Winter Garden

by Adele Ashworth

  “Perhaps you intimidate him,” she offered more seriously than jovially.

  “Rothebury is certainly nothing like me,” he acknowledged with a trace of annoyance. “He’s handsome, charming, full of good humor. The ladies adore him. He’s also thirty-two years old, unmarried, and considered Winter Garden’s most eligible prize.”

  Madeleine eyed him candidly. “Is that why I was sent for, Thomas?”

  He turned his head sharply and stared hard at her. “No.”

  The force of that one quietly spoken word took her a little by surprise. In truth, during all the years she’d worked for the government she’d never used her body for information. Her charms absolutely, but her body never. She’d been with her share of men, but never for personal or professional gain of any kind. It soothed her a little to know Thomas Blackwood didn’t expect this of her, and had even seemed a bit irritated that she’d mentioned it.

  “You are to work with me, Madeleine,” he explained coolly. “I need the help of a professional, and being a woman is an advantage on two fronts. First, you’ll be more perceptive where Lady Claire is concerned. Second, the baron will be more receptive to you. Flirt if you must, but don’t consider compromising yourself. It’s not worth it.”

  His concern for her was a little overwhelming, and quite unnecessary. “I’m very good at taking care of myself,” she maintained, composed and sitting erect. “I think I can handle the baron.”

  He continued to regard her for a moment or two, then looked back to the grate, apparently deciding not to argue.

  “You can start with Lady Claire,” he said at last. “If we can rule her out as a suspect, we can work on the baron with fresh energy.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m going to concentrate on Rothebury’s property, his house, and get closer to it and him if I can without being observed. I want to determine his doings and dealings, who visits regularly and at what time of day.”

  “Spy on him rather than integrate yourself into his life,” she said pensively. “Is that prudent under the circumstances?”

  His lips drew back into a half smile. “He’ll never become a friend, if that’s what you mean, so I can’t have a go at him from that angle. The man has no close friends and keeps the villagers at a distance to a certain degree unless he’s formally entertaining many at once. I’ve stayed in the background until now, just getting acquainted with the area and people, but since you’re here to help, I think we can finally move in and become a little more aggressive in approach.”

  That was logical, she supposed, although the risk of being discovered was always greater when working in shadow rather than in open, friendly confrontation.

  “Have you given thought to my identity?”

  He hesitated just long enough for her to realize he had, and that he was uncomfortable with it. That piqued her curiosity.

  “Thomas?”

  With his hands on his thighs, he pushed himself to a standing position, very stiffly, and she took note of the tiny grimace along the lines of his mouth, through the tightness of his jaw. His injuries pained him, perhaps only a little, but pained him they did.

  “I’ve given it considerable thought, Madeleine,” he quietly replied, walking slowly to the mantel, peering down to the music box, running his fingertips along the wooden edge. Seconds later he turned back to her. “Have you?”

  She hadn’t expected him to ask her, accepting instead that he would have it planned and ready to adopt. He seemed intent on her opinion, though, and maybe it was something they could decide together.

  Standing to meet his gaze levelly, she murmured, “I thought perhaps a companion of some kind, but you’re really a bit too…robust to need one. After meeting you that doesn’t seem plausible.”

  His cheek twitched in mild amusement. “No.”

  She gave him a dash of a smile in return as she looked his enormous, masculine body up and down. The top half of him was in perfect shape, but he did have a limp, an obvious injury, one undoubtedly noticed by villagers. Posing as his nurse might be believed, although she didn’t really look like much of one. Still, it was the best she could think of.

  “Your mistress?” she suggested instead in a deep whisper.

  She had no idea where that had come from. Neither did he. He actually looked stunned.

  Madeleine reached up with one hand and covered her throat with her palm, hoping he couldn’t see the pounding pulse she could feel beneath her fingertips, wrapping herself with her free arm in a measure of defense. But she never took her eyes from his face.

  His lids thinned, and once again she felt that same strange magnetic pull from him, charging the air between them, palpable and thick.

  “I don’t think that would be believed, either, Madeleine,” he whispered huskily, and very slowly.

  She was on the verge of asking why, as it seemed perfectly reasonable to her, when he carried on with a more logical concern.

  “It might also give us problems socially, and we need to be free to accept invitations.”

  She should have considered that before blurting her thoughts. Word would spread that they lived together and alone, however, and eventually people would suspect a deeper involvement between them. Certainly he’d thought of that.

  “Of course, you’re right,” she agreed with a shade of embarrassment. She sighed, sagging a little. “Have you any ideas, Thomas?”

  He stared sharply into her eyes with obvious reluctance. Then he groaned softly and raised a palm, wiping it harshly over his face.

  “I fought in the Opium War, Madeleine,” he revealed soberly. “That’s where I received my injuries.” He shifted his body uncomfortably on the rug. “I thought maybe you could pose as the French translator of my memoirs.”

  Sympathy coursed through her. She understood so intimately the pain of a past one could never change. He’d fought in a war of questionable merit, sustaining injuries that had left him maimed, and he’d been averse to tell her. And the Opium War had ended six years ago, which meant that if his legs hadn’t healed by now, he would live with his suffering for the rest of his life. Tragic, and yet he carried on, just as she had in her life when faced with misery.

  “You don’t really look much like a translator,” he proceeded when she didn’t comment, “but it’s the best I can think of. Certainly better than posing as a companion, and it will probably be believed.”

  You’re right, Madeleine thought with mounting confusion, clasping her hands behind her back. I don’t look like a companion or a translator. I look like a mistress.

  Why haven’t you noticed that about me, Thomas?

  “I agree that makes the most sense of all, and should be convincing enough,” she remarked aloud, feeling somewhat defeated. “I will be your French translator.”

  He stood only a few feet from her, their bodies divided by just the tea table. He searched her expression for several silent seconds, with a deliberation she could feel, then ever so slowly he dropped his gaze to her breasts, lingering there long enough for her to grow warm from the visual caress.

  “I’m sure you’re hungry,” he said abruptly. “I’ll see what Beth arranged for dinner, and perhaps we’ll eat early.” Without further comment, he turned away from her and walked toward the kitchen.

  Madeleine watched his back until he disappeared from view, finally allowing a wide grin of frank satisfaction to grace her face. His sexual innuendoes earlier could have been misinterpreted on her part, but now she was certain they weren’t. At last it was obvious that he’d noticed her as a woman.

  The wind had grown to a roaring pitch, causing tree branches to scrape against the cottage’s brick walls, slamming the shutters against his window. Thomas was oblivious to it all.

  He lay flat on his back in bed, only the sheet covering his body, hands behind his head on the pillow as he stared vacantly at the ceiling. He’d been in this position for nearly an hour, too restless to relax, too absorbed in his thoughts to move. She was proba
bly already asleep, as she’d been very tired during dinner, eating only a little. They’d talked of trivial things—her home in Marseille, her trip to England, the climate differences between the countries. Then she’d said goodnight and had retired for the evening. He’d remained sitting in front of the fire for a while, listening to her footsteps as she moved around her room, imagining her manicured fingers unbuttoning her gown, her petticoats slipping from her tall, curved body. He’d heard her bed creak as she climbed into it. He had wondered what, if anything, she wore when she slept; if she braided her hair or wore it down; if she lay between the sheets opened sensually, as if waiting for a man, or curled up from the chill like a soft kitten aching to be stroked.

  God, she was beautiful. He’d known that, though, before she’d arrived, knew much more about her, in fact, than she knew of him. Born Madeleine Bilodeau twenty-nine years ago, the illegitimate daughter of Captain Frederick Stevens of the British Royal Navy, and Eleanora Bilodeau, a less than talented, opium-addicted actress of the French stage. She’d become a spy for the British government at her request after disbelieving Englishmen disregarded her until she’d single-handedly prevented the escape of two French political prisoners by informing Sir Riley before it occurred. She’d proven her worth over the years. She was glamorized in England by those who knew about her, adored in Marseille, and celebrated across the Continent as one of the greatest beauties of their time.

  He didn’t know how long she’d stood behind him in the garden that afternoon before he’d realized she was there. She’d been watching him, he was sure of that. Her scent had reached him first as the breeze lifted her perfume and mixed it with the particular essence that made her a woman, carrying it to him, rousing him, making his heart pound. It had taken moments to gain control before he could look at her. When he’d finally gathered the nerve to do so, she had entranced him instantly with her glossy, chestnut hair coiled around her ears in thick plaits, her heart-shaped face so soft in an expression of innocent question, her flawless, ivory skin that begged to be caressed. And those eyes. Her eyes shattered resolve—ice-blue but the most sensual thing about her somehow. Eyes that could cut and wound deeply, or melt a man as they shimmered in pools of longing arousal, vivid hope.

  Oh, yes, he’d been immediately affected by her, as any man would be. And, God, the conversation over chess! How had he started that?

  Thomas expelled a long, slow breath, turning on his side at last and shoving his arm beneath the pillow, staring at the swaying trees as they moved in shadow across the moonlit wall.

  He’d never expected to be so forward with her and yet she’d caught his mood, had been so perceptive as to understand the meaning behind his words. He knew she’d lost her virginity years ago, and had spent time in the company of men far more charming and attentive than he, far more exciting, far more worthy of her beauty. But she had responded to his sexual suggestions, regarding him with a confused fascination she couldn’t hide, gauging his response, teasing him in return without really trying to, making his body succumb to that delicious ache as it hadn’t in years.

  She was attracted to him. He knew it and relished that knowledge in wonder. Madeleine DuMais, the belle of France, the darling of the English government, the smart, polished, engaging woman, who had sat across from him at dinner and licked her fingers so sensually of honey, was attracted to him. To him—Thomas Blackwood the ordinary man; Thomas Blackwood the huge, intimidating recluse; Thomas Blackwood the cripple.

  She was attracted to him.

  Smiling, Thomas closed his eyes and, for the first time in ages, fell into a deep, restful slumber—no pain in his body, no thirst in his soul, no hurt in his heart.

  Chapter 2

  Madeleine woke badly. Her head ached, her nose was stuffy, her body freezing, and for seconds she had trouble remembering where she was. Perhaps her momentary confusion was due to the fact that a murky darkness filled the room, and the cottage seemed unnaturally silent. The wind had died down sometime during the night, and unlike her warm house and bed in Marseille, with the sound of street traffic always just below her bedroom window, she heard only the creaks of the cottage itself as it settled into the damp earth.

  It had to be mid-morning, although she had no idea of the time, probably due to the thick, overcast sky she could barely discern through her bedroom window. Usually Marie-Camille woke her by seven if she didn’t wake herself. Nobody would rouse her here, however, and Thomas certainly would never enter her room.

  Since the moment she’d stepped foot on British soil just three days ago, she’d had little time to contemplate her immediate situation and surroundings. She was back in England and essentially alone. Although accustomed to solitude, her life in recent years had been spent in the company of others, albeit only because her work had put her there. At home she was known in social circles, granted invitations as the respectable Widow DuMais, an acquaintance to many, friend to few—all ignorant of her deep-seated hatred for her French heritage and the childhood of near servitude she was forced to endure at the hands of an ignorant, ill-bred mother. But that seemed another life to her now.

  In England, she was unknown, which, as she thought about it, could be a challenge or an asset in the weeks to come. She could create her own character and be any person she chose, using her charms or subduing them. Above everything else, though, she was a professional, and would be exactly who she needed to be to accomplish this mission for the love of her father’s country. It was time to go to work.

  Shivering from the damp, chilly air, Madeleine pushed back the sheet and blanket and slowly sat upright, rubbing her pounding temples and brows with her fingertips. Tea would help the head pain; but, of course, she’d need to dress fully before entering the kitchen.

  At last she forced her eyes to remain open, placed her bare feet on the cold floor, and stood on stiff legs. Her room was small, with only a bed for one and a petite dressing table, painted white, with a raised mirror attached to it to accommodate her toilette. The walls were papered with the same flowered print that lined the walls of the parlor, but nothing hung from them. The only window, draped with white lace curtains, framed the head of the bed, and a full wardrobe closet sat across the floor at the foot of it.

  Closing her arms around her shivering body, Madeleine walked to it. She’d only brought four gowns with her—one for traveling that she’d worn yesterday, one morning gown, one for day, and one for evening dress. Unfortunately she had had no room to carry a full wardrobe all the way from France, and suddenly she felt unduly conscious about that. She would be wearing the same gowns again and again. Not very flattering, but then Thomas hadn’t appeared to notice what she wore. The villagers would expect nothing more from a translator.

  Madeleine discarded her linen nightgown and dressed quickly in her morning gown of canary-yellow muslin over full crinoline. The sleeves were long, the neckline modest though tightly molding to her bosom, which pleased her since that was the only part of her anatomy Thomas had seemed to regard, however briefly. She looked becoming but unassuming, and for the first time in her life she was grateful for the layers of petticoats against her skin that warmed her body.

  She brushed her hair, plaited it, then wrapped it in loops around her ears. At home she was used to wearing face color to accentuate her features, but she supposed she’d have to abandon that indulgence in Winter Garden. The English were rather staid about the application of false color, preferring their ladies to look pale and flat instead of ripe and sensuous. Sexless in her opinion, but then her opinion hardly mattered. She’d no doubt get a better response from the villagers if she chose to forgo even rouge.

  Madeleine splashed her face with cold water from the pitcher, dried herself with a soft face towel, pinched her cheeks, and gently bit her lips. Then with shoulders back she left the privacy of her room and walked into the parlor.

  It was dark save for the light from the roaring fire and one small lamp. Thomas sat in the chair, facing the grate, his he
ad bowed, his mind engrossed in a book of considerable thickness. In this position, poised with one leg resting on the footstool, his body clothed in black trousers and a white linen shirt buttoned to the neck, he looked casual but every bit the gentleman scholar he professed to be.

  He turned when he heard her footsteps, his gaze scanning her attire then meeting hers with approval. She brushed off the sudden, overpowering feeling of being scrutinized within and smiled into his eyes. Just a simple look from him gave her pause.

  “Good morning, Thomas,” she said congenially, hands folded in front of her as she moved toward him.

  “Good morning, Madeleine,” he replied in a voice of deep smoothness.

  She pulled her gaze from his to glance at the clock on the mantel. Half-past nine. She’d overslept by hours. “I’m sorry I woke so late,” she said, sitting comfortably on the sofa and arranging her skirts. “Usually I’m up very early.”

  He closed his book without looking at it. “I’m sure you were tired after several days of travel. Did you sleep well?” he asked politely.

  “Yes, very well, thank you.” That was a lie he could probably read through. Feeling the tension ease from her shoulders, she leaned heavily against the sofa back. “Actually my head aches, and I was rather cold.”

  For once he looked amused. “I’ll find you another blanket for tonight. In the meantime let’s get you some tea. Then we’ll walk the grounds.” He placed his book, The Complete Works of Alexander Pope, on the table in front of him, then pushed himself up to a standing position. “The fresh air might help your head as well, and Richard Sharon takes his morning ride at about ten. He’ll be in the distance, but you’ll get a good enough look at him. Then we’ll talk about plans for today. If you’re feeling up to it, of course.”