Wicked in the Regency Ballroom. Margaret McPhee

answers to her questions. Maybe the answers lay with the woman that Farquharson had killed, if, indeed, Lucien had been telling the truth.

      Madeline shivered. She thought of those ice-blue eyes and the cold handsome perfection of his looks. Thought, too, of the heat of his touch and the warmth in his voice. And of how his relief had washed over her as he wrapped her in his arms out in the hallway, and the gratitude in his eyes when he faced her after Farquharson and her papa had gone. No, Madeline thought, she had not escaped unchanged at all. Lucien Tregellas had awakened something deep within her. And that something was not part of their arrangement. A marriage of convenience, he had called it. A marriage to suit them both. Better this a thousand times over than facing Farquharson. It was the escape of which she could only have dreamt. She should have been basking in cosy contentment. But she wasn’t. When she finally found sleep, it was with the thought of the strong dark man who had made himself her husband.

      The following morning Madeline and Lucien sat at opposite sides of the round breakfast table in the morning room. Sunshine flooded in through the windows, lighting the room with a clear pale clarity. The smells of eggs and ham, chops and warm bread rolls pervaded the air. Lucien poured a strong brown liquid into her cup, added a dash of cream, and soon the aroma of coffee was all that filled Madeline’s nostrils.

      ‘Did you sleep well?’ The answer was plain to see in her wan cheeks and the dark circles below her eyes, but he asked the question anyway.

      Madeline nodded politely. ‘Yes, thank you. And you?’

      ‘Very well, thank you,’ he lied.

      An awkward little silence followed.

      ‘Would you care for some eggs, or a chop, perhaps?’

      ‘No, thank you. The coffee will suffice.’ She gave a small half-smile and looked around the room, unsure of what to say next.

      Lucien helped himself to some ham and rolls. ‘I was thinking,’ he said.

      Madeline’s eyes wandered back to him.

      ‘Perhaps it would be better if we went away for a short while. It would let the worst of the gossip die down and allow your parents to grow accustomed to the idea of our marriage.’

      ‘Go away where?’ she asked.

      Steam rose from Lucien’s coffee cup. ‘I have an estate in Cornwall. The house is close to Bodmin Moor and not so very far from the coast. There is not much shopping, but you could have a mantua maker take your measurements before we leave and have whatever you wish sent down from London.’ Lucien paused, trying to think of something else with which to make Cornwall sound enticing to a woman. ‘There is also the latest fashion for sea bathing in which you might care to indulge, and a very pretty beach at Whitesand Bay.’ He omitted to mention the positively arctic temperature of the sea at this time of year.

      Shopping? Sea bathing? Madeline tried to look pleased. ‘It sounds very nice.’

      Lucien continued, ‘There are frequent house parties in the locality and assembly rooms in the town of Bodmin some few miles away.’ Fourteen miles to be precise, but he did not want to put Madeline off.

      ‘For how long would we be away?’ She sipped at her coffee, cradling the cup between her hands as if it were some small delicate bird.

      Lucien gave a casual shrug of his shoulders. ‘A few weeks,’ he said nonchalantly.

      ‘Very well.’ She smiled nervously. ‘I have nothing to take with me save the clothes I am wearing.’ She smoothed her hand a little self-consciously over the skirt of the evening dress she had been wearing at Almack’s last night; the dress in which he had married her.

      Then he remembered what had happened to the tapes in his haste to remove that same dress. Something inside him tightened. Surreptitiously his eyes travelled to her neckline and sleeves. Nothing seemed to be amiss. He wondered if he ought to make an excuse to view the back of her, and thought better of it. ‘That can soon be remedied. Buy anything that you like, as much as you want, whatever the cost. Two days should suffice to make your purchases. We’ll leave the day after.’

      ‘I was not … I didn’t mean that you should …’ A delicate pink washed her cheeks.

      A slight frown marred Lucien’s brow. ‘Then you do not wish to go?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said looking at him a little embarrassed. ‘I want to go to Cornwall. It’s just that … my requirements are not what you seem to think. I would like—’

      ‘More days to shop?’

      ‘Oh, no.’ Heaven forbid.

      ‘Then what?’

      She bit at her bottom lip. ‘Nothing.’

      Nothing? He looked at her expectantly.

      ‘I had better go and get ready. Such a long day ahead.’ She flashed a brief smile and escaped out of the morning room in a flurry of steps.

      It was only when she had gone that it dawned on Lucien that Madeline was as ready as she would ever be, for she didn’t even have a pelisse or a bonnet in which to dress before facing the world.

      Madeline sat across from the maid and the footman in the Tregellas carriage on the way back from a truly horrendous day’s shopping. It seemed that either Mama or Lord Farquharson had lost no time in ensuring that all of London had been apprised of the fact that she had eloped with Earl Tregellas. No one else had known and the notice of their marriage would not be published in The Times until tomorrow. Not that anyone had actually said anything directly to her face. Indeed, most people did not know who she was. But even so there were several speculative glances, a few hushed whispers and one episode of finger pointing. Mrs Griffiths in Little Ryder Street, studiously polite, gave no hint of knowing that her customer was at the centre of the latest scandal sweeping the city and furnished her with the bulk of her clothing requirements very happily. Brief visits to the perfumery in St James’s Street and Mr Fox’s in King Street went in much the same way. Only when in Mr Rowtcliff’s, the shoemaker, did she actually hear anything that was being said. Two robustly large ladies were deep in conversation as she arrived.

      ‘Abducted a girl clean from beneath her mother’s nose,’ said the shorter and ruddier of the two.

      ‘And forced her to a wedding,’ nodded the other. ‘He has a soul as black as Lucifer’s, that one.’

      The smaller woman screwed up her face. ‘Who is she? Does anyone know yet?’

      ‘Oh, yes,’ replied her friend. ‘Plain little thing by the name of Miss Langley. That is, Miss Langley the elder. Got a pretty sister by all accounts. Heaven knows why he didn’t take her instead. Not quite the thing, the Langleys. House in Climington Street.’

      The women exchanged a knowing look before continuing on their way, none the wiser that Madeline Langley had just witnessed every word that passed their lips.

      Mr Rowtcliff and his assistant Mrs Phipps hurried back through, each with an armful of shoes and boots. ‘Of course, my lady, once we make your own shoes up they will fit like a glove. These are just some that we have that may pass in the meantime.’

      Madeline bit down hard on her lip, pushed the women’s cruel words from her mind and chose some footwear as quickly as she could.

      The clock struck three and still Cyril Farquharson had not roused himself from his bed. It was not that he was sleeping. Indeed, he had not slept at all since returning home from Tregellas’s townhouse last night. Anger had ensured that. The boiling of his blood had diminished to a simmer. At least now he could think beyond the desire to grind Tregellas’s face into the dirt. The Earl had outwitted him, snatching the girl to an elopement before Farquharson had realised his intent. And Farquharson’s best-laid plans lay in ruins. Madeline Langley would not be his. Her tender innocent flesh belonged to Tregellas now.

      He had dismissed his initial instinct to call Tregellas out and kill him. Farquharson was no fool. Tregellas was bigger, stronger, his aim truer,