Lucien Tregellas. Margaret McPhee

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      ‘What is it, Lucien? First you insist on uprooting me from a very cosy hand of cards at White’s, then you trail me here after Farquharson, and now you’ve got a face like thunder on you.’ Guy, Viscount Varington, regarded his brother across a glass of champagne.

      ‘Farquharson’s up to his old tricks again.’ Lucien rotated the elegant glass stem between his fingers. The champagne inside remained untouched.

      ‘You cannot forever be dogging his steps. Five years is a long time. Perhaps it’s time to leave the past behind and move forward.’

      Lucien Tregellas’s fingers tightened against the delicate stem. ‘Move on and forget what he did?’ he said bitterly. ‘Surely you jest?’

      Guy looked into his brother’s eyes, eyes that were a mirror image of his own. He smiled a small, rueful smile.

      ‘Farquharson has not changed. He’s been a regular visitor to a certain establishment in Berwick Street these years past, slaking his needs, and you know for what manner of taste Madame Fouet’s house caters. I could do nothing about that. Even so, I always knew that it would not be enough for him. He wants another woman of gentle breeding, another innocent. And I’ll kill Farquharson rather than let that happen.’ There was a stillness about Lucien’s face, a quietness in his voice, that lent his words a chilling certainty.

      ‘You think he will try again, even with you waiting in the wings?’

      ‘I know he will,’ came the grim reply. ‘He’s planning it even as we speak, and that foolish chit over there is practically falling over herself to be his next victim.’

      Guy followed his brother’s gaze across the room to the slender figure of the girl seated by the side of an older woman.

      ‘Miss Langley thinks to catch herself a baron. Or, more precisely, her mama does. Miss Langley herself appears to be strangely resistant to any advice to the contrary that I might offer.’ A scowl twitched between his brows.

      ‘Then leave her to it,’ said Guy with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘If the girl refuses to be warned off, then perhaps she deserves Farquharson.’

      Lucien’s gaze still had not shifted from Miss Langley, his eyes taking in her downcast face, her rigid posture. ‘No woman deserves that fate.’

      A wry little laugh sounded, and Guy drained the remainder of the champagne from his glass. ‘What would London say if they knew that the notorious Earl Tregellas, the man of whom they are all so very afraid, is on a mission to safeguard every virgin in this city from Farquharson’s roving eye? There’s a certain irony in that, wouldn’t you say?’

      ‘There’s no comparison between me and Farquharson,’ Lucien said. The fragile glass snapped between his fingers. He set the broken pieces down on the tray of a passing footman.

      ‘Calm down, big brother. I loath what Farquharson is as much as you.’

      ‘No. I assure you, you do not.’

      ‘Your feelings are understandable, given what happened,’ said Guy quietly.

      A muscle twitched in Lucien’s jaw.

      ‘What about the girl? Is she really in danger?’ Guy glanced again at Miss Langley.

      ‘She’s in much more danger than she could ever realise,’ replied his brother, looking him directly in the eye.

      Earl Tregellas and Viscount Varington, two of society’s most infamous bachelors, albeit for vastly differing reasons, turned their gaze upon the slight and unassuming figure of Miss Madeline Langley.

      Chapter Three

      Madeline glanced uneasily around. It was almost time. She knew he would come for her; her actions of earlier that evening would not stop him. The stranger had been right to tell her to make her excuses, but he had never dealt with her mother. It was bad enough having to suffer Lord Farquharson’s assaults without having her own mother encourage the situation in the hope of forcing him to a wedding. Madeline shuddered at the thought.

      She sneaked a glance at her mother. Mrs Langley was engrossed in chattering to Mrs Wilson. Madeline’s eyes raked the ballroom. Still no sign of Papa. Over at the far side, partly hidden by some Grecian-styled columns and lounging beside another man, was her dark defender. Their gazes locked. Her heart kicked to a canter. She felt the blush rise in her cheeks and looked hastily away. What would he think of her sitting waiting for Lord Farquharson to come and claim her for the waltz? And he was right! But what else could she do with Mama guarding her so well? A visit to the retiring room had been refused. And at the suggestion that she go home with Miss Ridgely her mama had warranted a warning glare. Even now Mama’s hand rested lightly against her arm. Madeline dared not look at the stranger again, even when she saw Lord Farquharson begin to make his way slowly, steadily, towards her. Every step brought him closer.

      Madeline felt the coldness spreading throughout. Her mouth grew suddenly dry and her palms somewhat clammy. She bowed her head, coaxing her courage. I can do this. I can do this, she inwardly chanted the mantra again and again. It is in full view of everyone. What can he do to me here, save dance? But just the anticipation of being held in his grip, within his power, brought a nausea to her throat. She steeled herself against it. Willed herself to defy him. Don’t let him see that you’re afraid. She steadied her breath, curled her fingers to fists. The spot on the floor disappeared, replaced instead by a pair of large, black-leather buckle slippers. Madeline swallowed once. The shoes were connected to a pair of stockinged shins. The shins led up to a pair of fine black knee breeches. The breeches stretched tight to reveal every detail of well-muscled and long thighs. Madeline’s eyes leapt up to his face.

      ‘I believe this is my dance, Miss Langley,’ her dark defender said smoothly and, without waiting, plucked Madeline straight from her chair on to the floor.

      Lord Farquharson came to an abrupt halt halfway across the ballroom, and stared in disbelief.

      Mrs Langley’s mouth opened to squawk her protest, and then shut again. She could only sit and stare while her eldest daughter was whisked into the middle of the dance floor.

      ‘Well, really!’ exclaimed Mrs Wilson by her side. ‘You do know who that is?’

      ‘Indeed,’ replied Mrs Langley weakly. ‘That is Earl Tregellas.’

      ‘The Wicked Earl,’ said her friend with a disapproving frown. ‘What an earth is he doing, dancing with Madeline?’

      For once in her life Mrs Langley appeared to be lost for words.