Lucien's Fall

by Samuel, Barbara

  Lucien didn’t know how his mother had married such a man. Perhaps he’d not seemed so cruel in Russia. He didn’t know and expected he never would.

  The notion of running those vast estates had very little appeal for Lucien. He would do it, of course, because he bore a responsibility to the land and the people on it. He had a legacy to fulfill. He supposed, in the end, he’d even find a malleable wife and beget sons to whom he would eventually deed the title and lands.

  A sense of strangling overtook him. Was there nothing else? Only land and children and obligations? Was there never by? True fulfillment?

  What point was there to living at all?

  In that dark mood, he returned to the house. As he walked back from the stables, his mood as black as the sky, Jonathan came out of the greenhouse door and strode purposefully toward him. A murderous fury made a twisted mask of his face.

  Seeing it, Lucien knew he was going to have to fight. With a weary sigh, he tried to forestall it. "Jonathan, not—"

  "You bastard!"

  Jonathan hit him. A cold, hard chop to the jaw, with enough power behind it that it sent Lucien backward a step, involuntarily lifting a hand to the place.

  He dropped the coat he carried and ducked his head down, swinging his fists up. A breaking sense of relief surged through him—the pain blistering his lip, sending wild feeling through his numbness. He swung hard.

  And felt the bruising impact as his fist landed solidly against bone. He ducked as Jonathan rallied, threw a left, and then landed one in Lucien’s belly. Air whooshed from him, but he dipped and swung himself, landing another bruisingly solid left to Jonathan’s face. The impact sent Jonathan reeling backward, and Lucien pressed his advantage, leaping into the air to tackle the other man before he could recover again.

  Jonathan moved, slimmer and a tad shorter than Lucien, but no less powerful. They were almost exactly matched—what Jonathan lacked in finesse, he made up for in speed; what Lucien lacked in speed he made up for in sheer power. As they tumbled, a single blow landed against Lucien’s mouth and he tasted blood. It enraged him.

  They struggled in the mud, grunting and gasping for Lucien didn’t know how long. Long enough Lucien felt aches all over him, long enough he grew reluctant to swing his bruised fists again.

  Long enough.

  All at once, a shocking blast of icy water froze them both in shock. They halted, gasping for breath, pulling away, trying to decide what had happened.

  Lucien recovered first. Madeline stood above them, her dinner gown marred with splotches of mud, her hems ruined. "I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I’ll have you tied up in the stables if you try it again. And you’ll both leave this house with first light. Is that clear?"

  Neither man spoke, but Lucien touched his lip and shifted. She threw the bucket down beside them and headed back inside, her back stiff. Lucien watched her go with a sinking feeling.

  Jonathan staggered to his feet. "I have never been so evilly betrayed in all my life."

  "It was your woman who betrayed you, not me," Lucien protested. "She followed me out there—"

  Wrong choice of words. Jonathan kicked him. Lucien was on his feet in a trice, and this time, his slight edge in size served him well, for Jonathan was a London man, and without endurance. Lucien shoved him against the brick wall of the stables. "If you attack me again, I’ll kill you." He lifted his lip. "I tried to tell you they’re all worthless, but you wouldn’t listen."

  In disgust, Lucien shoved him away and wiped a dirty hand over his cut lip. "I will regret this disaster always, Jonathan, and hope only that you will one day see reason."

  He stalked into the house, heart heavy. What was there for him anywhere? At the moment, he’d welcome the explosion of Vesuvius, blotting out his life.

  As if to underscore the thought, he heard a mournful explosion of low-pitched strings in his mind. Stunning. Wild and mournful, the end of everything. Pompeii forever obliterated.

  Yes.

  * * *

  Madeline furiously stalked back to her room to change her gown, and found the only one available was a silk brocade of darkest rose she had not been able to bring herself to wear. The color veritably hummed, and Madeline felt it too loud, though both the maids and Juliette had insisted it was not.

  And as her maid helped her don it now, she realized it was not loud by itself, but it seemed to exaggerate every detail of her person. Her waist looked extraordinarily small, her hair particularly dark. The bodice framed her breasts as if they were ripe fruit, ready for the tasting, and not even the fichu she tucked into the edges seemed to ease that impression. She tried on several necklaces, hoping to find something that might break the wide, inviting slope of skin, but everything seemed only to point up the neckline even more. Better to leave it bare.

  Both Jonathan and Lucien were in the salon by the time she had cleaned up and changed. She supposed men had fewer clothes to bother with. Jonathan, his face only showing a slight mark on one cheekbone, stood in a corner with Lady Heath, stood too close, too obviously, so everyone should know he was sleeping with her, or soon would. Lady Heath simpered under the attention. Jonathan somehow managed to look as elegantly dapper as always.

  In contrast, Lucien looked as if he’d been brawling for weeks. A tender-looking cut swelled his lower lip, and one eyelid was blackening. A red mark marred his jaw near his ear. As if to dare anyone to say anything, he had brushed his dark hair straight back from his face. Not even the severe style or the bruises could make him look unattractive, however. Madeline glanced away.

  Because Juliette didn’t come down, Madeline took her place at the head of the table, with Lucien to her right, Jonathan to her left. Lady Heath was far down the table.

  As she settled herself, Madeline said to the men on either side, "I trust we’ll have a calm meal, gentlemen?"

  They muttered assent.

  And in truth, it was the least notable dinner that had been served since the men had arrived so many weeks earlier. There were the usual bawdy jokes extended, and the shrill laughter of Lady Heath, and the predictable dark glances over the table, but all in all, Madeline couldn’t have asked for anything simpler.

  She desperately wanted to excuse herself then, but she did not. Earlier, she’d conferred with the musicians and asked them to play after supper. A concert with soothing tones—something rather dull, so everyone would get sleepy and go to bed.

  But to her disappointment, one of the violinists had been unable to play. He’d injured his hand in a boating accident and could not come back to work. "Can’t you play with only three of you?" Madeline asked, eyeing the guests as they milled into the music room.

  "No," said the leader. "Impossible. We can play perhaps a little dancing music, but not a concert as you requested."

  More cards then, and brittle gossip, while some of the guests danced and others made fun of their styles. "Very well," she said irritably. "Move into the salon."

  So into the salon they all went. It was stuffy with humid air lying flat in the room, and Madeline ordered the French doors opened. Instantly, the scent of rain and freshly turned earth filled the room, easing the tensions.

  They danced. They played cards. Jonathan insisted Madeline should dance with him, and she could not refuse. In his arms, however, she realized he’d had quite a lot to drink. He held her too close, and his hands roved too freely.

  It made her angry. "Lord Lanham," she said firmly, stepping away, "you do us both ill favor by acting this way. You’re trying to make jealous a man who cannot feel, and a woman who only gloats."

  "Am I?" he said, and moved against her. "Do you not wish to punish them all sometimes? Your stepmother sells you to the highest bidder, London’s worst rake is determined to bed you at any cost—but isn’t adverse to taking your stepmother on the side—and the man you want to marry can’t be bothered to rescue you."

  She shoved at his shoulders, but his grip was surprisingly strong. "I am not a vindictiv
e sort," she protested. "Let me go."

  "Stop pushing and I will."

  She relaxed, and he surprised her by pulling her close and planting a kiss to her shoulder. At her sound of annoyance, he laughed and let her go.

  Earnestly, she stepped forward. "Jonathan, I know you’re hurt, but you mustn’t ruin your life in the bargain. Juliette meant to keep me from Lucien Harrow, that’s all, She loves you." Madeline frowned. "She’s made herself quite ill with regret."

  His gaze was full of despair. "If she could act in such a way and profess to love me, then no more fickle woman was ever born."

  "Jonathan—!"

  "Nothing you say will salve this wound." He moved away.

  The musicians finished their piece and moved restlessly. Madeline nodded to the leader, and they took a break to stretch.

  As if she were a general at a most critical point in the battle, Madeline scanned the room for the principal players. There was Jonathan, pouring a glass of port. And Lucien glowered in the shadows by the door, his attention fixed upon Madeline. She flushed but steadfastly ignored him. Tomorrow he would be gone. Tomorrow, all of this would be finished.

  Lady Heath sidled up beside her. "What a lovely gown, my dear. You must give me the name of your dressmaker."

  Self-consciously, Madeline put a hand to her bosom and hated herself for it immediately. "You’ll have to ask Juliette."

  "Quite inflamed Jonathan, didn’t you?" A hard thread of jealousy wound through her words. "But then, what man could resist nearly naked breasts?"

  Madeline’s temper flared. "As it’s the ploy you’ve most often used yourself, I suppose you would know."

  "He bedded me last night, you know—not your stepmother."

  Madeline looked at her, dredging from some hidden resource the most withering look she could. Then she moved away, or tried. The countess caught her elbow in a firm, almost pinching grip.

  "Oh, do stay. This will be interesting. Watch." With a sweet little whistle, she called the attention of the party to her. "I have a wonderful announcement to make," she said, smiling beneficently. "Lord Esher is going to give one of his rare performances. Isn’t that right, Lucien? What has it been, ten years?"

  Madeline sucked in her breath. He wouldn’t do it, of course, but his fury was deep and without outlet to this point—she knew how he hated the countess.

  He moved out of the shadows, and his cheekbone looked even more bruised, giving him an extraordinarily dangerous look. "More than that," he said. There was barely leashed power in his movements, in the deceptively lazy way he crossed the room. "It was while you were yet young."

  Amused murmurs met his comment. A stir of expectancy rustled the room. Lucien halted before the countess, who still held on to Madeline’s elbow. "I must have accompaniment from Lady Madeline," he said.

  Panic welled in Madeline’s chest. "No! It would be impossible. I am too—"

  "Any woman in this room might play accompaniment, Lord Esher," said the countess. "Madeline does not wish to do it. Choose someone else."

  He looked at Madeline, and his eyes burned. "I don’t want another woman."

  Only she knew the words had been said before, in a private place, with both of them disheveled from passion. "I’d really rather not," she said, but the words were almost whispery, insubstantial.

  He brushed them away. "But you alone have seen the work. It is you I must have."

  Madeline looked wildly at the countess, who’d been outmaneuvered and showed an apoplectic flush, though Madeline knew she tried to control it. The countess was not sympathetic. She gave Madeline a mean little shove. "So go to it, my dear. You are the hostess after all—you can hardly refuse."

  The shove put her up close to Lucien and she put out a hand to halt herself. Her palm landed against his stomach, and she felt the rigid muscles below his clothes, and remembered—

  She raised her eyes, pleading. He alone knew why she did not wish to do this; he alone had seen the effect his music had upon her. He alone knew what had passed between them, and knew he had the power to destroy her. "Please," she whispered.

  His nostrils flared. For a moment, she thought he was going to relent. A ripple of relief swept her, cool and refreshing.

  Then he grabbed her hand and tugged, striding across the room to where the instruments were assembled. He settled her at the clavichord and took up the violin. There was something wild about him tonight, something barely leashed as he tuned the strings. And his mood seemed to infect the guests. She felt their expectation as a palpable thing, alive and entwined with Lucien’s rashness.

  He nodded at her to get ready and she lifted her hands. A thready terror beat in her chest, making her fingers damp, and she didn’t know what she was afraid of—it was only music, wasn’t it, and music couldn’t do anything to you.

  But afraid she was nonetheless, and the terror trebled when he gave her a few bars of introduction, an introduction that hinted at all there was. It was the piece she’d seen scattered under his hands that morning she went into his room, the pages he’d tossed into the fire after they struggled together. And as the pages burned, he’d kissed her so brutally, so passionately, that she thought she’d die of it.

  Bowing her head, she tried to breathe clean air into her chest, to clear her mind. Her fingers rested on the keys, aching to try to play the counterpoint he played now, patiently, waiting for her to pick it up. He played, and waited, and played.

  And of their own accord, Madeline’s fingers moved on the keys, and she picked up the simple accompaniment he wished from her. And her eyes, of their will, turned to him so she could watch for changes.

  And he stared at her, his blue eyes alive in a way she’d never seen, alive and burning and unbearably beautiful in his wounded, bruised face. He began to play, very softly. Madeline stared at him, noticing with one part of her mind how graceful his hands were, the hands of a musician, but masculine, too, dark and strong, powerful against the delicate instrument.

  The power of the music lay not in anything overt, but in the simplicity of his phrasings, in the deceptively sweet repetitions, in the building horror and trauma and terror that then settled in, collapsed upon itself. Somehow she managed to follow him, building, playing counterpoint.

  Lucien’s face took on a luminosity she’d never seen upon it, as if the music were light, and he only lived as long as it glowed within him. She saw an almost painful joy in his movements. He bowed and moved and bent into the notes, and once again, as she’d seen before, Lucien was the music—it shaped his body or his body shaped the music, she didn’t know.

  The piece flittered down, softened, slowed, and Madeline found her hands ceasing, to allow the last dying breaths of the concerto to fade.

  His breath came hard as he allowed the bow to drop, his gaze upon Madeline. And she knew he’d played it for her, he’d let it come from him, at some terrible cost to himself. Triumph and hunger shone in his face, and Madeline realized her face was awash with tears she’d not known she’d shed, and behind her, the gathered guests were stunned into silence.

  It was the first round of clapping, followed by more and more, and shouts of approval, that shook Madeline into life. She grabbed her skirts and stumbled away, running out of the room before he could touch her, before she betrayed herself completely.

  She fell against the balustrade beyond the windows, feeling thin sprays of cool rain on her skin. Wind, ungentle and carrying threats of damage, swept over her.

  And then, Lucien was behind her, his hand against her nape, the backs of his fingers sliding over the bones there, down and down, to edge the back of her dress. "Madeline," he said, "look at me."

  Her breath came in quick, short bits, and she gripped the stone balustrade. "I have never been so moved in all my life," she whispered. "The music is beautiful."

  Lucien stepped closer, and she smelled his man-scent, heady as newly turned earth. Along her back, she felt his heat, and his mouth fell on her shoulder. "Never again will it
be played, Madeline. Only tonight, for you, because I have no other gift to give you."

  At the press of his lips to her skin, Madeline’s knees nearly buckled.

  "Look at me, Madeline," he commanded, and this time, she turned.

  His breath, too, came quickly. He touched her face, the tracks of her tears. "You move me," he said, as if helpless to resist. He touched her mouth. With more gentleness than she would have believed him capable of, he bent and pressed the most delicate of kisses to her lips. "Tomorrow, I leave you, Madeline, but you have changed my life." Another soft, delicate kiss, to the corner of her mouth, to her cheek, her eyelid.

  She could not resist him. Waves of longing pulled through her, irresistible as the moon’s call upon the sea. She trembled, waiting for him, her hands frozen behind her on the balustrade.

  He let his hands slide into her hair. "You’re so beautiful, Madeline." He bent to kiss her, and rubbed her cheekbones with his thumbs. And kissed her again, moving closer. And again, closer yet, until her bottom was against the balustrade, his body against hers from shoulder to ankle.

  She raised her hands, intending to pull his hands from her face and escape. Instead, she gripped his wrists, sinewy and strong. "Lucien, please go away."

  "Not tonight, Madeline, Not this time." He opened his mouth now, and covered her own, and without knowing she would, Madeline opened her lips to him, letting his tongue in to flitter against her own, rousing her. She swayed, and he caught her close with an arm around her shoulders.

  "Tonight, I will be your lover." He pulled her tight and she let go of a small moan of protest. "Say yes," he whispered, and bent to press his mouth to her throat.

  Trembling against him, swept into the need he kindled in her, Madeline pressed her cheek into his hand.

  "Say yes," he repeated, and suckled her ear. A rocking shiver moved through her. "Come salve my wounds and heal my heart. Let me love you." His hand teased her breast through layers and layers of clothing. "Say yes."