by Sara Ramsey
He took his time, and between his lips and his slowly roving fingers, she was already quivering for him by the time he found his prize. She looked down, seeing herself for the first time in a dress as he touched her. Somehow, his strong fingers, the muscular arm around her back holding her tight, and the strength of his jaw prominent over her naked breast were even more shocking in contrast to her white muslin morning gown.
“I love your ass in breeches, but skirts are easier,” he said, the rough words simultaneously shocking her and making her want more. He slid a finger inside her, then another, claiming her mouth again at the same moment as his first thrust.
She didn’t know how he did it, didn’t think she could ever explain it — she’d felt urges before she met him, but had never guessed she would flare up like a Roman candle with just a brush of his fingers against her. But before she could even moan a protest — or a demand — he had her right at the very peak of need, waiting for the touch she needed to push her over the edge.
He held her there, freeing himself from his breeches, settling her on top of him like he had on the chaise a few nights earlier. She knew the movements now, could slide down on him easily, biting her lip in a battle to keep herself from screaming.
He pulled her mouth against him this time, using his tongue to keep her quiet, and she matched her tempo to the intensity of his kiss. He was right there with her, holding her hard against him, and it only took a few more strokes before he broke away. “I can’t hold on any longer,” he said, shoving a hand up under her skirts to flick at that sensitive bundle of nerves that drove her need.
She had thought she might outlast him this time, but he threw her over the cliff. He kissed her again just before she tried to scream, and the pressure of keeping her pleasure in only heightened her climax. She was still shuddering with her silent moans as he stiffened beneath her, still falling when she felt him come inside her.
They couldn’t relax against each other, but the aftermath was still blissful — after the terror of last night and the worry of the morning, their lovemaking somehow grounded her again. She brushed a kiss against his forehead before her pulled out and dug into his pocket for a handkerchief. He pressed it between her legs, cleaning her gently so she could pull her skirts down without risk.
When she had pulled her gown together and he had rearranged his trousers, she grinned at him. “I’m sorry you had to repeat a dream so soon.”
He grinned back, but his was infinitely more wicked. “We didn’t repeat. I added one to the list. After the endless hours Salford kept me waiting here before agreeing to let you marry me, I couldn’t resist taking some pleasure out of this room.”
She laughed, knowing she should be horrified but too happy to care. He laughed with her, and she was glad the humor between them was restored, even if they were still in danger.
“I’m also sorry we have to go to the masquerade,” she said, her tone turning serious. “But I’m glad we’re making the attempt.”
His eyes went dark. “I won’t be pleased until we’re safely away from there. But I’ll do it, Mad. And then we’ll marry, and we’ll have all the time in the world for this.”
“I do like the sound of that,” she said.
He stood up, taking a last look at her and himself to make sure they were properly clothed. “Ellie will come this afternoon to help you. Don’t let her talk you into anything too scandalous.”
He smiled like he was teasing her, but his tone was still serious. “We can survive one night of scandal, Ferguson. We might even enjoy it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he said.
She laughed as she kissed him, then let him go. She needed to change, to prepare for Ellie — to get her emotions in order if she was going to attend a masquerade as Marguerite.
They were so close to being safe — and she wasn’t going to let herself be distracted. One more night, and he would be hers forever.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ellie had developed a reputation as a reckless hoyden, but when she called at Salford House two hours later, she reminded Madeleine of Boadicea on the eve of battle. Her blue eyes, so similar to Ferguson’s, gleamed with pleasure at the ruse they were playing, and her red hair piled on top of her head made her look even more like an ancient Celtic queen. And when she walked in to Madeleine’s bedroom, shutting the door in the face of the footman who escorted her, she slapped a sheet of paper down on the writing desk like it was a battle plan.
It wasn’t a list of regiments and supplies. It was her idea of the costume Madeleine might wear to Westbrook’s masquerade. After wearing breeches at the theatre, Madeleine should have felt no shame wearing what Ellie recommended. It was a dress, after all, even if it was the most revealing dress she had ever seen.
“I cannot wear that,” Madeleine said, her face turning bright red. “I am not even sure it... covers everything.”
Ellie had taken the seat across from her. She flipped the sheet of paper to look at the drawing again. “I wore something similar as Athena once. It would send Lady Salford into vapors — but it’s not the ladies that it is designed for.”
She grinned saucily. Madeleine couldn’t help but smile in return. “Is it truly necessary, though?”
“My dear, with Marguerite’s talent and my brother’s notoriety, everyone at the ball will be staring at you. You should want them looking at your body, not your face.”
Madeleine took the paper back from Ellie and scanned the drawing again. The costume was white muslin, but nothing a proper debutante would wear. It was pinned at the shoulders in the Grecian style, and then cut so deep across the bosom that Madeleine feared she might fall out of it if she had to curtsy low to another guest. The drape clung to the body, and as it was drawn on the model, there was a dampened chemise — or nothing at all — beneath it.
“I shall die of embarrassment,” Madeleine said. “And I don’t even like the Greeks. Can I not wear my Hamlet costume and be done with it?”
“Haven’t you guessed what the costume is?” Ellie asked. When Madeleine shook her head, she retrieved the sheet and pulled a pencil stub out of her reticule. The model had been headless, but Ellie quickly sketched in a face — nothing that might resemble Madeleine if anyone found the drawing, but enough to add to the picture. Then, she drew a towering pile of hair and festooned it with ropes of small berries — or pomegranate seeds. To the model’s wrist, she added a beribboned corsage of poppies. A sheaf of wheat in the woman’s hand completed the ensemble.
Madeleine knew the answer before Ellie finished, but was so surprised by her talented sketching that she didn’t stop her. When Ellie finally looked up, Madeleine smiled. “Persephone.”
“Yes, the Queen of the Underworld, come back from the dead. And Ferguson can dress as Hades. It is perfect, don’t you think?”
“Ferguson won’t submit to wearing only a sheet around his torso,” Madeleine warned.
“I would find that amusing,” Ellie said with a laugh. “But he can wear a coat and trousers with a sinister cloak over it. A crown instead of a hat should be enough.”
“The ton will think we’re laughing at them.”
“You are.” The smile on Ellie’s face was almost evil. “But they will love you all the more for your audacity. If you were not so acclaimed, it might be foolish. If you knew, though, how every man in my circle has clamored to meet you and how they’ve all cursed Ferguson for keeping you hidden away, you would not be so nervous about this appearance. They will be falling at your feet — especially in that dress.”
“Did you draw the dress as well?”
Ellie nodded, slipping her pencil back into her bag. “I cannot sew it, but my modiste works miracles. She can make over my Athena costume for you this afternoon. You can trust her to do the final fitting — she owes me a great debt and won’t betray you.”
Madeleine wondered how Ellie had so many people in her service whose loyalty was so assured, but it was not her business to ask. She sa
id, “Your talent with drawing is astounding. Do you draw often?”
“I prefer painting, but I haven’t painted in an age. Too many parties, don’t you know.”
Her light tone sounded forced. “If you care to join us, Amelia, Miss Prudence Etchingham and I meet weekly to discuss our artistic and academic pursuits. Perhaps you would find time to paint if you were to become part of our little circle?”
Madeleine spoke impulsively, believing the invitation would be well received, but her voice faltered at the end. Ellie had the same frozen, frigid look that Madeleine had seen the night Ferguson had taken her to Ellie’s house — like she had been confronted with something she wanted desperately to forget. “I am sorry,” Madeleine said quickly. “I didn’t mean to presume.”
The ice in Ellie’s eyes melted slightly. “No apology is necessary. I don’t have the heart to paint at present. Drawing this costume was an interesting exercise, but I do not think I would be a productive addition to your society.”
Ellie folded the drawing into neat fourths and tucked it into her reticule. The crisp way she folded the paper had a sound of finality to it — like a door closing in a blizzard, with Madeleine shut outside. The thought made her stubborn. Ellie had done so much for her, and she wanted to return the favor. “Do think about it, please. Even if you do not wish to paint for us, you might enjoy our discussions. We meet here every Friday at two o’clock.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Madeleine had missed every meeting since Amelia’s betrayal. But if Ellie would attend, Madeleine would go despite her cousin.
“I will consider it,” Ellie said. Then she stood, smoothing out her skirts before gathering up her reticule with a gloved hand. As usual, Madeleine felt utterly plain beside her; the dress she had changed into after Ferguson left, a pale yellow muslin, could not withstand the intensity of Ellie’s ensemble.
Still, there was a brittle quality to the woman’s beauty that bothered Madeleine. With her flame-colored hair and creamy skin, she looked warm and fiery — but like a fire about to sputter out into ashes, rather than one that could be sustained.
“Thank you for everything you have done,” Madeleine said, rising to kiss Ellie’s cheek. She owed Ellie more than she could repay, and would do what she could to help cure whatever mysterious unhappiness lingered beneath her supposedly carefree demeanor. “I would have been lost without you. I cannot say enough how very much I appreciate your assistance.”
“You saved yourself. But I could hardly ignore you — you did not seem eager to live the life of a ruined lady. Not everyone is suited for such a lifestyle.”
“Do you think you are suited for it?” Madeleine asked. “Surely you are not ruined.”
“No, not entirely. I doubt I would receive a voucher to Almack’s, but as I’ve no desire to ever attend again, it doesn’t signify. My level of disreputability was just enough for my father to disown me, as he did Ferguson, which was what I wanted. Still, I’m glad for you that your ruse worked. It is possible to live a happy life without the full approbation of the ton, but it’s not a course I would recommend.”
“Then you would choose differently if you were able to live again?”
“Widowhood has its uses,” Ellie said, smiling mirthlessly. “Although if I had defied my father from the start and married the man I wished to, I would have become the marchioness of Folkestone as soon as the man my father forced me to marry died. Ironic, no?”
Ironic was not the word Madeleine would have chosen; heartbreaking, or cruel, but ironic wasn’t strong enough. Ellie changed the subject, though, saying, “What’s done is done, and there is no going back. I must be off to instruct my modiste. I will send your Lizzie back to the house on Dover Street tomorrow with all the necessary accoutrements for the masquerade, and the modiste will do the last bit of fitting when you go to the house to be dressed.”
She strode to the door before Madeleine could say goodbye again, but she paused with her hand on the handle. “Do enjoy yourself tomorrow night, Madeleine. I have other plans with Norbury, but I cannot wait to hear how you take the ton by storm.”
Ellie left then, seeming eager to go, as though she felt she had shared too much. Madeleine looked at the timepiece on the mantel. It was only two o’clock. Ellie had come unfashionably early to settle the costume design in time for the modiste, and it would be hours yet before she had to dress for dinner. Aunt Augusta was not receiving callers today, since they would all be sniffing about Madeleine to validate the rumors about Ferguson’s madness. She couldn’t risk going to the shops, either, for fear that the gossip mongers would accost her there. She could write letters, she supposed, or she could embroider, or read a novel — any of the proper pursuits for a not-so-young lady of leisure.
None of it appealed. Afternoons like these, which stretched out in front of her toward a dreary old age, had driven her to the theatre in the first place. Perhaps it would be different if she had a house of her own to manage. As a duchess, she wouldn’t lack for staff to oversee, or callers to entertain — or more pleasurable activities to pursue with her husband.
She smiled. Daydreaming about her marriage was preferable to embroidering, and so she indulged for a few minutes, thinking of all they could do together if their reputations survived this scandal. She had been so opposed to marriage before — but she thought she might not mind sitting quietly and reading a book if Ferguson was nearby, if she thought that at any moment he might interrupt her and steal a kiss.
She was so deep in the dream that when the door opened, she thought Ferguson had indeed come for her. She looked up, the smile on her lips ready for him to devour it.
It was Amelia. Her dream collapsed. She wouldn’t just embroider or write letters to escape Amelia — she would willingly submit to a toothpulling, or accompany Lady Harcastle on a tour of the Peninsula battlefields and cemeteries, if it meant she could delay this confrontation.
But Amelia shut the door, standing with her back pressed against it. “Maddie, please...” she said, her voice trembling on the words before she took a deep breath and started again. “It’s been weeks since that night, and we haven’t spoken in private a single time since then. Won’t you give me a chance to apologize?”
Amelia looked like she hadn’t slept since her betrayal. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her normally bright hair was lank and limp in its chignon. Madeleine had found it easy to avoid her — Amelia had taken most meals in her room, and only sat for dinner with the family or attended events at Augusta’s express order. The fingers of her right hand were stained black with inky patterns; Amelia often got too caught up in the throes of writing to notice if a leaky pen was wreaking havoc on her skin.
Madeleine felt a twinge of sympathy. She willed herself to ignore it. “Does it matter whether you apologize?”
“It matters to me. I think it matters to you, too, even if you don’t wish to admit it.”
“That is precisely why it doesn’t matter,” Madeleine said, the heat of her earlier daydream turning effortlessly into anger. “That statement is just like you have always been — believing you are right above all others. It’s why you betrayed my secret to Alex, is it not? Because you told me to stop and I didn’t listen to your wisdom?”
Amelia flinched under the withering sarcasm in Madeleine’s voice. But she was too entrenched to retreat. “That isn’t why, Maddie. I didn’t want to be right — I was trying to protect you!”
“As it turns out, I did not need your protection. The play is over. No one found me out. In fact, if you had not told Alex and Aunt Augusta, even they wouldn’t have known.”
“It wasn’t merely the theatre I was trying to protect you from — I supported you when you went to Madame Legrand. But I had no reason to believe Ferguson’s intentions toward you were honest.”
“Because he did not attempt to court you like every other man in the ton?”
Amelia abandoned her post by the door to take the chair Ellie had recently vacated. “I d
on’t give a farthing for my admirers. I would consign them all to the devil if it meant you could go to a ball without being jealous of me. If Ferguson removes your bitterness, I would thank him.”
The knife struck home. “Bitter? Why would you think I am bitter?”
“How often have you teased me about my suitors?” Amelia countered. “You know I do not want their attentions, and yet you fling them in my face as though I have something to be ashamed of because of them. If that isn’t bitterness...”
She shut her mouth abruptly. Madeleine gasped, the words slicing deep into one of her most sensitive, still-healing wounds. “Do you think I am jealous of you?”
Amelia sighed. “I do not understand why you would be. But I cannot help thinking that you are.”
For all that Madeleine watched enviously whenever Amelia stood up to dance her fifth set in a row, and for all that she wished she had a mother and father instead of living a shadowed life with her cousins, it was never something they discussed. How could she have ever told Amelia that she sometimes wished their positions were reversed?
That she wished Amelia was the orphan, not her?
“Do you really not understand what it has been to grow up with you?” Madeleine asked, guilt and jealousy combining to wrap around the ball of acid in her stomach. “With your perfect English beauty, and your family who loves you, and your brothers who would die for you, when my parents were more concerned about their estate than me? Even your talent was easier for you — you can write every day, but the only hobby that brings me joy is something I cannot ever do again. So yes, I am jealous. But what would you have me do? Be grateful to sit in your shadow?”
She started crying as she spoke, scarcely noticing the tears until they started to drip onto her bosom. Amelia’s face drained of color as she listened, her blue eyes large and stark, the dark circles under them even more pronounced. Madeleine opened a drawer in the table beside her and retrieved a handkerchief, avoiding eye contact, dabbing at the tears on her skin even though they had not yet stopped flowing.
