[Samuel Barbara] Lucien's Fall(Book4You) (30 page)

For one long moment, Jonathan met Juliette’s gaze. The sardonic look left his face. His green eyes were bleak, without joy. Juliette ached to go up the stairs, Her heart felt thrice its usual size. His gaze wavered.

"What do you want?"

Pride reasserted itself. Juliette lifted her chin. "Do you know where Lucien Harrow might have taken my daughter?"

He looked at her, as if considering. "You can’t save her, Juliette. She’s in love—

strange as that may be for one of your ilk to understand. And the terrible thing is, Lucien thinks he loves her."

"I don’t care if they love each other as passionately as Romeo and Juliet. She is marrying the marquess in three weeks." Heat and dizziness enveloped her. "I will not allow her to ruin her life."

"As you’ve ruined yours?"

Juliette refused to be baited. "You left me, Jonathan."

"You deserved it."

"Did I? True love forgives sins made for love," she said, and a sense of peace filled her. "She is my blood, my only child, and I’ll not sacrifice her to the whims of a rake." She narrowed her eyes. "Do you know where he’d take her?"

For a moment, it didn’t seem he’d answer. She saw the war in his green eyes. At last he said, "He might have gone to a cottage called Rosewood."

Juliette smiled. "Thank you." For one minute, she allowed herself to inhale the scent of him that lingered in the foyer, allowed herself to impress the unbearably sexy sight of him against the railing in her mind. She would not see him again, not even if he wished it.

Somehow the truth had come clear to her. The nagging cough was not some ailment brought on by overexertion or any of those other things she’d been telling herself.

Like her mother before her, she had contracted consumption. And judging by the feeling in her chest, there was not much time left to her. Calmly, she said, "I’ll never forget you, Jonathan." She went again into the dark wet day. There was one stop more she had to make before she sought out this cottage. She would see the earl of Monthart and be certain he knew what his son had done now: kidnapped the daughter of a peer, in broad daylight from a dress shop!

For she did not want Lucien Harrow simply destitute now. Nothing would do but that he be dead or exiled forever. It was the only way Madeline would be safe from him.

For love all love of other sights controls,

And makes one little room an everywhere.

—John Donne

Under the shelter of
an overgrown arbor from which dripped yellow roses in heavy, wet, profusion, Lucien dismounted and held up a hand for Madeline. She allowed herself to be assisted, then stepped away, an expression of wonder on her face as she looked at the cottage and the roses surrounding it.

Lucien stared at her hungrily, his eyes as starved for the look of her as his hands were for her skin, his mouth for her lips, his ears for the sound of her voice.

Her hair clung in long wet tendrils to her neck, and one lock trailed over her breasts to disappear within her bodice. The magnificent gown was ruined, but the white silk clung to her body with elegant caress, the beads glinting whenever she took a breath.

Behind her, as if designed to be a backdrop for her dark loveliness, the yellow roses cascaded over trellises and crept over the drive. Even in the rain their fragrance was pervasive. She lifted a hand to touch one, and the gesture put her form in perfect outline.

For a tiny protesting voice sounded in his mind—what if this action of his ruined her life? What if she did not marry the marquess after all? What if she could not be forgiven this second transgression? What if— She turned her head and looked up at him.

The dress slipped on her shoulder once again, and Lucien could not breathe for need. He stepped forward and bent to kiss that naked shoulder, that swell of breast, those perfect lips. A soft, anguished cry came from her. He carried her inside.

It was warm within, a fire burning well on the hearth. He smelled meat and bread, but there was only Madeline in his arms, Madeline against his body, Madeline’s kiss on his mouth, Madeline’s hair on his hands. He kicked the door shut behind him. "I cannot breathe for needing you," he said, and put her on the bed.

He shed his shirt and his boots, but waited on his breeches, for Madeline shivered on the quilts in the wet silk, her wet hair a tangle. With a single gesture, he flipped the quilt over her, and covered her with himself, holding her quilts and all against him.

He kissed her brow, lingering between her eyebrows, sliding down her nose, at last claiming her mouth. She worked her arms from the blankets and pulled him closer, her hands splaying against his back. He shifted, putting himself against her leg, letting her feel the need he had for her, the need to be deeply embraced. At his movement, she made a low, longing sound.

He kissed her mouth and her chin and her ear. He tasted the long white column of her throat and opened his mouth to draw circles on the swell of her breast with his tongue. The dress, though loose on the shoulders, was too tight to pull down and Lucien was impatient to wring from her the cry he longed to hear. Bracing himself on his elbows, he gathered her breasts into his hands and settled his hot mouth over the cold, wet fabric, the cold beads, and found the flesh already risen to a point below the silk.

He moved his tongue against that rigidness, and the cry he awaited came from her throat. Low and hungry.

There was no waiting then, not after so many nights of longing, so much time wanting. Lucien hauled her into his lap so he could reach the laces of her dress. Her thighs embraced his hips, and he felt the nakedness of her heat against his erection. He fumbled with the laces. He managed to unknot them and tugged at them expertly, and the bodice slid down, showing her chemise, which he pulled from her shoulders in a hard tug.

There was a sound of tearing fabric, and a small cry from Madeline, but then her naked arms were free and she wrapped them around his neck, her tender inner elbow against his ear. Her breasts brushed his chest, and he lowered his head to suckle there even as he shoved up the skirts to take her buttocks in his hands.

And somehow, at last, his manhood was free and he was sliding his heat into the depths of her, and they were joined, truly and completely, her dress bunched around her waist, her legs sprawled around them, his breeches only nominally out of the way. Her hair was pinned and not pinned, tumbling halfway on one side.

Nothing mattered but Madeline, staring solemnly into his eyes, her hands on his face, her fingers touching his lips now, and now tracing his chin, and now his nose.

Slowly he moved within her. Slowly she moved her hands on his face. Slowly she put her fingers on his mouth and kissed between them, her tongue a light and exploratory thing against his.

And in his inner ear, there was music, the music of Madeline inside of him, all her colors woven into a brilliant tapestry of singular beauty—a sound of violins and violas and a tumble of surprising harps. It danced in him, the music, as Madeline urged him into quicker pace. Their mouths locked in a deep kiss, their bodies joined deeply, and all at once, he felt the explosion building between them.

With suddenness and power, she began to tremble and pulse around him. In response, his own body shattered. They fell together to the bed, shivering, trembling.

She curled into him. "How can this be wrong, Lucien? How can it be—"

Urgently, Lucien covered her mouth with his own, wishing he had not told her that day in the maze that he loved her. It had been a game that day, another tool in his arsenal. Now he wanted the words back, so he could whisper them softly to her when they were real.

He loved her. For the first time in his miserable life, he’d fallen in love. And if he’d not been so intent upon dishonor, he could have taken her to wife, saved her gardens, lived like a normal man in a normal way.

Instead he’d flung his blessings to the winds, letting whoever would carry them take them away. He tossed away sex, riches, time, and the title that was his by right. He’d refused his music and sulked for the loss of it.

Lying now in Madeline’s embrace, it seemed to him the whole society was twisted—it let men squander the best part of themselves, their youth and energy, while awaiting lands and titles. It encouraged waste and decadence.

Music pulsed in him. He pressed his cheek to hers, wishing he could say he loved her.

Tonight, as Madeline slept in his bed, he would write. He would set the music free, and this time he would not burn it. He would give it to Madeline instead of the words he’d uttered too soon.

…

Beyond the small cottage, a violent storm raged. Madeline heard the howling wind and furious rain with a strange sense of distance. She liked it—there was no going anywhere as long as it raged. Thunder and lightning boomed and flashed through the heavens, and it rained and rained and rained.

Lucien had found a simple loose muslin night tail for her to put on. It barely covered her, so thin was the fabric, but there was something tantalizing about the high neck and long sleeves covering her and not covering her. It made her feel richly seductive.

She didn’t ask whom it belonged to, nor did he volunteer. Instead, they lazed on the bed, touching each other, eating, drinking, kissing. He ladled soup into bowls for them and cut bread, which Madeline spread with butter. From a jug they drank cider as cold and crisp as a stream.

Madeline drifted off to sleep. When she awoke, he was writing, the quill in his left hand. His right hand stroked her thigh, but absently, as if he only did it to comfort himself. It was oddly arousing for Madeline, however, those long fingers stroking up and down, up and down restlessly, sometimes curling into the crook of her knee, sometimes sliding all the way to her ankle.

His pen flew over the page, making notations, dipping into the ink, flying again.

And as he wrote, he hummed, almost tonelessly. Madeline heard a pattern or rhythm rather than true notes. Every so often, he paused, and he stared into space, and the humming grew louder and he touched her belly or stroked her breast without even seeming to realize he did it.

Madeline simply looked at him, touched by the small details that made him. Over his ear, his hair grew in soft curls, like a child’s, giving the harsh aspect of his face a curiously vulnerable look. She had not realized he was left-handed, either, but it seemed somehow fitting.

His right hand dipped over her waist, slid down her hip, moved back upward again. His head bobbed ever so slightly, and he inclined his head, as if he were listening.

Which of course he was.

Restlessly his hand moved on her body. Quite erotic, actually, she thought, scooting over to touch him. She didn’t speak because he was so passionately engrossed, but she had a strong need to touch him. With light fingers she traced the lines of his ribs and the dip in his spine. Lucien scribbled, his pen scratching against the page, and his hand circled her belly. Again he wrote and his fingers stroked her breast.

All at once, he put down his pen, shoved up her gown and put his mouth on her thigh, where he’d been stroking. The sensation was sharp and stabbing, and she cried out.

"I am mad," he said raggedly. "I am mad."

She pulled him to her and held his face. "I love you, Lucien," she said.

He did not answer, only kissed her again, and again. Madeline tasted his desperation and gave herself to him fully, hoping to ease his sorrows. It was the last chance she would have.

…

Juliette was feverish by the time she reached the earl’s town house. Even she could feel it.

The earl of Monthart received her in his study on the second floor. A fire burned in the grate. He stood nearby it, his hands clasped behind his back. A heavily powdered wig sat on his head, immaculately coiffed, as were his clothes. He was a grim-faced man and Juliette had no doubt he could be cruel. Gossip said he’d forcibly taken his bride from a party in Russia, so smitten he was with her beauty.

Typical.

As he turned to greet her, Juliette saw he looked ashen, his mouth a peculiar shade. He blotted his lips before he spoke, and she knew a pang of conscience— perhaps she ought return when he was not so plainly unwell. "Good afternoon, Lady Whitethorn,"

he said. "How may I be of service?"

As if to remind her of her own precarious health, Juliette felt a wheezing sense of airlessness. "Your son has kidnapped my daughter," she said distinctly. "You must do something."

"What can I do? He’s cut off. I sign the papers in the morning. As far as I am concerned, my son is dead." No emotion showed on his face. "It should have been done long ago."

"Nothing else?" Juliette cried, coming forward. There was a fishwife sound to her voice she ordinarily tried to control. Tonight, she didn’t care. "He has ruined her, sir, and I will have compensation."

"Greedy wench, aren’t you?"

Juliette slapped him. He didn’t move, but she saw the flash of danger in his eye.

Again he blotted his lips. "Go, now, my lady. I no longer wish your company."

But as she turned, he made a strange choking noise, and when she turned back, he was crumpling to the floor, that blue in his lips more pronounced than ever.

He was dead before he hit the floor. Juliette had seen enough death to recognize it. In horror, she stared at his lifeless form, her thoughts whirling dizzily.

"No!" she cried, remembering what he’d said. In the morning, he would sign the papers cutting off Lucien Harrow.

As of this moment, Lucien was the new earl of Monthart, and one of the richest men in England. Juliette’s revenge was in ashes.

…

Madeline awakened to find herself in a nest of pillows and blankets, curled tight against the damp chill in the room. From overhead came the sound of birds— the rain had stopped, then. She lifted her head.

Lucien sat by the fire, his boots on already, his shirt on but not yet fastened. His hair was loose around the haggard lines of his face, and in his hands he held the sheaf of papers he’d written through the night. He stared longingly at the fire, holding the papers loosely in his elegant hands. Loosely.