[Samuel Barbara] Lucien's Fall(Book4You) (27 page)

"I don’t suppose we do."

The footman discreetly pulled out Madeline’s chair. She sat down and settled her skirts. Charles sat down opposite.

"There is one thing I would ask, Madeline."

"Yes?"

"If you find, upon reflection, that your feelings run deeper than you expected for Lord Esher, I would like to know it."

A stab of regret and sorrow and a hunger so wild she nearly could not breathe came into her chest. As evenly as possible, she looked at Charles and said carefully, "If there comes a time when my feelings for Lord Esher compete in any way with my wish to marry you and make a home, I will tell you."

His expression was serious, as if he understood that she’d chosen her phrasing very carefully. "I can ask no more than that."

Stabbed with guilt, she leaned forward. "When I look at you, and imagine our life, I see children and warmth and happy festivals." She paused and crossed her hands, and continued earnestly. "I have ever wished for a stable life, where I am free to explore my own pursuits and live quietly and modestly."

A singularly pleased expression crossed his face. He covered her hand with his own, and she liked the solidness of his wide palm. "Those things I can give."

"And in return, Charles, what do I offer you?"

He lifted her hand to his mouth, and pressed a kiss to her knuckle. "I am fortunate enough to have chosen a wife for love."

Looking at him, with candlelight gleaming on the chestnut fall of his hair, seeing the firm resolve in his eyes and the determination in his jaw, Madeline wondered that she’d ever thought him a weak or passive sort. There was nothing at all flashy about him, but he would be a good companion and a good friend, and she might even one day love him.

Giving him her best smile, Madeline said, "Shall we eat and talk of happy things, then? And I must show you how much work your men have done!"

"I’ll look forward to it."

It is one who from thy sight

Being ah! exiled, disdaineth

Every other vulgar light.

—Sir Philip Sidney

For three days after his return
to London, Lucien did not emerge from his rooms.

He kept an apartment in London, a rather elegant set of rooms overlooking Saint James’s Park. He liked the freedom of keeping a set of rooms in town without the bother of a full-time staff. One man and his wife provided for his needs when he was in the city, cooking and cleaning as necessary, screening visitors, keeping his wardrobe in good repair and helping him dress.

Generally he had female help for the undressing.

One of the things he most liked about the spacious rooms was the view of the park the verdant treetops hiding all the hustle and hurry below. From his study he could walk out on a small balcony and watch young girls and their mamas scuttle out to buy hats and stockings and heaven knew what else. A bakery at the end of the block scented the air with the aroma of fresh bread and cinnamon buns, and one of his favorite pubs was just down the street. He could see the sign—the Cross and Sword—from his bedroom.

For three days he did not go out, but sat in his study hour after hour, drinking port and brooding. His music was dead, as he’d known it would be, and the silence nearly drove him mad.

The price of seducing Madeline had been high indeed.

When he could not bear the silence any longer, he finally pulled himself together to go out. The view was obscured by a steady, dreary rain. The streets turned to rivers of filth and the mamas and daughters had mostly chosen to stay indoors for the afternoon.

Which left the pub and a willing woman to chase away the cobwebs from his brain. A good helping of debauchery was bound to improve his mood somewhat.

At the pub, he was rather warily greeted, and outright rebuffed by the owner. The bartender, Tom, the owner’s son-in-law, was a little friendlier and served him with a scowl toward his father-in-law, who walked away muttering.

Lucien found it odd—Juliette had barely had time to begin her supposed campaign to ruin him. He asked after Jonathan, however, and learned his erstwhile friend had recently left after spending the afternoon drinking. "Piss-poor spirits he was in, too,"

said Tom. "Said you’d ruined his life once again, and this time he’d have your head."

"I ruined his life!" Lucien exclaimed. "That she-devil who tossed us out more likely."

"All the same, he told us what ya done, man." Censure bloomed in the bright blue eyes. "Weren’t fittin’ to spoil a virgin."

Lucien, stunned that Jonathan should speak so poorly and loudly of his life, stared mutely at the barkeep for the space of thirty seconds. "Is that what he said?"

"Aye—told us her name, too—the countess Whitethorn’s daughter."

With a cry, Lucien slammed his tankard on the bar and grabbed the man by the front of his shirt. "You tell my ’friend’ that if he says another word to sully her name, I’ll kill him with the weapon of his choice."

"I just though’ you ought to know."

Lucien released him, his hands shaking. He stalked out.

If he’d gone in those moments to Jonathan’s town house, Lucien would have killed him. Instead, he prowled the streets, stopping in here and again at favorite spots, seeking out old friends.

Everyone had heard the story. Jonathan had left no corner undisturbed.

So Lucien was not surprised when the usual invitations did not arrive. He was not surprised when former acquaintances cut him at the clubs; not surprised when Jonathan would not receive him.

He was surprised, however, when he found himself unable to get credit anywhere—not with the butcher or the vinter or even the tavern where he’d been drinking since he came to London fourteen years ago. The bartender shrugged when Lucien probed. He was only following instructions.

But Lucien knew. He knew.

Juliette had made it to his father.

…

Juliette and Madeline rode into London on a dark, humid day. They rode in Juliette’s well-appointed carriage, with the velveteen seats and ballooned curtains, but all the luxury in the world could not ease Madeline’s mood.

"I do wish you’d stop your sulking, Madeline," Juliette commented. Dressed in a glorious yellow traveling suit with a tightly fitting bodice and a dashing hat festooned with a tumble of silk daisies, Juliette looked like a ray of sunshine. Madeline wondered if she’d done it on purpose.

"I’m not sulking," she said. "I’m only tired and I dislike London. I do not see why I must make the rounds of all these silly parties. It’s only going to be mote expense."

Juliette gave her a curled, catlike smile. "Well, the expense is something you needn’t worry about, since Charles has so generously—"

"Extravagantly," Madeline inserted.

"Generously,"
Juliette repeated, "provided for a new wardrobe for your trousseau." With a
tsk,
she took a lace-edged handkerchief and blotted her face.

"Honestly, Madeline, most girls would be positively swooning at the thought of shopping for all those new gowns."

"I loathe shopping," Madeline replied, staring out at a field of yellow grass—

probably wheat—being cut by a family of sturdy farmers. A little boy about three, barefoot and blond, chased a butterfly, leaping and running behind it with vigor. She smiled to herself. It would be so much better if she could simply marry the marquess in a quiet ceremony, perhaps in the garden at Whitethorn, and then together they could set out for Italy, alone but for a small number of servants.

Instead, Juliette, upon returning from her successful and malicious errand to see the earl of Monthart, had plunged directly into the planning of an enormous wedding for Madeline and Charles. At first she was a little dismayed at their timing—it would have been so nice to have had a proper spring wedding!—but there wasn’t time to lose. In case of other trouble, namely a child, they had to make up their minds and marry quickly.

In Madeline’s opinion, Juliette had always been a little too set on having her own way. She’d always done whatever she pleased, ordered the lives around her as if she were the only one with any sense at all.

For years, Madeline had lived with it, but now she found herself ready to snap.

Juliette had decided upon an autumn afternoon for the ceremony—a Saturday in September. Juliette had decided the bride should wear topazes and garnets in honor of the approaching season. Juliette had decided that since both of them loved Italy so, they should honeymoon there.

The marquess, wisely, departed for his estates, giving Madeline only a rueful apology. She understood and forgave him. What man ever enjoyed wedding preparations? And certainly none would enjoy the bossiness of this particular mother-in-law to be.

Juliette coughed, bringing Madeline back to the stuffy environs of the coach.

Madeline looked at her stepmother a little guiltily. She was a trifle flushed, her upper lip beading with perspiration as soon as she blotted it away. Her breath made a soft whistling sound when she exhaled.

"Perhaps we might wait a few days," Madeline said, as kindly as she could. "You need to rest."

"Nonsense," Juliette said, but gave again a moist cough into her handkerchief.

With a sigh, Madeline reached over and touched Juliette’s cheek, then her forehead. Too warm. "Well, I’m afraid I’ll insist upon it. The past months have been wearing and you were very ill only a week ago. If you want my company on shopping expeditions, you’ll take a day to lie abed."

"All right, my dear." Juliette took her hand, smiling. "You take such good care of me."

Madeline brushed away a lock of her stepmother’s hair, pressing it back into place below the sunny bonnet. "I do appreciate all you’ve done, for me, and if I could enjoy shopping, I would."

"Perhaps this is better. The world is changing." She turned her head, and Madeline thought there was something sad in the curve of her jaw. "You’ll be a part of the new world."

"So will you."

Juliette only nodded abstractedly, and Madeline allowed her a moment of private reminiscence. For all that she’d not said a single word, Madeline knew Juliette missed Jonathan desperately, that she mourned the end of the affair as fiercely as she’d mourned her husband twelve years before. A great deal of this celebration and display was designed to attract Jonathan’s attention.

Madeline almost wished Juliette would share her sorrow, so then Madeline too might say, "Oh, yes, I am so filled with longing at times that there is no room for breath in my body."

But of course she could not. Even if Juliette could speak her sorrow, Madeline could not. It would infuriate the older woman once again, and Madeline couldn’t bear it.

As long as she could remember, this beautiful, witty, and sharp-natured woman had been her guardian angel and protector; her champion and her friend.

Impulsively, Madeline leaned forward and touched Juliette’s hands. "I was very lucky my father married you," she said. "I could not have asked for a more dedicated mother."

To Madeline’s surprise, Juliette’s eyes brightened with tears. "And I could not have asked for more in a child, my dear. We were well matched."

For Juliette, who had worked so hard to track down an ethical and honorable man to be her husband, Madeline could marry without love. For the gardens at Whitethorn, she could marry. For the sake of the children she would bear, Madeline could marry a man who might be a true father to them.

Even if her heart burned all the rest of her days for the man who’d awakened her soul.

She would try not to think about that.

…

Upon their arrival at their London town house, Juliette took to her bed all too readily. She found, once she tumbled into the cocoon of coverlets, that she was most opposed to activity of any kind. Her chest again grew congested and she had no desire to eat, and there was in her limbs a weariness so deep it seemed an effort even to breathe.

Madeline had wished for her to rest one day, but that one turned by degrees to several, and still Juliette could not rouse herself enough to do the necessary shopping. At last she told Madeline to go on without her, to do what she must and bring her purchases in to show her.

Worried, Madeline wanted to send for the doctor, but Juliette would not hear of it.

The very notion of doctors, with their razors and leeches, gave her hives. "No doctor,"

she said. "But send to the apothecary for my peppermint drops and some chamomile tea."

Still, she did not particularly improve. Madeline brought her dresses in as they were delivered, and modeled them with a light and pleasantly mocking attitude. She brought tempting morsels of food, too— chocolate drops and croissants freshly baked by the rotund little man nearby the theater district; specially brewed coffee, thick with milk and sugar; cakes and exotic fruits fresh from Africa; newly plucked raspberries, shining with water.

Juliette pretended to take great pleasure in the food, but in truth, it disgusted her.

She could see she’d lost weight again, but she simply could not force the food down her throat. Madeline’s tidbits seemed to help stir her a little, but she more often than not had her maid dispose of the food when Madeline left.

Nights were the worst. She found her fever rose, and with it, her sense of futility and despair. Her mind was filled with visions of her own mother, coughing and gray and covered with the tiny marks leeches made on her neck. Woven in with the visions of her mother were visions of Jonathan, loving her so tenderly, his blond hair tumbling around his beautiful face. How could their love be gone? How could he let it go?

She wondered, in the grip of those fevers, what point there was to anything, to any life, if one never attained happiness or peace.

But one night, after a brutal bout of coughing that left her weak and trembling and overheated, Juliette knew there had been a point to her life, to everything she had done.

She sent urgently for Madeline to come to her.

The maid protested gently, "My lady, it is very late."

"I must see her now. Wake her if needs be."