by Sara Ramsey
Amelia opened and closed her mouth several times before speaking. Finally, she said, “I think of you as my sister, not my cousin. It would hurt me just as much to lose you as it would to lose Alex or Sebastian — more, even, since I’ve not spent more than a week without you since you arrived from France. Perhaps that’s why I was so concerned about Ferguson — it was all so sudden. One week, I thought we would be spinsters together forever, and the next...”
She paused, taking a deep breath. “You’re going to be a duchess, and I cannot imagine what it will be like here without you. But if you have never been happy in this house, then it is for the best, and I can only wish that you’ll find all the happiness in your marriage that was missing for you here.”
It wasn’t the kind of speech Madeleine had ever heard from her before — a surrender rather than a rebuttal. Madeleine took another handkerchief from her table and handed it to her; Amelia’s eyes were just as full of tears as Madeleine’s. “It’s not that I was unhappy here,” Madeleine said slowly, uncomfortable saying the words after keeping them buried for so long, but knowing she needed to be honest — with both of them — if there was any hope of salvaging what they had. “It’s that my life in France... it became a dream, something I could imagine as I sat alone on the side of a ballroom, something I could focus on when the desire to run away from an at-home and join a theatre troupe was too strong. Even the theatre was a dream. I just had to believe there was more for me than shopping and needlework.”
Amelia quirked a smile at that even through her tears. Both she and Prudence had described that feeling before. But for Madeleine, it wasn’t just the tedium of everyday life. “I had to believe that if my parents had lived, I would have had a more exciting life. This circle isn’t for me, any more than it is for you. But at least I could tell myself there was a different life that was stolen from me, rather than thinking this is the way I would always have been.”
“Well, you will have a different life as Ferguson’s duchess,” Amelia said. “I just never imagined you were still dreaming of France. I still miss Father, of course, but then it’s not the same — losing him didn’t cost me an entire way of life as your parents’ loss did for you.”
Madeleine stared at the tear-stained cloth in her hands. “I don’t even want to go back to France now. There is nothing for me there. As much as I may wish it otherwise, my family is here now, and my parents are not coming back.”
Then she looked up, meeting Amelia’s eyes fully for the first time since she had entered the room. “And I consider you my sister, even if I did not behave like it these past few weeks.”
It was true. As much as she had been angered by Amelia’s decision to tell Alex and Aunt Augusta about her acting, Madeleine had not forgotten everything else they had shared. It was Amelia who made her feel at home in the nursery during her first few months with the Stauntons, Amelia who first encouraged her to put on plays in their schoolroom — Amelia who made the endless years of spinsterhood bearable.
“Then will you forgive me?” Amelia asked. “I really am sorry I told Alex and Mother, and that I was too selfish to accept that you could marry Ferguson and still see me occasionally.”
She sounded so forlorn that Madeleine actually laughed. “See you occasionally? I will insist that you spend whole weeks at a time with us. I am glad for what I’ve found with Ferguson, but I never intended to cut all ties with you — unless you are foolish enough to believe I would.”
“I hoped you wouldn’t cut me,” Amelia said. But her smile quickly faded. “You may have to, though.”
“Whyever would I have to cut you?”
Amelia hesitated. “I just finished a new book. It’s already at the printer’s, and he will have it in shops by the end of the week.”
“That’s wonderful news,” Madeleine said, genuinely happy for her. “I cannot wait to see it rivet the ton like your last book, even if it was hard for me and Prudence to listen to Lady Harcastle’s praises of it and not tell her you wrote it.”
“This one is a bit of a departure from my previous novels.”
“Not too much, I hope? I know you thought you might be tiring of Gothic romances, but you have such a way with them.”
“It is more of a satire,” Amelia said. “I trust the ton will be fascinated when word starts to spread.”
Madeleine frowned. “What sort of satire?”
“One that will have all of London trying to guess the author. If I am right, between this book and Marguerite’s appearance at the masquerade, by the end of the week no one will even remember that they thought Ferguson was a murderer — they will all be too busy reading.”
“But you’ve always been so careful with your books before,” Madeleine said. “How could you risk everything now?”
“Atonement,” Amelia said, her eyes still stark. “If I can draw attention away from your secret life, I will feel less guilty about the role I played in it. Besides, I’ve no intention of getting caught.”
“This could be more damaging than my acting,” Madeleine warned. “Setting foot onstage was a disgrace, but if you mocked the highest members of the ton — there will be no saving you.”
Amelia rose, tossing her handkerchief onto the table with a negligent gesture. “I don’t much wish to be saved. I’ve no need to stay in London, and Mother can exile me if she wishes — I’ve been asking her to do it for ages anyway. Besides, I’m not trying to land a duke like you are.”
She said the last bit teasingly, but her tone was warm. Even though Madeleine felt wrung out by their conversation, exhausted by all that had happened in the last eighteen hours, she somehow felt free, too — as though the jealous beast within her had gone away for good. She stood, hugging Amelia as though they were little girls again, unconstrained by propriety. “I hope you aren’t caught, but thank you. For everything.”
Amelia squeezed her back. “I hope you aren’t caught either. You must tell me everything about the masquerade — Prudence and I will be so jealous.”
“Prudence especially, I would wager,” Madeleine said.
They both laughed. Their easy camaraderie wasn’t quite restored yet — and it might be some time before either of them could forget what they had said to each other. But the path was clear before them. And as much as Madeleine had avoided Amelia, she was glad they had finally spoken. If they had gone many more weeks without resolving their tension, they might never have found the words.
After Amelia left, Madeleine contemplated the next few days. She was annoyed that she would have to wait twenty-four hours for their scheme to unfold — but tomorrow, she would dress for the masquerade and Ferguson would escort her there. Ellie had not said anything about what Madeleine would see at the ball, other than that she would be the toast of the evening, but she suspected she would see an element of the ton that she would never have the opportunity to see again.
But she would do it, would do anything at all, if it meant she and Ferguson could marry without suspicion. In two days, she would know whether they had been successful or not — and she could begin planning a life that was really hers, and not just a dream.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“I still don’t like it,” Ferguson muttered as their coach waited in the line of equipages slowly approaching Westbrook’s mansion.
Madeleine drew her cloak more firmly around her shoulders, soaking in the last few moments of warmth before she would have to surrender the garment at the door. Her costume was designed for admiration, not comfort. “Would you rather be branded a murderer?”
“I may commit murder if anyone ogles you — and they will, I assure you. I would worship that dress if I could have you to myself in it.”
“Don’t say a hardened rake like you has never seen such a display,” Madeleine retorted, her cheeks flushing at the thought of what was to come.
“I haven’t,” he said flatly. “Seeing you in the foyer when I retrieved you from our house was enough to make me want to drag you upstairs
and strip you out of that dress. In the atmosphere of Westbrook’s ball... I must warn you that I’m not sure how long I will be able to keep my hands off you.”
His eyes were as heated as his words, and she felt a small throb of pleasure deep in her belly. They had said little to each other on the drive out from London to Westbrook’s Richmond estate, but that was probably for the best — if he could arouse her just with a few words, they might not have ever reached the masquerade.
The carriage rolled to its final stop and a footman opened the door. Ferguson stepped smoothly to the pavement before reaching up to assist her. Rather than taking her hand, he grasped her around the waist, lifting her out of the coach and into his arms. He released her slowly, so close to him that she slid down his body, feeling every muscle — and his growing erection — through the single filmy layer of her gown. She gasped as she landed, pressed fully against him, wishing just as much as he did that they could abandon the party and go back to their secret house.
“I may not last long either,” she whispered, looking up into his eyes and seeing him fight the desire to toss her back into the carriage.
He ran his hands down her arms, grazed against her bottom, and then set her firmly on her feet. “If we see enough people in the first hour, we can escape early and have some time alone.”
Alex supported the plan, true to his word despite the impropriety, but he would be watching the clock for her return — which meant the less time they spent at the masquerade, the more time they would have to themselves. “Oui, monsieur le duc,” she said, slipping into Marguerite’s French accent.
He took her arm and escorted her up the stairs to the grand entrance. A footman took her cloak and Ferguson’s greatcoat and she heard rustling whispers rise up around them. If they already drew this much notice, they might not need even an hour to cement Marguerite’s return.
“How do I look, monsieur?” she asked, twirling in a slow circle in front of him. It was a vixen’s move, one she would never make anywhere else — but here, in this dress, it felt right. She guessed how she must look — the fabric clinging to her breasts and hips, almost translucent in the light, her nipples hardened points as they strained against the gown. Her hair was powdered to disguise its true color and Lizzie had threaded a chain of garnets through her tresses, mimicking the blood-red pomegranate seeds Persephone was known for. She had abandoned the sheaf of wheat as impractical, but a cluster of poppies wrapped around her wrist, and high-heeled Grecian sandals added the inches that Marguerite always displayed on stage. The lace of her drawers peeked out at the hem of the dress. She had never worn them before, and they might shock others more than if she had worn nothing at all — but it was the one concession she demanded for her modesty, so that at least one extra layer concealed her sex under her scandalous gown.
She turned back to Ferguson just in time to see him swallow hard. He looked like someone had bashed him in the head. Finally, he said, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
There was none of the polite flattery she was used to from the ton — he sounded absolutely serious, as though he faced a guillotine and wanted those to be his last words. She knew he desired her, but she never tired of hearing it.
She curtsied low for him, feeling wicked as the bodice slid dangerously across her breasts. “And you are the most perfect consort for the evening, monsieur.”
“Just the evening?” he asked, arching a brow.
She brushed up against him to whisper in his ear, “Perhaps longer, if fate and mon Dieu agree.”
He laughed, low and sinful, and tilted her chin up. “Careful, love. You’ll have me taking you home before we’ve even danced.”
She fluttered her lashes at him, a smile playing on her lips. He smiled in return, looking hungry, but utterly in command with the heavy gold circlet on his head and his dark cloak swirled around him. She had thought their masquerade would require acting, but this wasn’t an act — this was dark, sensuous joy, giving in to the scandalous behavior his wicked eyes encouraged. In the ton, she could never be so brazen.
But tonight, even though it was an effort to clear his name, belonged to them.
When she looked beyond him, she saw their plan was already working. People whispered behind their fans as they glanced furtively at Madeleine and Ferguson. “Shall we dance?” she asked, pretending the scrutiny did not matter at all. “Unless you do wish to retire...”
Ferguson took her arm again. “Dancing it is, but only so no one thinks I’m a monster for denying you.”
This he said more loudly, and it drew titters from the clusters around them. She pretended not to notice. They had agreed that she would feign ignorance of the rumors about Marguerite’s disappearance. As much as she loved engaging in behavior that she would never be able to repeat in real life, they were there to salvage his reputation, not destroy hers. She would play the role she needed to play, but she would have to be careful — it would be all too easy to lose herself in the desire that already threatened to overwhelm her.
“Onward, monsieur le duc,” she said.
* * *
An hour later, Ferguson wasn’t sure how much longer he could survive their ruse. The advantage of a salacious event such as Westbrook’s masquerade was that the normal rules did not apply — he could dance with Madeleine as many times as he pleased.
The disadvantage was that he couldn’t hold her in his arms, brushing against him with every step, without wanting to find the nearest bed. Not that anyone would raise an eyebrow, of course. The ballroom was looking distinctly thin as the evening wore on, and Ferguson suspected that the extensive pathways and grottoes of Westbrook’s garden were being put to good use for any number of liaisons. The house, in the serene beauty of Richmond, seemed purpose-built for these entertainments — which was probably true, since Westbrook’s father and grandfather had been notorious rakes themselves.
Still, they were there to prove to everyone that Marguerite was still alive — not to make love in the nearest dark corner. And he would stay true to their plan, as much as it killed him to stay in the ballroom.
Madeleine had never looked lovelier, which was part of his problem. Her gown should have been a disgrace, would have been her immediate downfall if she were there as a chaperone, but it was designed to tempt a man’s desires. He had never adored the overblown courtesans who littered the demimonde, but even though the dress was revealing, Madeleine was perfect in it — all the grace of a lady, with the finest pair of breasts just barely swathed in muslin and practically begging for his touch.
He dragged his eyes back to her face. She was smiling mischievously — she may have been a spinster, but she wasn’t a fool. “I suggest we retire, monsieur, so that you may examine my... bodice more properly.”
Her desire for him struck him like a spur. He hadn’t thought he could be any harder for her, but the teasing lilt in her voice proved him wrong. She would never see him as a duty she had to suffer — she wanted him, all of him, just as he was, and as often as possible.
The rest of his life might be an endless series of duties — but with her, it would all be pleasure.
“I do think we’ve been here long enough,” he said, hearing the gravel in his voice. Madeleine had been seen by everyone in attendance, greeted by Westbrook — who made no reference to the night at the theatre, but did not appear to doubt her identity — and exchanged pleasantries with those who were able to reach her in the pauses between dances. Caro skirted the edges of the ballroom, and he had watched warily as she danced with Westbrook, but she had not accosted them tonight. If they could make it to their carriage, Madeleine would be safe and his reputation would be secure.
He pulled her out of the dancers, narrowly avoiding a collision with one of the liveried footmen who passed champagne to the people sitting out the current dance. Ferguson almost regretted that he and Madeleine would never attend another of these parties as husband and wife. There were always masquerades to attend, but they c
ould not behave as blatantly as they had here — brushing against each other, flirting outrageously, as if there was no one in the world but them.
Still, he was glad to be done with it. With his reputation restored, he and Madeleine could marry, the twins could debut, and life might return to some semblance of normal.
But before they reached the staircase, a woman stepped in front of them, interrupting their progress. “How charming,” Caro said, her eyes narrowing as she looked them both up and down. “The king of the underworld suits you, Ferguson.”
He almost didn’t recognize her at first, so sure that they had escaped unscathed, until he heard the bitter note in her otherwise lovely voice. She wore a dress similar to Madeleine’s, the cool white linen of the Greeks, but she wore a brilliant diamond tiara and had a dagger strapped to her waist in an allusion that he couldn’t interpret.
“Lady Greville,” he said coolly.
“We should have consulted each other before the event,” Caro said, staring up at him and ignoring Madeleine. “If you were the Aeneas to my Dido, think what a stir we could have caused.”
Dido — the Carthaginian queen who stabbed herself in the heart after being abandoned by her Trojan lover. “You look very well, of course, but I have chosen a different consort.”
Caro cast a flickering glance at Madeleine, just enough to make it clear that the actress was socially beneath her. “I have little love for Salford’s ward, but it does seem callous of you to parade this actress chit in front of the ton when you’d have everyone believe that your engagement to Lady Madeleine is a love match.”
“You know how these things play,” he said, trying to sound bored. “Lady Madeleine could never attend an event such as this, and I’ve no intention of giving up all my entertainments.”
