Heiress Without a Cause (12 page)

“Then why did you come, Ferguson?”

“You,” he said. “Regardless of what you’re wearing or where you are, I wanted to see you. And now that I have, I shall take my leave.”

He strode away then, moving through the crowd without a backward glance, acknowledging others’ greetings with just enough of a pause to avoid causing mortal offense. He reached the door before she even remembered to close her mouth.

“You are more attractive when you do not look like a gaping fish,” someone said beside her.

She turned and found Sophronia, duchess of Harwich, staring at her with undisguised interest. She liked the old woman, despite her tongue. “Thank you for the reminder, your grace.”

“If you become my niece, you won’t be able to stand about looking confused,” Sophronia said. “Not that anyone would blame you. Ferguson is one of the more confusing men in my acquaintance.”

“Whyever do you think I would become your niece? Ferguson hasn’t the slightest interest in me, I’m sure.”

Sophronia swatted her with her reticule. “Do not play dense with me, young lady. Everyone in London just saw him come to this ball, drag you out of the crowd, dance with you once, and leave. What other sign of interest do you need? A proclamation written in his own blood and read by the lord chamberlain?”

“I have always appreciated your imagination, your grace. It is quite a gift,” Madeleine said drily.

“I do hope the boy is intelligent enough to offer for you and you have enough sense to accept,” Sophronia said, ignoring Madeleine’s last sentence. “You have more to recommend you than most of the other fools of your generation. It is a shame that he seems taken with that actress in Seven Dials, but then, men will be men. Don’t let the gossip about her bother you. He knows he has to make a proper match, and a common strumpet like her isn’t it.”

Madeleine choked back her laugh. “I will remember, your grace.”

Sophronia walked away, no doubt to torment someone else. Still, her conversation had given Madeleine two important bits of information.

First, everyone knew that Ferguson had taken Madame Guerrier as his mistress. If the duchess of Harwich felt comfortable discussing it with the woman she thought would be Ferguson’s future wife, then everyone else in the ton knew too.

Second, and more alarming, Sophronia thought Ferguson would offer for Madeleine. Regardless of how she felt when she was with him, she absolutely did not want to be a duchess. Being dependent on Alex was one thing. Being the inferior bride of a duke was quite another.

But if she was a topic of conversation within the ton, people would be looking for her at social events — and would notice that she was routinely absent. A girl who hoped to land a duke would not spend half her evenings quietly at home.

Which meant that, regardless of why he had sought her out, Ferguson had just made their masquerade more difficult.

After he left the ball, Ferguson went to White’s. Not that he wanted to socialize — he still didn’t intend to stay in London, and so didn’t want to waste time either rehabilitating his reputation or gambling with his old cronies. But after hearing Madeleine’s concerns, he realized that he needed to reenter society. It was vitally important to hear any rumors about her when they first arose, if only so he could try to change their course.

He examined his surroundings as he entered. His shoulders tensed, and he felt like he was walking into a battle, but he maintained his usual poise. White’s was still the same club he had known ten years earlier. Ferguson supposed that they must have reupholstered chairs and refurbished rooms, but the atmosphere was the same — the same sodding aristocrats playing cards and placing wagers.

The only change that mattered was that his father no longer presided over the older Tories, gathered as always in one corner of the main room. Their gazes were calculating, either wondering how to curry his vote in the Lords or betting on how long it would be before he snapped like Richard had. He felt like he had returned to his first days at Eton. He felt too young for a dukedom, and his thick red hair made him an outcast in this bastion of English society. Thank God it had darkened as he grew older — but in moments like this, he felt ten again, and utterly out of place. He hadn’t belonged at Eton initially either, but he learned how to manage, using his fists when he couldn’t humor his way out of a problem.

Those same fists had earned him his name. The boys had called him Avenel, his father’s surname — and the first act of rebellion in his life was to abandon his father’s name and demand to be called by his mother’s. Even the teachers gave in, until his father was the only one in the world whose mind he couldn’t change.

Fists wouldn’t help him now, particularly not if everyone was waiting to see him lose control. He could try humor, but he held little hope for success. Most of the peers were braggarts, dullards, or popinjays, and the remainder were too stiff with protocol or too wasted by drink. That left the smarter rakes, like Westbrook, or the sober, intelligent lords like Alex Staunton. Neither of those groups would be charmed by Ferguson’s drawled quips.

Speaking of the devil — he heard Madeleine’s cousin hail him. He felt that childish flare of hope that someone might want to befriend him despite everything — but when he turned, the man was bearing down on him with the look of a sea captain about to keelhaul a sailor.

“Rothwell,” Alex said again. He was the earl of Salford now, having inherited sometime after Ferguson left; relearning titles and names alone could take Ferguson an entire season. “Would you be so kind as to spare me a moment of your time?”

“At your service, old man,” Ferguson said in a jovial tone that made Salford grit his teeth. He shut down the desire for friendship and seized the initiative. “You’re not still sore over that widow from so many years ago, are you? I saved you a great deal of trouble by winning her, if you must know.”

Salford’s face turned even more forbidding as he steered them into a private room. “I see the past decade has not improved your comportment, your grace.”

“I thought you were an art collector, not a Puritan,” Ferguson retorted. “Will you be calling in the ghost of old Cromwell to read me my sins?”

The briefest flicker of amusement passed through Salford’s eyes. “‘Tis a shame you had the father you did — you might have been worth knowing otherwise.”

Other men might have called Salford out for such a remark, or at least cut him. Since Ferguson agreed with the sentiment, he ignored the insult. Still, it would not do to give him ground until it was clear what he wanted. “Cut line, Salford,” he said, taking a pinch of snuff for appearances even though he hated the stuff. “Why are we here?”

Salford shut the door, looking uncomfortable, but his determination did not lessen. “You will tell me what your intentions are toward my cousin.”

Ferguson was surprised by the question, but he had been confronted by too many angry husbands in his earlier career as a rake to give anything away. He made a show of inhaling his snuff and brushing his spotless coat, buying time while he tried to pull his thoughts in order. What had Salford discovered? And how should he play this, when not even he knew what his full intentions were?

Finally, he decided to prevaricate. “Ah, your cousin — my sisters’ proper chaperone? It was Sophronia’s idea, not mine. If you are not happy that she has taken up the role, I can find another spinster for the task.”

He had hoped nonchalant ignorance would lead Salford off the scent, but it just infuriated him. “If she is your sisters’ chaperone, you hardly need to dance with her. Yet the gossips maintain that she is virtually the only woman you have danced with since your return.”

Ferguson shrugged. “Your cousin is a good dancer and adequate conversationalist — more rare than one might expect.”

Salford slammed his hand down on his own thigh, fully betraying his temper. “You had every widow and courtesan in the ton panting at your feet ten years ago, and yet now you only have eyes for an orphaned spinster who has been too long on the shelf. I will know why that is.”

Hearing Salford’s assessment of his cousin, the same instinct that had driven Ferguson backstage to save Madeleine from ruin flared up again. He leaned forward, muscles tensed, all hints of his reprobate’s façade replaced with a predator’s calm. “If you only see the lady as an orphaned spinster, you do her too little honor. At least I see Mad in terms of what she could be rather than what she lacks.”

Salford’s eyes turned deadly. “Who gave you leave to address her so familiarly?”

“You must not know your cousin very well. The girl is not a mere ‘Maddie,’ regardless of how you see her.”

Most men quailed under the glare Ferguson used, but Salford held his ground. “I only want what is best for her. You are not the one who will make her happy, regardless of how familiar you have made yourself. Consider this your only warning, Rothwell — I would rather see you join your father in hell than allow you to marry Madeleine.”

Ferguson should have left well enough alone, let Salford walk away believing he had made his point. But giving someone else the last word was not his forté.

“I have no intentions toward the lady at the present,” he said, pausing long enough that Salford’s face began to soften. “But I assure you that if my intentions change, Mad’s desires are the only ones I will accommodate.”

Salford leaned against the door, putting on the same nonchalant air as Ferguson. But the slight tic in his jaw gave him away. The earl was rumored to be a masterful negotiator in the antiquities markets, but his temper was harder to control when discussing his family.

Finally, he said, “Do not hurt the lady, or I will kill you. Hiding your death would be beyond tedious, so I hope it shan’t come to that.”

Ferguson finally smiled. The image of Salford burying him in the back garden was too entertaining to ignore. The earl gave him another hard look, then decided the conversation was over. But just as he reached for the door handle, he turned back to Ferguson. “If your intentions toward my cousin do change, it would behoove you to set aside that actress chit. I will look even less favorably on your suit if you are still carrying on with the high flyers of the demimonde.”

Fortunately, Salford left before Ferguson’s face could betray him. He was accustomed to handling irate family members, but the situation with Madeleine was unique. The earl still did not suspect Madeleine’s acting — but given the display of temper Ferguson witnessed tonight, there would be hell to pay if he ever did find out.

Worse, though, he had forced Ferguson to consider what his intentions toward Madeleine were. He still did not have an answer — not that it was possible to think of the future with Salford glaring at him. But if he and Madeleine continued down the road they were currently on, he would need to make a choice.

Could he offer for the only woman who might make his title bearable? Or was a love match — and the possibility of turning into his father — too much of a risk?

In Ferguson’s carriage the next night — her first night pretending to be his mistress while leaving the theatre — Madeleine could not meet his eyes. Being alone with him in a closed carriage was very different from dancing with him in a crowded ballroom.

Ferguson seemed similarly lost in thought. He stared straight ahead, at a point somewhere just to the left of her head. The cadence of his fingers tapping out a rhythm on his knee was the only indicator of his mood.

But then she noticed his eyes occasionally flicking over her, a gesture she wouldn’t see unless she was trying to read his face. It was an attempt to reassure himself of something — her mood? Her acquiescence?

The next time he glanced over her, she caught his gaze. “I really cannot thank you enough for your help.”

He shifted in his seat. “Do not thank me yet, Mad. Wait until I have survived the next month without touching you, and then you may be grateful.”

She felt the same powerful kick that she always experienced on the stage. Those were words of adoration, hinting at a need for her that he could not easily control. And
she
had created that need, even though he knew who she really was.

Marguerite Guerrier won over all who saw her, but no one had wanted Madeleine Vaillant before.

The knowledge that he wanted her, combined with her own desire to feel everything she might have done if she had ever married, added a dangerous fuel to her actions. She leaned back into the seat, still holding on to his gaze. “You are not the only one who will find our masquerade challenging.”

He arched a brow at her, an arrogant look he must have perfected long before he became a duke. Her lips curved into a smile. Men like him had never attracted her before — but then, she had never known how it could feel to have one such as him at her feet.

Her heart beat faster and she lowered her voice. “Perhaps we should practice how we might appear together in the demimonde.”

She was useless as a flirt, but he was smart enough to grasp her meaning. “You want to practice being my mistress?”

“I find my acting improves with experience,” she said, hoping she sounded like a coquette but fearing that she sounded like a fool.

He laughed. She flushed bright red as the heady bubble of attraction burst. She was indeed a fool... she didn’t know how to play these games... he was helping her out of charity, not desire. She turned away from him, wishing she could hide in a carriage as easily as she did in ballrooms.

He reached across the carriage to stroke her cheek. “Mad — it’s not you I’m laughing at. Imagine my predicament, though. I have the most beautiful, talented woman in London as my mistress, and I cannot touch her without ruining her.”

She looked back at him. Several emotions flickered across his eyes in the dim light of the coach, but mockery was not one of them. “And I have the most notorious rake in London in my carriage to save my reputation. Aren’t we quite the pair?”

He watched her for a long moment. She saw the battle play out on his face. Abruptly, the darker side won, and he shifted his hand to her wrist and pulled her toward him.