The Redemption of Madeline Munrove

by Mary Campisi

  To test him. To torment him. To see him grow uncomfortable. She was beautiful, of that there was no doubt. With her black curls piled atop her head and held in place with a sapphire comb, she resembled royalty. Did she not know the way her eyes darkened when she spoke in anger? Most appealing. Despite the fabric of her dress, a hideous cream floral, he appreciated the simple lines, the elegant sway of hips and shoulders and legs.

  She was a witch with a viperous tongue, given to ill-temper and hatred of men. Who would have her anyway? The woman had an opinion about everything and thought it her duty to share it.

  Douglas glanced away, settling his gaze on the draperies behind her. Could it be pure coincidence or did the lady love her draperies to such a degree that she patterned a wardrobe after them? He leaned forward to better investigate a growing suspicion. The draperies fell not more than two fingers below the windowsill, a unique and unusual style to be certain. Not done in the city and surely not in the country either, unless one wished to borrow fabric for a gown.

  He spared Madeline a glance and noted she had taken a sudden interest in the peas centering her plate. He could be a gentleman and ignore the obvious or he could act the cad she supposed him to be, and comment. Douglas chose the latter. He deserved a small amount of amusement. After all, he was stuck here until Ethan located him and it would not be a moment too soon. “Your gown matches the draperies,” Douglas mused. “How very intriguing.”

  Madeline pushed several peas into a half circle, forming a tiny barricade. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “Have you such love for the fabric and design you chose to have a gown patterned after it? Or did you fancy the gown overmuch and select the draperies?”

  “Neither.” Sarah of the round belly hoisted a warm smile on him. “Madeline selected the gown based on the amount of fabric available. She detests the city actually and refuses the modistes in London. What other choice was there but to fashion a gown and have it hand-sewn as an original?”

  What other choice indeed, unless the woman lacked coin, which would account for the worn furniture, the dated design, the fading paint. But this tiny battalion of women was not about to let their commander fall in battle, even if it were a sparring of words and ego.

  “Course she don’t like London,” the redhead said. “Not much to like about it less you’re rich as Croesus.”

  This one’s name was Regina. The pickpocket. He would wager a field of tobacco on it. Pretty little thing. Probably carried a dagger strapped to her leg.

  Douglas waited for the third woman to pipe in and offer praise for Saint Madeline but the dark-haired woman kept her head bent and her mouth closed unless she slipped food inside, which come to think of it, had been no more than an occasional pea. She must be the one with the dead husband.

  Madeline called them sisters but Gregory had told him otherwise. Douglas scanned the lot of them. Even allowing for dimwittedness, these women were no more related than a cat to a mouse. Regina, the redheaded pickpocket, fidgeted in her plain day gown and looked as though she might bolt at any moment. Sarah of the swollen belly sighed and slipped smiles at him, as though she thought they shared a great secret. And Lady Annabelle, well she had just forked a bite of lamb. A very tiny bite. He supposed dead husbands could force a woman to lose her appetite, especially if the husband’s family were chasing her. Interesting fact, that.

  And then there was Madeline, Lady Madeline as it were. She made eye contact, she smiled, she grimaced, she spoke out of turn. About everything. Solicited and unsolicited. Perhaps when he was well gone from here, he would send her a copy of Beezleton’s Book of Etiquette. For insight. And education. He pictured Madeline ripping it apart and tossing it in the rubbish bin. The very thought lightened his mood.

  The remainder of dinner proved as entertaining as attending a play where the participants took part, but none proved more enticing than the mistress of Lingionine. Despite the faded rose floral walls, the shabby carpets, and the mismatched crockery, Madeline conducted the dinner party as though the Duke of Weatherby and his entourage of cousins were in attendance.

  And that intrigued Douglas, almost as much as it annoyed him.

  He was not a man given to surprises or exceptions. His father had seen to that, rearing him to control odds, whereby limiting the possibility of a chance outcome. Had Douglas not been able to forecast, restructure, and triple the family’s tobacco empire? With carefully plotted strategies and successful execution of said strategies, the Fontaine’s were one of the wealthiest families in Virginia. His father was prepared to turn his empire over to Douglas as soon as his eldest son found a wife. An English wife.

  With duty to his father in mind, and the vow to his dead mother close at heart, Douglas had agreed to wife hunt in England with his friend and valet, Ethan Montague.

  Ethan would select five suitable mates at which time Douglas would swoop into London and administer a battery of tests to determine the most suitable bride. Unlike most of his colleagues, beauty would not be the highest requirement—a cerebral challenge would. If he were to remain faithful to his wife, and that was another promise he’d made his dying mother, the woman must possess the capacity to challenge him. She must also possess wit and common sense, none of the churlishness so common in females. He wanted a good bed partner too, though how one could insure that if one was not permitted to sample the goods before buying proved a challenge. But, as Douglas’s physics teacher had taught him, for every problem there existed a solution.

  Douglas had a plan for finding said wife which included a series of tests for the future Mrs. Fontaine in which she would be judged for her ability to use logic, ingenuity, and common sense. It was a solid plan. Douglas liked plans, liked being in command, and controlling outcomes like a hawk chasing a mouse, though at the moment he was more mouse than hawk with about as much swoop as a one-winged sparrow. It was that damnable woman seated across from him with the snug bodice and gleaming skin who was responsible for it.

  “Mr. Schilling, might I have a word with you in private?”

  Douglas looked up from his wine. His third. He would need something much stronger to deal with Madeline Munrove. A whisky. Or four. Unfortunately, there was none in sight. He forced himself to meet those damnable blue eyes. Mistake. His vision clouded, from the wine, of course. He did not imbibe in it often, preferring whisky or port, so when he did have a glass or three, it affected him in strange ways.

  She offered a hesitant smile. “A word, please?”

  What did the she-wolf want? He did not miss the way she coated her words with confection. The better to lure you with, my dear. “Of course.”

  “Would you follow me to the library where we might take tea?”

  Ah, now she had switched to a prim miss. He would find a way to unsettle her. “I only drink tea with whisky in it.” Let Prim Miss answer that.

  She paused, turned her head just so and said, “I think that can be arranged.”

  Chapter 6

  Douglas followed Madeline down the hall to the library. The room was aptly named. Books lined the walls, stacked the floors, and wedged themselves between sofa cushions.

  “I take it you enjoy reading?”

  The prettiest pink crept up her neck to her cheeks. Even in the dim light of the few lamps he could make out the change. In any other household a man alone with a woman would be scandalous. But in the library of Lingionine, who would ever know? All manner of excitement and debauchery could occur, and who would be the wiser?

  A vision of Madeline stripped naked, head thrown back, lustrous curls tickling his leg as she rode him, shot through his brain. He squashed it immediately, but not before his shaft had a picture of it, too. Damn, untrustworthy piece of flesh.

  She turned from the sideboard where various glass decanters clustered together and asked, “Would you like whisky with your tea or should we skip the tea?”

  Ah, a woman of insight. “Skip the tea,” he said, moving to stand behind her. She smelled of
hyacinth and clover, a combination of freshness and seduction he found tantalizing. Too bad she would hate him when she learned his true identity.

  She poured whisky into a glass, then filled a second one. Madeline Munrove was indeed an intriguing woman, like the mazes in the Duke of Weatherby’s gardens. He moved closer, his breath fanning the back of her neck. It was a long, slender neck, made for soft kisses.

  “Mr. Schilling.”

  If only she wouldn’t talk so much and express unsolicited opinions about the male species, of which he was one...

  “Mr. Schilling.”

  “Simon.”

  “Mr. Schilling. Please permit me personal space or I will not be responsible for my actions.”

  He laughed and stepped back, a mere two paces, still close enough to smell her. When she turned, he bestowed her with the practiced look that changed even the most reserved females into simmer pots and asked, “You would attack me?”

  She moved close, rose on tiptoe, her gaze fixed solidly on his lips. A wisp of hair tickled his neck. The look never failed him. He leaned forward, closing the gap between their lips. He had to taste her, had to— “Oww!” A sharp pain pierced the inside of his foot and shot up his leg. “Damn you, woman, what are you trying to do?”

  The blasted crazy snatched a glass from the sideboard and handed him his whisky with a conciliatory look he would swear was false. “Protecting myself, Mr. Schilling. Oh, forgive me, Simon. We may live in the country with nary a male around, but make no mistake, we guard our virtue.”

  And that was why Sarah had a belly the size of an overripe cantaloupe? Douglas downed the whisky she’d handed him and watched in amazement as she did the same. Even Ethan could not do that without a hiccough. Be damned. Caught between annoyance and admiration, admiration won out.

  “Well done.”

  She saluted him with her empty glass. “For medicinal purposes only.”

  “Sore throat. Stuffy nose,” he supplied, wondering what malady she would assign as her current reason for imbibing.

  “Unmanageable, arrogant stable help.”

  Ah, he’d gotten to her. That made them even.

  She reached for his glass and her fingers brushed his. The contact jolted him and from the alarmed expression on her face, she’d felt it too. Madeline turned to pour another drink and Douglas admired the bend and sway of her back, the shape of her bottom, the firmness of her legs, minus the blasted skirts, hoops, and whatever other infernal undergarments a lady of quality wore. He much preferred her state of under dress in the stables this morning.

  “Is it blasted hot in here?” he said, swiping his brow.

  “Indeed.” She handed him his whisky and fanned herself with her free hand.

  “You could turn down a lamp or two.”

  She shot him a reproving look. “Then we would be cast in virtual darkness.”

  He smiled.

  She cleared her throat. “I would like to speak with you about payment for services rendered.”

  “What kind of services?” He was quite skilled at providing any manner required of a woman. Kissing. Hand holding. Undressing —

  “I’ve no money to pay you.”

  More undressing. “Perhaps we could work out a deal.”

  She hesitated, her full lips pursed just so and then she did the most blasted thing, it shocked even Douglas. The man-hating woman smiled. Long and slow and so tantalizing, Douglas’s sex thrummed against his breeches.

  “I much prefer payments of trade over the cold exchange of coin,” he said.

  “Truly?” Those full lips glistened with anticipation.

  “Absolutely.” Apparently she was not such a man-hater when plied with wine and whisky. In fact, that smile was a siren’s smile.

  She beamed. “Thank you, Mr. Schilling. Thank you so very much.”

  Women thanked him for what he did to their bodies but usually not until after the act. This one fairly hummed with want. “I am forever at your service.” Perhaps twice in the library and once in the fresh air, in the stables amidst the rawness of nature.

  She threw back her head and downed another whisky. “I’ve prepared a list. We’ll want to be very thorough.”

  The woman had a list? He supposed he would not be able to accuse her of not knowing what she desired. The man-hating act was just that—an act. Amazing what a little wine and whisky could do to wring out the truth.

  “It’s rather long.” She gave him a small smile. “But you appear just the man for the job.”

  How right she was and once he started the job, that little smile of hers would grow. “Thank you.”

  “Gregory has agreed to help. I hope you don’t mind but he’s sorely in need of instruction.”

  “Gregory?” She wanted her little brother to watch Douglas undress his sister and enjoy her body? Even for Douglas, that bordered on bizarre.

  “A boy needs to learn the workings of a man sometime, does he not?” She fluffed out her skirts and stepped toward him. “You could teach him. Simon.”

  “I could?” You want him to see you underneath me? Naked? With your legs wrapped around my back?

  “Oh, yes, I could tell you were the right sort the moment I saw you.” Her voice softened like butter. “You understand I have no coin with which to pay you and yet you still offer your services.”

  “What man wouldn’t?” She wasn’t a man-hater at all, but a seductress. If she came one step closer, if she opened that sweet mouth one more time and spat out tempting innuendoes, he would not be responsible for his behavior. She wanted him and she was not afraid to ask. His gaze settled on the soft swell of breast peeking from the neckline of her demure gown. Soon, he’d hold those breasts in his hands, take them in his mouth and suckle them.

  “Let us seal our pact.” Madeline held out her hand.

  She had to be jesting. Douglas played along, trailing his fingers over her wrist before clasping her hand. “Consider our pact sealed,” he said, falling into the depths of her blue eyes.

  Madeline nodded and released her hand. “Very well then. In hopes of your agreement, I have drawn up a contract.”

  She made a contract to have sex with him?

  “Permit me to read it to you. ‘I, Simon Schilling do agree to perform the necessary duties as described by my employer, Lady Madeline Munrove, for the period of four weeks after which time my services and the continuation thereof will be re-evaluated.’”

  Douglas blinked. The woman had committed the acts to paper and planned to evaluate his performance? Much more of this talk and she would render him incapable of performance.

  “‘For such services, I will receive lodging and meals, to be determined by my employer.’” She offered him a timid smile and waited.

  She would play the blushing female after demanding he perform all manner of carnal tasks and feats? “When do my tasks begin?” Now. Immediately. Posthaste. He had always been an overachiever.

  “Tomorrow morning will be soon enough.”

  Morning? Surely, she did not intend to send him off with visions of her naked and writhing beneath him? “I would prefer to begin tonight.” He brushed a curl from her neck. She shivered and stepped out of reach.

  “You would pound and hammer in the dark?”

  He grinned. “Absolutely. I’ve done some of my best pounding and hammering in the dark.” Soon, he would have her naked and moaning.

  “Without benefit of Gregory?”

  “Some things are meant to be done alone.”

  “Oh.” Her brows furrowed. “Gregory might not be able to help with the hauling, but certainly he may assist with the pounding.”

  Was she daft? And then it hit him. She was not referring to nakedness, or skin-to-skin pleasure. The damn woman really did mean pounding and hammering, with a tool, not a body part that could be used as such. Anger flooded him, consumed his senses, poured through his brain. “Madame, surely you know when I agreed to pounding, I had more in mind than putting hammer to nail.” When she loo
ked confused, he tossed the crude truth at her. “I understood you to offer your body.”

  Her back straightened, her nostrils flared. Her lips pinched. “No, surely, I did not. We made an agreement for manual labor.”

  He took a step toward her and then another until he’d backed her against the wall. “Some would consider such a task manual labor, especially with a woman like you.” Filled with too much wine and frustration, he gathered the lies and flung them at her. “There would be much labor involved as I doubt you would shut your mouth long enough to enjoy yourself.”

  “Why you—”

  She raised her hand to slap his cheek but he caught it. “There is a name for women who toy with men.”

  Her dark head fell back as she prepared her own attack. “And there is a name for men who force themselves upon women.”

  “Tease.”

  “Barbarian.”

  ”Tart.”

  “Bully.”

  “Siren.” He could dive into those eyes and lose himself. Douglas leaned toward her.

  “Beast.” Her lips parted.

  “Temptress.” The most skilled seductress could learn from her.

  “Imbecile,” she murmured as his mouth closed on hers. She made a tiny sound in the back of her throat.

  Was that submission? Or rejection? He did not stop to consider, but continued his onslaught, running his tongue along the seam of her lips until she allowed him entry. He dipped inside, tasting, craving, devouring. This was how her mouth was meant to be used, not to spew thoughts about the inferiority of the male species, him in particular.

  Madeline did not join in the kiss, but neither did she pull away. Was she testing him? Or testing her ability to deny him? The obvious solution to both was the same.

  He stopped kissing her.

  He had barely pulled his lips from hers when she flung her arms around his neck and yanked him to her, plastering her mouth to his in one fierce show. The kisses were clumsy, one missed his lips, another grazed his chin, but they were fervent, sincere, and shot straight to his groin.

  Perhaps a roll on the sofa was not out of the night’s itinerary. He kept his hands planted on either side of her head, refusing to touch her though it necessitated the employment of every ounce of self-restraint he could summon. Oh how he wanted to cup that delicious bottom and press her against his swollen bulge, pull down the top of her gown, bury his face in her breasts and sink deep inside her heat until she moaned with high-pitched pleasure.