Heiress Without a Cause (13 page)

She landed in his lap, too astonished to do more than squeal with surprise. With her face mere inches from his, she could see the banked, smoldering look in his eyes — just as he tilted her mouth and kissed her.

Where their first kiss was interrupted by Josephine and the second kiss performed for the benefit of Westbrook, this kiss, their first real one, was pure possession. His mouth slanted over hers, and he didn’t wait for an invitation to take the kiss deeper, to suck her breath away as he claimed her tongue.

Madeleine tried to gasp but it merely sealed him to her, fusing them together with the heat of their kiss. She knew she should push him away, that she had pushed him too far. But his arms pulled her closer, gathering her up until she was entwined in his embrace. Without her usual froth of skirts and petticoats, there were no barriers between them. Down the entire length of her body, her skin burned with the touch of his muscled limbs. Only her breasts were denied the sensation, bound as they were to fit under her jacket — and she squirmed slightly in his arms, wishing she could get closer to his chest.

He didn’t stop the kiss, but while one hand stayed firm against her back, the other caressed her cheek before dipping lower to attack her cravat. The length of lace came away from her neck, and she felt a single moment’s coolness before he broke away from her mouth. He trailed kisses down her throat, lingering on the sensitive pulse point until she was arching against him, held in place by his hand and her own desire. He brushed aside her cloak, made quick work of the buttons on her jacket, and tore the fastenings of her shirt in his haste — only to be thwarted by the bindings on her breasts.

She saw the hunger on his face and knew it mirrored her own. In all her years as a spinster, and despite all her illicit reading, she never imagined a man could drive her to this level of need with nothing more than a few caresses.

“This is a crime, Mad,” he said, in a hoarse voice she barely recognized.

She pulled her jacket shut to protect herself from his gaze. “Ferguson...”

He cut her off and flicked her jacket open again. “Not us...
this
,” he said, gesturing at her breasts. He ran his hands over the tightly contained mounds, and even through the yards of linen, her nipples strained to respond. There was the barest swell of flesh above her bindings, and he leaned in to kiss the slight hollow where it disappeared under the cloth. “When I kiss you again, I will set them free and make up for how you’ve tormented them.”

Then he gathered her back into his arms. This time she was ready for his touch, and she opened for him as their lips came together, eager for that moment when the distance between them was wholly erased. She was no longer a passive territory for him to claim — she met him halfway, resting her arms on his shoulders and twining her fingers through his silky hair. There was something building inside her, matching the heat she felt from his embrace. She pressed him closer to her, hoping that with enough kisses, the fire would flare up and consume them.

Finally, though, he pulled away, leaving her burning, gasping, desperate for something she had never felt before. “Ferguson,” she whispered, trying to pull him back toward her mouth.

He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “If I don’t stop now, I might never quit.”

He hoisted her off his lap and deposited her across the carriage from him before she could voice an objection. Still, his admission that he was just as aroused as she was took the edge off her temper. She sighed as she looked at him across the carriage. He looked more frustrated than she had ever seen him. Their kiss had done that —
she
had done that — and she felt a giddy rush of power.

He slid open a curtain just wide enough to ascertain their whereabouts, then snapped it shut. “You should right yourself, Mad — we will arrive in a minute or two.”

She looked down. She might not be his mistress, but with her shirt and jacket hanging open, baring the bindings around her breasts, she looked the part. “Where are we?” she asked as she retied the broken laces of her shirt.

“I found a house for you that was already part of the duchy’s holdings in London. I had to pay the tenants an extravagant sum to vacate within the day, but when you see the location, you will understand why.”

She had just arranged her cravat into some semblance of a proper knot when the carriage rolled to a stop. Ferguson helped her out, and she looked up at the trim edifice of the house he had found for her. It was smaller than the grand townhouses of Berkeley Square, but it was only a street away — one of those respectable addresses that only the highest mistresses of the demimonde ever aspired to. Madame Guerrier would not be received by her neighbors, who would be scandalized at Ferguson’s actions in depositing her there, but she would be accessible to the males of Mayfair.

“Everyone will think you are here to be close to me — Rothwell House is at the end of the street, where Dover and Piccadilly meet,” Ferguson said, seeming to read her thoughts as he took her arm. “But the true advantage is that the back garden adjoins the Salford House mews. You can sneak back and forth undetected if you time it properly.”

It was a brilliant plan, and she was impressed that Ferguson had arranged it so brilliantly. There was no time to thank him, though. The door to the house was flung open from the inside, and a young butler with unusually artistic brown hair bowed deeply to her. “Madame Guerrier, welcome home. My name is Bristow, and I look forward to serving you.”

He stepped aside as Ferguson ushered her into the hallway. “My sister provided the staff, thank God. It was the only way I could fill the place with discreet servants in time.”

Ellie’s involvement explained the handsome butler, whose dark eyes twinkled as he took her cloak and Ferguson’s hat. Madeleine paused in the hallway to examine her surroundings. The house was smaller than those of most of her peers, with only four rooms on the first floor, but the entryway was perfectly respectable. There were no traces of personal effects that would make the house a home, but it was sparklingly clean, and Ferguson had spared no expense on lighting.

Ferguson took her arm and led her up the stairs. “Bristow can give you a tour of the lower rooms tomorrow, but you should change if you wish to return home in time for tonight’s ball.”

Madeleine had of course never had a house of her own; she always lived wherever the Stauntons or her parents were in residence. And while this wasn’t her house, she already found herself thinking about replacing the drapes, hanging artwork — making it hers.

She shook her head to dislodge her dangerous thoughts. This house, this life — this man — weren’t hers. If she survived the next month, she would go back to living her staid Staunton life. If she was ruined, she would find herself in exile. Either way, her time in this house was limited, and she would do well to remember it.

Ferguson led her past the second floor sitting room and pushed open a door to a room facing the rear courtyard. A gorgeous fourposter bed dominated the center of the chamber, the dark green coverlet partially obscured by the gauzy light green chiffon bedcurtains. A sensuously curved chaise-longue, covered in gold velvet and similar in design to the one in Ellie’s salon, angled out of the corner, positioned to take advantage of the fireplace. An armchair in the same velvet stood across from it, with a table between them where a pair of lovers could take a private meal. A dressing table on the opposite wall held a variety of small glass vials and ceramic pots, no doubt filled with perfumes and cosmetics, with another door leading to the dressing room beyond.

Something about the room, whether it was the dramatic greens and golds or the seductive glamour of the furnishings, appealed to her deeply, in a way that her light, innocent room at Salford House never had. And she felt a very real flash of regret that she would never sleep in the bed, or read a book on the chaise, or explore all the potions on the dressing table.

Ferguson shifted beside her. “Do you approve?”

She looked up. His eyes were anxious, as though her approval mattered. “It is a wonder you created the perfect room for me in a single day. If only I could take it with me at the end.”

He relaxed, grinning at her. “You will just have to enjoy it while you have it, Mad.”

The statement could have been a motto for the entire month — until it was over or she was ruined, she had to enjoy it thoroughly, before her old life claimed her again.

He pulled the bell cord. In a few moments Lizzie, her temporary lady’s maid, hurried in. She had the lush figure of an opera dancer, and Madeleine wondered again where Ellie found her servants. Ferguson left her to her toilette, promising to wait and see her safely across the alley to her real home.

As she let Lizzie dress her in one of the evening gowns Josephine had sent over, Madeleine thought back to the carriage and the heady demand of Ferguson’s kiss. He had controlled himself, but it was a close thing.

She watched in the mirror as Lizzie removed her wig and began piling her hair up in an acceptable chignon. It took only a few minutes to transform her from a renowned actress to an unnoticed spinster. If she didn’t get caught, she would pack away all memories of the theatre and store them in one of the deepest recesses of her heart, where she wouldn’t have to remember what she had achieved and lost.

She would lose Ferguson too, just as surely as she would leave the stage. He wouldn’t offer for her, not after the thrill of their charade died and he remembered just how improper she was.

She had debated telling him about Madame Legrand’s threats, if only to warn him that the woman might hold gossip over his head as well. But she didn’t say a word. When the play ended, their arrangement would end too. She wouldn’t mourn until it was over — and she certainly wouldn’t do anything to shorten it.

Her reflection smiled back at her with all the daring she had failed to find in the carriage. She had a month to live the life she secretly dreamed of — and she would live it, whether it was the smart thing to do or not.

Later, at Lady Blexham’s ball, when Mad was Lady Madeleine again, wrapped up in muslin and weighed down by her spinster’s cap, Ferguson pulled her into his arms for their waltz. They had parted ways less than an hour earlier, but he didn’t want to waste any opportunity to have her to himself. If all went according to plan, the twins would debut soon, and she would spend her evenings escorting them.

And when her acting career ended, their illicit, stolen time together would end as well.

“If only I could have more than one dance a night,” he murmured.

“Do try to be generous,” she said, tapping his arm with her fan in mock reproof. “You cannot go about monopolizing all my time.”

“Even if we could practice new forms of entertainment?”

It was an obvious gambit, and her eyes sparkled with laughter. “I do find it easier to learn from an excellent instructor, your grace.”

He flashed back to the image of her in his carriage, dress open and eyes full of heated wonder. No one in the ton would guess that she was capable of such abandon.

But he knew. And the more nights he spent with her, the more he doubted his ability to let her go.

They fell silent. There was nothing more they could say to each other in public that would not give them away. When he held her, though, that silence was a gift. Within their dance, he didn’t have to worry about titles, or the vast estates he had inherited, or the wreckage he had made of his sisters’ lives. There was just Madeleine, and the belief that he could be the man she needed — even though he had failed with everyone else.

Spending time with her was also turning him maudlin, he thought.

At least maudlin and lovesick were preferable to bitter and ashamed.

The dance ended well before he was ready to let her go. She looked up at him, some unreadable look on her face — perhaps her thoughts had taken the same turn as his.

Then she looked over his shoulder and her gaze turned wary. He swung around, ready to protect her even though the notion of a physical threat in a ballroom was ludicrous.

“Hello, Ferguson,” Caro said. His former mistress — now Westbrook’s former mistress, he supposed — was dangerously seductive, in a dark blue gown that clung to her like she had been sewn into it. Her blonde hair was piled high on her head and her face was cleverly painted. Despite her fashionable attire, he noticed the hardness beneath her appearance and felt another flicker of guilt.

She wanted something from him. Whether it was love or revenge, he didn’t know. Either way, he didn’t care to find out with Madeleine on his arm.

“Lady Greville,” he said. Giving her the briefest possible bow, he fixed his gaze at a point above her head. He wouldn’t cut her — he still wished her happy, after all, even if neither of them had any illusions about love when they were together a decade earlier — but he did not want to give her the slightest bit of encouragement.

Even without eye contact, he could tell she was startled by his coldness. Still, she pressed on. “I thought I would see you at all the usual haunts. Don’t tell me you’ve become the sober duke your father was? Or, worse, that you’ve taken to your chambers like Richard did in the last year of his... illness?”

He didn’t like the insinuation, and he met her eyes. “Caro, I’ve no desire to hurt you, but I am no longer the man you knew ten years ago. I do wish you all the happiness you deserve, but I shan’t be the one to provide it.”

It was an abrupt remark. He didn’t want to waste time on a thinly veiled conversation when one statement could give her the answer she needed. She blanched, and her blue eyes moistened. But just as he thought she might leave, she turned her gaze on Madeleine, who still held Ferguson’s arm. “My apologies for interrupting your time with the duke,” Caro said. “I know how precious these moments must be for one who is desperate to snare a husband.”

The venom in her tone surprised him. Ten years earlier, he was more than willing to provide the sexual satisfaction she could not achieve with her husband, particularly since her heart was not engaged — but any wildness within her had turned to something darker. “I suggest you leave before you embarrass yourself further, Lady Greville.”