Heiress Without a Cause (22 page)

Madeleine hesitated, looking away from him to survey the field beyond. He realized she was hiding something — something that affected them both. “What is it, Mad?”

“I cannot quit,” she said, looking back at him with equal parts resignation and determination. “It should have ended the first night you attended, but Madame Legrand threatened to sell my identity to the
Gazette
if I did not agree to extend the run.”

“What? I thought you wanted to be on stage.”

“I do!” she said. “I’ve wanted to act since Amelia and I put on our first plays in the nursery.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have convinced Madame Legrand to reconsider.”

“Unless you intend to kill her, I don’t see how you can help,” Madeleine said. “And regardless — I did not tell Alex, but I wasn’t opposed to staying on. I do love the stage. And you and I would not have had so much time together without it.”

He felt another rush of desire — no one else had ever risked so much to be with him.

“So you must understand, Ferguson, I’m not sure I would stop now even if I could. As long as Madame Legrand frees me in two weeks as promised, I am enjoying myself too much to retire.”

It was risky, and daring, and dangerous — everything that had attracted him to her, even before he recognized her humor and kindness. Every time she stepped on stage, there was a chance someone would recognize her. The risk was small, he knew; no one had identified her yet, and he never would have guessed if he had not followed her coach.

But still, it was a risk — one he could remove, since he owned the theatre.

He stayed quiet, though. Madeleine feared he would turn into an autocrat. If he gave into his urge to shut down the theatre against her wishes to save her, he would prove her right — and lose her forever.

So he merely offered his continued support, ruthlessly suppressed the desire to kiss her, and turned the horses back toward Salford House. He would listen for any hint of danger and pull her out if he sensed trouble — or if Caro made any threats too direct to ignore. Otherwise, he would let her keep acting and ensure that no one else tracked her to the Stauntons.

They drove back in companionable silence, too spent from their conversation to think about pleasantries. He felt the same flutter of peace that he had felt in Madeleine’s bed, thought briefly that the haven he had with her was even more attractive than her passion — and promptly ordered himself to stop thinking. He would not erupt in another mooncalf plea for her hand, not when she had just survived his last one.

So when they arrived at her cousin’s house, he accompanied her to the door, acted like a perfect gentleman as he took his leave — and promptly fled before he said anything stupid. How he could convince her to say that she loved him, he didn’t know. But he wouldn’t give up, not until he heard those words.

*         *         *

Madeleine would have run up the stairs to her room if she could do so without drawing attention. She didn’t want to see Augusta, or Amelia, or anyone else — she wanted to lock herself in her room and consider all the hope and fear and love and despair swirling within her after her ride with Ferguson.

But Chilton stopped her before she could even reach the staircase. “Lord Salford requests that you please attend him in his study, Lady Madeleine.”

She hesitated, tempted to ignore the demand. Chilton saw her pause and said, “His lordship suggested that I emphasize the ‘please,’ my lady.”

He somehow maintained his proper bearing, but his eyes gleamed. She grinned at him despite herself. “Then I couldn’t possibly refuse his lordship, right?”

He bowed. “Shall I bring you a cup of tea as well?”

She wouldn’t be there long enough to sit, let alone take a convivial beverage with her overbearing cousin. “No need, Chilton, but thank you.”

She squared her shoulders as she walked down the hall to Alex’s study. She thought it was preferable to walk there under her own power, rather than having Alex drag her as he did the previous night. But this was almost worse — willingly walking toward an interview she knew she didn’t want.

It wasn’t just that she didn’t want to talk to Alex. She would have to talk to him eventually, and his control of the purse strings meant he could force the issue if she waited too long. She wanted time, though — time to consider everything her family had done to her, and the escape Ferguson offered. He seemed genuine in his love, eager to help her at the theatre without planning how to dispose of her when she was caught.

But she didn’t have time. She was already at the door to the study, knocking before she could debate it any longer. Alex bade her to enter and she stepped through the door, closing it behind her.

He wasn’t behind his desk, where she expected him to be. He stood against the far wall, looking out the French door to the garden beyond. Usually, he was at home in this room, which he had made his own in the decade since his father’s death. While the desk was littered with all the papers that buried a man in his position, it wasn’t all dedicated to the Salford estate. Some shelves were cleared to display urns, medallions, small statues — the ephemera of the ancient world, which he would have devoted his life to if his inheritance had not come first.

But today, he looked pensive, more like the scholar he used to be than the powerful earl he had become. “Thank you for joining me,” he said quietly, turning to greet her as she stood uncertainly by her usual chair.

“Did I have a choice?” she asked. Her tone wasn’t meant to wound — it was straightforward, a statement of fact rather than an accusation.

He winced anyway. “Last night I had to be your guardian. I hope today we may talk as cousins?”

She walked across the room to join him, unwilling to give ground by sitting in the chair he had so recently chastised her in. “What do you want to say, Alex? I’ll listen, but I cannot stay forever — I must go to the theatre in a few hours.”

He briefly compressed his lips into a thin line, not liking the reminder of where she spent her evenings. But he didn’t touch on the subject again. “Shall we take a turn in the gardens while we talk?”

She nodded. It was better than sitting in this room with him. He unlatched the door and escorted her outside. The gardens were small, as most townhouse gardens were, just large enough for a couple of paths around the flowerbeds and a fountain in the center, gurgling happily in the spring sunshine. The door she used to sneak between this house and Marguerite’s house was cut into the back wall, surrounded by climbing vines just beginning to bud. It was a peaceful, serene retreat in the heart of London, but she found no peace in it today.

They walked slowly around the perimeter, Madeleine not wanting to say anything and Alex choking back his words before they could leave his mouth. On their second circuit, he finally cleared his throat. “I owe you an apology for what I said last night.”

She waited, but he didn’t say anything else. “Is that the apology?” she asked.

He laughed, a startled sound so at odds with their usual comfort together. “I am sorry, Maddie. I’ve wished for years that you would do something more than what was expected of you, and now that you’ve finally done it, I threatened to turn you into a pariah. Please know that I won’t send you away unless there is no other option left — I’ll do anything to help you now that I know what you’re doing.”

They paused near the fountain. Madeleine sat on the lip of the marble structure, staring down at the floating twigs that had fallen during an earlier spring gale. “Why would you wish for me to do something else? Shouldn’t you want me to be a proper spinster?”

He stood beside her, refusing her gestured offer of a seat next to her. “You’ve always had a spark of rebellion, something more than the proper miss you forced yourself to be. Amelia excels at doing whatever she wishes, but you were always so cautious that I feared you might never do anything interesting. The only shame is that your rebellion might ruin you — but part of me is glad you’ve finally done something.”

She scowled at Amelia’s name. “If you would have me follow Amelia’s lead, you are mistaken.”

“I didn’t say you should follow her lead — if anything, you’ve followed it too much in the past, ignoring society like she did even though your personality is more suited to people than to pen and paper.”

Madeleine stood abruptly. She didn’t want to hear his comparisons, not when he had made it all too clear the night before that he would sacrifice her to save his sister. “There’s no need to apologize now, Alex. You can apologize later, after you send me to Bermuda or force me to marry Ferguson.”

She tried to sweep past him, her temper high. He caught her arm, gentler than he was the previous night but still unavoidable. “Do you know why I was so angry last night?”

“I put your reputation at risk.”

“No. If it weren’t for all the people who depend upon me, my reputation could go hang. I was angry because you lied to me. After all these years, you still felt you couldn’t take me into your confidences.”

She closed her eyes. The lying had been the worst part of the whole ordeal. It wasn’t that she hadn’t trusted them — but she thought they would try to stop her, and she had put her desires ahead of propriety. “I am sorry, Alex.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he said, dropping his hand from her arm. “I just want you to know that your lies were what angered me, not your acting. You really were superb when I saw you onstage last night, you know.”

She nodded stiffly at the compliment, but there was nothing else she wanted to say. She walked away, slowly weaving her way back to the house. He let her go, not saying another word.

She took the servants’ stairs to avoid walking past the sitting rooms where Amelia might be waiting for her. By the time she reached her chamber, her thoughts were a maelstrom again, the longing and indecisiveness about Ferguson’s proposal mingling with her sadness over the breach with the Stauntons. She would have to talk to them again, just as she would have to answer Ferguson’s next proposal, but she couldn’t face either of them yet.

In that moment, torn between the betrayal she had already experienced and the fear of future heartbreak, she didn’t know which direction to turn.

All she could hope for was the clarity she currently lacked — and some insight into the heart she had kept closed for so long.

Ferguson didn’t want to go back to Rothwell House. For once, he would be happy if his sisters ignored him. He needed to think, and he preferred the solitude of his study to the snakepit of his club. When he arrived, though, the butler said that all three of his sisters were in one of the innumerable sitting rooms and desired an audience.

He was surprised that Ellie, in particular, wanted to see him; the twins avoided him too, but she had more cause. He ordered the butler to send tea to his study and invite them to join him there. It was impolite to ask them to relocate for him — but if his day got any worse, he might be glad to have his decanters close at hand.

When he reached the room, he settled in behind his father’s massive desk — his desk now, although it might take years to grow accustomed to sitting behind it rather than standing unrepentant before it. Running his hands over the cool oak, he wondered where it had originated. The fixture fascinated him when he was small, before his mother’s death, when his father used to sit him on his lap so Ferguson could practice his letters. Did the duke have it made especially to fit his status?

Or did he inherit it from his own father and become the type of man who would own such a desk?

It was a dangerous question, one he did not want to consider. He could think of better uses for the desk, uses that would turn his father apoplectic with rage. What would Madeleine look like if she were splayed across it? Perhaps in a lush silk dress, her bodice pushed down and her hair falling about her shoulders? Or kneeling on the floor, taking him into her mouth...

He couldn’t think of that now. He would win in the end, but he was far from claiming her in this house, as his wife. It would all happen in good time, if he stayed patient and didn’t frighten her off.

Now, though, he needed to settle affairs with his sisters, or at least come to some sort of truce. He didn’t expect them to forgive him — but it would be nice if they would be civil, and not leave him alone in the enormous dining room every night like some sort of leper.

A footman brought the teacart before his sisters arrived, taking a circuitous route along the side of the room to place it by the chair near his desk. The carpets looked new — they weren’t the same pattern Ferguson had traced with his boot during any of the interminable lectures from his father. It was a shame the carpet had been replaced; perhaps it held too many memories for his father as well. Or it may have started to fray, and his father thought it was no longer suitably opulent for his station. Either way, he found it amusing that the footman avoided trundling the teacart across the carpet — Ferguson could afford to buy a hundred replacements on a whim.

He bowed and left hurriedly, just as most of the servants did when they waited on him in his study. Did they think he did not deserve to be there? Were they afraid he might be the same tyrant as his old man? Or were they simply so cowed from years of service to the previous duke that they did not know how to be at ease in his company? At least Berrings was comfortable with him now, although even he had kept glancing at Ferguson’s chair at first as though he expected the old duke to reappear.

He drummed his fingers on the desk. It was a vexing issue — one he would have to get to the bottom of if he stayed in London, if only so he did not feel like a cur in his own house.

His sisters entered shortly after the footman left — Maria and Catherine, still shrouded in black, with Ellie bringing up the rear. She was certainly not in mourning, not with that blue walking dress and her messy red curls unconstrained by a widow’s cap. Ferguson was struck by how much she looked like her mother in the one portrait that still survived, the portrait his grandfather had staunchly refused to destroy despite his father’s best efforts to wipe all physical remnants of her from the earth.