Wicked in the Regency Ballroom. Margaret McPhee
of strong arms enveloped her, catching her up, pulling her to safety. Please God, no. How could Lord Farquharson be here so quickly? She had been so sure that he was behind her; even thought she’d heard the pounding of his feet upon the stairs. But it was only the sound of her own blood pounding in her ears. ‘No!’ She struggled within his arms, reaching to find some purchase against the smooth surface of the walls.
‘Miss Langley?’ The deep voice resonated with concern.
Madeline ceased her fight. She recognised that voice. Indeed, she would have known it anywhere. She looked up into a pair of pale blue eyes. It seemed that her heart skidded to a stop, before thundering off again at full tilt. For the arms wrapped around her belonged to none other than her dark defender. She glanced nervously behind, fearful that Lord Farquharson would creep upon them.
Her defender raised one dark eyebrow. ‘I take it Farquharson is behind this—again?’
Madeline nodded nervously. ‘He …’ Her voice was hoarse and low. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘He’s upstairs in one of the bedchambers.’ Only when she said it did she realise exactly how that must sound.
His eyes narrowed and darkened. She felt the press of his hands against her skin. ‘Farquharson.’ The word slipped from his throat, guttural and harsh in the silence surrounding them. He set her back upon the stair and brushed past her. Anger radiated from his every pore. He began to climb quickly and quietly up the narrow stairwell.
‘No!’ shouted Madeline, twisting to follow him. Her feet thudded after his. ‘No,’ she shouted again. ‘It’s not what you think. He didn’t—’ She reached ahead, grabbed for the tails of his coat disappearing round the next bend and tugged. ‘Wait!’
The man stopped suddenly and looked back down at her.
She released her grip on his coat and leaned back, panting against the wall.
‘What do you mean, Miss Langley?’
‘He tried to kiss me,’ she said, still catching her breath. ‘But I managed to get away before he could succeed.’
She could see the tension in the muscles of his neck and around the stiff set of his jaw. His eyes were sheer ice. ‘Did you learn nothing from the last time? What the hell were you doing alone in a bedchamber with Farquharson?’
Madeline’s mouth gaped in shock. ‘He tricked me. I didn’t know he would be there. I was looking for my father.’
‘And your father is likely to be hiding in one of Lady Gilmour’s guest bedchambers?’ He raised a cynical eyebrow.
‘It is not unlikely,’ she said quietly.
Long fingers raked his hair, ruffling it worse than ever. ‘Miss Langley, if you are too foolish to know it already, I will tell you in no uncertain terms. Lord Farquharson is a dangerous man. You would be wise to steer well clear of him.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do, but my mother wishes to promote a match between Lord Farquharson and myself. She’s determined to encourage his interest.’
‘Is your mother insane?’
Madeline’s lip began to tremble. She clamped it down with a firm nip of her teeth. It was one thing to know she would be left upon the shelf, and quite another to have so handsome a gentleman imply the same bluntly to her face.
‘I mean no insult, but believe me, Miss Langley, when I say that Lord Farquharson has no interest in marriage.’
Lord, he thought she was hopeful of such a thing! ‘And I have no interest in Lord Farquharson,’ she said curtly. She turned away and started to retrace her steps back down the stairwell, then hesitated and faced him once more. ‘Thank you, Mr….’
He made no effort to introduce himself.
‘Both for tonight and last week. I’m indebted to you for your intervention.’
Those pale eyes watched her a moment longer before he said, ‘Don’t thank me, Miss Langley, just stay away from Farquharson.’
She chewed at her bottom lip, wondering whether to tell him. He would think the worst of her if she did not, and somehow the stranger’s opinion mattered very much to Madeline. ‘Sir,’ she said shyly.
‘Miss Langley,’ he replied and crooked his eyebrow.
The lip received several nasty nips from her teeth. She looked at him, and then looked at him some more.
‘Was there something you wished to tell me, Miss Langley?’
Madeline twisted her hands together. ‘It’s … just that Lord Farquharson has claimed me for the waltz. Perhaps he will not recover in time, but—’
‘Recover?’ her defender enquired. ‘What in Hades did you do to him?’
‘My father showed me how to disable a man by using my knee, should the occasion ever arise.’
His mouth gave only the smallest suggestion of a smile. ‘And the occasion arose.’
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
They looked at one another.
‘Find whatever excuse you must, Miss Langley, but do not waltz with Farquharson.’
Madeline seriously doubted that the Prince Regent himself could come up with an excuse acceptable to her mother. But there was always the chance, after the incident in the bedchamber, that Lord Farquharson would have changed his mind over dancing with her. ‘I’ll try,’ she said. And she was gone, her feet padding softly down the cold stone stairs that would lead her back to the ballroom.
‘There you are, Madeline. Where is your papa? Did you not tell him of Angelina’s success?’ Mrs Langley was all of a flutter.
Madeline opened her mouth to reply.
‘Never mind that now. You’ve missed so much. You will not believe what has just happened.’ She clapped her hands together in glee. ‘Mr Lawrence was taken quite ill, something to do with what he ate at his club earlier in the day.’
‘Poor Mr Lawrence,’ said Madeline, wondering why Mr Lawrence’s malady so pleased her mother.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mrs Langley. ‘It meant that he could not dance with Angelina as he promised.’ Her excitement bubbled over in a giggle.
‘Mama, are you feeling quite well?’
Mrs Langley touched a hand to her daughter’s arm. ‘You’ll never guess what happened.’
Madeline waited expectantly.
‘The Duke of Devonshire stepped in to take his place and danced with Angelina!’ She clasped her hand to her mouth. ‘Isn’t it just too, too good?’
Madeline glanced across the dance floor to see a rather dashing-looking young man with twinkling blue eyes and warm sand-coloured hair twirl her sister through the steps of a country dance. Angelina was glancing up at the man through long lashes, her golden curls bouncing against the pretty flush of her cheeks. ‘Yes, it is wonderful.’
‘Wonderful indeed!’ Mrs Langley breathed.
Madeline cleared her throat. ‘Mama, my head hurts quite dreadfully.’
‘Mmm,’ mused Mrs Langley, barely taking her eyes from Angelina’s dancing form. ‘You do look rather pale.’
‘I wondered whether Papa might take me home in the carriage. I’m sure that he wouldn’t mind.’
‘I tell you of Angelina’s success and in the next breath you’re asking to go home.’
‘Mama, it isn’t like that. Lord Farquharson—’
‘Lord Farquharson!’ interrupted her mother. ‘I begin to see how this is going. Your papa may not realise what you’re up to, but I most certainly do!’ Mrs Langley turned on Madeline,