Wicked in the Regency Ballroom. Margaret McPhee

what …?’

      Mrs Langley touched a hand to her husband’s arm; she could no longer hide her smile. ‘Pray tell Madeline the good news, Mr Langley,’ she said.

      Madeline looked up into her father’s face and waited for the words to fall.

      ‘Lord Farquharson apologised for his lapse of control. He said that his normal behaviour was overcome by the magnitude of his feelings for you.’

      The first tentacles of dread enclosed around Madeline’s heart. ‘And?’ Her voice was nothing more than a cracked whisper.

      ‘He has offered to do the decent thing. Lord Farquharson wishes to marry you, Madeline.’

      His words clattered harsh against the ensuing silence.

      She stared at her father, resisting the enormity of what he had just said.

      Mr Langley’s palm dabbed against Madeline’s back as if to salve the hurt he had just dealt her. ‘As a gentleman he should never have tried to compromise you. But the deed is done and he would redeem himself by making you his wife. He said it was ever his wish since first he saw you. I believe he does care for you, my dear. Perhaps in time you will come to be happy together.’

      ‘No.’ Madeline shook her head. ‘No!’ The word reverberated around the room. ‘I cannot marry him, Papa. I will not!’

      Mrs Langley came forward then. ‘Your father has already agreed it. Lord Farquharson is already organising a party at which your betrothal will be announced. The invitations are to be written and sent today.’

      ‘The party can be cancelled.’

      The smile wiped from Mrs Langley’s face. ‘You see how she tortures me, Mr Langley!’ she cried. ‘She would rather make fools of us before all of London than do as she is bid.’

      None of it seemed real. They were but players upon a stage, mouthing lines that would wreck her life for ever. Madeline struggled to shake the thick fleece that clouded her thoughts. ‘Papa, please, I cannot do this.’

      ‘Madeline,’ he said gently, and it seemed as if his heart were breaking. ‘If you really cannot bear to marry Lord Farquharson, then I am obliged to take other steps. He has impugned your honour. As your father, I cannot just sit back and let that happen. If word were to get out of your meeting with Farquharson in Lady Gilmour’s bedchamber, then your reputation would be utterly tarnished, and even Angelina would not remain unharmed.’ His eyes shuttered in anguish, and prised open again. ‘Either he marries you or I must call him out. The guilt is Farquharson’s, not yours, never doubt that, my dear, but we both know that society will not view it that way, and I cannot let you suffer their persecution should the matter come to light.’ His fingers fluttered against her hair, drawing her face up to look at him. ‘I will not force you to this marriage, Madeline. The choice is yours to make. If you truly cannot bear to have Farquharson as your husband, then so be it.’

      Mrs Langley gripped at her husband’s arm, pulling it away from Madeline. ‘Oh, Mr Langley, you cannot seriously mean to challenge his lordship?’ Her voice rose in a panic. ‘Duelling is illegal … and dangerous. You might be killed!’ She clung to him, tears springing to her eyes. ‘And what good would it do? Madeline’s reputation will be ruined if she does not marry him, regardless of the outcome of any duel. I beg of you, Mr Langley, do not give her the choice. Madeline must wed him and be done with it.’

      ‘It is a matter of honour, Mrs Langley, and I shall not force her to wed against her will,’ said Mr Langley.

      Madeline’s teeth clung to her lower lip. Her throat constricted ready to choke her. She would not cry. She would not.

      ‘You may have some little time to think on your decision, but if you decide against the marriage, Madeline, speed might yet prevent the sending of the invitations.’

      Mrs Langley was tugging at her husband’s hand. ‘No, Arthur, no, please!’

      For Madeline there was, of course, no decision to be made. Marry Lord Farquharson, or have her father risk his life. The choice was not a difficult one, and in its making, a cold calm settled upon her. Tears and fear and anger would come later. For now, Madeline moved like an automaton.

      Mr Langley turned to go.

      ‘Wait, Papa …’ Madeline stayed him with a hand ‘… I’ve made my choice.’

      Her father’s kindly brown eyes looked down into hers.

      ‘I will marry Lord Farquharson.’

      Mrs Langley’s face uncrinkled.

      ‘Are you certain, my dear?’ he asked.

      ‘Yes.’ Such a little word to tilt the axis of the world.

      An uncertain smile blossomed on Mrs Langley’s face. ‘It will not be so bad, Madeline. You’ll see. His lordship will make up for his mistakes, I’m sure he will.’ She patted at her daughter’s arm. ‘And he is a baron.’

      Madeline barely felt her touch. Yes, Lord Farquharson would more than make up for his mistakes, just not in the way her mother thought. There had been nothing of care or affection in his eyes. Whatever he meant to do, Madeline knew that it would not be with her welfare or her wishes in mind. Neither would matter once she was his wife. He could do what he pleased with her then, and no one would mind in the slightest. Farquharson’s wife. The ball of nausea within her stomach started to grow. ‘Please excuse me, Mama, Papa. I feel suddenly rather … tired.’

      ‘Of course, my dearest,’ said Mrs Langley.

      Her father looked drained, wrung out. ‘It’s for the best,’ he said.

      Madeline tried to smile, tried to give him some small measure of false assurance, but her lips would do nothing but waver. ‘Yes,’ she said again, and slipped quietly from the room.

      ‘Hell!’ Earl Tregellas’s curse drew the attention of several of the surrounding gentlemen dotted around the room.

      ‘Lucien?’ Guy watched the rigidity grip Lucien’s jaw and saw the telltale tightening of his lips. He leaned forward from his chair, all previous lounging forgotten, keen to know exactly what was printed in today’s copy of The Morning Post that had wrought such a reaction from his brother. Lucien normally preferred to keep his emotions tightly in check in public.

      Lucien Tregellas threw an insolent stare at those gentlemen in White’s lounge area who were fool enough to be still expressing an interest. The grandfather clock over by the door ticked its languorous pace. A few newspapers rustled. The chink of porcelain and glass sounded. And the normal quiet drone of conversation resumed. ‘Come, Guy, I’ve a mind to get out of here.’ He folded the newspaper in half and threw it nonchalantly on to the small occasional table by his elbow.

      Both men rose, and, with their coffee still unfinished on the table, left the premises of White’s gentlemen’s club without so much as a backward glance.

      Lucien’s curricle was waiting outside, the horses impatiently striking up dust from the street. ‘Do you mind if we walk?’

      Guy shook his head. Things must be bad.

      A brief word to his tiger and Lucien’s curricle was gone, leaving the brothers alone in the late winter’s pale sunlight.

      They walked off down St James’s Street. ‘Well?’ said Guy.

      Lucien made no reply, just clenched his jaw tighter to check the unleashing of the rage that threatened to explode. To any that passed it would seem that Earl Tregellas was just out for a casual morning stroll with his brother. There was nothing in his demeanour to suggest that anything might be awry in his usual lifestyle. Lucien might disguise it well, but Guy was not indifferent to the tension simmering below the surface of his brother’s relaxed exterior. That Lucien had failed to prevent his outburst in White’s was not a good sign.

      ‘Are you going to tell me just what has you biting down on your