girl, heâll push to have the marriage annulled.â
âThen we had better convince him otherwise,â came the reply. But as Lucien closed the library door quietly behind him, unease stroked between his shoulder blades and the faint echo of oranges teased beneath his nose.
Â
He took the stairs two at a time and knocked at the door that led to the Countessâs rooms. âMadeline,â he said through the wooden structure, wondering as to the woman whom he had delivered here to this same door not twenty minutes since. He had warned her that Farquharson would come. It was not a matter of if, rather when. He remembered how pale she had looked and the slight tremor in her small cold hand as it lay in his. His grandmother had been a small woman, but her ring had swamped Madelineâs slender finger. He reminded himself for the umpteenth time that he had done what he had to to help the girl, to save her from Farquharson, but that didnât stop him from feeling a brute.
She feared Farquharsonâ¦and trusted a man who had practically kidnapped her from an eveningâs dancing. Why else would she have agreed to marry him? Guilt tapped harder at his heart. She trusted him, little knowing that he had sealed her fate from the moment she had climbed into his carriage. âHell,â he cursed through gritted teeth. It wasnât supposed to feel like this. The guilt was supposed to get better, not worse. He wondered what would have happened had he been forced to resort to plan B. Thank God it had not come to that. Madeline need never even know of its existence. At least this way she would feel that the choice had been hers. âMadeline,â he said a bit louder and slowly opened the door that led to his wifeâs bedchamber.
The room was empty; well lit, warm, luxurious, but empty. The only signs that Madeline had even been there were the slight crinkling of the bedcover as if sheâd sat on top of it, and that faint familiar scent. Something rippled down Lucienâs spine. âMadeline,â he said louder still, moving swiftly to the small dressing room and bathroom that led off from the main bedchamber. But Madeline wasnât there either. âMadeline!â It was almost a shout. Where the hell was she? Didnât she know that Farquharson was out there, coming for them? He felt the pulse throb in his neck.
It was a long time since Lucien had felt fear, but it was fear for Madeline that was now pulsing the blood through his veins with all the force of Thorâs hammer. He reacted instantly, backing out of the room, moving smoothly, steadily towards the staircase. Adrenalin flooded through his muscles, lengthening his stride, tightening his jaw. The candle flames in the wall sconces billowed in the draught created by his progress, casting the long dark shadow of a man against the wall. He had almost reached the top of the stairs when he saw her treading up them.
âMadeline.â Her name snapped from his lips. His stride didnât even falter, just continued right on up to her with the same determined speed. His arms closed around her, pulling her up against him, reassuring himself that it was really her, that she was safe. His lips touched to the sleek smoothness of her hair, his cheek grazing against the top of her head that reached just below his chin. The scent of oranges, so light, so clean, engulfed his nostrils. She was soft and malleable beneath his hands, warm and feminine. âMadeline.â In that word was anger and relief in dual measure. âWhere have you been?â He knew that his voice was unnecessarily harsh. Her face raised to look up into his. Those amber eyes were dark and soulful, as if she was hurt, as if something had been shattered. All the anger drained away, to be replaced with relief. He made no effort to release his hands from her back. âWhere were you?â His eyes scanned her face, taking in the tension around her mouth
âThen we had better convince him otherwise,â came the reply. But as Lucien closed the library door quietly behind him, unease stroked between his shoulder blades and the faint echo of oranges teased beneath his nose.
Â
He took the stairs two at a time and knocked at the door that led to the Countessâs rooms. âMadeline,â he said through the wooden structure, wondering as to the woman whom he had delivered here to this same door not twenty minutes since. He had warned her that Farquharson would come. It was not a matter of if, rather when. He remembered how pale she had looked and the slight tremor in her small cold hand as it lay in his. His grandmother had been a small woman, but her ring had swamped Madelineâs slender finger. He reminded himself for the umpteenth time that he had done what he had to to help the girl, to save her from Farquharson, but that didnât stop him from feeling a brute.
She feared Farquharsonâ¦and trusted a man who had practically kidnapped her from an eveningâs dancing. Why else would she have agreed to marry him? Guilt tapped harder at his heart. She trusted him, little knowing that he had sealed her fate from the moment she had climbed into his carriage. âHell,â he cursed through gritted teeth. It wasnât supposed to feel like this. The guilt was supposed to get better, not worse. He wondered what would have happened had he been forced to resort to plan B. Thank God it had not come to that. Madeline need never even know of its existence. At least this way she would feel that the choice had been hers. âMadeline,â he said a bit louder and slowly opened the door that led to his wifeâs bedchamber.
The room was empty; well lit, warm, luxurious, but empty. The only signs that Madeline had even been there were the slight crinkling of the bedcover as if sheâd sat on top of it, and that faint familiar scent. Something rippled down Lucienâs spine. âMadeline,â he said louder still, moving swiftly to the small dressing room and bathroom that led off from the main bedchamber. But Madeline wasnât there either. âMadeline!â It was almost a shout. Where the hell was she? Didnât she know that Farquharson was out there, coming for them? He felt the pulse throb in his neck.
It was a long time since Lucien had felt fear, but it was fear for Madeline that was now pulsing the blood through his veins with all the force of Thorâs hammer. He reacted instantly, backing out of the room, moving smoothly, steadily towards the staircase. Adrenalin flooded through his muscles, lengthening his stride, tightening his jaw. The candle flames in the wall sconces billowed in the draught created by his progress, casting the long dark shadow of a man against the wall. He had almost reached the top of the stairs when he saw her treading up them.
âMadeline.â Her name snapped from his lips. His stride didnât even falter, just continued right on up to her with the same determined speed. His arms closed around her, pulling her up against him, reassuring himself that it was really her, that she was safe. His lips touched to the sleek smoothness of her hair, his cheek grazing against the top of her head that reached just below his chin. The scent of oranges, so light, so clean, engulfed his nostrils. She was soft and malleable beneath his hands, warm and feminine. âMadeline.â In that word was anger and relief in dual measure. âWhere have you been?â He knew that his voice was unnecessarily harsh. Her face raised to look up into his. Those amber eyes were dark and soulful, as if she was hurt, as if something had been shattered. All the anger drained away, to be replaced with relief. He made no effort to release his hands from her back. âWhere were you?â His eyes scanned her face, taking in the tension around her mouth
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