Lucien Tregellas. Margaret McPhee
through the curtain that led into the Baron’s box.
‘There the two of you are,’ said her mother. ‘I hope that a little turn with Lord Farquharson has you feeling better, my dear.’ Mrs Langley did not notice that her daughter failed to answer.
Angelina eyed her sister with concern.
Madeline sat down in the chair, taking care to make herself as narrow as possible lest Lord Farquharson’s hands or feet should happen to stray in her direction. But he made no move to speak to her, let alone touch her. The air was still ripe with the spicy smell of him. She stared down at the stage, seeing nothing of Mr Kemble’s performance, hearing nothing of that actor’s fine and resonant voice. Her mind was filled with the image of a dark-haired man and how he had arrived from nowhere at the very hour of her most desperate need: a tall, dark defender.
She could not allow herself to think of what would have happened had the stranger not appeared. Whatever her mother thought, Lord Farquharson was no gentleman, and Madeline meant to speak the truth of him in full as soon as they were home. But who was he, the dark-haired stranger? Certainly his was a face she would not forget. Classically handsome. Striking. Forged in her mind for ever. A shiver rippled down her spine. Something, she would never know what, made her glance across to the boxes on the opposite side of the theatre. There, in one of the best boxes in the house, was her dark defender, looking right back at her. He inclined his head by the smallest degree in acknowledgement. Madeline’s breath caught in her throat and a tingling crept up her neck to spread across her scalp. Before anyone could notice, she averted her gaze. But, try as she might, she could not rid herself of the foolish notion that her life had just changed for ever.
‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’ said Mrs Langley to her elder daughter. ‘Trying your hardest to undo all of my good work!’
‘Mama, he is not the man you think,’ replied Madeline with asperity.
‘Never was a mother so tried and tested by a daughter.’
Madeline controlled her temper and spoke as quietly and as calmly as she could manage. ‘I’m trying to tell you that Lord Farquharson came close to compromising me at the theatre tonight. He is no gentleman, no matter what he would have you believe.’
‘What on earth do you mean, child?’ Mrs Langley clutched dramatically at her chest.
‘He tried to kiss me tonight, Mama.’
‘Kiss you? Kiss you?’ Mrs Langley almost choked. ‘Lord Farquharson tried to kiss you?’ Her cheeks grew suddenly flushed.
‘Yes, indeed, Mama,’ replied Madeline with a sense of relief that her mother would at last understand the truth about Lord Farquharson.
‘Lord, oh Lord!’ exclaimed her mother. ‘Are you certain, Madeline?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Mrs Langley stood closer to Madeline. ‘Why did you not speak of this before?’
‘He frightens me. I tried to tell you that I disliked him.’
Her mother stared at her. ‘Dislike? What has “dislike” to do with it? Now, my dear…’ she took Madeline’s hand in her own ‘…you must tell me the whole of it.’
Madeline detected excitement in her mother’s voice. ‘I’ve told you what happened. He tried to kiss me.’
‘Yes, yes, Madeline, so you say,’ said Mrs Langley with undisguised impatience. ‘But did he do so? Did Lord Farquharson kiss you?’
Madeline bit at her lip. ‘Well, not exactly.’
‘Not exactly!’ echoed her mother. ‘Either he kissed you or he did not. Now, what is it to be?’
‘He did not.’
Mrs Langley pursed her lips and squeezed Madeline’s hand. ‘Think very carefully, Madeline. Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
Mrs Langley gave what could almost have been a sigh of disappointment. ‘Then, what stopped him?’
Madeline found herself strangely reticent to reveal the dark-haired stranger’s part in the affair. It seemed somehow traitorous to speak of him. And her mother was sure to misunderstand the whole episode. Surely there was nothing so very wrong with a little white lie? ‘He…he changed his mind.’
‘Gentlemen do not just change their minds over such matters, Madeline. If he did not kiss you, it’s likely that he never intended to do so.’
‘Mama, he most certainly meant to kiss me,’ insisted Madeline.
A speculative gleam returned to Mrs Langley’s eye. ‘Did he, indeed?’ she said. ‘You do understand, of course, that were his lordship to compromise you in any such way then, as a man of honour, he would be obliged to offer for you.’
‘Mama! How could you even think such a thing?’
‘Come now, Madeline,’ her mother cajoled. ‘He is a baron and worth ten thousand a year.’
‘I would not care if he were the King himself!’ Madeline drew herself up, anger and outrage welling in her breast.
Mrs Langley sucked in her cheeks and affected an expression of mortification. ‘Please afford me some little measure of respect. I’m only your mother, after all, trying my best to catch a good husband for a troublesome daughter who refuses the best of her mother’s advice.’
Madeline knew what was coming next. She had heard its like a thousand times. It was pointless to interrupt. She allowed her mother to continue her diatribe.
‘You care nothing for your poor mama’s nerves or the shame of her having a stubborn plain daughter upon her hands for evermore.’ Fortunately a sofa was close enough for Mrs Langley to collapse on to. ‘Whatever will your papa say when we are left with you as an old spinster?’ She dabbed a tiny piece of lacy material to the corner of her eye. ‘I’ve tried so hard, but it seems that my best just is not good enough.’ Her voice cracked with heavy emotion.
‘Mama…’ Madeline moved to kneel at her mother’s side. ‘You know that isn’t true.’
‘And now she has taken against Lord Farquharson, with whom I have tried so hard to secure her interest.’ Her mother gave a sob.
‘Forgive me,’ said Madeline almost wearily. ‘I do not mean to disappoint you. I know you wish to make a good match for me.’
Mrs Langley sniffed into her handkerchief before stroking a hand over Madeline’s head. ‘Not only a good match, but the best. Can’t you see, Madeline, that I only want what’s best for you, so that I can rest easy in my old age, knowing that you’re happy.’
‘I know, Mama. I’m sorry.’
Her mother’s hand moved in soothing reassuring strokes. ‘It is not your fault that you have the looks of the Langleys and are not half so handsome as Angelina.’ The stroking intensified.
Madeline knew full well what a disappointment she was to her mother. She also knew that it was unlikely she would ever fulfil her mother’s ambition of making a favourable marriage match.
‘That is why I have sought to encourage Lord Farquharson.’
Madeline stiffened.
Mrs Langley felt the subtle change beneath her fingers. ‘Oh, don’t be like that, Madeline.’ She removed her hand from Madeline’s hair. ‘He’s a baron. He has a fine house here in London and a country seat in Kent. Were you to marry him, you would want for nothing. He would take care of your every need.’
Madeline looked with growing disbelief at her mother.
‘My daughter would be Lady Farquharson. Lady Farquharson! Imagine the faces of my sewing group’s ladies if I could tell them that. No more embarrassment. No more making excuses for you.’
‘Mama,’