by Sara Ramsey
If his father wanted him to inherit, it could only be because he thought Ferguson stood a better chance than Richard of being a “proper” duke — cold, aloof, obsessed with winning. All the qualities that served the Rothwell dukes on ancient battlefields were a nuisance now — but Ferguson had them in spades, if his autocratic need to steal Madeleine away could be used as proof.
He gave Berrings a look that said the conversation was over. At least his ducal tendencies put a quick end to Berrings’s meddling. “Is there anything else to discuss this morning?”
The steward picked up a pile of envelopes. “Your correspondence, your grace. I sorted the invitations, requests, and the like, but there was one I thought you should see now.”
Ferguson took the note from his hand, recognizing Caro’s handwriting even upside down. He frowned as he slipped the inner sheet free of the wrapper.
Another threat, this time written on a caricature from a cheap newspaper. The drawing was poor, but it was obviously him — wearing a kilt that looked like a dress — and Marguerite, dressed in men’s trousers. He was speaking gibberish, and Marguerite said, “Alas, poor duchess!” — an allusion to the line about Yorick from Hamlet, and to his family’s rumored insanity, with a jab at his masculinity that insulted him more than all the rest. The pile of jewels she sat on made it clear why she stayed, and the footmen standing guard behind her showed how little she thought of his stability.
The caricature was ugly, but he had been caricatured before. Caro’s note was worse. “The artists will have much to savor if I publish a memoir of our time together. May I suggest you leave both Lady Madeleine and your mistress before either of them are pulled into the scandal?”
Damn. He crumpled the cartoon and tossed it toward the fire. Her threats were becoming more direct, and he did not think she would listen to reason. He had to get Madeleine to accept his proposal. She would be safe from the ton’s curious eyes if she went to Scotland with him.
“No response, Berrings,” he said flatly. Then he looked at the clock again. It was still too early to call, but he couldn’t wait any longer.
“One more task — I need you to retrieve my mother’s jewels. I assume they are in the vault at the bank?”
Berrings made a note. “I will bring the entire casket, your grace. But if you are looking for her engagement ring, I am afraid his grace had the stone reset into a ring for himself. He was wearing it when he died. Since you were not here to decide how to proceed, I took the liberty of returning it to the vault rather than burying it with him.”
Why would his father have remade the ring? He was not a sentimental man. Years earlier, he had burned everything of his wife’s that it was possible to consign to the flames, including the crofters’ huts on her Scottish estate. Any feeling that demanded the displacement of an entire clan to assuage his grief was not sentimental. Still, he may not have lost all feeling for her if he had decided to wear her ring.
Ferguson would have to find another option. He dismissed Berrings — and his remarkably perceptive suspicion about why Ferguson wanted the jewels — before striding up the stairs to his chambers. If he were to embarrass himself by calling too early and demanding an explanation for her refusal, he would at least look presentable.
He just had to hope that Madeleine’s objection was something he could overcome — and as Ferguson, not as the duke he would otherwise become.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Madeleine heard yet another knock at her door and rolled her eyes. It was only noon, but she had already had visits from Alex (once), Augusta (twice), and Amelia (every half hour since eight in the morning).
Or rather, attempted visits — she refused them all. Since none of them would shout at her from the hallway and risk the servants overhearing them, they left without pleading their cases.
But her stomach was making little gurgling noises and her mouth was parched. She had used what was left of the water in her basin to scrub away the lingering traces of last night’s tears. Sieges usually ended when someone ran out of supplies. She should have thought about provisions before making her stand.
“Who is it?” she called, disgruntlement clear in her voice.
“Josephine,” came the response — along with the much-welcome sound of china rattling on a tray.
She leapt up from her seat by the empty fireplace and flung open the door. “I thought you had gone without saying goodbye,” she exclaimed. Josephine was part of the reason for her morning rebellion, since it wasn’t fair for Alex to punish her old nursemaid when the decision to act was Madeleine’s own.
The maid carefully set the heavy tray on Madeleine’s writing table. “Pierre and I have nothing to return to in France. The earl lectured us, but Lady Salford was too kind to put us on the streets.”
Madeleine hugged her impulsively, feeling for a moment like a joyful child even though she was a head taller than the other woman. “Thank goodness. When I thought you would lose your position because of me, I cannot tell you how awful I felt.”
“Do not thank goodness yet,” Josephine warned, lifting the covers from a plate of eggs, ham and tomatoes, with toast and tea besides. “They have ordered me to be more strict as your chaperone. You are not to spend any time alone with the duke as Marguerite.”
Madeleine poked at one of the poached eggs with her fork, her stomach making insistent noises as the yolk burst forth. “I am twenty-eight, Josephine. I do think I can chaperone myself.
Josephine fixed her with her best glare, the one that would have terrified Madeleine as a child if she had ever misbehaved enough to see it. “You stayed with him far too long last night. The marquise would have been very unhappy to witness your behavior.”
Her mother had been dead for twenty years, but Josephine’s words still hurt. “I never intended to embarrass anyone.”
“I know,” Josephine said, her tone softening. “Your mother would not have approved of your dalliance with the duke, but I think she would be happy to know that you made a life for yourself here. And if you marry him, it would not matter what you did with him, correct?”
Madeleine didn’t answer. Josephine was loyal to her, not her aunt — but after last night’s debacle, she would report Madeleine’s future activities to her family. Besides, the maid was nearly as marriage mad as Aunt Augusta. She would do whatever she could to see Madeleine married to Ferguson.
So she stayed silent, keeping Ferguson’s proposal — and her response to it — a secret. Until she knew what to do, she didn’t want anyone else to try to sway her.
She toyed with a piece of ham, her appetite gone. She had already said no to Ferguson. He could well decide not to ask her again. Why beg her when another debutante would say yes so easily?
But why was she rethinking her decision? It hadn’t felt right at the time, but it hadn’t felt wrong either — it was too hard to feel anything with that unbearable panic overwhelming her. She thought the panic was as good a sign as any that she didn’t want to marry him — imagine waking up to that panic daily, dreading the hour when she would finally lose him to his estate.
She stabbed hard at the ham with her knife, ruthlessly cutting it into small pieces. At least Ferguson had never threatened to send her away. He didn’t care overly for protocol, and he had never been shocked by her acting. There were very few men who would turn a blind eye to the kind of scheme she was playing — and even fewer who would support it.
And there was one undeniable fact — his skills in bed were something that not even the most detailed engravings could prepare her for.
“Are you feverish, ma petite?” Josephine asked, returning from the dressing room with the day’s garments. “You look flushed.”
She blushed harder and shook her head. Josephine looked at her skeptically but didn’t press the subject.
Someone tapped on the door, and she glared at it. If it was Amelia again...
But the person opened it without waiting, since she had forgotten to relock it after Jos
ephine’s arrival. It was a maid with a message from the butler. “His grace the duke of Rothwell asked if you would accompany him for a drive in the park, my lady,” the maid said.
She wasn’t ready to see him. The haze of her daydream dissolved into panic once again. “Is he downstairs?”
“Yes, my lady. Shall I take your reply to him?”
She looked at Josephine, who avoided her gaze. The decision was hers alone. At least seeing Ferguson would be preferable to seeing her family. “I will be down directly,” she said.
It was a bit longer than that before she was ready. She was still in her dressing gown, and Josephine needed a few moments to lay out the appropriate accessories for a carriage dress. But by the time Madeleine was properly clothed and coiffed, in a smart russet-colored dress with a jaunty hat trimmed in pheasant feathers, she had at least succeeded in calming her nerves.
He wouldn’t ask her again so soon. And if he had come to break off their arrangement, she would know she was right to turn him down. Either way, she could survive their meeting, even if she anticipated it with dread rather than excitement.
She took one last sip of tea, then picked up her reticule and walked out the door. Josephine followed close on her heels, serious in her commitment to keep a watchful eye over Madeleine’s dealings with the duke. Down the hall, Amelia sat in a chair she had pulled out from her own room, a book lying facedown in her lap as she stared off into nothing. When Madeleine emerged, Amelia turned to look at her — and it was clear she had passed a sleepless night.
“Maddie, can we talk?” she asked in a hoarse voice, sounding less confident than Madeleine had ever heard her. Her blue eyes were dry, but her nose was red and swollen and her blonde hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed.
Madeleine felt a vicious kick of pleasure at Amelia’s unhappiness. She felt guilty as soon as she recognized it, but guilt wasn’t enough to make her willing to listen, not after Amelia’s betrayal. Amelia never admitted she was wrong. She likely felt bad about last night, but she would probably tell Madeleine it was for the best.
Madeleine couldn’t stomach the thought of Amelia’s excuses. “Not now, Amelia,” she said, her voice sounding frigid even to her own ears. “I’m much too busy attempting to control the ‘damage’ to have another tiresome conversation.”
Amelia reeled back as though she had been slapped. “I didn’t mean...”
Madeleine strode past her, and whatever Amelia intended to say died in her throat. She knew she had shocked Amelia — they had never had a serious argument before. But the truth was that Amelia nearly always prevailed, and this was one argument that Madeleine could not let her win.
So she walked down to the main drawing room, shoving the thought of Amelia’s stricken face out of her mind. Ferguson was waiting for her when she arrived, holding an extravagant bouquet of white roses. She didn’t want to react to him, intended to maintain her composure in case he was there to cut her, but her heart still leapt in her chest at the sight of him. As their gazes locked, she had the dizzying sense that, in that moment, they were the only two people in the world. Nothing else mattered — with him, in their private bubble, she could be whoever she wanted to be.
He stepped forward, never losing eye contact. “I’ve decided I should court you properly,” he said in a low voice, the syllables coursing through her blood to jolt her heart again.
So he didn’t intend to break things off. She wished she knew how to respond. If she didn’t intend to marry him, prolonging their involvement would only make it harder to leave him at the end of the month.
But despite her panic, she wasn’t ready to let him go. She took the flowers from his outstretched hand, running a gloved finger lightly across the blooms. At first glance, the petals were white, but the outer portion of each bloom bled into a pink center.
“They reminded me of you,” he said, still watching her.
The reference to an innocent façade hiding a secret wildness was unmistakable. She studied him again over the roses. As usual, he wore perfect riding breeches, a morning jacket, and highly polished boots. He carried his hat under his other arm, one of those social niceties that said he was prepared to leave if she commanded. The only imperfection was the slight messiness of his auburn hair — as though still tousled from her fingers tugging him toward her.
She swallowed a sigh. He grinned, and she hoped he couldn’t read her face. She turned abruptly, nearly tossing the flowers at Josephine. “Would you find some water for these?”
Josephine looked at the duke, frowned, and looked back at her charge. “I should not leave you alone.”
Madeleine set her jaw. “I will be safe here for the two minutes it takes to deposit the bouquet. You shan’t take advantage, Ferguson?”
He tried to look appropriately somber as he gave Josephine his assurances. Madeleine thought he failed miserably, but the maid left them alone, her smile undermining her admonishment for Madeleine to behave herself.
As soon as she was gone, Madeleine ignored her advice. “Did you come in a curricle or a closed coach?”
“A curricle, of course. If I had any hope of seeing you without a chaperone, it had to be an open carriage.”
“Then shall we leave at once?” Madeleine asked. He raised an eyebrow at this; it was painfully obvious that she was evading her maid. However, he did as she requested, escorting her out the door and to the curricle before Josephine returned.
Luckily, Chilton was not aware that Madeleine required a chaperone. The Stauntons would wish to maintain the appearance of normalcy, after all, and so they could not take the butler into their confidence. He might have thought it unusual for Madeleine to leave with the duke — but only because men so rarely called for her, not because an afternoon ride in an open carriage was improper. Perhaps comparing her old life to a prison was unfair — it was remarkably easy to escape, after all.
Ferguson handed her up into his curricle, a smart, well-proportioned two-seater hitched to a pair of perfectly matched blacks. He tucked a blanket around her skirts to protect them from the dirt of the London streets, then settled in on her left. Releasing the brake and taking the reins from the waiting footman, he urged the horses forward at a smart pace toward Piccadilly, which would lead them to Hyde Park’s nearest gate.
When they turned the corner, safely away from anyone sitting in one of Salford House’s windows, Ferguson said, “I did not expect to win your attention so easily. I was prepared for you to give me another setdown.”
She couldn’t look directly in his eyes, but she felt an edge to his voice despite the lightness of his tone. “I do not wish to end our acquaintance, Ferguson.”
He did steal a look at her then, necessarily brief as he navigated the curricle through the delivery wagons, coaches, horses, and darting pedestrians thronging the midday street. “So you can admit that we have something between us that should not be lost?”
She hesitated. It had taken her ten years to finally, temporarily pursue her passion for the stage, and it felt like she had only known Ferguson for ten minutes in comparison to the decade that had gone before. She needed to know the risks and understand her heart before deciding. The thought of declaring some half-formed sentiments of how much she liked Ferguson made last night’s panic rise again. She could not say she wanted to be his duchess, but she couldn’t say goodbye to him either.
She took the coward’s path. It was the only one she could choose without fainting. “Must we talk of this now? Unless you have changed your mind, we need not part ways until I am done with the theatre and your sisters have made appropriate matches.”
“What I do not understand,” he said, ignoring her obvious prevarication, “is how you could turn down my offer so quickly. I’m not such an ogre as the ton makes me out to be, after all.”
“I’ve never thought that,” she said with a laugh. “You are an arrogant scoundrel, not an ogre.”
He smiled, a sad sort of grin that pulled at her heart. “You’re the
first, Mad. How could I not want to marry the one woman who sees beyond my reputation?”
She turned away, not willing to let his face move her. “You will find another. You’ve only been in London a month. In another season or two, you will discover that there are many women who are better suited to be your duchess.”
“People do not change, no matter how long I stay away. The women are all featherbrained beauties without an ounce of sense, shrill harpies who would seek to reform me, or dead bores whom I would wish to abandon within a fortnight. I’ve met hundreds of women in London, and you are the only one who doesn’t fit into one of those categories.”
“Amelia isn’t a featherbrained beauty,” Madeleine said, more for the sake of argument than anything else.
“I suspect she is a shrill harpy when she doesn’t get her way.”
Madeleine laughed despite herself. “Still, you are surely expected to marry an heiress with better connections than mine.”
“Your excuses don’t wash, Mad,” he snapped, finally sounding frustrated. “I’ve more income than I can ever spend and your connections are impeccable. I even checked Burke’s this morning to see if that was your reason — your mother and Augusta are descended from William the bloody Conqueror, not a swineherd. And a French marquis is good enough for me, even if he is dead and cannot give you a dowry.”
It was a callous thing to say. Allowances could be made for his temper, but it didn’t stop her from retorting, “You shouldn’t place too much weight on Burke’s. Your bloodlines are perfect too, and yet your father was a notorious autocrat and your brothers were unstable.”
He stiffened and she immediately regretted her words. “Is that why you said no? Because my brother shot my father and killed himself?”
