Heiress Without a Cause (31 page)

“I would choose the shaking if I could kiss you afterward.”

She laughed. “Perhaps you may kiss me anyway after you tell me your thoughts.”

He frowned, shifting his gaze to the shelves above her, and she wondered what was so awful that he could not say it. She whispered, “You aren’t leaving me behind, are you?”

Ferguson snorted. “As if I could. I would sooner cut off my arm. And even if I did, you and my sisters would track me down before I ever reached the border.”

It wasn’t a romantic way of stating his intentions. But her heart blossomed even though his heel tapped a nervous beat against the carpet.

“You must understand, Mad — if I thought any good would come of it, I would toss you in my carriage right now, whether you willed it or not, and beg your forgiveness later.”

“I believe you,” she said ruefully. “There’s no need for a demonstration.”

That earned a temporary smile. “There won’t be one. I couldn’t admit it last night, but I know that going to Scotland won’t save us. There’s no society there to cut you for marrying me, but if I lost you from boredom, or from anger at the turn I served you by burdening you with my reputation...”

He broke off just as she came off the settee to kneel beside his chair. “You won’t lose me for that,” she vowed fiercely, clasping his hand. “I knew your reputation from the first, but as long as the man beneath is as honorable as I know you are, you’ve nothing to fear.”

He put his other hand on top of hers, squeezing as though it was a lifeline. “It wouldn’t be honorable of me to leave my sisters, would it? Or to set you up in a drafty manor miles from anywhere, when you are meant to light up ballrooms and set the ton on its ear?”

“It’s Marguerite who does that, not Madeleine.”

“But it could be Madeleine, if you are my duchess and choose to show your real self to the ton. Not as an actress, of course. But you could be the darling of the highest circles if you chose.”

It was so foreign to her, so unimaginable — and yet so tantalizing, particularly after her run on the stage. But she brushed the vision aside. “I want to be
your
darling, not the ton’s. But I would like to clear your name so I may have the option.”

His foot stopped tapping, and he squeezed her hand again. “You were right last night, Mad. The only way to prove my innocence is for Marguerite to reappear.”

She sat back on her heels, not knowing until he said the words how much she had hoped to hear them. “I will send word to Madame Legrand. We can stage an encore performance of
Hamlet
.”

He shook his head. “I already spoke to her — it was why I was so late reaching you this morning. That was my preference too, but some of the actors are already gone to other productions, and it would be a week or more before she could find replacements. We must move fast if we’ve any hope of stopping the rumors before the Lords start looking into Marguerite’s identity.”

Madeleine gasped. Until that moment, she hadn’t thought of what an investigation would really turn up. If Marguerite was found to have never existed, the rumors would only grow — and would consume her whole family if anyone pieced together the clues. “What else can we do? I could go to the Lords, but I’ve never tested my disguise in daylight before.”

“No. It’s too dangerous, and they may ask questions you cannot answer. If you are serious about resurrecting Marguerite, though — you could attend Westbrook’s masquerade tomorrow night. If your costume is appropriate, people would see enough to believe it is Marguerite without guessing who you really are.”

The masquerade wouldn’t be safe either. She would have to converse, walk amongst the crowd — stand closer to people than she ever had onstage. Other than Ferguson, Westbrook, and a few admirers in the darkened alley behind the theatre, no one else had gotten close enough to really threaten recognition. A masquerade was the best possible option, but she might see people who knew her as Madeleine too well to be fooled by her disguise.

“Will no one raise an objection to Marguerite’s presence?” she asked.

“I’ve been to similar parties before. When a rake like Westbrook hosts the party, the men will be peers, but the women are usually demimondaines or ladies whose husbands no longer demand fidelity. None of the patronesses of Almack’s will be there, if that’s what worries you. I wager you will know some of the guests by reputation, but they will not overlap with your aunt’s circles.”

“But why Westbrook? Lady Greville is not one I wish to see as either Marguerite or Madeleine.”

She had received another note from the woman that morning, offering insincere condolences for the rumors circulating about Ferguson. When she told Ferguson, he swore under his breath. “If we see Caro, I will handle her. Unfortunately, I can’t call on her to end this — she’s so mad for revenge that she might claim I compromised her just to ensure that I couldn’t marry you. We can’t wait for a better event, though. Westbrook will have invited every fashionable man and woman in London, so your exposure will be broad. There isn’t another masquerade with a similar list of guests for at least a fortnight.”

She didn’t like the thought of attending a party where Caro would hold court, but she agreed that delay was impossible. The Lords could open an investigation well before another opportunity arose. “Very well, we shall attend. But I haven’t the least idea of how to prepare for such an event.”

“Ellie offered to help you. I can’t say I approve of her attending such parties, but at least she can tell you what you need to know.”

“She is old enough to decide her own mind,” Madeleine said, amused by the protective tone of Ferguson’s voice. “She hasn’t gone beyond the line — she could still attend proper events if she chose.”

Ferguson stroked her hair, an unconscious gesture that soothed her fears. “Let us see you through this before attempting to rehabilitate my sister. Are you sure you wish to do this?”

“There is no other choice. If nothing else, it will be fascinating to attend a disreputable party before I become your very proper duchess.”

“There’s nothing proper about you, love,” he said, his blue eyes sparking with a sudden need that demanded fulfillment.

He gripped her wrist and pulled her up into his lap. She tumbled into his arms with a muffled laugh, and as he angled in to kiss her, she was ready for him. Now that they had a plan — even if it was dangerous — she felt like they could conquer anything. All the heat and fear and excitement coalesced into hunger — and his kiss set it all ablaze. His lips slanted over hers and she opened for him, reveling in the moment when his tongue claimed hers.

She wasn’t satisfied with kisses. It had been several days since she’d last had him inside her, and might be several weeks before she could have him again — the price of feigning propriety before the wedding. He must have felt the same. His hands were already kneading into her derriere, angling her away from him so that he could break off their kiss and nibble at the side of her neck before forging a path toward her bosom.

She inhaled sharply as his hand forced her bodice down and freed a breast from her stays. He smelled just how she loved him to — riding leather, starch, and just a hint of sweat, but missing the usual scent of shaving lather. As she felt the stubble of his day-old beard graze her skin, she smiled — he had been so desperate to see her that he hadn’t bothered with niceties.

He wasn’t bothering with niceties now either. While his mouth sucked wickedly at her breast, his hand bent one of her legs to improve his access, then delved up under her skirts. He traced her stocking, skimmed lightly over the joint of her knee, and lingered on the ribbon holding her stocking in place. From there, it was just bare skin for him to conquer.

He took his time, and between his lips and his slowly roving fingers, she was already quivering for him by the time he found his prize. She looked down, seeing herself for the first time in a dress as he touched her. Somehow, his strong fingers, the muscular arm around her back holding her tight, and the strength of his jaw prominent over her naked breast were even more shocking in contrast to her white muslin morning gown.

“I love your ass in breeches, but skirts are easier,” he said, the rough words simultaneously shocking her and making her want more. He slid a finger inside her, then another, claiming her mouth again at the same moment as his first thrust.

She didn’t know how he did it, didn’t think she could ever explain it — she’d felt urges before she met him, but had never guessed she would flare up like a Roman candle with just a brush of his fingers against her. But before she could even moan a protest — or a demand — he had her right at the very peak of need, waiting for the touch she needed to push her over the edge.

He held her there, freeing himself from his breeches, settling her on top of him like he had on the chaise a few nights earlier. She knew the movements now, could slide down on him easily, biting her lip in a battle to keep herself from screaming.

He pulled her mouth against him this time, using his tongue to keep her quiet, and she matched her tempo to the intensity of his kiss. He was right there with her, holding her hard against him, and it only took a few more strokes before he broke away. “I can’t hold on any longer,” he said, shoving a hand up under her skirts to flick at that sensitive bundle of nerves that drove her need.

She had thought she might outlast him this time, but he threw her over the cliff. He kissed her again just before she tried to scream, and the pressure of keeping her pleasure in only heightened her climax. She was still shuddering with her silent moans as he stiffened beneath her, still falling when she felt him come inside her.

They couldn’t relax against each other, but the aftermath was still blissful — after the terror of last night and the worry of the morning, their lovemaking somehow grounded her again. She brushed a kiss against his forehead before her pulled out and dug into his pocket for a handkerchief. He pressed it between her legs, cleaning her gently so she could pull her skirts down without risk.

When she had pulled her gown together and he had rearranged his trousers, she grinned at him. “I’m sorry you had to repeat a dream so soon.”

He grinned back, but his was infinitely more wicked. “We didn’t repeat. I added one to the list. After the endless hours Salford kept me waiting here before agreeing to let you marry me, I couldn’t resist taking some pleasure out of this room.”

She laughed, knowing she should be horrified but too happy to care. He laughed with her, and she was glad the humor between them was restored, even if they were still in danger.

“I’m also sorry we have to go to the masquerade,” she said, her tone turning serious. “But I’m glad we’re making the attempt.”

His eyes went dark. “I won’t be pleased until we’re safely away from there. But I’ll do it, Mad. And then we’ll marry, and we’ll have all the time in the world for this.”

“I do like the sound of that,” she said.

He stood up, taking a last look at her and himself to make sure they were properly clothed. “Ellie will come this afternoon to help you. Don’t let her talk you into anything too scandalous.”

He smiled like he was teasing her, but his tone was still serious. “We can survive one night of scandal, Ferguson. We might even enjoy it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said.

She laughed as she kissed him, then let him go. She needed to change, to prepare for Ellie — to get her emotions in order if she was going to attend a masquerade as Marguerite.

They were so close to being safe — and she wasn’t going to let herself be distracted. One more night, and he would be hers forever.

Ellie had developed a reputation as a reckless hoyden, but when she called at Salford House two hours later, she reminded Madeleine of Boadicea on the eve of battle. Her blue eyes, so similar to Ferguson’s, gleamed with pleasure at the ruse they were playing, and her red hair piled on top of her head made her look even more like an ancient Celtic queen. And when she walked in to Madeleine’s bedroom, shutting the door in the face of the footman who escorted her, she slapped a sheet of paper down on the writing desk like it was a battle plan.

It wasn’t a list of regiments and supplies. It was her idea of the costume Madeleine might wear to Westbrook’s masquerade. After wearing breeches at the theatre, Madeleine should have felt no shame wearing what Ellie recommended. It was a dress, after all, even if it was the most revealing dress she had ever seen.

“I cannot wear that,” Madeleine said, her face turning bright red. “I am not even sure it... covers everything.”

Ellie had taken the seat across from her. She flipped the sheet of paper to look at the drawing again. “I wore something similar as Athena once. It would send Lady Salford into vapors — but it’s not the ladies that it is designed for.”

She grinned saucily. Madeleine couldn’t help but smile in return. “Is it truly necessary, though?”

“My dear, with Marguerite’s talent and my brother’s notoriety, everyone at the ball will be staring at you. You should want them looking at your body, not your face.”

Madeleine took the paper back from Ellie and scanned the drawing again. The costume was white muslin, but nothing a proper debutante would wear. It was pinned at the shoulders in the Grecian style, and then cut so deep across the bosom that Madeleine feared she might fall out of it if she had to curtsy low to another guest. The drape clung to the body, and as it was drawn on the model, there was a dampened chemise — or nothing at all — beneath it.

“I shall die of embarrassment,” Madeleine said. “And I don’t even like the Greeks. Can I not wear my Hamlet costume and be done with it?”

“Haven’t you guessed what the costume is?” Ellie asked. When Madeleine shook her head, she retrieved the sheet and pulled a pencil stub out of her reticule. The model had been headless, but Ellie quickly sketched in a face — nothing that might resemble Madeleine if anyone found the drawing, but enough to add to the picture. Then, she drew a towering pile of hair and festooned it with ropes of small berries — or pomegranate seeds. To the model’s wrist, she added a beribboned corsage of poppies. A sheaf of wheat in the woman’s hand completed the ensemble.