Lucien Tregellas by Margaret McPhee Read Free Book Online

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Well, really!’ exclaimed Mrs Wilson by her side. ‘You do know who that is?’
    â€˜Indeed,’ replied Mrs Langley weakly. ‘That is Earl Tregellas.’
    â€˜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.
    Â 
    The dark-haired stranger held her with a firm gentleness. The light pressure of his hand upon her waist seemed to burn straight through the material of her dress and undergarments, to sear against her skin. The fingers of his other hand enclosed around hers in warm protection. Beneath the superfine material of his coat she could feel the strength of his muscles across the breadth of his shoulders. The square-cut double-breasted tail-coat was of the finest midnight black to match the ruffled feathers of his hair. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the most elegant tailor’s establishment in all England. A white-worked waistcoat adorned a pristine white shirt, the collar of which stood high. The white neckcloth looked to be a work of art. Madeline felt suddenly conscious of her cheap dress with its plain cream-coloured material and short puffed sleeves. As usual she had declined to wear the wealth of ribbons and bows set out by Mama. Neither a string of beads nor even a simple ribbon sat around her neck. The square-shaped neckline of her dress was not low; even so, in contrast with the other ladies, she had insisted upon wearing a pale pink fichu lest any skin might be exposed.
    â€˜Miss Langley, you seem disinclined to follow my advice.’
    The richness of his voice drifted down to her. She kept her focus fixed firmly on the lapel of his coat. What else was he to think? Hadn’t she known that it would be so? ‘I could not leave,’ she said. It sounded pathetic even to her own ears.
    â€˜Could not, or would not? Perhaps you are in concordance with your mother’s plans to catch yourself a baron after all.’
    â€˜No!’ Her gaze snapped up to his. His eyes were watching with a dispassion that piqued her. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘It isn’t like that at all.’
    He raised a dark eyebrow as if in contradiction. ‘Perhaps you even welcome Lord Farquharson’s attentions.’ His gaze meandered down over her body, lingered momentarily upon her well-covered bosom, and dawdled back up to see the blush flood her normally pale cheeks.
    She gripped at her lower lip with her teeth, as if to hold back the answer that would have spilled too readily forth. ‘If you really think that, then you may as well pass me to him this very moment.’ Her body tensed as she waited to see what he would do.
    His steps were perfection, smooth and flowing, guiding her first here, then there, progressing with grace around the floor. For such a big man he was certainly light on his feet. As they turned to change