creasing a tiny line between her brows. Perhaps she did not know of him. And then he saw that she did after all. Shock widened the tawny glow of her eyes. The smile fled her sweet pink lips. Uncertainty stood in its stead.
‘Earl Tregellas? The Wick—’ She stopped herself just in time.
‘At your service, Miss Langley,’ he said smoothly, as if he were just any other polite gentleman of the ton.
Her gaze fluttered across his face, anxiety clouding her beautiful eyes, before she masked them with long black lashes. He thought he felt her body stiffen beneath his fingers.
‘I’m not 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