by Sara Ramsey
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
She had expected the question — had practically begged him to ask it — but she was still surprised at the depth of the joy that filled her. He was sincere in his love for her.
And over the past two weeks, she finally believed him. He had seen all her secrets and loved her for them, not despite them. Tonight only confirmed it. He had watched her like he enjoyed seeing her on stage, not like he wanted to change or control her.
With that realization, her panic died. Neither of them was blessed with the family they wanted, although hers was infinitely preferable to his. Her past scared her, scarred her, taught her that love was a fleeting thing that couldn’t stand up to duty. But if Ferguson could love the part of her that contradicted every virtue of a straitlaced duchess — how could the family they created together go wrong if he loved her like that?
Madeleine lingered briefly on her joy, trying to commit the picture of him, and this moment, to memory, but his fingers tightened on hers and she realized he was more nervous than he sounded.
“Ferguson,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I never thought I would find a love worth the risk, but you’ve proved me wrong. Regardless of what we face, I cannot imagine anything I would rather do than spend my life with you.”
He cupped her face with his hands. She saw the emotions rioting in his blue eyes — all the elation and eagerness she knew she mirrored. “Then is that a yes?”
The sweetness of the moment brought unexpected tears to her eyes. “Yes. I love you, Ferguson. I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it, but thank you for waiting.”
He grinned, and she brought a hand around to brush a piece of dark auburn hair off his forehead. “Do you know how I survived the wait?” he asked, running his thumb across her lips.
She shook her head against the constraint of his hands and his grin turned wicked. “I imagined all the ways I could pleasure you when you finally agreed to be mine. I think you will discover that my imagination is quite wild.”
Her cheeks heated under his hand. “You will have many nights to show me, love.”
It was the first time she had called him that, and he rewarded her with a kiss — a deep, claiming kiss, one she could sink into, one that sent tendrils of heat weaving through every hidden chamber of her soul. She stroked his cheek, felt the smoothness of his skin, and knew he had shaved for her — as though he did not want a single problem to mar this evening.
He kept up his assault on her mouth, driving her to the point where she was desperate for something beyond their kiss, lovely as it was. She reached down between them, searching for the bulge in his breeches, hoping to urge him on. He captured her hand in one of his, breaking away from the kiss long enough to speak. “Not yet, Mad — taking you in a carriage is on the list, but I’d rather save it for a night when we’ve more than five minutes to devote to it.”
She laughed, and he captured the sound with another kiss. The man was just as mad as she was — and they were perfect for each other.
By the time the carriage stopped, she couldn’t wait to leave it, had already shoved the door open before the coachman could descend from the box. Ferguson outmaneuvered her, though, stepping down first and then turning to take her in his arms. This time, he didn’t set her on the pavement — he kept her cradled against him, carrying her in impatient, ground-eating strides to the door of Marguerite’s house.
Bristow could barely open the door in time for Ferguson to stride through it. She heard the butler greet them with an equal mix of deference and amusement, but neither of them acknowledged him. Ferguson was already halfway up the stairs before the front door closed behind them, and into her chamber a few moments later.
He shut the door with his shoulder. The arm under her knees shifted as he turned the key in the lock. Then his mouth was on her again, as though he couldn’t waste the precious seconds it would take to settle her onto the bed.
She couldn’t waste them either. Telling him she loved him was like removing the last boulder between her heart and the world. A torrent of emotion flooded through her, washing away every trace of restraint, every bit of conscious thought. She clung to him, the one constant in her shifting internal landscape, a need and a fulfillment wrapped up together. He offered it to her freely, demand and devotion both, an unbreakable cycle she would have an entire lifetime to explore.
Tonight, the devotion was in his eyes, sparking blue in the low light of her bedroom. But the demand was in the way his tongue plundered her mouth, his hands roving over her as he sat on the chaise-longue and adjusted her position in his arms. He was too hungry for gentleness, and she was too eager to care.
He broke away, attacking the hairpins holding her wig in place. “I’ve dreamed of this, Mad,” he said, his rough voice thrilling her as her hair cascaded down her back. “I’ve dreamed of you taking me in your mouth, those wet lips wrapping around my cock. I’ve dreamed of you straddling me here, riding me so slowly that every move was a torture neither of us could get enough of.”
His hands ran through her hair, sifting it out across her skin, and she arched against him. All he did was tell her his fantasies — but his voice was so wicked, and the caresses moving down her back so tantalizing, that she was already growing moist for him. The pictures he painted were darkly erotic, the kind of dreams she’d begun to have but could never put into words. He still cradled her, and one hand continued to stroke her spine — but the other came around to curve over her sex, his thumb making slow, lazy circles against her breeches.
She whimpered, but while he purposefully stayed away from the nub that already begged for his touch, his words only drove her higher. “I’ve dreamed of taking you hard and fast outside a ballroom, muffling your screams, then escorting you inside and dancing with you as though you were the most proper woman in the world. I’ve dreamed of bending you over my desk, of you scattering every paper and ledger in your desperate need to come.”
His thumb flicked across her clitoris, just once, but it was enough to make her moan. His voice softened. “I’ve dreamed of making love to you — slow and sweet, in my bed in Scotland, knowing we have years ahead of us for everything. I’ve dreamed of you on your side, of slipping into you from behind while your belly grows with our child.”
The last image broke her. The flood of emotion and the cascade of need collided. She slammed up into his hand, his name on her lips. He gave her what she demanded, his fingers rough and insistent against her, stroking fast and hard. She screamed as she came, as all the visions and dreams melted into one perfect moment of clarity.
Her orgasm didn’t last long — just long enough to temporarily sate her, but not long enough to exhaust her. But in that moment, she saw the decades stretch before them, and dreamed the same dream that Ferguson did — of having him, surrendering to him, conquering him, wherever they could and however they wished.
She wrapped her arms around him, no longer desperate but guessing that he was. “Let’s make one of those dreams come true.”
He was still in enough control to shake his head. “You still have to return to Salford House, love, much as I would like to keep you here.”
She tugged on his cravat, loosening the fabric before scraping her nails down the skin she revealed. He shuddered at her touch, closer to the edge than he would admit. “But this is the last night we’ll have this chair.” She pulled the shirt out of his breeches, reaching up under the layers of jacket and shirt to stroke the hard muscles of his stomach, letting her arm just barely graze his shaft in the same teasing way that had driven her mad only a few moments earlier.
He groaned in response, tried to push her hand away. He only succeeded in pushing her hand closer to his cock, and she felt the way it strained toward her, imprisoned in his breeches. “I’ve dreamed of this chair too, Ferguson,” she whispered. “Unless you aren’t ready...?”
She smiled as she trailed off, stroking him again, and he growled in response. “Take off you
r breeches,” he demanded, the last bit of his control snapping.
She stood, still touching him as her legs straddled his knees. She put first one foot, then the other, on the chaise next to him, letting him pull off her high-heeled shoes and silk stockings. She unfastened her breeches slowly, knowing it was the last time, and each button slipping through its hole was like a clock ticking down to the moment when she could have him inside her. The crotch was soaked through, and she blushed at the feel of her moisture as she shimmied out of her breeches — she couldn’t have worn them again even if she wanted to.
They pooled at her feet and he lifted her out of them before she could kick them aside. Turning to recline against the arm, he made her kneel over him, and he stretched out beneath her like a pagan offering. He made quicker work of his buttons than she had, and his cock sprang forth, as hard as she knew it would be.
His hand reached for her sex again, but he didn’t linger — he just smiled wickedly as he felt how wet she was for him. She wasn’t sure what he wanted from her, even though she had a fair guess, but he didn’t leave her in the dark. Grasping her hips, he pulled her forward, then nudged her down, slowly, until the tip of his shaft brushed against her opening.
In the past two weeks, he’d given her more orgasms than she could count, but he hadn’t penetrated her since their first night in this room. She braced herself for the pain, ready to bear that moment for the pleasure that would follow. But when he surged into her, she only felt heat — and his cock rubbing against something deep inside her that had her aching to come again.
His hands at her hips guided her down until she was fully impaled, her legs deliciously strained as she straddled him. She gasped as he filled her, gasped again as his hands urged her upward, then pulled her down again. It took only a few strokes for her to realize she could control the tempo, and she threaded her fingers through his so he no longer set the pace. He smiled at her, almost a grimace as he tried to control herself.
She rose up and came down, over and over. The only points of contact were his manhood in her passage and his fingers wrapped in hers. Her breasts were still bound, aching for stimulation, but she was too impatient to give in to that desire. She quickly approached that pinnacle again, and she moved faster, her strokes shorter and harder as her need overtook her.
The climax exploded on her and she screamed again, her legs collapsing as she went over the cliff. He grabbed her hips, slammed up into her one more time before his own release overtook him. She felt his seed spill inside her as he fell back against the chaise, pulling her down to rest against his chest.
She lay against him for endless minutes, rising and falling with his breath, feeling him soften inside her. His hand slid through her hair, stroking her back, and she curled against him, utterly content.
Dreams had never come true so easily before — but now she couldn’t wait for the next one.
She smiled at the thought, and he roused himself to kiss her. “Thank you, Mad.”
“What are you thanking me for?”
“Besides making me take you against my better judgment?” he asked, quirking a grin at her. She swatted at him, and he caught her hand to place a kiss in her palm. “For believing in me enough to marry me. I won’t let you down.”
“I know,” she said. The fear was still there, but it was almost like she was afraid because she was accustomed to being afraid, not because she really felt it. How could she feel it when Ferguson held her the way he did?
He let her go too soon, reminding her that she needed to get back to Salford House before they brought Alex down upon their heads. He sent Lizzie up to help her, perhaps not trusting himself to keep his hands off her long enough to get her into a dress.
But when she walked out of her room, properly decked out in muslin, with her hair pinned up beneath a cap, he waited for her. “Before you go, Mad — there’s one more thing I wish to show you.”
He took her arm, escorting her down the stairs to the drawing room. The room had the bare minimum of furniture necessary to make it appear lived in, in case any suitors tried to peer in through the windows, but she had never entered it before. There was a settee, two chairs, a spotless rug, and a small table, with an ornate chest sitting upon it that was out of place in the austerity of a house no one occupied. It was intricately carved, with the Rothwell coat of arms across the top and a chain of Celtic knots around the sides. Several bands of heavy iron crisscrossed the oak, and a large, heart-shaped lock held it shut.
Ferguson pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the chest. As he lifted the lid, two tiers came out with it on clever hinges. The box was two feet long, a foot tall, and a foot wide — and it was brimming with jewels.
“What on earth is this?” she asked, stepping forward to see the contents in the light.
Rubies, sapphires, diamonds, emeralds, ropes of pearls, amber beads — every color, shape and size imaginable, like a queen’s ransom spread out before her. “These were my mother’s,” Ferguson said. “There are other suites of jewels in the Rothwell vault, but I thought we might find a betrothal ring for you here. I haven’t looked yet, though — if you don’t like any of these rings, we can have Rundell and Bridge make whatever you want.”
He sifted through the top tier, pulling out a ring that was more suitable for a man. The band was dark, like tarnished silver or even iron, with a ruby set into it. The band had the same Celtic motif as the chest, and Ferguson winced as he held it.
“That looks too big for me,” she said, wondering why it was in a woman’s collection.
He twisted it slowly, tracing the knots with his finger. “The stone was my mother’s, but my father had it reset for himself.”
He slid it onto the ring finger of his right hand. She had never noticed before, but he didn’t wear a signet ring. This was a better fit, though — it was a hard ring, meant for a powerful man, not the lily-white hand of a dilettante.
Then he looked up and seemed to catch himself. “She had other rings, though. Shall we look?”
It took several minutes to sort through the pile. The top tiers held loose gems, rings, earrings, and other small baubles, but the lower section of the casket held complete sets, each wrapped separately in flannel. There was a set of emeralds, another of rubies, and a third of diamonds. She expected sapphires as Ferguson unwrapped the last bundle — but instead of the soft click of stones rubbing on stones, she heard the crinkle of old paper.
“What is it?” she asked, leaning over Ferguson’s arm. She was draped in several different necklaces, feeling almost obscene as her pearls and diamonds brushed against him.
He fanned the papers out in front of them, and bits of dried sealing wax rained down on the table. “Why on earth would he save these?” Ferguson muttered, more to himself than to her.
She tried to get a closer look. She guessed they were love letters, but she was wrong — the wrappers were all addressed to Ferguson, with the ducal crest as the seal.
She placed her hand on his, and she felt it tremble. “What is it, Ferguson?” she asked again.
He rearranged them slowly, tapping them against the table to line them back up into a neat pile. “Father wrote to me while I was away, but I always returned the letters unopened. I didn’t expect him to save them.”
He carefully wrapped them back up in the flannel, slipping them into base of the jewel case. “Aren’t you going to read them?” she asked.
“Not now,” he said shortly, dumping jewels in to cover the letters. She pulled back, suddenly unsure of what he needed. If she discovered letters from her parents... she would have killed someone before she let them be taken away.
He must have sensed her disapproval, because he turned around and pulled her hands into his. “I’ll read them someday, Mad. But tonight, I want all my memories to be of you. I know now that my father doesn’t own me, and I don’t have to become him. The letters will be there when I’m ready.”
She hugged him, and the comfort of his arms
was just as vital to her now as the other pleasures he gave her. They stood there silently, and her heart ached for him, but she wasn’t worried anymore. He seemed at peace with who he was, who he was meant to be.
She left a few minutes later, after selecting a gorgeous emerald ring that he would present her with after making the formal request to Alex in the morning. He kissed her one last time before she slipped through the door to the alleyway. They would soon live together, but she would miss the feeling of wickedness she had in their little house. Luckily, with Ferguson as her husband, she could have wickedness whenever she desired.
She couldn’t believe they had escaped the theatre, that everything felt so right — but the dream was real.
And she couldn’t wait for the rest of their dreams to come true.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Three nights later, at Lady Andover’s ball, Madeleine felt a brief burst of her old panic. Not that her feelings for Ferguson were different — but her position in the ton was.
Outwardly, little had changed — she was still the same Madeleine, safe and dull as ever. But the addition of the enormous emerald on her right hand attracted the scrutiny of everyone in the ton.
It had taken two days before Alex was satisfied with the marriage settlements. Ferguson raised no objections to Alex’s demands, and she suspected Alex enjoyed stalling the negotiations more than he should have. But word had spread as Madeleine was seen wearing Ferguson’s ring, and by nightfall, everyone was buzzing.
Some were quite happy for her; Lady Jersey, for instance, was very kind in her usual chatty way. And Ferguson’s aunt Sophronia, the duchess of Harwich, was thrilled, even if she looked a bit grim about the eyes as she watched Madeleine being accosted by well wishers.
But not all who came to her were pleasant. Oh, they were kind — but almost pitying, too, as though they were sorry that she had been so long on the shelf that she would settle for a man of dubious morals, even if he was a duke.
