by Sara Ramsey
She was free to give Ferguson an answer from her heart — if her heart and tongue could finally cooperate.
The curtain dropped between them for the final time, but she saw him turn toward the door before the heavy velvet blocked her view. He would come for her — and she needed to be ready for him.
* * *
From the look on Madeleine’s face when he entered her tiny dressing room, Ferguson knew she expected him. Throughout her final performance, it felt like her attention was fixed on him, and he was glad she thought of him rather than the career she was leaving behind.
Even better, she had become increasingly unguarded with him over the past two weeks. Whether conversing in a ballroom during a party only made bearable by each other’s presence, or burning together through the fast, stolen moments they found at the house on Dover Street, Ferguson sensed she was beginning to open to him, slowly willing to divulge feelings she’d never admitted to anyone else.
She was different tonight, though. Her cheeks were flushed and her green eyes sparkled — an artist in her moment of triumph. But as she watched him watching her, her eyes widened and he heard her suck in a breath. He had seen her like this before — on the verge of panic, unable to declare her feelings.
He knew the smart thing would be to soothe her, to wait a week — or at least until morning — before renewing his proposal. But the same madness that came over him in Hyde Park claimed him again. He loved her, needed her, couldn’t imagine losing her, and he didn’t want to wait another minute to possess her.
It took all his resolve to approach her slowly, like the gentleman he should be rather than the beast he knew he was. He would wait until they returned to their house, as much as it killed him to stay silent. After all, most women would not enjoy entertaining a marriage proposal in a cramped, dusty closet in Seven Dials.
And depending on her answer, he might appreciate a nearby bed — or the ability to leave without having to see her home first.
So he was gentle as he pulled her into his arms, restrained as he placed a slow, grazing kiss on her lips. “You were magnificent, Marguerite.”
He caught himself just in time, calling her by her pseudonym in case anyone was in hearing range. She quirked her lips in a quick grin and he was pleased to see her fear ebb. “The audience will miss me, will they not?”
He threaded his fingers through hers, a simple intimacy his life had lacked for so long. “Better to leave them wanting more of you, darling.”
She pulled him toward her, kissing him herself. He let her take the lead, enjoying the light touch of her lips against his, turning ravenous as she deepened the kiss. She still had a reputation for shyness in the ton, but she was no longer reserved with him — and no longer waited for him to move first.
By the time she broke off the kiss, he was hard for her, the blood rushing out of his head and taking all his good intentions with it. He tried to pull her back into the kiss, but she sidestepped him with a wicked grin. “I thought you advised me to ‘leave them wanting more’?”
He laughed. “You don’t need any lessons in how to frustrate me. If you only knew how I’ve wanted you these past weeks...”
He bit off the words before he could say anything else. It was disconcerting, how he could not control his impulses with her. He wouldn’t let his tongue run away with him tonight. She deserved a silvery proposal, not a bumbling outpouring of affection.
And if she did intend to reject him, he refused to sound like he was begging.
Thankfully, she wasn’t put off by the need in his voice. She whispered, “I’ve wanted you too, Ferguson.”
His trousers became uncomfortable at the thought of her dreaming of him. From her downward glance and slow, blooming smile, she knew how she affected him. He cleared his throat, but his voice still rasped as he said, “Shall we return to your house?”
She edged past him to open the door and peek outside. “Josephine said to wait here. She did not like how the crowd sounded and wished to check the alleyway first.”
Ferguson should have thought of that. In his desire to reach Madeleine, he had used the hidden door beside the stage rather than circling to the alley entrance. But before he could go outside, Josephine returned with Madame Legrand.
“The door guard says there are many people waiting to see you, ma petite,” Josephine said, her eyes narrowed and her voice full of concern. “They are in an uproar that you will no longer act.”
Madeleine didn’t panic. “It is nothing to be concerned about, Josephine. I will simply stay in costume and Ferguson can keep me safe.”
She sounded so confident in his ability to protect her. He found he liked it. And he had no intention of violating her faith.
Josephine wasn’t assured, but she agreed to stay behind and take a cab home after the crowd dispersed. She had attended Madeleine’s shopping excursions and errands too many times over the years to risk being seen with her tonight. Leaving Madeleine unchaperoned with Ferguson was better than giving such a blatant clue to Madeleine’s identity.
Ferguson thought the mob had done him a favor, despite the danger — and he would put their unchaperoned time to good use.
Madeleine draped her cloak over her arm. With her wig in place and no dresslike fabric to obscure her masculine attire, she still looked like Marguerite. If they hurried through the crowd, the dimness of the alley would conceal her. Then she squared her shoulders and turned to Madame Legrand. “Thank you for holding to your word, Madame. I enjoyed every moment of the stage, but I must take up my other responsibilities.”
“It was an honor to have you on my stage, Madame Guerrier,” she said, maintaining the pretense. “If you ever wish to return, you will be most welcome.”
The woman turned and curtsied to Ferguson. “Thank you for your patronage, your grace. I’ve no doubt next season’s plays will benefit from the renovations you are funding.”
Ferguson shook his head warningly, but she misinterpreted it as modesty. “Don’t say that it is nothing, your grace! You could have evicted me entirely, and you’ve promised to turn the place into a theatre any respectable woman would be pleased to attend. I shall not forget your generosity.”
Madeleine rounded on Ferguson, the previous warmth in her eyes turning to sparks. “Did you bribe Madame to keep her word?”
He sighed. “She would have kept her word regardless. The gesture was made out of gratitude, not as a threat.”
Madeleine gave him a coolly assessing look — one so many women excelled at, promising she would return to the subject when she had a chance to rail at him properly. She turned briefly to shake hands with Madame Legrand, saying she looked forward to attending the new theatre as a member of the audience.
Then she returned her gaze to Ferguson. “Shall we brave the mob, your grace?” she asked.
He offered his arm and swept her out of the dressing room. “You seem annoyed,” he observed as they slipped between the discarded sets that lined the passage to the alley entrance.
“Whyever do you think I am annoyed, your grace?” she asked, navigating around a wooden tree and nearly steering him into the wicked-looking rack of theatrical spears on the opposite wall.
“You’ve called me ‘your grace’ twice in a minute. Unless you’ve become a toad-eater, I might almost think you are insulting me.”
She drew herself up into her masculine walk as they reached the door, slipping her hand off his arm. “We can address how you bribed Madame in the carriage, your grace,” she said insolently. “But I must not be distracted now. We are only moments away from my permanent retirement, and I shan’t be found out now.”
Madeleine was right. They could not be unguarded in the moments it would take to reach his coach. The doorkeeper held a cudgel in one of his large fists, and Ferguson recognized the actors who played Rosencrantz and Guildenstern loitering to the side, ready to assist.
“The crowd is like to press against you when you leave, your grace,” the guard warned.
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“Should we try the front?” Madeleine asked.
“‘Tis worse,” Madame Legrand said, coming up from behind to watch their departure. “And there are more men outside to protect you here. I asked several actors and stagehands to cordon the path to your carriage. Do not hesitate, though. They will not be able to hold the crowd for long.”
Ferguson felt all the instincts from a long line of dukes and lairds rise up within him. “Very well,” he said, changing his grip on his walking stick so he could use it as a club. He trapped Madeleine’s arm against him again, warning her to stay close and ignoring her brief attempt to pull away. He nodded at the guard, and the man threw the door open into the alleyway.
Outside, it was chaos — like a crowd at a prizefight, although there were more women in the alleyway than one would ever see around a ring. The crowd turned toward the door and roared, and he saw instantly how dangerous they could be. Several of the men held bottles, and Ferguson could smell how desperate they were to see Marguerite one final time — the mingling odors of unwashed flesh, expensive perfumes, and gin were an explosive combination.
Madeleine instinctively stepped closer to him, barely evading the grasping fingers coming at her over the arms of the guards. The line of men Madame had stationed there protected a bare three feet of space between the mob and the back wall of the theatre. It was just enough for Madeleine and Ferguson to slip through to the coach at the end of the line — if the line could hold, and if the coachman could keep the horses from bolting in the melee.
The line already threatened to collapse, and he couldn’t regroup them if they fell. He didn’t wait to see if Madeleine was ready. He dashed for the carriage, half dragging her beside him and swatting away the proffered bouquets and outstretched arms as they passed. He kept her between him and the wall, safe from others’ hands even if he couldn’t protect her from the noise or smell.
At the pace he set, it took only a few moments to reach the coach. One moment more, and a guard had flung open the door so Ferguson could hand her up onto the step. She turned before sliding through the door, however, wavering on one high-heeled shoe as she surveyed the crowd.
In the dim torchlight, Ferguson saw her tears. He swore under his breath. He never should have let her come this close to such a frightening crowd.
But then she grasped his shoulder, resting on it to lean over him and take the nearest posy from someone’s outstretched hand. The devotee, a young aristocrat who looked no more than twenty, gasped and stuttered his compliments, as red as the flowers she took from him. The crowd hushed abruptly as they watched her bring the flowers to her face, and Ferguson realized she wasn’t afraid.
She was sad to leave all of this behind.
And he was undeniably jealous that she stopped to wave them all farewell.
So it was with more force than usual that he said, “Get into the carriage.” She looked down at him, tears still on her cheeks, and nodded once. Then she saluted the crowd, a final masculine bow before she disappeared into the coach.
The crowd started yelling again, this time hurling insults at him. Ferguson didn’t linger. He flung himself into the coach beside Madeleine and pulled the door shut behind him. As the coachman attempted to steer them out of the alley, he flicked the curtain aside to survey the crowd. Now that he could see across the mob, it was apparent that those who worshipped at the actress’s altar included every class that could afford the price of a ticket. They were just as sad about Madeleine’s retirement as she appeared to be.
The haze of jealousy ebbed, and a strange emotion took its place — pride. Others would condemn her if they knew what she had done, but Madeleine was truly impressive on the stage. She had also been steadfast in her determination to tread the boards despite the dangers. She couldn’t articulate her feelings the way he would like, but her courage in this matter awed him.
He closed the curtain and pulled her hand into his, still clutching the boy’s flowers. “Are you angry with me?” she asked, sounding uncertain with him for the first time in weeks.
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the tip of each finger, the heat of her skin mingling with the scent of the flowers. “No. I am sorry I was so abrupt with you — I needed to see you safe.”
She brought her other hand up to remove the flowers so she could twine her fingers around his, and she rested her head against his shoulder. He wanted to kiss her there, but she still wore her powdered wig. He tightened his grip on her hand and said, “Are you truly ready to give up the stage?”
Her fingers stilled within his, and her pause was ugly in contrast to the boisterous noises of the theatre district at night. Finally, she whispered, “That was not the question I expected of you, Ferguson.”
He watched her bowed profile in the dim lamplight. “This is related, is it not?”
She edged away from him, into the corner, his hand trailing after her like a ship’s mooring not yet cut. “I don’t know how to say what I need to say.”
She was going to say no. He snatched his hand away, stiffening his spine against his sudden panic. She was going to say no, and her family hated him, so there would be no help from that quarter. And she hadn’t been publicly ruined after all, so she didn’t need him, not really. Unless she found herself with child, she could pretend they had never even met.
His thoughts spiraled down into some dark, ugly place, wondering how he could change her mind. But then Madeleine stroked his face, and her voice pulled him back to the surface.
“What did you do to Madame Legrand?” she asked.
The question disoriented him. He had forgotten all about Legrand. He was waiting for Madeleine’s denial, not a reference to his bribery. “She claimed she would let you go, but I wanted to make sure she knew that I could destroy her if she gave your name to the press. Refurbishing the building was an inducement, but if she needs a stronger method of encouragement, she knows I will tear it down.”
“But surely you can’t raze a theatre you don’t own?”
“I do own it,” he said, not attempting to prevaricate. “That was why I attended the first night. My steward suggesting raising the rents and thought I might like to see your performance.”
She looked stunned. She would take this as yet another sign of his autocratic nature. But before he could muster a defense, she said, “So you could have demanded that Madame Legrand release me at any time?”
He nodded warily. “The thought crossed my mind when you said she had forced you, but since you didn’t seem eager to quit, I didn’t do anything about it.”
Of course, he had gotten something by leaving Madame Legrand alone — two weeks with Madeleine in their private charade. But she looked at him like he had just showered her in diamonds.
“Do you know what I will always remember from tonight’s performance?” she asked.
“The mob?” he guessed, surprised again as the conversation took another unexpected turn.
“No. I will remember you applauding as I took my final bow. I was sure then about the answer to your question, but I am even more sure now.”
“What did I do to make you sure?” he asked, phrasing his question carefully in case he needed to learn what he would have to do to win her over.
“You were there for me. You were there through everything, even though every other man would have fled — or worse, ruined me.”
“I did ruin you,” he pointed out.
She grinned. “Yes, but I must confess I enjoyed it.”
Her smile kindled a glimmer of hope. “But won’t you miss this life?”
Madeleine looked down at the small bouquet in her lap. “I may always miss it. I imagine it is like a sailor who retires to the countryside — he is safe, but I suspect some part of him always longs for the sea. But surely you knew that — you must feel the same about leaving Scotland?”
“Not precisely,” he said. Scotland had been an escape, not a desired destination in its own right. “My life there is not so different t
han what I may have had on any English estate, after all.”
“Then you no longer wish to return there?”
Ferguson sensed the trap in the question, knew better than to commit — or to falsely deny. “If I have reason to stay in England, I shall.”
He wasn’t purposefully dishonest. After all, how could he answer that question when he was so far from knowing his own mind on the matter? It satisfied Madeleine, though, and she smiled at him with all the certainty she had lacked when they left the theatre.
“So you really shan’t miss the theatre?”
“I had my adventure. It ended as all adventures must, and it’s not the theatre I will miss. I believe I shall miss a certain house on Dover Street, and the man who paid to keep me there.”
“Is it just his riches you care about?” he asked with mock severity. He felt himself grinning like a fool, though. Surely she wouldn’t jest like this if she meant to deny him.
She pretended to consider. “He does have a title, of course.”
He pulled her back toward him, dropped his hand to caress the juncture of her thighs, and she squealed at his sudden touch. “He is also... rather accomplished.”
She was breathless already, and the curl of her fingers into his jacket made him ache to give her everything her body already clamored for. But she somehow managed to resist him, just enough to look into his eyes.
“Are you not going to ask your question, Ferguson?”
They were in a carriage, with her in breeches and his jacket covered in powder from her wig. It was an absurd location for a proposal — but they were an absurd couple.
So he picked up her hands and cradled them in his. “Madeleine, you are everything I’ve dreamed of and nothing I deserve. Say you’ll redeem my faults and marry me?”
It wasn’t the speech he had memorized, but he couldn’t remember a word of it with her eyes shining up at him. He couldn’t say it again, though — he just had to hope she would finally give them the answer they both needed.
