by Sara Ramsey
Ferguson rose to his feet, pulling Madeleine up with the hand he still held. “I wish you happy as well, Caro. I never intended for anything that happened between us to affect you for even a day, let alone how long you’ve lived with this burden. But if you can lay aside the past, the present may contain happiness you haven’t even dreamt of.”
Madeleine felt like he was talking to her again, but Caro heard the words and nodded. “Westbrook, may I have a word with you, if you please?”
“I do please,” he said, striding over to the door as though he could not wait to escort Ferguson and Madeleine out of his domain. But just before he turned the handle, he said, “You’ve nothing to worry about from me, either. This was never my fight, and I don’t care what Lady Madeleine has been getting up to with her spare time these days. I would rather see her onstage than having the future duchess of Rothwell dunning me for the latest ladies’ aid subscription.”
There was a twinkle in his eyes as he said this, and Madeleine felt the last bit of tension draining out of her. “I shan’t step foot on the stage again, but I will be sure to bring the army with me if I need your charity.”
He bowed to her, then nodded at Ferguson. “We should dine at White’s now that you are returned permanently, Rothwell. Perhaps after the honeymoon?”
He glanced at Caro as he said this, and Madeleine wondered whose honeymoon he contemplated. Ferguson didn’t comment on the glance, merely accepted the invitation with much better humor than she had seen him use with others who invited him to dine.
After they said their goodbyes, he pulled her out of the room. The speed of his exit was matched by the slamming of Westbrook’s study door. Ferguson didn’t take her to the carriage, though — he gathered her up in his arms and kissed her. Pressed against him, in that bit of fabric Ellie called a dress, she could feel every muscle, every ridge and plane, every beat of his heart.
And even though he would be hers forever, without fear, she was too impatient to wait.
So when he gave her his wickedest grin and whispered a dream about a garden — she placed her hand in his and followed him out into the darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A week later, Madeleine sat on the edge of Rothwell House’s grand ballroom, watching the growing crush. It had been nearly half a decade since the house had been opened on this scale. Everyone who received a coveted invitation would attend — it vied to be the premier event of the month, if not the season.
The ballroom had been kept in perfect condition despite its disuse, and its beauty was unparalleled tonight. The reds and golds of the Rothwell coat of arms glowed in the light of thousands of candles, and the gilded edges of trim around the room were like little lines of fire. The orchestra hid in its own balcony overlooking the dancers, cleverly screened off so that the music seemed to float out over the crowd from a mystical source.
The ball was fit for a princess — or two princesses. Kate and Maria had delayed their debuts, but their added maturity suited them. Rather than attempting to look different from each other, they chose to highlight their striking similarities. Their blonde hair was piled high, matching diamond drops hung from their ears, and elegantly spangled white ball gowns grazed their delicate slippers. The sashes wrapped around their waists were the only way to tell them apart; Kate’s sash was a dramatic dark blue, while Maria wore a more romantic rose. The sashes accentuated their figures, and the men enjoyed the effect — the girls hadn’t lacked for partners since standing up with Ferguson and Alex for the first dance.
“Shouldn’t you be dancing?” Prudence asked as they both watched the crowd.
They sat together, as usual. Madeleine had danced the second dance with Ferguson, and several more dances with a variety of partners, but she was thankful for the lull in her dance card. “Do you know, I used to ache to dance? And yet I’ve no desire to be out there anymore.”
“You would if Ferguson were partnering you,” Prudence teased.
That was true. She was saving her supper dance for him, but they had separated for the past hour so he could play the gracious host. A few mamas had thrown their daughters at him, no doubt hoping he would realize his terrible mistake in becoming affianced to Madeleine, and for once he was too genial to refuse the blatant attempts to solicit his dances.
“The duke does seem less dangerous, though, don’t you think?” her friend continued, watching him lead a particularly foolish ninnyhammer through the steps of a cotillion. “If he had been partnered with that poor girl two months ago, he would have teased her into such a state of distress that she would have been in the retiring room the rest of the night.”
“You aren’t saying I’ve tamed him, are you?”
“Tame a man like the duke of Rothwell?” Prudence said, laughing. “Never. If anything, he’s tamed you, now that you aren’t longing to do something scandalous.”
She whispered the last bit — not that anyone around them would have believed Madeleine capable of bad behavior anyway. To the other chaperones and matrons, Madeleine was still a paragon of virtue, even if she had snagged the most illustrious catch of the season without even seeming to try.
Still, Madeleine pretended to take offense. “As though I could ever be as scandalous as the duke. What kind of lady do you take me for?”
Prudence grinned, but her smile turned sad as she watched the next pair of dancers move down the line. “I will miss you, you know, whether you’re scandalous or not.”
“I’m not leaving London for the ends of the earth,” Madeleine said. “If anything, Rothwell House is closer to your mother’s than Salford House is. And I will be desolate if you and Amelia abandon me. Imagine if my only recourse is to form one of those dreary ladies’ circles a duchess is supposed to create.”
“You’re right, of course,” Prudence said brightly, but Madeleine saw a shadow in her eyes. “But I may not be in London next year. Mother says we may not come to town next season, since ‘it’s clear Prudence will not be making a match, so no sense in wasting the money.’”
Prudence’s impression of her mother’s bluntly harsh tone usually made Madeleine laugh, but there was nothing funny in what she quoted. Before Madeleine could speak, though, Prudence rushed on. “Still, you will be in England, which is a comfort. I’ll still have Amelia, too, if she doesn’t do anything too foolish. And if she is too foolish — well, there is always the marchioness of Folkestone. I quite liked her when she came to our club’s meeting last week.”
Madeleine was glad Ellie had attended, even though she walked through the door like one who had made an impulsive decision and already regretted it. She had not brought any paintings and was reluctant to talk about her work, but she did warm up by the end of the meeting and readily agreed to attend the next one. And the fast crowd she ran with gave her better gossip than any of the rest of them ever heard, which made for one of the most entertaining meetings they had had in months.
But Amelia was another matter. The cotillion ended, and Amelia wove her way toward them, abandoning her escort somewhere in the crush. Her face was flushed, and the stain of pink on her cheeks only heightened her loveliness. She usually looked bored at these functions, even though she danced every time she was asked.
Tonight, though, her blue eyes sparkled with barely-suppressed joy and her mouth quivered on the edge of a smile. If Madeleine didn’t know better, she would have thought that Amelia had finally fallen in love.
Madeleine did know better, though. She was worried, not pleased, when Amelia dropped dramatically into the chair on her other side and said, “Isn’t this the most wonderful ball ever?”
“I prefer Lady Spencer’s ballroom myself, although the supper here could tip the balance in Rothwell’s favor,” Prudence said solemnly, pretending not to notice that Amelia was nearly mad with happiness.
Amelia laughed. “But the conversation here is delightful.”
“Weren’t you just dancing with Sir Percival Pickett?” Madeleine asked dubiously. Sir Pe
rcival was one of Amelia’s least favorite suitors, but the man had never quite taken the hint and Amelia was too conscientious of propriety to reject an offer to dance.
“Yes, and he still has pretensions to literary grandeur — claims he’s writing a poem for me that will set the whole ton on its ear,” she said with a grimace. “If it sets anyone on their ears, it will be in an attempt to drown out his awful rhymes. But he had the most wonderful things to say about a new book he found in a shop on Bond Street. He said it was the most daring satire of the ton that he’s ever read, and predicts it will take everyone by storm.”
“Sir Percival’s opinions on literature surely don’t sway you,” Madeleine said, hoping that her guess about the provenance of the book would prove incorrect.
“He actually does have reasonably good taste in what others write — it’s his own talent that is lacking,” Amelia said. “But we really must find a copy of The Unconquered Heiress. We wouldn’t want to be the last souls to have read it, after all.”
Madeleine felt her stomach drop. Prudence frowned as she leaned in to close the circle between them. “Don’t say it’s already popular?”
Amelia grinned, and Madeleine knew why she was in such high humor. It was the same effervescent wonder Madeleine had felt during those first few weeks on the stage — like she had accomplished something no one else had ever done, conquered a fortress others had thought impregnable. Keeping the secret of her success had only added to her joy at first, but as the secret became more dangerous, the accomplishment lost just a bit of its luster.
But it would be worse for Amelia. While Madeleine had wanted to act for her own sake, and was ready to give up the acclaim that went with it, Amelia wanted her work to be recognized. When her first books were published, she was pleased to sell them, but she still chafed under the requirement of publishing with a pseudonym.
If this book became a sensation, would she be able to watch the success without saying anything? Or would she ruin herself to gain the fame she wanted?
For now, at least, Amelia took the safe course. She bit back her smile and said, “It could come to nothing, of course. Only two of my other partners have mentioned it, and neither of them are arbiters of taste.”
Madeleine almost demanded to know what she was thinking, but they could not talk openly here. And anyway, the conversation could wait. Not enough people had read it to make it an utter success, and no one would find her out unless Amelia wanted them to.
Besides, Ferguson was striding toward them through the crowd — and unlike their first ball, Madeleine knew which of them he sought.
She hadn’t thought it possible, but he looked even more handsome than he did during their first meeting. His dress was similar, with a perfectly cut midnight blue jacket accentuating his muscled shoulders and his tight breeches showing no need for the padding other men used to round out their calves. It wasn’t his clothes or his well-toned body that entranced her, though.
It was his eyes, the love and humor in them, and the genuine smile on his lips. The cold arrogance — and the wounded boy who hid behind it — were gone, at least with her.
“You are the luckiest woman in England,” Prudence muttered beside her.
“You never know — he may still be mad,” Amelia mused, staring up at him as he came to a stop in front of them.
“If it is insanity to take Madeleine when I know this circle comes with her, then I am guilty,” Ferguson retorted. Amelia laughed in response, the high pleasure of the dance still threading through her smile. Madeleine forced herself to stop worrying about her cousin, at least for tonight. She was just glad Ferguson and Amelia had reached some sort of unspoken truce, even if they did not yet know each other well enough for affection.
“You could order me to abandon them — you might murder me if I refuse, after all,” Madeleine teased. It was safe to make the joke now; “Marguerite’s” appearance at Westbrook’s masquerade was all anyone had discussed for days, and talk of putting Ferguson on trial for her disappearance had ended entirely.
Ferguson gave her his most menacing glare. “I will certainly consider such drastic measures if you do not dance with me now, Lady Mad.”
She placed her hand in his, felt the strength of his fingers around hers, and wondered if she would ever tire of his touch. Looking at the mischievous gleam in his eyes, she doubted it.
He pulled her into the circle forming for the supper dance. “I should have known you would pick a waltz for this, your grace,” she said.
“I cannot waste my opportunities with you,” he said, his tone serious. “How I am to last another three weeks until the wedding, I have no idea.”
“I wish we didn’t have to wait either,” Madeleine said, shivering slightly as his hand came to rest on the curve of her hip.
“We could always run off to Gretna Green like Westbrook and Caro,” Ferguson said. He sounded amused, but Madeleine suspected he would toss her in the nearest carriage and drive north immediately if she gave him any hint that she was willing.
“It’s easy enough for them — the ton expects scandals from both of them, and may look fondly on their sudden love match. But if I married you so hastily, without the kind of grand affair they all expect...”
Ferguson smiled down at her. “We’ll give them the grand affair. And then, my love, it will just be us.”
“And your sisters. And your aunt Sophronia,” Madeleine reminded him.
He grimaced. “That reminds me — Ellie said she would be happy to move back into Rothwell House to look after the twins while we are on our honeymoon. She didn’t say why, and I thought she would never want to leave Folkestone’s townhouse. But I wonder if the marquess is finally returning to England to claim his title.”
Madeleine looked across the room and saw Ellie deep in conversation with Lord Norbury, her usual companion at these types of affairs. The woman’s eyes were stark in her pale face, made even paler by the glorious fire of her hair. If anything, the strain somehow made her more beautiful. Madeleine hoped Ferguson was wrong — or, if he was right, that Folkestone’s return would not cause Ellie any more grief.
“Ellie is welcome, of course. It would be nice to have a sympathetic audience while I try to learn how to be a duchess.”
“You already know everything you need to be a duchess,” Ferguson said.
“Really? I hardly think...”
Ferguson cut her off. “You know how to dress — and how to undress,” he said, his voice dropping low so that only she could hear him. “You know how to converse, and you know more pleasurable things to do with those lips. You know how to arrange flowers — and if I recall from our interlude in a certain garden, you know how to leave them disarrayed.”
Madeleine was blushing furiously at this point, but she was laughing too. After they had left Westbrook’s study the previous week, Ferguson led her into the garden — and she finally, fully understood the “dangers” waiting for a young woman in a moonlit grotto. “I do not think your aunt Sophronia would approve of my method of flower arrangement.”
“The old bird probably did the same thing herself when she was young. The garden of Eden must have had flowers, after all.”
She laughed again at his deadpan tone. Then, she looked out over the sea of dancers. Ferguson, with his calm self-assurance and utter confidence, seemed so foreign compared to the dilettantes of the ton — but it had taken her years to find those same qualities within herself. It wasn’t until that night in Westbrook’s study that she realized she wasn’t merely leaning on Ferguson’s strength — they were strong together, like two pieces of an ancient rock that had been broken in two and finally pieced back together.
She turned her gaze back to him, and he smiled down at her as though he could look at her for decades and never tire of the view. They may have been strong together, but that didn’t mean her heart couldn’t melt when she saw him smile. “Well, if that’s what I have to look forward to as a duchess, perhaps it won’t be so bad.”
“I rather think it will be wonderful,” he said.
THE END
Books by Sara Ramsey
Muses of Mayfair series
Heiress Without A Cause
Scotsmen Prefer Blondes – Winter 2012
The Marquess Who Loved Me – Spring 2012
A Note From The Author:
I am neither an actress nor a French orphan, and I am certainly not a duchess (despite my fervent wishes otherwise – Prince Harry, call me). While I have always loved the fantasy of Regency romances, I didn’t need to employ the subterfuge used by the Muses of Mayfair to write my books. For that, I feel supremely thankful.
I must thank everyone who believed that my writing was a worthwhile endeavor. Their support started long before I sold a single copy, when it was all mad dreams and the occasional scribbled sentence. My parents always let me choose my own path, even when it took me to different continents and strange professions. My brother and sister have also supported me through everything, while always reminding me of my roots. Those roots now extend from my childhood home in Iowa to my adulthood home in California, and my friends mean more to me than I can express without sounding maudlin. I am grateful beyond words that my family and friends have treated my writing as a serious endeavor instead of a pleasurable hobby, and I hope to live up to that support.
On the business side, thank you to my agent, Jennifer Schober of Spencerhill Associates, for working her derriere off to help get my stories out into the world. I am also grateful to the Romance Writers of America ® for connecting me with some amazingly savvy authors, including my fellow 2009 and 2011 Golden Heart ® finalists and all the wonderful members of the San Francisco RWA chapter.
Finally, I want to thank you for reading Heiress Without A Cause. I’m thrilled that you chose to spend your time with my book. Whether you loved or loathed it, I do hope you’ll leave a review at your favorite online book site. And you are always welcome to write me directly at [email protected]
