Lucien's Fall

by Samuel, Barbara

  He waited, without moving or cajoling, only watching her with that pained, jeweled gaze. The stillness was gone from his body, and she felt his need to go on as clearly as a shout.

  She was mad to do it, mad to open even the slightest hint of trust, but she sensed they were alike somehow, in some way hidden deep within both of them, and she wanted to find out what it was they shared. "All right," she said. "The maze is neutral ground."

  "Not even simply neutral," he said soberly. "It’s yours."

  The claire-voie pricked music to life in his nerves. New notes, notes that he’d not heard. The ravens, so black against the green, the sky pale above, the dazzling butter yellow sunshine—all framed with the stillness of the living window, green and silent, made music burst to life in him.

  And from his heart, or his chest, or whatever place it was the music lived, he heard notes. Violin. He frowned. No, viola. . . yes, and now a horn, soft and faraway.

  As he stared through the opening, with Madeline wary and yet curious beside him, a raven lifted and flew into the morning sky, and with the bird’s flight came a swell of notes. Lucien hummed them softly, catching them.

  How long since music had come like that, without the breach of liquor? So long. And yet, he could not seem to resist it.

  With a rueful smile, he offered his arm to the decidedly grimy Madeline. From her dress and skin came the earthy scents of bruised grass and hard work. Long untidy tendrils of hair escaped her cap to hang on her shoulders, and he wondered again what that hair looked like free and brushed to shining.

  She shied away from touching him. "I’m very dirty," she said with a shake of her head, folding her hands behind her back. A thread of a second viola, playing counterpoint to the first, swirled in, and a violin. Yes. Andantino.

  It was too perplexing to alarm him. Such bright, strong sounds—from nowhere, all at once? It made him feel slightly dizzy, as if he were not himself.

  "It’s almost enchanted here, isn’t it?" he said quietly.

  "Yes." Madeline didn’t smile, but her eyes were bright. "I was afraid to come here at night when I was a child. I thought the fairies might carry me away."

  "And now?"

  "I don’t know." She paused to bend over a particularly shrouded rosebush and firmly, but gently, tugged away the vines over it. A stone bench, beaded with dew, sat nearby, and a tangle of violets bloomed below it. She pinched one purple flower and held it to her nose. He followed her lead, smiling at the fresh, deep scent.

  It was companionable. Lucien found it charming that she was so wary of him, that she kept a foot or two between them at all times, that she didn’t pause for more than a moment at any of the quaint unusual features that littered the way.

  The place was quite clearly her passion. He understood it. At one corner, she stopped and pointed out another claire-voie, this one looking inward, across several pathways, through more windows, to the center of the maze itself. He could see a stone bench, worn gray with time, set in the middle of an overgrown bed of herbs.

  "Dazzling," he said, and meant it. "Thank you for your generosity."

  She raised skeptical eyes. He sensed about her the long wariness of a loner and was surprised at the recognition he felt. "You’re quite welcome," she said simply.

  "Juliette tells me you’ve just returned from a tour of the Continent," Lucien said, politely. A little sunshine now began to penetrate the maze, awakening sleepy corners and drying the dew on the petals of tender flowers. Over the hedge walls, a tree with a dark trunk and pale green leaves was suddenly illuminated. In his inner ear, Lucien heard the waterfall tumble of harp.

  Beautiful.

  "I went to explore the gardens," Madeline said, bringing him back to the moment. "The Italians are particularly adept at the art, as I’m sure you know."

  "The Italians seem adept at a great many things. I did not know gardening was another of their accomplishments." Idly, he plucked a trumpet-shaped flower from a vine and held it to his nose. No scent to speak of. "What makes them superior?"

  "The climate is kinder than our own, of course, but I think it’s more than that. Enthusiasm and an eye for detail, perhaps."

  "Ah. Did you find ideas you hope to employ here?"

  "A number of them, actually."

  "For example?"

  Madeline gave him a quick smile. "It’s impossible at the moment, but I’d very much like to experiment with fountains and pools."

  "Have you seen the fountains at the Villa d’Este?" he asked.

  "Oh, yes! They’re magnificent." She clasped her hands over her breast, and a bright passion filled her voice. "Water has a peculiar magic. The sound, the scent, the spirit of cool refreshment—it’s quite extraordinary."

  They passed a wide space, centered with a hedge in the shape of a triangle. Curious, Lucien slowed. Madeline, a smile curling the edges of her mouth, gestured for him to go in.

  He peeked into the opening and saw another of the stone benches within, but this one sat amid a tangle of bushes. Small pink and red flowers with ragged edges and a spicy scent filled the narrow bed. On the gray stone bench, its tail swishing, was an enormous black cat. Lucien grinned at the billowing spill of his belly. "Hullo."

  "Meet Boss," Madeline said, bending to scratch the creature’s battered ears. "This is his domain—I’ve rarely known cats able to catch squirrels, but this one thrives upon them."

  She knelt, almost by rote, and yanked a stand of grass from between the flowers. Lucien admired the smooth straight line of her spine.

  Suddenly in the quiet, her stomach growled. She colored faintly. "I’m afraid I’m growing famished," she said. "And Juliette will never allow me to come to the table this disheveled. I must return."

  "By all means, lead us out," he said. "Not that such a lady as Juliette will have stirred at so ungodly an hour."

  "You’ve a wicked tongue, Lord Esher."

  "I am a wicked man."

  "Yes." Madeline nodded. "That I can believe."

  * * *

  No one—under pain of dismissal—disturbed the countess before noon unless she rang for them. So at this still tender hour of nine, Juliette was indeed only just stirring awake. The room was agreeably dim, the heavy draperies drawn against the invasion of morning.

  Juliette moved carefully, one limb and one joint at a time. She moved her fingers, then her wrists, keeping her eyes closed. Only minor stiffness. Her mouth was deadly dry and a dullness fogged her mind, but all in all, considering the copious amounts of wine she’d consumed the night before, it wasn’t as horrid as it might have been.

  She chanced opening one eyelid. A scene of some debauchery greeted her—her torn gown, a twist of stockings, a discarded pair of silk breeches lay in piles on the floor. Apricot silk and brocaded blue satin, tangled as their owners were.

  A musky male scent touched her nostrils, and Juliette shifted, turning over to look at Jonathan, asleep next to her. His skin was hot, smooth, taut under her hand.

  So young.

  The night flooded into her mind—all that zest and energy were astonishing. He was an inventive, passionate lover. More than that, he shared her secret need of a certain brutality in the act. Sometimes both of them ended up bruised, scratched, bitten.

  He moved under her hand, slow and sleepy and aroused. Juliette braced herself against the morning onslaught—always so much more difficult than the night, when wine blunted her emotions. Mornings, she was ill prepared for the clever plying of his hands that knew all the ways she liked to be touched, ill prepared for the heat of his mouth on her throat, or the warm sound of his need rumbling into her ear.

  So gently he moved! A gliding hand, a sweet kiss, a reverent sigh. He used his youth to move in her slow and easy no matter how she tried to urge him into the torrent of wild, brutal love they knew at night. And young he might be, but masterful, and Juliette swallowed tears of despair and yearning as she succumbed once again. Anything else she might have resisted. Not the gentleness.


  So young.

  Damn him!

  Chapter Four

  Present mirth hath present laughter;

  What’s to come is still unsure:

  In delay there lies no plenty;

  Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty,

  Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

  ~ Shakespeare

  Madeline spent the day in her greenhouse, making notes, sketching out beds and plans and schedules, calculating what she might be able to do on her own, what would have to wait.

  As much as she enjoyed it, the sheer enormity of the tasks that awaited her made her feel weary. When the marquess sought her out to ask if she might like to ride in the cooling afternoon, she agreed heartily.

  She met him in the stables. His round kind face, below the pate of thinning hair, was dewy, and a line of sweatbeads decorated his upper lip. Madeline tried not to notice, and he greeted her so cheerily it would have been churlish not to respond in kind. "It is a fine, fine day for riding, wouldn’t you say?"

  Madeline smiled. "Indeed." She took the reins of her gray mare from the groom and accepted the help of the marquess to mount. "Rare to enjoy such fine weather in an English spring."

  "Yes."

  As they rode out, making small talk, Madeline breathed deeply. Clouds danced across a vivid, blue sky, hinting that there might later be a very welcome rain. The air was light and dry, but the grass drooped on its stalks and a dullness in the colors of the leaves betrayed the lack of moisture these past weeks. A trio of birds played tag across the meadow, and the freshly mown grass gave the day an earthy scent.

  In the rose garden, nearly every bush was in bud or blooming. The colors were astonishing. Planted in concentric circles, the flowers were arranged by color, going from palest, clearest white at the center to an almost burgundy red at the outside row. A tall, graceful willow tree grew in the center.

  Madeline sighed. Like every other corner of the garden, the roses needed immediate attention.

  "That sounds weary," the marquess commented.

  "Perhaps a little," she admitted and lifted a hand to point. "In a few weeks, those gardens will be quite beautiful. I hope I’ll have a chance to show them to you when they’re in full bloom."

  "I expect you shall," he said calmly. "Would it help for me to send for my head gardener? He can’t be spared at the moment, of course, but I reckon it won’t be much longer."

  "Oh, that’s very kind of you," Madeline returned, "but no, thank you." The exchange made her feel as if she’d been dropping some untoward hint. And yet, who could fail to notice the neglect so evident here? The willow tree, nearly eighty feet tall, provided lovely pale green contrast to the darker green leaves of the roses. The sturdy mums grew with abandon in their sunny beds.

  But it was impossible to avoid noticing last year’s rose hips uncut on the bushes, the dried brown stalks that needed pruning out, the clumps of grass ruining the lines of the carefully planned beds. With a determined tilt of her head, she commented, "Juliette hires three gardeners. Unfortunately, she is appallingly ignorant in how to direct them." She smiled to lighten her words. "By next spring, I’ll have everything in order once more."

  The marquess gave her a smile. "No doubt you will."

  They rode down the road, past the maze—where Madeline found her thoughts turning to Lord Harrow, and she determinedly turned them away— along the clipped meadows, into the wilder forested land on the outskirts of the estate. "Do tell me of your travels, my lord."

  "Oh, do call me Charles," he said with a pained smile. "My lord makes me think of my gouty father."

  Who would no doubt have a gouty son, she thought unkindly, eyeing his plump fingers. Then, ashamed of herself, she nodded. "Charles."

  He smiled.

  "The countess tells me you’ve made several fascinating trips to the Continent for your excavations," she said.

  "Oh, I wouldn’t think of boring you with all that." He waved his hand. "All those dusty sites are hardly to the taste of a young woman."

  "What dusty sites?" Madeline persisted. "Have you visited Pompeii?"

  "Oh, yes." His mild voice took on a resonant timbre. "I spent nearly a year with Sir William Hamilton, the English ambassador to the court of Naples, helping to uncover some of the walls."

  "It’s a fascinating place."

  "Do you think so?"

  His earnest expression gave her a pang and caused her to tell a polite lie. "Yes."

  But the small lie reminded her suddenly of the conversation in the maze. They were just alike, she and Lord Esher, only now it was Madeline prompting the marquess to talk about himself, so he’d feel flattered and happy to be in her company, so he’d think she’d be a good bride for him.

  How did that differ from a rake flattering a woman in order to bed her?

  It did not. And it was curiously humiliating to realize just how easy it was to appear interested when in fact one was not. Had Lord Harrow been bored this morning as she ran on and on about her gardens?

  With a sense of chagrin, she sat up straighter, vowing to be as sincere as she was able with the marquess. As husbands went, she could do much worse.

  From below his coat, he took a square of pottery and handed it to her. "I carry it with me all the time."

  It was a small rectangle of painted stone, showing a single blue flower, probably flax. The color was vivid and the detail accurate. It moved her oddly.

  "Isn’t it marvelous?" the marquess said. "To think it was painted by a hand now dead for hundreds and hundreds of years!"

  Madeline looked at him. The round face was lit with quiet wonder, his cheeks ruddy. For the first time, she noticed the still, calm quality of his sherry-colored eyes and she liked it.

  And yet, the relic gave her the same unsettled feeling as the ruins had done. Without knowing she would, Madeline blurted out her feelings. "Do you ever wonder if all those poor people, dying in such suddenness, without recourse or escape, left some deep emotional scar on the place?"

  He did not answer for a moment, only looked at her with peculiar intensity. "There are those who are very affected by the ruins. I’ve seen women carted away on litters." His eyes sharpened with interest. "Were you carried out like that?"

  "Oh, no." She rubbed a thumb over the relic, absently. "I confess they made me feel terribly sad. I could barely catch my breath."

  "I am a scientist and trained to cultivate objectivity," he said, tucking the artifact back into his pocket. "Perhaps that cancels out the deeper emotions." He smiled comfortably.

  Madeline smiled in return. It struck her that the marquess was that singular creature: a man at home in his own life.

  They’d been riding alone and undisturbed on the country lane, alongside the edge of thickly forested and hilly land. Now from within the trees came shouts and the sound of something—some large creature—crashing through the underbrush.

  "What the devil?" the marquess said, stopping to peer toward the noise.

  But even before they emerged from the trees, Madeline knew who it would be—the two London rakes, risking life and limb and horseflesh in their pursuit of adventure. She disapproved of such heedlessness, such irresponsibility, and yet she found herself holding her breath and harboring a curious stirring in her chest as she waited for a glimpse of Lord Esher.

  He came through the trees first, leaping the ditch with uncanny grace. His coat and waistcoat were shed, and his cambric shirt clung damply to his chest. His hair had come loose and flew in the wind so that he looked not at all like an English gentleman but rather a barbarian who’d ridden through some portal of time to invade the serene countryside. The bloodcurdling yell he let free did nothing to dispell the notion.

  Jonathan emerged from behind, cursing loudly in the bright afternoon. He reigned his horse before it could take the ditch. "Blood hell, Lucien!"

  "Mind yourself, sir!" the marquess cried. "There is a lady present."

  "Oh, dear." Jonathan bowed toward her. "A thousand pardo
ns, my lady."

  Lucien laughed.

  Madeline almost could not bear to look at him. In his dishevelment he was as unrepentantly virile as a stallion in a field of mares; he even seemed to smell of an extraordinary heat and pleasure. She found her gaze on the muscled length of his forearm, brown and strong below his rolled sleeve, covered with crisp hair that gave off gold sparks in the sun, and on his hands, long-fingered and strong, the sinews and bones covered elegantly with smooth, sun-warmed skin.

  But it was his hair, loose and long and black on his cambric-clad shoulders, that alarmed her. "You look like a savage," she said disdainfully, but there was an unaccustomed roughness to her voice.

  His eyes, almost turquoise in the bright light, blazed. "And how would you know? How many savages have you seen?"

  "None." She lifted her chin. "Nor have I seen elephants from India, but I assure you I’d recognize one if I did."

  He laughed, tossing his head with impudence. A small, hot ripple touched her.

  Jonathan rode smoothly between them, effectively dousing the rising tide of heat in Madeline’s chest. "Might we join you?" he asked.

  Madeline wanted to refuse, and she could see by the amusement in Lord Esher’s devilish expression that he not only knew it but knew the reason why: that she was moved by him, and that he provided an altogether unpleasing contrast with the marquess.

  "I’m afraid you’ll find us dull," she said levelly. "We’re only chatting and riding calmly. No wild races—of which you seem overfond, Lord Esher."

  "I? No, ’tis Jonathan who goads me."

  His horse moved restlessly and Lord Esher moved easily with the beast, bringing him back under control. "Jonathan could not bear that I bested him yesterday, and begged a rematch."

  The marquess spoke. "We’d be delighted, of course, to have you ride with us. I’m afraid I’d rather lost myself in regaling Lady Madeline with tales of my travels."

  "Oh? What travels, sir?" Jonathan rode ahead, alongside the marquess.

  With some annoyance, Madeline realized she’d lost the battle to rid herself of the rakes. Not only that, but the road was narrow, leaving room for only two horses to ride abreast. With Jonathan taking up the attention of the marquess, Madeline was forced to ride alongside Lucien Harrow.