Heiress Without a Cause (16 page)

“At least she’s confining her warnings to Marguerite. She must know that the mistress is in danger where the spinster is not.”

He paused in front of her, opened his mouth — then clamped it shut as though he had thought better of his statement. Finally, he said, “Do not doubt that my intentions toward you are honorable, Mad.”

She had no idea what he meant. Did he simply mean that he would not touch her again? He had behaved like a proper gentleman over the past week, even though she wanted him to kiss her again. But as the nights progressed, he grew increasingly agitated, seeking her out at every ball, talking with her as long as he could in their secret house before sending her back to the Stauntons.

They had talked of all manner of things — books, art, the gossip he missed during his absence. And he listened too, as though her opinions were all he cared to know. She had even told him everything she felt when she was on stage, how the act of performing excited her in a way that nothing else in her life ever had.

But even though she loved their conversations, she thought Ferguson’s interest had cooled. From what she had heard, a rake never talked to a woman when he could have her in his bed. She started to think that their first carriage ride, when he kissed her breathless, had been just a bit of fun to him — but his talk of “intentions” brought all those feelings rushing back.

She wanted to know what he meant, but he pulled her forward and they climbed the stairs in silence. If they succeeded in their masquerade, both of them would be free to return to their old lives. A discreet conclusion to her acting career should be her sole goal, particularly since any further liaison with Ferguson would be impossible.

In all their conversations, the one topic he never discussed was the future — and he avoided all mention of Scotland. After talking to his sisters, she’d wanted to ask him whether he was staying in London. But she had no claim over him, and she wouldn’t risk revealing the feelings slowly growing in her heart. The thought of a lifetime without ever seeing Ferguson again saddened her more than she cared to admit. And when he inevitably left, she would lose her chance to experience everything Ferguson’s touch had awakened in her.

It might be worse to know, to ache for those feelings for the rest of her life — but once their month together was over, she might never have the opportunity again.

So when he swung open the door to her chamber and released her arm, she reached out to him. “Won’t you come in? I have heard it is all the rage for mistresses to allow men to watch their toilettes.”

His eyebrows slammed together. “Where the devil did you hear that?”

“I have been in the theatre for weeks, Ferguson. Surely you don’t think me that innocent?”

It was the wrong thing to say. She recognized the implication immediately. He pushed her into the room, and her waiting maid squeaked in protest.

Madeleine was too arrested by the fierce gleam in his eyes to spare a thought for Lizzie. “Get out,” Ferguson said, his words directed at the maid even though his gaze never left Madeleine’s face.

Lizzie disappeared, closing the door behind her. Ferguson broke away and turned the key in the lock. Madeleine heard the bolt slide into the hole with a metallic whisper, amplified in the silent room — a sound that was dangerous and exciting all at once.

He turned back to her, slipping the key into his coat pocket. “Now, Lady Madeleine,” he said, in a dark drawl that made her flush, “do you care to explain why I am here?”

She blushed even hotter, ashamed of the desire that tempted her. “You may leave if you wish, your grace,” she whispered.

He stepped toward her, cupping her chin in his hand and nudging it up so she was forced to meet his eyes. “I never thought I would like to be called ‘your grace,’ but you could make me crave it.”

She swallowed, her mouth dry as she saw the raw need in his eyes. She took a step back, and he caressed her face as she pulled away. His touch was soft, almost tender, and there was no doubt that he still wanted her — he closed the distance between them, placing his hands low on her hips as he guided her into his embrace.

“I am sure you are still an innocent, despite your profession,” he said, grazing a kiss on her forehead. “And I don’t believe you would throw yourself away on any of the bounders loitering at the theatre,” he continued, sliding his hands down the curve of her hips to rest on her derriere.

“But I’m not a saint, Mad.” He pulled her even closer toward him, and she could feel the hardness of his arousal against her belly. “I could be more dangerous to you than anyone if you don’t take care.”

This was madness. The very name he called her should have been a warning. But her desire to experience all those delicious feelings that his kisses created overrode her prudence. “I don’t want you to be a saint, Ferguson.”

She watched the battle between honor and hunger play out on his face. Honor was on the verge of winning, and some instinct drove her forward, arching into him and offering up her mouth. She would die of embarrassment if he set her aside...

...but then she felt his right hand leave her bottom to rest on her neck. “You are going to be the death of me,” he muttered.

His lips claimed hers. She opened for him immediately, wanting the heat of his mouth to reignite all the need still smoldering within her. His hand at the base of her head held her tight. She couldn’t move away from him — but she wouldn’t have moved away from him even if she was free to go. She wanted to get closer, until there was nothing left between them. She had the strangest desire to twine around his body, like ivy on a lamppost, supported by him and yet capable of pulling him down.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, using her hands to press him deeper into the kiss. He groaned in response, and his free hand caressed her bottom, running across the curves encased by her tailored breeches. The heat was building again, and she moaned as the seam of her breeches rubbed against that increasingly sensitive bit of flesh between her legs.

He broke away at the sound and she opened her eyes. He grinned at the disappointment on her face, grazing one last kiss on the corner of her mouth. The grin made him seem younger, less cynical, and her heart ached for the man he might have been.

But Ferguson wasn’t focused on introspection. He fixed his eyes firmly on a different prize. “I told you that the next time I kissed you, I would punish you for this abuse.”

She didn’t understand his meaning until he started to unbutton her jacket. Then she remembered his reaction to her bound breasts in the coach and blushed. “How do you intend to punish me?”

He ignored her question, making quick work of her jacket, waistcoat, cravat, and shirt. Tossing them aside, he skimmed his hands down her sides, exploring the contrast between her bindings and her soft flesh. She shivered as he splayed his hands across her belly, his thumb tracing a line around her navel.

Then his hands came back up. He ran his thumbs over her nipples, still trapped within their linen prison. She felt them hardening, coming to life for him, and she arched toward him, hoping this time he wouldn’t stop before she understood what was building inside her.

He dipped a finger into the hollow between her breasts, and she gasped as his callused skin rubbed against her soft flesh. He retreated slowly, teasingly, pulling the end of her bindings with him, and her breath hitched as the knot came free.

“Turn,” he commanded softly.

She looked up into his face. His eyes were sharp with need and his mouth glistened in anticipation of their next kiss. But there was a playfulness to his smile that told her everything she needed to know.

Her heart might be in danger.

She certainly hoped her virtue was.

But Ferguson wouldn’t hurt her, regardless of what transpired between them.

So she turned away from him, and the top layer of linen came away in his hands. She felt like she was dancing a new kind of waltz, and he partnered her perfectly, pulling the cloth with just the right amount of tension to keep her turning in place. And when she faced him again, he caught her chin, tilted it, and gave her a languorous kiss that kept her blood simmering.

“Again,” he whispered, pulling away and tightening his grip on her bindings.

It took six slow, torturous revolutions before the last bit of cloth fell away — six long, aching kisses that brought her to a boiling point of need. He kissed her again, pulling her into the circle of his arms, and this time her bare, sensitized nipples grazed against his jacket. She gasped into his mouth as first one hand, then a second, came up to cup her breasts.

He shifted away from her, pulling back to watch as her flesh came back to life under his gaze. She always felt hot pinpricks of sensation as the blood rushed back after her bindings were released, but this time the feeling was heightened as his hands warmed her skin.

“God, Mad, if you knew how I’ve dreamed of this,” he said, his voice reverent.

Her desire was so high she could barely think, let alone be shy about standing in front of him in only a tight pair of breeches and her high-heeled shoes. But still, she was shocked when one arm slid underneath her to lift her up against him. “Put your legs around me,” he ordered, and she did as he asked, her breeches dangerously tight against the center of her need. She didn’t understand, dimly thought of protesting — but then his mouth claimed her nipple, and in the fire of her response, it all became clear.

He tormented her slowly, first one breast and then the other, until she was moaning incoherently in his arms. She leaned in, nearly sobbing in his ear as her moans turned to inarticulate pleas. He didn’t stop, and the combination of his tongue and teeth toying with her still-recovering flesh made her understand the madness he had warned her of.

His punishment — which had long since turned to worship — ended before she reached the mysterious peak he was driving her toward, and she didn’t know whether to be disappointed or grateful for the reprieve. But when he set her on her feet and tried to renew his assault on her mouth, she broke away. She had dreamed of him too, and she reached out greedily to tug at the first button of his jacket.

He didn’t move to help her, but he didn’t make her stop. He played with her hair as she worked on the buttons, and she felt her hairpins falling to the floor as he pulled off her wig. Before she could finish untying his cravat, he was running his hands through the mass of her hair, letting it tumble down her naked back.

“I’ve waited to see your hair too,” he reminded her, brushing it from her face before attempting to kiss her again.

She stood her ground, placing her hands on his chest and pushing him the smallest fraction away from her lips. “Your jacket first, if you please.”

He chuckled, shrugging out of his tight jacket and letting it fall to the floor. He tossed his creased cravat on top of the jacket before unbuttoning his waistcoat. Soon it was gone too, and she reached up to tug at the drawstring of his shirt. The shirt came open, and she brushed her thumb across the Adam’s apple that had been hiding behind his neckcloth. He groaned and captured her hand in his, kissing it before pinning it to her side.

But then he tugged the tails of his shirt from the waistband of his trousers. She swallowed as the hard planes of his stomach were revealed. He pulled the shirt over his head in one motion, and everything rippled in a most delightful way.

He was a Greek statue come to life, a god disguised as a man, slipping out of his costume to claim his maiden. She had felt his muscles when they danced, knew he was strong by the way he held her suspended in his arms while he tormented her breasts, but nothing had prepared her for this. He wasn’t overly large, nothing like a farmhand — he was perfectly proportioned for his height, the kind of specimen a painter would kill to have as a muse.

His chest was broad and sculpted, crowned by tiny nipples that she wanted to torment as much as he had tortured hers. His trousers were slung low on his hips, and she swallowed as she saw the indentations of his pelvis below the well-defined muscles of his abdomen... and the slight trail of dark hair that led her gaze to the unmistakable bulge in his trousers.

“Those green eyes will be my undoing,” Ferguson said, kissing them closed to stop her exploration of his body. Before she could protest, he picked her up again, cradling her in his arms and striding toward the bed.

She should have been nervous, but in that moment, his arms were the safest place in the world. He shifted her weight against his chest so that he could pull back the coverlet, and then he laid her on the sheets.

He lay down beside her, propped on one arm as he examined her naked breasts. He seemed fascinated by them, as though he had never seen anything so perfect — and she knew she misinterpreted his gaze if she believed that, since he’d surely had mistresses more well endowed than she. She tried to turn onto her side, to cover herself with her arm — but he placed a hand on her belly and kept her flat on her back beside him. “Stay still, Mad. I only want to give you pleasure.”

He leaned over her, kissing her again as his hand fumbled with the fastening of her breeches. The placket came free and she felt his hand sliding under the loosened waistband to tangle in her curls. But his movement was constrained by her men’s garb, and she whimpered in his mouth as she tried to tilt herself up toward his hand.

Ferguson laughed. “If you didn’t look so damned delectable in these breeches, I would insist you burn them.”

She flushed at the compliment. He didn’t linger over his words, moving to kneel at her feet. He pulled off her bejeweled shoes, then removed her breeches and hose. She imagined herself from Ferguson’s vantage point — hair tossed wildly around her face, lungs heaving as she gasped for air, breasts straining for his touch. Her legs had fallen open as he stripped her, and he was staring at her sex. She felt moisture there, like she was somehow hungry for him, and she blushed as his gaze intensified. She tried to close her legs, to draw his attention away from that private part of her, but his hand shot out to grab her ankle.