by Syrie James
Madeleine raised a finger to his lips. “If you say pineapple, I will never forgive you.”
A low chuckle escaped him. Then he said more soberly, “I don’t want to take your virginity, love. I cannot. I should have stopped long before this.”
“I didn’t want you to stop. I don’t want to stop now.”
“Neither do I,” he admitted tenderly, “believe me, neither do I. But—”
“Then don’t.” Pressing on his buttocks, she shifted her femininity against his manhood and moved beneath him, until she felt the tip of him push inside her.
That seemed to shatter his resistance. “Dear God,” he said, and then he moved with her, entering her a bit more. “I will try . . . to be gentle. I do not wish to hurt you.”
Madeleine was grateful for his gentleness, sensed that it was taking all his willpower not to thrust into her with force. He moved slowly, pushing into her by degrees. There was pain that made her stiffen at first, but eventually she began to feel herself relax around him.
“Are you all right?” he whispered against her ear.
“I am.”
“You feel wonderful.” He entered her further until he had gone as far as he could go, and that aching part of her at last was filled.
He began moving back and forth now in a rhythm that started her body tingling. The pain dissipated. But before desire could bubble up again inside her, she sensed he was reaching a crescendo.
His breath caught suddenly. With a little gasp, he pulled out of her and spent himself with a sound of pure male satisfaction. Madeleine found the act fascinating and exciting—it was so raw, so primal.
Later, after he had tenderly sponged her clean and they lay side by side in each other’s arms, he pulled the covers up over them, nestling them in a warm cocoon. Madeleine felt as if she were in a drunken haze, languid from the pleasure he’d given her.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally, softly, gazing at her as he brushed back a lock of hair from her face.
“Sorry for what?” Was he going to apologize for taking her virginity? For making love to her when he couldn’t marry her? But no.
“For not lasting longer at the end.”
So, that is what was uppermost on his mind. It stung a little, but Madeleine refused to let it bother her. “Don’t apologize. For anything.” She ran her fingers admiringly through the expanse of curly hair across his chest. “It was lovely. Indescribably lovely.”
“Yes. It was.” His eyes glowed as he leaned in for another kiss.
“Is it always like that?” she asked, when their lips parted.
He paused before answering, then shook his head almost as if in wonder. “No. Not always,” he admitted.
They kissed sweetly for a long, tender moment. His hand reclaimed her breast. And before she knew it, they were making love once more.
Madeleine blinked open her eyes. The fading light of late afternoon bathed the room in shadows. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was.
Lord Saunders—Charles—was asleep next to her in his bed. The memory of their lovemaking flooded her mind and she blushed hotly, recalling how wanton she had been. If someone had told Madeleine this morning that she would end up here today, writhing and naked in this man’s arms, she would never have believed them.
Yet it had happened. And she didn’t regret a moment of it.
Madeleine studied Saunders as he slept beside her, her heart full of feeling. Oh, how she adored him. The last few hours had been among the sweetest and most thrilling of her life. She had no regrets. She’d wanted to make love with him. She knew that what she’d done was scandalous, but she didn’t care.
She almost felt like a different person, as though she’d at last been made privy to a secret the entire world shared, but from which she’d previously been excluded. How wonderful lovemaking was, when shared in the right environment with the right person. It was such an intimate experience. No wonder Alexandra blushed every time the subject had been hinted at and had refused to share any details.
Madeleine wished there could be more between them than this single encounter, but she knew there could not. Her heart ached to tell him that she loved him.
But what would be the point? It would only make him feel as if he owed her something. He was already under a sense of obligation to another woman. Madeleine didn’t want to add to that burden. If she admitted her feelings, it might make him feel that she expected him to choose between her and Sophie. Did she? No. No. She did not.
He had made his choice long before he met her. Sophie would always come first. Madeleine admired his sense of honor. His devotion to duty. If he were to break that vow and choose her, he might live to regret it. That was something she could never live with. Nor could she allow him to break Sophie’s heart. If he did, it would weigh on his conscience, and hers, all the rest of their lives.
Outside, the sky was gray, but it had stopped raining.
Silently, Madeleine slid from the bed. She pre-laced her corset, slipped it on, and tied herself into it. As she donned her trousers, her glance fell on a bedside table, atop which lay her manuscript. His kind words came back to her. He’d read her book. He’d liked it! That meant so much to her.
Madeleine retrieved the manuscript, then crept down the stairs.
Charles awoke to the sound of movement from the workshop below. He lay still for a long moment in a sleep-induced haze, trying to process what he was hearing. Then it hit him.
Dear God. He had just made love to Miss Atherton. Twice.
A woman he did not even have the right to call by her first name.
He sat bolt upright. Her clothing was gone. She must have dressed and was downstairs at that very moment. Why? What was she doing?
He could hardly believe what had just happened. He hadn’t expected her to show up at his workshop again. When she did, he could never have anticipated that things would have progressed as they did.
No, that was a lie. She had occupied his thoughts all summer, had haunted his dreams. He couldn’t count how many times he had imagined making love to her. Today, in her half-dressed state, coming on to him as she had, she had been impossible to refuse.
The memory of all that had just occurred infused his mind. Their lovemaking had been thrilling, every single second of it. She’d been so passionate, so sensuous, so generous. He almost felt as though a sacred bond had been created between them.
And yet . . . he never should have done it. It was wrong, terribly wrong—he had been over and over the reasons why. Aside from his own commitments, he should never have made love to Madeleine Atherton without a promise of marriage.
An even more alarming thought followed hard and fast on the heels of that one:
It that what all this was about?
His heart began to hammer as a sudden panic set in. It explained why he’d been thinking of Elise Townsend earlier.
He had never thought the two women were alike—yet the similarities were undeniable. Both were American heiresses, in England to marry a title. Both were beautiful and eminently desirable. Both had thrown themselves into his arms, arousing him to such a fevered pitch that against his better judgment, he had taken them to bed.
Damn damn damn damn. It was the same exact scenario all over again—wasn’t it? This time, a warning had flashed in his brain, but he’d ignored it.
He should have heeded it. A woman like Miss Atherton did not do what she just did without expecting something in return. He knew exactly what that something was. Her reason for coming to England had never been a secret, after all.
Charles’s gut tensed with anger. What manner of idiot was he? How had he not seen it? How could he have put himself in this situation again?
He got up and dressed, steeling himself for the charge that was certain to follow the moment he walked down those stairs: “You have to marry me now,” she would say. “You understand that, don’t you?”
There was no way in hell that was going to happen this time.
>
The fire in the stove must have gone out because the room was freezing. Their cups of tea were still on the table, equally cold and untouched.
Shivering, Madeleine finished attiring herself in the rest of her clothing, which was thankfully dry, and put on her stockings and shoes. As she gathered up her hairpins and stowed them in her jacket pocket, she heard footsteps in the loft above. Her heart skipped a beat. She had thought it would be less awkward if she were to sneak away. But maybe it was better this way, to have a chance to say good-bye.
He descended the stairs, wearing his trousers and boots.
“Hello,” Madeleine said warmly, expecting to see returned affection in his gaze.
Instead, he stopped a few yards away, a wary expression on his face. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something. What?
“It’s late,” she offered. “We slept for several hours, I think.”
Still, he said nothing. His jaw twitched. The silence that filled the room was deafening. Madeleine’s pulsed raced in confusion, unsure how to interpret his mood. Was he angry? Did he regret what had passed between them?
At last he announced, “I am waiting.” His voice had an edge to it like a blade.
She paused uncertainly. “Waiting for what?”
“For the next shoe to drop.” His eyes and tone were imbued with what looked like self-loathing and angry expectation. “The nice little speech you gave that night in the kitchen, about not wanting to hurt anyone, not wanting to not break a promise to yourself, it was all just talk, wasn’t it?”
“I’m sorry. I—”
“What do you want?”
Madeleine struggled to make sense of his question and his unanticipated dark mood. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I have been down this road before. I won’t be taken in a second time.” His gaze flicked up toward the loft, then back at her. “I suppose you covet the title of marchioness?”
Madeleine inhaled sharply as it suddenly became clear to her. He was talking about Elise Townsend. Comparing her to that woman. She was flabbergasted.
“At least this time,” he went on, “I don’t have to worry that you might be with child.”
Shock, pain, remorse, and anger rose up inside Madeleine like a wave. He’d taken what they’d done and turned it into something sordid. Turned her, in his mind, into someone she was not.
It took her a moment to find her voice. When she did, she said shakily, “You seem to forget I don’t need to trick anyone into marriage, Lord Saunders. I’ve already turned down a title higher than yours.”
Trembling, Madeleine gathered her hat, her manuscript, and what was left of her dignity, and strode to the door, which she closed behind her with force. It was only when she’d left the path and reached the stables that she realized tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Are you out of your mind?”
Her mother stared down at her, enraged, while Madeleine sat mutely on a red velvet sofa, fighting the urge to cry.
She felt as though she’d done nothing but weep for the past few hours. During her ride home from Saunders’s workshop she had been nearly blinded by tears. Thank God the horse had known the way.
Even knowing Saunders’s history, Madeleine had never anticipated his reaction to their lovemaking. The undisguised suspicion and disgust she’d seen in his eyes was almost impossible to bear. She supposed she ought to hate him for that. But she didn’t. She couldn’t. He had treated her most unjustly, but she understood his mindset. His anger, she believed, was fueled not only by anxiety from his past experience, but by shame over what they’d done. Which, in turn, made her feel ashamed.
In spite of everything, she still loved him. A feeling that deep didn’t disappear in an instant, no matter how much he had hurt her.
A leaden weight seemed to fill her chest and tears studded her eyes. How had she thought she could make love to a man she adored and emerge unscathed? Some people, she supposed, might be able to do so simply for physical pleasure and walk away. She knew, now, that she wasn’t that kind of person. Even if he hadn’t broken her heart with his accusations, it would have been broken all the same. For her, physical intimacy had only sealed their connection.
The knowledge that she would never again feel his arms around her, never again experience the kind of intimate union they’d shared, was so painful it threatened to tear her heart in two. Worse . . . far worse . . . was the knowledge that she would one day see him married to another woman.
She had put Sophie out of her mind all day. But she couldn’t avoid thinking about her any longer. Fresh guilt shot through Madeleine’s layers of pain. How had she repaid Sophie’s regard? By coveting the man her friend was to marry. And then engaging in an afternoon of secret, carnal lovemaking with him.
She had betrayed Sophie’s friendship, the very thing Madeleine had promised herself she would never do. No, she couldn’t hate Lord Saunders—he had tried to stop her, after all. But she began to hate herself.
Were anyone to find out what they’d done, Madeleine knew, her reputation would be ruined. Hopefully he would never tell anyone. Why would he, since he was so appalled by his own part in what had happened? Still, someone at the farmhouse might have seen her arrive, seen her horse stabled there. She’d been inside that barn a long time. People talked. Dear Lord, what if word of this were to reach Sophie’s ears? Or her mother’s?
“Lord Oakley was the best prospect you’ll ever get!” Her mother’s voice yanked Madeleine out of her dismal reverie. They were alone in the elegant Polperran House gallery. Beyond the windows, the sun was setting in a sky as dark and gray as her mood. “The eldest son of a duke! You would have been a duchess! A position at the very highest level of English society! A position every woman would envy! Yet you turned him down?” Her mother waved her hands in frustration as she paced. “What on earth is wrong with you?”
Madeleine wiped moisture from her eyes and pocketed her handkerchief again. This onslaught was the last thing she needed right now. “I don’t love him, Mother,” she said wearily.
“Love!” Her mother scoffed. “You’re living in a fantasy. Smart women marry for wealth and position, not love.”
“Maybe I’m not as smart as some. But I want more than a grand home, a position in society, and a family to raise. I want to share my life with a man I admire and respect. A man who understands and admires me. A man who will encourage me in my pursuits, not look down on them.”
“Pursuits? What pursuits?” Her mother stopped before her with incredulity. “Don’t tell me this is about that stupid writing of yours?”
The words stung as painfully as if she’d been slapped in the face. “My writing is not stupid,” Madeleine began. “It’s—”
“It was a silly, childish hobby you should have given up ages ago. There is no place for it in your life now.”
“I can’t give it up. It’s a part of me. I have written a novel, and I hope to—”
“You hope to what? Publish your little book?” Her mother seethed. “So that is what’s going on here. You turned Oakley down because he doesn’t want you to write?”
After all she’d been through that day, this was suddenly more than Madeleine could take. She leapt to her feet, incensed. “Mother. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to write? To create characters from thin air, people who want to make themselves known to you, while you struggle to make them feel like flesh and blood? To invent plots that keep you awake long into the night, trying to perfect every detail? After all that hard work, of course I hope to be published, so that people might read my words and share the stories I’ve invented!”
Her mother was infuriated. “You are the daughter of one of the richest men in New York. In the world, for that matter. You will not embarrass me with this scribbling nonsense. Are you unaware of the light in which society holds women authors? That they are looked down on, ridiculed? No, no. I will not have that for my daughter.” She shook her h
ead. “This is not over, Madeleine, not by a long shot. We might still be able to fix it. Lord Oakley left only this morning. I presume he returned home to Sussex. I have grown close to his mother. If I were to write to her immediately, let her know that you have changed your mind—”
“But I haven’t changed my mind. I never will.”
Her mother’s eyes blazed. “If you let this man go, Madeleine, you will gain a reputation as being too particular. No peer will have you.”
“I don’t need to marry a peer to be happy, Mother. That was always your idea, not mine.”
“Bite your tongue. Marriage to a peer is your destiny, young lady! Don’t you want to have everything Alexandra has?”
“Everything? No. Just one thing.”
“And what is that?”
“I already told you,” Madeleine said, striving for patience. “I want to love the man I marry and be loved in return. Lord Oakley will make some woman a perfectly good husband. It’s just not going to be me.”
Mrs. Atherton threw her hands up in the air. “I can see I’m getting nowhere with this. You are impossible! After all I have done for you the past two years!”
Madeleine felt another twinge of guilt. Her parents had spent a great deal of money on her London Seasons, both this year and the previous one when she had sailed over to take her sister’s place. But before she could say anything, her mother continued angrily:
“If we have to go home to New York empty-handed again, I will be mortified.” Crossing her arms over her ample bosom, Mrs. Atherton frowned as she began to pace anew. “Let me think, let me think. If you are resolved not to have him, there is still something we can do. The Season may be over, but I recall five or six eligible young men who had their eyes on you. They only backed away when it became obvious that Lord Oakley had attained your interest. If they discover you are free, they are sure to be interested again. We must strike while the iron is hot. I have a great many friends. I’ll arrange visits to their country houses over the next few months. You will spend time with their sons. I’m sure one of them will do. You still have all your gowns at your disposal . . .”
