‘No, you may not,’ snapped Madeline, pulling away from him with every ounce of her strength.
But for all that Lord Farquharson was a slimly built man, he was surprisingly strong and showed no sign of releasing her. Indeed, there seemed to be an excitement about him that had not been there before. He stretched an arm around her back and, when she was fully within his grasp, marched her along the length of the passageway. Not even his slight limp deterred their progress.
Madeline’s heart had kicked to a frenzied thudding. Blood pounded at her temples. Her throat constricted, tight and dry. But still she resisted each dragging step. ‘What are you doing? This is madness!’
His fingers bit harder. ‘Have a care what you are saying, Madeline. And stop causing such a fuss. I only wish to speak to you in some privacy, that is all.’
‘Come to Climington Street tomorrow. We can speak privately then.’ If only she could buy some time, some space in which to evade him. Thoughts rushed through her head. Surely Mama would notice that they were gone too long and come to seek her? Wouldn’t she? But Madeline knew deep in the pit of her stomach that her mother would do no such thing. The chance of marrying her offspring to an aristocrat, and a rich one at that, had driven the last vestige of common sense from her mother’s head.
‘Please, Lord Farquharson, release me, you’re hurting me!’ She saw him smile at her words and felt the bump of his hip against her as he dragged her onwards.
And then suddenly they stopped and he steered her into a small dimly lit alcove at the side.
‘This shall do nicely,’ he announced and pulled her round to face him, his fingers biting hard against her shoulders.
Madeline’s breaths were short and fast. She struggled to control the panic that threatened to erupt. Sweat trickled down her back, dampening her shift, and her heart skittered fast and furious. She forced herself to some semblance of calm, and looked up at him. ‘What do you want?’
‘Why, you, of course, my dear.’ Excitement had caused the hint of a flush in his cheeks that contrasted starkly with the smooth pale skin of the rest of his face. The suggestion of sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. His dark red hair had been swept dramatically back to best show the bones of his cheeks. It was a face that some thought handsome. Madeline did not. The skin around his eyes seemed tight and fragile, tinged with a shadow of the palest blue. It served only to emphasise the hard glitter of his smoky grey eyes. His gaze fixed firmly on her.
Madeline gritted her teeth hard to stop the tremble in her lips. ‘You are a gentleman and a man of honour, Lord Farquharson.’ His actions rendered this description far from the truth, but she hoped that the reminder would prompt him to abandon his scheme, whatever it may be. ‘Surely you do not mean to compromise me?’
Farquharson’s mouth twisted. His hands were rough against her shoulders. Nothing sounded. Not a hint of music or laughter or applause. No footsteps. No voices. Not even the closing of a door. He looked at her a moment longer, and she had the sensation that not only did he know precisely the extent of her fear, but that it pleased him.
Madeline’s teeth clenched harder.
‘As if I would do such a thing,’ he said and lowered his face to scarcely an inch above hers.
Alcoholic breath enveloped her. Icy fingers of fear clawed at her until her limbs felt numb and useless. She looked up into his eyes, his hard, cold, glassy eyes, and saw in them her doom.
‘Just one kiss, that’s all I ask. One little kiss.’ His gaze dropped to caress her lips.
Madeline struggled, thrusting all of her weight against him in an attempt to overbalance him.
‘You cannot escape me, Madeline,’ he said softly and lowered his lips slowly towards hers…
‘Ah, there you are, Miss Langley,’ a deep voice drawled.
Lord Farquharson practically catapulted her against the wall in his hurry to remove his hands from her. He spun to face the intruder with fists curled ready by his side. ‘You!’ he growled.
Madeline’s eyes widened at the sight of her timely saviour. He was a tall gentleman with a smart appearance, long of limb and muscular of build. His hair was slightly dishevelled and black as a raven’s wing, and he was dressed in black breeches with a neatly fitted and exquisitely cut tail-coat to match. The man was certainly no one of her acquaintance, although he seemed to be of a somewhat different opinion.
‘I wondered where you had got to,’ he said in the same lazy drawl and stepped closer to where Madeline and Lord Farquharson stood.
Madeline stared at him, unable to believe quite what was happening.
‘I trust that Lord Farquharson has been behaving with the utmost decorum?’
His was a harsh face, angular and stark, a bold nose and square-edged jaw, and clear pale blue eyes that brushed over hers.
‘He…’ Madeline faltered. If she told this stranger the truth, her reputation would be well and truly ruined. No one would believe that he had dragged her down here against her will, in the middle of a performance of one of the season’s most successful plays. Lord Farquharson was a rich man, an aristocrat. Madeline Langley was a nobody. Willing or not, she knew what people would say. She bit at her lip and dropped her gaze. ‘I must return to my family. They’ll be worried about me.’ She hoped.
The stranger smiled, but the smile did not touch his eyes. Casually he turned his face to Lord Farquharson. The Baron blanched. ‘Lord Farquharson—’ a chill entered his voice as he uttered the name ‘—will escort you back to your mother. Immediately.’
Lord Farquharson stared in sullen resentment, but said not one word.
‘And I need not mention that he will, of course, be the perfect gentleman in doing so.’
It seemed to Madeline that there was some kind of unspoken battle of wills between the two men. Lord Farquharson was looking at the stranger as if he would gladly run him through with the sharpest of swords. The stranger, on the other hand, was smiling at Lord Farquharson, but it was a smile that would have cleaved a lesser man in two.
Lord Farquharson grudgingly took her arm. This time he seemed most disinclined to make contact with her sleeve, touching her as if she were a fragile piece of porcelain. ‘Miss Langley,’ he ground out from between gritted teeth, ‘this way, if you please.’ He then proceeded to lead her briskly back down the corridor, retracing the path along which he had dragged her not so many minutes before.
Although Madeline could not see him, she knew that the dark-haired stranger stalked their every step. His presence was her only protection from the fiend by her side. She wanted to shout her thanks to him. But she could not. She did not even dare to turn her head back. They moved in silence, their progress accompanied only by the muffled steps of their shoes upon the carpet. It was not until they reached the landing leading to Lord Farquharson’s box that the man spoke again.
‘I trust you’ll enjoy what is left of the play, Miss Langley.’ He executed a small bow in her direction before turning his attention once more to Farquharson. ‘Lord Farquharson,’ he said, ‘perhaps you have not noticed quite how clear and unimpeded the view is from these boxes.’ He looked meaningfully at Lord Farquharson and waited for them to step 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