by Sara Ramsey
Finally, she broke away from the kiss. “Ferguson, please,” she begged, moving against his hand. She looked into his face, and even though his eyes were as hot and demanding as she felt, the grim cast of his jaw told her just how much his control was costing him.
She reached down for the manroot that strained toward her touch, but he captured her wrist. “Not tonight,” he grated out. Pinning her hands above her head, he looked directly into her eyes. “Are you sure?”
She nodded, too far gone to think.
“I want to hear you say it.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Please, Ferguson. This is all I want.”
His eyes flashed. She leaned up to kiss him, but he denied her. “I want to see your face as I take you.”
The heat within her soared at the harsh, possessive note in his voice. She closed her eyes as he kept stroking her, one hand holding her wrists in an iron grip while the other drove her to the very brink. His fingers moved away, and she moaned — but then she felt the tip of his shaft against her entrance, and she went deathly still beneath him.
He brushed a kiss over her lips. “After tonight, I won’t hurt you again.” He slid into her, one careful inch, then another. He was so large, so hard, that she felt he might rip her to pieces, and she gasped as he slowly pushed forward.
She could feel his hand tightening over her wrists as he tried to control his movements. He entered another inch and she stiffened under him. The slow torture was quickly killing her desire, but the memory of that explosive pleasure made her want to see this through.
He pulled back, and even though the pain eased, her frustration grew. “Just finish it!” she cried, arching her hips up in an instinctive need to follow him.
Her offering was his undoing. He drove into her, one breathtakingly smooth stroke that seated him fully into her core. She gasped as he filled her, and when he released his grip on her wrists, she wrapped her arms around his neck to keep him from pulling away again.
He did pull back slowly, only to thrust again. As the pain ebbed and his clever fingers toyed with her flesh, she felt the crest of the wave start to rise, driven by the feel of him moving within her.
He thrust harder, his control slipping, and she moaned as the pleasure grew. His head dipped down and he captured her left nipple in his mouth, the scrape of his teeth and the stroke of his tongue matching the tempo of this thrusts. She wanted to stay there forever, to ride at the very peak of that wave — but he was too skilled at what he did.
She screamed again as her orgasm overtook her. It was more powerful than her first climax, and she felt herself contract around him as though she could trap him within her. He pulled away from her breast, thrust hard and fast, once, twice, three more times, extending the force of her climax. Just as she thought it would never end, he went still, and she felt his seed spill within her.
He collapsed onto her, his breath harsh against her ear. She was strangely glad to have his weight on her, as though the feel of him pressing her into the mattress could help to ground her.
When he finally rolled over, he cradled her against him as he brushed kisses through her hair. She ran her hand lightly over his muscled arm, content to explore now that their lovemaking was done. But the heady rush of finally having Ferguson in her bed had exhausted her, and she soon drifted off into her first peaceful sleep in weeks.
* * *
Madeleine awoke slowly, lingering in a half-dream state as long as she could. Not only was she more relaxed than she had been in an age, she couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this sated. It was so delightful...
...until she heard the clock in the stairwell start to chime the hour. She counted out of simple curiosity at first, but as the number grew, her alarm escalated. When she realized it was already eleven, she shrieked. She should have been home over two hours earlier. Hopefully Josephine had explained her absence to Aunt Augusta, but she needed to sneak back into Salford House.
She tried to roll out of bed, but Ferguson caught her wrist and pulled her back into his arms. “Where are you off to in such a rush?”
She let him kiss her one last time, but she stopped him before he could continue. “I have to go home before my family returns for the evening. If they catch me, it will be a disaster.”
Some deep emotion lurked in his eyes, and she realized she might not want to hear what he was about to say. She tried again to leave, and he let go of her wrist — but his words stopped her. “Perhaps they would be easier to manage if you told them we are engaged.”
Madeleine sucked in a breath. She was too shocked to control herself. “Are you offering for me?” she blurted out.
“Would you prefer that I didn’t?”
He was grinning, the smile of a man who thought he would get the answer he wanted. He had propped himself up on his elbow, leaning in to her, a sheet sliding low across that point where his muscles tapered toward his pelvis.
She swallowed convulsively. This man, this wonderful, insane man, was asking her to marry him. She tried to comprehend it, to understand it and categorize it, and her mind stumbled on the only explanation that made sense.
“If you think we should marry just because we... er...” She trailed off, waving her hand in the air between them as she pulled the coverlet more firmly around herself. She regained her voice, and said in her most dignified tone, “I did not do this to trick you into marrying me. You do not need to sacrifice yourself on the marital altar for my sake.”
His smile didn’t waver. “Don’t fall back on formality, Mad. You know me better than to think I would marry a girl simply because she fell into my bed.”
He leaned in to kiss her again, but his flippant statement turned her shock into annoyance. She pulled away, trailing the coverlet in her wake as she left the bed to stand over him. “Yes, I forgot just how much of a rake you are, your grace. How silly of me.”
Ferguson’s smile switched to stormclouds. “I am utterly serious about you, Madeleine. Ruining you is reason enough to marry you — you’re hardly the soiled dove type a man can use and leave behind.”
She opened her mouth to object, but he silenced her with the dark look in his eyes. “But beyond that, my dear, I am in love with you. And now that I’ve found you, you can’t expect me to let you go.”
She was well and truly shocked by his declaration. She blindly sank onto the small footstool by the dying fire, twisting her hands into the coverlet she still used as a dressing gown. “But we’ve known each other less than a fortnight. How can you be in love with me?”
He strode around the bed, taking considerably less care wrapping himself in sheets than she had, and she caught a tantalizing glimpse of one muscled thigh before he stood in front of her. “I know you probably hate my past, and I can’t say I’m particularly proud of it myself — but if there is one thing I learned, it is how rare it is to find what we experienced tonight. In fact, I can safely say that I have never, ever found a woman who could compare to you.”
He paused for an endless moment. “What is your answer, Mad?”
She looked into those blue eyes, read the mixture of hope, sincerity, and hunger, and felt a slamming in her chest as she realized he told the truth. She couldn’t call the abruptness of his affections into question — not when she was surely at least half in love with him herself.
A collapsing log in the fireplace jarred her out of the dream. Any debutante would swoon at such a declaration of love, particularly from a duke.
But she knew from bitter experience that love wasn’t enough. The fire, and the nightmare it embodied, was enough to remind her. Her parents had loved her, but they still sent her away to fulfill their duties. Augusta and Alex loved her, but they wouldn’t accept her desire to act in public. Amelia loved her too, but even that love seemed to be reaching its limit.
People in their spheres could marry for love, but love was not what drove the ton.
Ultimately, Ferguson would embody the title he had inherited, whether he des
ired it or not. The duties of a dukedom would slowly pave over any hope of a pure, committed love. Or he would go to Scotland to avoid it — but she had never romanticized life as a hermit, and saw no appeal in spending the rest of her life on a remote estate.
If he stayed in London and was not corrupted by the title, she would still be a duchess. If her life felt constrained as a spinster, it would be awful when she was expected to be a grand hostess.
The panic started to rise. She had slept safely in his arms, even with a fire burning in the grate. But awake, with her mind overruling her heart, she couldn’t face him. He stood in front of her, one hand fisted in the sheet he used to cover himself, looking like the powerful lord he was. She had successfully tricked her family to pursue her own pleasure, but Ferguson wouldn’t be fooled — she would never again have the freedom of the past few weeks.
Marrying him could mean jumping from the boring but comfortable prison of her current life to a trap of her own making. She was sure Ferguson would be more exciting — but the risks were higher. If she married him, there would be no escape.
And his love might not last long enough to compensate for her freedom.
She reached the end of that line of reasoning before the last sparks subsided in the fireplace. Her heart raced and her palms were wet as she clenched them in the folds of the coverlet, but she knew her answer.
“I can’t marry you, Ferguson,” she whispered.
She forced herself to watch as the hope in his eyes turned to disbelief. He gave her a long, assessing look that made her want to take everything back, but she bit her tongue. He didn’t plead his case, and he was not a man who would ever beg. His hand shot out and pulled her to her feet, his arm wrapping around her to hold her against his chest. She made a sound — either of protest or sadness, she didn’t know — and he silenced her with one swift kiss.
The heat stayed on her lips even after he stepped back, and she somehow managed to stay on her feet. He snagged his coat from the floor and fished the door key out of its pocket. “I will send the maid up to dress you so you can return to Salford House,” he said, as nonchalantly as if they had been discussing the weather instead of marriage.
But then he pinned her with his gaze. With his bare chest and the sheet slung low on his hips, he looked like a warrior roused from bed, ready to do battle at a moment’s notice. “Some night soon, though, I will hear a different answer from you,” he said, with a subtle assurance that made it sound more like a promise than a threat. “And I will hear you confess to what I suspect you already feel, even if you’re pretending otherwise.”
He gathered his clothes and left. The door slamming behind him was the only proof of just how frustrated he was.
She sighed, wondering if she should have said yes, or if she could have said no in a kinder way. But there was no way to have an independent life as a duchess, particularly not a duchess who would have to watch her lover turn into the very type of man he did not want to be.
She just had to hope her independence was worth Ferguson’s wrath — and that her resolve wouldn’t crumble in the face of his love.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ferguson wasn’t in the hallway when she finished dressing, and Madeleine didn’t seek him out. She slipped out of the townhouse and through the door cut in the Stauntons’ high stone wall, hurrying across the darkened gardens toward Salford House. It was a clear night and the path was easy to find, but she still shivered in her thin gown. She couldn’t risk wearing a cloak — it would already raise enough eyebrows if a servant saw her wandering around the lower floors long after her family left for the evening.
But even though she was freezing, and even though she wanted to avoid seeing Ferguson, she wasn’t eager to return to her room. With the events of the last two hours — losing her virginity, and then refusing a marriage proposal from a man she thought she might love — she knew she would not sleep easily.
Still, she couldn’t delay. Her family could return at any moment. Josephine had surely made excuses for Madeleine, but with Aunt Augusta growing increasingly concerned about Madeleine’s health, Madeleine needed to be in bed before anyone came home. Light filtered through the curtains of Alex’s study, but it was several rooms away from her preferred entrance — he wouldn’t hear her. Otherwise, the back of the house was dark, with a low lamp shining in the small sitting room the girls used during the day. Josephine would be there, loitering to keep the butler from locking the French doors. Madeleine pushed the door open, stepped over the threshold — and shrieked as a man’s hand grabbed her arm.
She jerked away, every instinct screaming at her to flee, but his grip was unbreakable. He swung her around to face him, and she relaxed as she realized Alex was the one who had caught her.
The worst of her panic drained out of her, but a different kind of fear replaced it. She saw the grim set of his jaw and the hardness in his eyes — like nothing she had ever seen there before — and her need to flee surged again. There was nowhere to go, though, not when her cousin had just caught her sneaking into the house hours after she had supposedly taken to her bed.
“Where have you been?” he demanded as he marched her out of the sitting room and down the hall to his study.
She had dreaded this moment, almost more than the possibility of being ruined in the eyes of the ton. She didn’t say a word, not willing to incriminate herself until she discovered what Alex already knew. If he only thought she had been outside alone, she could talk her way out of it, claim she’d had a nightmare, play on his sympathy. She had already betrayed them so deeply — would another lie hurt?
But if he knew she was acting as Marguerite Guerrier, he would guess her connection with the duke of Rothwell. Everyone knew about his mistress. At least Alex would understand her passion for the theatre, even if he would be annoyed that she had done it without his permission. But if he knew she was acting as Ferguson’s mistress...
He opened the door to the study and pushed her inside, gently enough that she didn’t fall but forcefully enough to show he was taking over. Every lamp was lit and the brilliance made her blink.
When her vision cleared, she saw Aunt Augusta and Amelia sitting on the small settee beside Alex’s desk. Aunt Augusta was ramrod straight, with a severity to her expression that Madeleine hadn’t seen since those first awful weeks after Uncle Edward’s death. Amelia huddled beside her, her knees drawn up under her chin as though she were five years old. Amelia was thoroughly miserable — and the look in her eyes was something between an apology and a warning.
“Sit down, Madeleine,” Alex ordered. There was no invitation in his voice; it was pure command.
She sank into an armchair across from Alex, angled to look at him rather than Augusta and Amelia. She still didn’t want to answer his question, so she slowly peeled off her gloves and tossed them onto the table next to her. Her guilt was probably written on her face, but at least her maid had reset her hair and clothed her completely. Despite Ferguson’s lovemaking, she knew she looked innocent.
Anxiety and fear still flooded her veins, but she was an actress — she could get through whatever this conversation brought. With that reminder, she took a deep breath, folded her hands in her lap, and looked up at Alex with an expression of utter innocence.
Alex frowned. “You seem remarkably composed.”
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t be composed?”
He exploded. “I just caught you sneaking into the house a mere half hour before midnight and you ask if there is a reason why you shouldn’t be composed? If I were a better guardian, I would whip you for this.”
Alex was usually so mild — but he looked half-tempted to follow through on his threat. She swallowed, her mouth dry. “Shall we have some tea as we discuss this?”
“No tea,” he said flatly. “All the servants have the night off. We couldn’t risk having one of them overhear this discussion.”
“Surely Josephine is here?” she asked. If she could just see Josephine
and find out what Alex knew, she would know how to handle him.
“She’s packing her things.”
“What?” Madeleine gasped. “What have you done to her?”
“You could hardly expect me to keep her when she’s far more loyal to you than she is to the rest of the family. She said she would rather be turned off than tell me where you disappeared to all these nights, so I granted her wish.”
Madeleine rubbed her throbbing temples. “You can’t send Josephine away. It was my decision to act the way I did. She merely helped me when she realized I was going to do it with or without her.”
“And what, precisely, have you been doing?” Alex asked. “You still haven’t answered that question.”
She paused, not ready to plunge into explanations, defenses, and denials, not sure she could meet Aunt Augusta’s eyes as she lied to them.
Amelia shifted in her seat. “You may as well tell them about the theatre,” she said.
The strained, urgent tone of Amelia’s voice meant that her cousin was trying to tell her something else — perhaps that Madeleine’s acting had already been discovered, but they hadn’t realized Ferguson’s role in it. She relaxed into her chair, trying to put all thoughts of Ferguson — and what they had done in the little house across the alleyway — out of her mind so that she could convince Alex that acting was her only sin.
“What do you already know?” Madeleine asked.
Alex pulled a playbill out of his desk drawer and slid it across to her. “I know you are Madame Guerrier. In fact, I even know how talented you are. I was in the audience tonight and discovered it for myself.”
“You attended the play? You don’t even like the theatre.”
“I’ve known something was wrong with you for weeks, and it wasn’t the headache you kept pleading. Mother and I agreed that we needed to discover what was wrong before there were any surprises. And once I found out what you were doing, we knew just how unpleasant those surprises would be.”
