Winter Garden

by Adele Ashworth

  It was meant to be an intimate invitation, clear to all of them, but he wouldn’t respond to it now. Madeleine sat beside him, and he sensed the anxiety in her. They’d seen enough, and they’d been clearly dismissed.

  After placing his napkin on the table he buttoned his jacket to hide what remained of his rigid need, then stood with some grace. Lady Claire offered him her hand in expectation, and he took it in his, lowering his head to brush his lips against the back of it.

  “It is always a pleasure to visit you, madam. Lunch was superb, as usual.”

  The woman dropped her chin graciously. He released her and turned toward Madeleine, pulling her chair out and helping her to rise. “Shall we go?”

  “Yes, Thomas,” she replied pointedly, gazing into his eyes, revealing nothing. “I think we should return to the cottage and discuss what we’ve started.”

  And it had started. He had started it, and there was no turning back. She was confident and determined, and he was, in part, feeling the gravity of it all beginning to sink in.

  “Thank you for a delightful luncheon, Lady Claire,” Madeleine said to their hostess.

  She was ignored.

  With that, Madeleine straightened her shoulders, turned, and strode regally from the dining hall as he followed, his palm to her back. Lady Claire certainly noticed him touching her, and at that moment it was exactly what he wanted.

  Chapter 6

  They walked to the cottage in silence. The sky had turned a dark, smoky gray, the day bitter with cold, and the village square had emptied of all but those who needed to be there for essentials.

  Of course, they had many things to discuss, but Madeleine was lost in her thoughts, and he didn’t interrupt them. He wasn’t sure what he would say that wouldn’t sound evasive or gauche, and another discussion of work seemed trite. He realized she intended to bring the subject of his gross breach of decorum to his attention as soon as they were safely inside the cottage walls. At least that gave him a few more minutes to conjure up an excuse of some sort, although for the life of him he couldn’t think of one other than that he craved so badly to touch her intimately that she should be pleased he hadn’t leaned in and sucked the skin at her throat in front of Lady Claire and all of her servants. Madeleine probably wouldn’t be amused to know that, though. He couldn’t decipher her mood exactly, but he was fairly certain she was annoyed, as her step had been nearly a pace in front of his for the entire return trip through the village, which had to be purposeful since he couldn’t walk as fast as she could anyway.

  As they reached the gate to the property, she waited for him to unlatch it and hold it open for her to step through. A frigid gust of wind whipped around them, knocking her hood from her head, and she shivered.

  “It’s cold,” he murmured, then felt ridiculous announcing something so inept.

  She stopped abruptly on the stone path and whirled around, nearly causing a collision between them. He reacted by grabbing her shoulders with gloved hands to steady her.

  Her eyes were blazing, huge and accusatory as she stared into his, but she didn’t push him away.

  “Yes, Thomas, it is cold,” she agreed matter-of-factly. “And since the weather is something you feel especially safe discussing with me, let’s discuss this aspect of it.” She tipped her head slightly, her features flat. “My lips are freezing, and I would like you to warm them for me.”

  His breath caught in his chest. He’d never expected that. Instinctively he dropped his arms to his sides and took a step back.

  She clearly didn’t like that response to her demand. Her glare hardened, and her eyes narrowed to thin slits. She gripped her gloved hands together in front of her so tightly the leather pulled at the knuckles.

  “We are a man and a woman physically attracted to each other, Thomas, and you are quite aware of it,” she said soberly. “Decide what you want from our relationship, and I will honor it, but I think it’s time you stopped teasing me.”

  He blinked, startled so much she probably noticed it. She wasn’t just annoyed with him now, she was infuriated. Was he teasing her? Is that how she perceived his actions? He supposed it had to be. He’d stood so close to her two nights ago, breathing heavily at her neck while telling her they couldn’t be lovers, then boldly caressed her inner thighs without permission less than thirty minutes ago.

  The icy wind blew a strand of her hair across her cheek, and he reached out and touched it with his fingers, drawing it back behind her ear. She shivered again but she held his gaze squarely, daring him to deny her.

  His nerves charged at the thought of kissing her at her request. His body, even in winter chill, grew tight again with need. Suddenly he’d never been more desperate to do anything. It was time to move forward, to openly acknowledge his interest where touching her surreptitiously and stroking her with words did not. He grasped her elbow firmly through her cloak, turned her toward the cottage, and led her along the path to the front door.

  “Thomas—”

  “If I am to kiss you, Madeleine, I can’t do it outside where anyone can see.”

  That logic subdued her a little, at least enough to silence her, but he knew without looking that she smiled with satisfaction.

  He stopped at the door but didn’t release her as he fished into his coat pocket for the key. Smoothly, surprised he wasn’t shaking noticeably, he unbolted the lock, pushed the door open, pulled her inside behind him, and closed it with a loud thud.

  He turned to her then, standing in the entryway, and although his pulse was pounding in his ears from the most intense anticipation he’d ever felt, his body remained remarkably calm.

  They stared at each other, the sound of their breathing ringing hollow in the empty foyer. For a brief moment he hesitated because he hadn’t done anything like this in years. Nervousness pierced him with uncertainty and a shade of embarrassment. But she was waiting, her cheeks and nose pink from cold, her beautiful blue eyes challenging him to change his mind, to withdraw.

  He had no intention of withdrawing now. This would be the contact of his fantasies, the beginning of his dreams.

  Still bundled in winter layers, standing a foot apart, he bent toward her, pausing only a second when he watched her close her eyes. Then he tilted his head and closed his.

  He first noticed the coolness of her face, the scent of flowers on her skin, and then he felt the sweetest softness against his mouth—cold, inviting. Perfect.

  A very slight, utterly feminine sound carried on the exhale that left her throat at the initial joining. His breathing grew shallow, his heartbeat raced from that small response of contentment, and he was instantly transported to the brink of heaven.

  He lingered with his lips just barely pressed to hers, warming them as they warmed his, drinking in the pleasure, and she didn’t immediately push for more. He wanted to savor it all for memory, and she was allowing him. She reached up gingerly with her hands, lightly encircling his neck with her palms, the leather soft and cool on his skin. He closed his arms around her waist, pulling her toward him a little, absorbing the feel of her as he gently began to move his lips against hers.

  She followed his lead, opening for him, picking up the rhythm, leaning into him until their chests touched. Her breathing began to quicken as well when he ran the tip of his tongue briefly along her upper lip, and that ignited him inside.

  He groaned and crushed her to him, raising one hand from the curve of her spine to the back of her head. She did the same, her arms around his neck, hands on his hair, clutching him now with intensifying need. Her tongue mated with his, their breath mingled, and the sounds of their joining echoed loudly in the small, empty foyer.

  Thomas pushed her back a foot or so until she rested against the wall, the air quickly charging with a consuming, physical hunger as his lips now moved frantically against hers, tasting, savoring, craving more.

  She lowered her arms, her fingers reaching for the buttons on his coat. But he wanted the control, and he grabbed
her hands and forced them back, positioning them on either side of her head, her knuckles flat against the paneled wood behind her.

  He pinned her there, supported by his greater strength, deepening the force of his mouth, his heart thundering, sweat beading at his neck and forehead, gloved fingers wrapped around hers in a vague display of his command. And then he plunged his tongue into her farther still, searching, finding, sucking hers, burning inside.

  She lifted her body to his, held powerless but desperate to feel. She kissed him back for moments, hours it seemed, expertly, passionately, giving as he gave. Then finally she gasped against his mouth and broke free, jerking her head to the side, pushing her breasts into his chest, pressing her lips to his jaw.

  “Touch me, Thomas,” she begged in a raspy, hot breath against his skin.

  God, how he wanted to touch her! To feel her naked flesh scorch his, to stoke the flame between her legs, to envelop himself in her wet heat, to love her until she climaxed around him, in his arms. His body begged him to drag her to the floor and take her here. Now.

  But he couldn’t. It would be an act without emotion on her part, the beginning of casual interludes between them, Madeleine leaving him in the end, expecting and wanting nothing more. He’d risked too much already to allow that to happen.

  At that moment determination overtook sexual urging, and he slowed his actions, remembering his purpose, his reasons for bringing her here. He drew his lips across the milky softness of her cheek, sucked her earlobe, grazed it with his teeth, felt her tremble against him.

  “Please—”

  “Not now,” he whispered with a restraint he couldn’t believe possible. They were the hardest words he’d ever said in his life.

  She whimpered from frustration, from unfulfilled want, and he traced the curve of her throat up and down with his parted mouth, inhaling the scents of soft wool and woman for a final time before squeezing his eyes shut and withdrawing his touch.

  She turned away from his face, and he lowered his forehead to the cold, hard wall behind her.

  For nearly a minute they stood like that, their heartbeats drumming loudly in the otherwise silent house, their breathing irregular and fast. He still held himself firmly pressed against her, and she didn’t immediately try to move.

  “Madeleine,” he whispered, and could think of nothing more to add.

  She attempted to inhale deeply, and he pulled back enough for her to draw breath, releasing her hands at last which she dropped to her sides. He coiled his into fists and shoved them against the wall behind her head, keeping his eyes shut.

  “You are marvelous, Thomas,” she murmured shakily, the words barely heard.

  That wrapped his heart in exquisite warmth.

  “You don’t know me,” he countered huskily.

  He felt her turn to look at him. Then she reached up with her gloved fingers and drew a line down the scar at his mouth.

  “I will in time.”

  The certainty in her voice captured his imagination, and let free the possibilities implied.

  Slowly he pushed himself up and rotated his body, falling back against the wall to stand next to her, allowing his eyes to open finally as he stared at the dark, polished wood paneling across from him.

  “You are not practiced, are you?” she asked quietly, seconds later.

  She was attempting to measure the awkwardness of their kiss, the depth of his experience, and for the first time since they’d met, he considered lying outright. In the end he decided against it. “It’s more accurate to say I’m out of practice, Madeleine.”

  For moments nothing happened. Then she sighed and reached for his hand, squeezing his fingers gently. “Do something for me, Thomas?”

  He turned his head to glance down at her at last, swallowing forcefully at the sight of her heightened color, the heat of arousal still in her eyes, the playful smile lifting her full, sensuous lips.

  “You called me Maddie once before,” she whispered very slowly. “I would like you to call me that again.”

  Before he could respond, she released him, stood upright, and entered the parlor as she headed to her room.

  Chapter 7

  At precisely half past nine, as he did seven days a week without exception, Richard Sharon strolled into his well-lit and lavishly adorned dining room to find his usual steaming breakfast of three poached eggs, ham, and toast awaiting him. Pouring tea from the silver pot, his butler, Magnus, bid him a prosaic good morning without looking up, then placed the pot on a sideboard and pulled a chair out for him at the head of the table. Richard sat comfortably, and without a word, Magnus laid his napkin in his lap, bowed his head once, and quit the room. Lifting his fork, Richard speared a thick slice of ham and began to eat in earnest.

  Life was good, he decided, spreading a newspaper before him across his new and elaborately embroidered Spanish table linens. He perused the front page, noting nothing in particular of any great interest—more worker discord at the docks, a fire on the north end, the usual irregularities at Parliament. Alas, it was rather old news by several days, but then that couldn’t be helped when one lived in the country. And, of course, he would never dream of moving from his family home to the city. In Winter Garden his assets were many, his business lucrative, and with his latest endeavor he now reaped rewards beyond his first imaginings. Yes, life was very good indeed.

  Cutting into his eggs, he continued to skim over mostly trivial information when his butler returned to the dining room and cleared his throat.

  Richard peeked up in acknowledgment, knowing it had to be important because he had strict rules about being disturbed during meals.

  “Forgive the intrusion, my lord, but Mrs. Bennington-Jones is requesting a moment of your time. Are you receiving?”

  Richard hid his smile well. He always received Penelope Bennington-Jones, and Magnus knew this. But it was the man’s station to ask, and Richard invariably placed high value on servants who kept to their station. His excellent butler had been with him for six years and tirelessly followed direction without question—exactly as he should.

  Looking back to his plate, he placed a bite of ham on his tongue, chewed slowly, and turned another page of the paper while Magnus waited, hands behind his back. After swallowing and reaching for his tea, he directed, “Send her in.”

  Magnus once again left the room, and it was Richard’s turn to wait, partly in anticipation and partly in dread. He’d sent a note yesterday requesting a visit with Penelope today, and although he didn’t think she’d arrive so early, he knew she would come. He found the lady irritating beyond words, but she was his favorite Winter Garden busybody, mostly because she didn’t realize how much value he placed on her nosy observances. Indeed, the woman had no idea he used her thus. Even so, she was remarkably adapted to the work.

  Moments later he heard the click of her heels on his parquet floor, and he resigned himself to the meeting, though refusing to indicate his anxiousness. He continued to eat and read his newspaper as her ample figure filled the room.

  “Good morning, Lord Rothebury,” she said brightly.

  He raised only his lashes to regard her, catching the false smile upon her lips, the suggestion of mischief in her shrewd eyes, taking in her full, extravagantly designed gown and matching feathered hat that now inclined unnaturally on her head due to the force of the outside wind. The woman was a sight, and not for the first time Richard wished his best spy was a trifle more appealing to look at.

  “Mrs. Bennington-Jones, how good of you to call,” he responded nonchalantly, shifting his focus to a jar of blackberry jam. With his elbow he gestured to an adjacent chair. “Please join me.”

  It was a command, not a request, and she obliged, squeezing her large body and wide skirts into the seat beside him.

  “Tea, madam?” Magnus asked, standing beside her with the pot and an empty cup.

  “Yes,” she replied stiffly, not looking at the help when she spoke, but at Richard’s food and his han
ds as he spread jam on his toast.

  He knew she waited for an invitation to dine; but she didn’t need the nourishment, and he refused to feed her. Good food was costly.

  Magnus poured, then returned the pot to the sideboard before taking his leave for a third time.

  “So,” Richard started, indicating cream and sugar on the table, “how is your family?”

  It now became apparent to her that he wasn’t going to offer breakfast. She sniffed and reached for the sugar spoon. “Very well, thank you,” she answered curtly. “My lovely Hermione will make her debut come spring, if you’ll recall, so we’re already planning our visits to the city, engaging the services of only the best dressmakers, hatters, jewelers, and such. It’s a very busy time.”

  Naturally, he mused, deciding not to comment. He understood perfectly Penelope’s intention of drawing him into a courtship with the second of her three homely daughters, and he refused to honor her remark with any indication of interest. “What of Desdemona?” he inquired instead, scooping up the remainder of his eggs.

  Penelope bristled. “She and her weasel of a husband are expecting.”

  He nearly dropped his fork. Desdemona and Randolph Winsett were expecting a child? Extraordinary. So much so he was suddenly quite nervous about the revelation. “How wonderful for them,” he mumbled after swallowing a thick coating of yoke. He lifted his wide, cloth napkin to his mouth to hide his stunned reaction. “When is the blessed event to occur?”

  She sighed, obviously annoyed by the entire matter, but she didn’t look up as she stirred a generous helping of cream into her tea. “In June, I expect.”

  A rather equivocal reply. Richard wiped the corners of his mouth, making the calculations quickly. A birth in late June would put conception close to the time of the wedding night he supposed, if they’d had one at all, but then what other answer would her mother give? Still, regardless of the predicament, Desdemona was now safely married so it really didn’t matter that she carried.