Heiress Without a Cause (26 page)

The haze of jealousy ebbed, and a strange emotion took its place — pride. Others would condemn her if they knew what she had done, but Madeleine was truly impressive on the stage. She had also been steadfast in her determination to tread the boards despite the dangers. She couldn’t articulate her feelings the way he would like, but her courage in this matter awed him.

He closed the curtain and pulled her hand into his, still clutching the boy’s flowers. “Are you angry with me?” she asked, sounding uncertain with him for the first time in weeks.

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the tip of each finger, the heat of her skin mingling with the scent of the flowers. “No. I am sorry I was so abrupt with you — I needed to see you safe.”

She brought her other hand up to remove the flowers so she could twine her fingers around his, and she rested her head against his shoulder. He wanted to kiss her there, but she still wore her powdered wig. He tightened his grip on her hand and said, “Are you truly ready to give up the stage?”

Her fingers stilled within his, and her pause was ugly in contrast to the boisterous noises of the theatre district at night. Finally, she whispered, “That was not the question I expected of you, Ferguson.”

He watched her bowed profile in the dim lamplight. “This is related, is it not?”

She edged away from him, into the corner, his hand trailing after her like a ship’s mooring not yet cut. “I don’t know how to say what I need to say.”

She was going to say no. He snatched his hand away, stiffening his spine against his sudden panic. She was going to say no, and her family hated him, so there would be no help from that quarter. And she hadn’t been publicly ruined after all, so she didn’t need him, not really. Unless she found herself with child, she could pretend they had never even met.

His thoughts spiraled down into some dark, ugly place, wondering how he could change her mind. But then Madeleine stroked his face, and her voice pulled him back to the surface.

“What did you do to Madame Legrand?” she asked.

The question disoriented him. He had forgotten all about Legrand. He was waiting for Madeleine’s denial, not a reference to his bribery. “She claimed she would let you go, but I wanted to make sure she knew that I could destroy her if she gave your name to the press. Refurbishing the building was an inducement, but if she needs a stronger method of encouragement, she knows I will tear it down.”

“But surely you can’t raze a theatre you don’t own?”

“I do own it,” he said, not attempting to prevaricate. “That was why I attended the first night. My steward suggesting raising the rents and thought I might like to see your performance.”

She looked stunned. She would take this as yet another sign of his autocratic nature. But before he could muster a defense, she said, “So you could have demanded that Madame Legrand release me at any time?”

He nodded warily. “The thought crossed my mind when you said she had forced you, but since you didn’t seem eager to quit, I didn’t do anything about it.”

Of course, he had gotten something by leaving Madame Legrand alone — two weeks with Madeleine in their private charade. But she looked at him like he had just showered her in diamonds.

“Do you know what I will always remember from tonight’s performance?” she asked.

“The mob?” he guessed, surprised again as the conversation took another unexpected turn.

“No. I will remember you applauding as I took my final bow. I was sure then about the answer to your question, but I am even more sure now.”

“What did I do to make you sure?” he asked, phrasing his question carefully in case he needed to learn what he would have to do to win her over.

“You were there for me. You were there through everything, even though every other man would have fled — or worse, ruined me.”

“I did ruin you,” he pointed out.

She grinned. “Yes, but I must confess I enjoyed it.”

Her smile kindled a glimmer of hope. “But won’t you miss this life?”

Madeleine looked down at the small bouquet in her lap. “I may always miss it. I imagine it is like a sailor who retires to the countryside — he is safe, but I suspect some part of him always longs for the sea. But surely you knew that — you must feel the same about leaving Scotland?”

“Not precisely,” he said. Scotland had been an escape, not a desired destination in its own right. “My life there is not so different than what I may have had on any English estate, after all.”

“Then you no longer wish to return there?”

Ferguson sensed the trap in the question, knew better than to commit — or to falsely deny. “If I have reason to stay in England, I shall.”

He wasn’t purposefully dishonest. After all, how could he answer that question when he was so far from knowing his own mind on the matter? It satisfied Madeleine, though, and she smiled at him with all the certainty she had lacked when they left the theatre.

“So you really shan’t miss the theatre?”

“I had my adventure. It ended as all adventures must, and it’s not the theatre I will miss. I believe I shall miss a certain house on Dover Street, and the man who paid to keep me there.”

“Is it just his riches you care about?” he asked with mock severity. He felt himself grinning like a fool, though. Surely she wouldn’t jest like this if she meant to deny him.

She pretended to consider. “He does have a title, of course.”

He pulled her back toward him, dropped his hand to caress the juncture of her thighs, and she squealed at his sudden touch. “He is also... rather accomplished.”

She was breathless already, and the curl of her fingers into his jacket made him ache to give her everything her body already clamored for. But she somehow managed to resist him, just enough to look into his eyes.

“Are you not going to ask your question, Ferguson?”

They were in a carriage, with her in breeches and his jacket covered in powder from her wig. It was an absurd location for a proposal — but they were an absurd couple.

So he picked up her hands and cradled them in his. “Madeleine, you are everything I’ve dreamed of and nothing I deserve. Say you’ll redeem my faults and marry me?”

It wasn’t the speech he had memorized, but he couldn’t remember a word of it with her eyes shining up at him. He couldn’t say it again, though — he just had to hope she would finally give them the answer they both needed.

She had expected the question — had practically begged him to ask it — but she was still surprised at the depth of the joy that filled her. He was sincere in his love for her.

And over the past two weeks, she finally believed him. He had seen all her secrets and loved her for them, not despite them. Tonight only confirmed it. He had watched her like he enjoyed seeing her on stage, not like he wanted to change or control her.

With that realization, her panic died. Neither of them was blessed with the family they wanted, although hers was infinitely preferable to his. Her past scared her, scarred her, taught her that love was a fleeting thing that couldn’t stand up to duty. But if Ferguson could love the part of her that contradicted every virtue of a straitlaced duchess — how could the family they created together go wrong if he loved her like that?

Madeleine lingered briefly on her joy, trying to commit the picture of him, and this moment, to memory, but his fingers tightened on hers and she realized he was more nervous than he sounded.

“Ferguson,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I never thought I would find a love worth the risk, but you’ve proved me wrong. Regardless of what we face, I cannot imagine anything I would rather do than spend my life with you.”

He cupped her face with his hands. She saw the emotions rioting in his blue eyes — all the elation and eagerness she knew she mirrored. “Then is that a yes?”

The sweetness of the moment brought unexpected tears to her eyes. “Yes. I love you, Ferguson. I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it, but thank you for waiting.”

He grinned, and she brought a hand around to brush a piece of dark auburn hair off his forehead. “Do you know how I survived the wait?” he asked, running his thumb across her lips.

She shook her head against the constraint of his hands and his grin turned wicked. “I imagined all the ways I could pleasure you when you finally agreed to be mine. I think you will discover that my imagination is quite wild.”

Her cheeks heated under his hand. “You will have many nights to show me, love.”

It was the first time she had called him that, and he rewarded her with a kiss — a deep, claiming kiss, one she could sink into, one that sent tendrils of heat weaving through every hidden chamber of her soul. She stroked his cheek, felt the smoothness of his skin, and knew he had shaved for her — as though he did not want a single problem to mar this evening.

He kept up his assault on her mouth, driving her to the point where she was desperate for something beyond their kiss, lovely as it was. She reached down between them, searching for the bulge in his breeches, hoping to urge him on. He captured her hand in one of his, breaking away from the kiss long enough to speak. “Not yet, Mad — taking you in a carriage is on the list, but I’d rather save it for a night when we’ve more than five minutes to devote to it.”

She laughed, and he captured the sound with another kiss. The man was just as mad as she was — and they were perfect for each other.

By the time the carriage stopped, she couldn’t wait to leave it, had already shoved the door open before the coachman could descend from the box. Ferguson outmaneuvered her, though, stepping down first and then turning to take her in his arms. This time, he didn’t set her on the pavement — he kept her cradled against him, carrying her in impatient, ground-eating strides to the door of Marguerite’s house.

Bristow could barely open the door in time for Ferguson to stride through it. She heard the butler greet them with an equal mix of deference and amusement, but neither of them acknowledged him. Ferguson was already halfway up the stairs before the front door closed behind them, and into her chamber a few moments later.

He shut the door with his shoulder. The arm under her knees shifted as he turned the key in the lock. Then his mouth was on her again, as though he couldn’t waste the precious seconds it would take to settle her onto the bed.

She couldn’t waste them either. Telling him she loved him was like removing the last boulder between her heart and the world. A torrent of emotion flooded through her, washing away every trace of restraint, every bit of conscious thought. She clung to him, the one constant in her shifting internal landscape, a need and a fulfillment wrapped up together. He offered it to her freely, demand and devotion both, an unbreakable cycle she would have an entire lifetime to explore.

Tonight, the devotion was in his eyes, sparking blue in the low light of her bedroom. But the demand was in the way his tongue plundered her mouth, his hands roving over her as he sat on the chaise-longue and adjusted her position in his arms. He was too hungry for gentleness, and she was too eager to care.

He broke away, attacking the hairpins holding her wig in place. “I’ve dreamed of this, Mad,” he said, his rough voice thrilling her as her hair cascaded down her back. “I’ve dreamed of you taking me in your mouth, those wet lips wrapping around my cock. I’ve dreamed of you straddling me here, riding me so slowly that every move was a torture neither of us could get enough of.”

His hands ran through her hair, sifting it out across her skin, and she arched against him. All he did was tell her his fantasies — but his voice was so wicked, and the caresses moving down her back so tantalizing, that she was already growing moist for him. The pictures he painted were darkly erotic, the kind of dreams she’d begun to have but could never put into words. He still cradled her, and one hand continued to stroke her spine — but the other came around to curve over her sex, his thumb making slow, lazy circles against her breeches.

She whimpered, but while he purposefully stayed away from the nub that already begged for his touch, his words only drove her higher. “I’ve dreamed of taking you hard and fast outside a ballroom, muffling your screams, then escorting you inside and dancing with you as though you were the most proper woman in the world. I’ve dreamed of bending you over my desk, of you scattering every paper and ledger in your desperate need to come.”

His thumb flicked across her clitoris, just once, but it was enough to make her moan. His voice softened. “I’ve dreamed of making love to you — slow and sweet, in my bed in Scotland, knowing we have years ahead of us for everything. I’ve dreamed of you on your side, of slipping into you from behind while your belly grows with our child.”

The last image broke her. The flood of emotion and the cascade of need collided. She slammed up into his hand, his name on her lips. He gave her what she demanded, his fingers rough and insistent against her, stroking fast and hard. She screamed as she came, as all the visions and dreams melted into one perfect moment of clarity.

Her orgasm didn’t last long — just long enough to temporarily sate her, but not long enough to exhaust her. But in that moment, she saw the decades stretch before them, and dreamed the same dream that Ferguson did — of having him, surrendering to him, conquering him, wherever they could and however they wished.

She wrapped her arms around him, no longer desperate but guessing that he was. “Let’s make one of those dreams come true.”

He was still in enough control to shake his head. “You still have to return to Salford House, love, much as I would like to keep you here.”

She tugged on his cravat, loosening the fabric before scraping her nails down the skin she revealed. He shuddered at her touch, closer to the edge than he would admit. “But this is the last night we’ll have this chair.” She pulled the shirt out of his breeches, reaching up under the layers of jacket and shirt to stroke the hard muscles of his stomach, letting her arm just barely graze his shaft in the same teasing way that had driven her mad only a few moments earlier.