Heiress Without a Cause (27 page)

He groaned in response, tried to push her hand away. He only succeeded in pushing her hand closer to his cock, and she felt the way it strained toward her, imprisoned in his breeches. “I’ve dreamed of this chair too, Ferguson,” she whispered. “Unless you aren’t ready...?”

She smiled as she trailed off, stroking him again, and he growled in response. “Take off your breeches,” he demanded, the last bit of his control snapping.

She stood, still touching him as her legs straddled his knees. She put first one foot, then the other, on the chaise next to him, letting him pull off her high-heeled shoes and silk stockings. She unfastened her breeches slowly, knowing it was the last time, and each button slipping through its hole was like a clock ticking down to the moment when she could have him inside her. The crotch was soaked through, and she blushed at the feel of her moisture as she shimmied out of her breeches — she couldn’t have worn them again even if she wanted to.

They pooled at her feet and he lifted her out of them before she could kick them aside. Turning to recline against the arm, he made her kneel over him, and he stretched out beneath her like a pagan offering. He made quicker work of his buttons than she had, and his cock sprang forth, as hard as she knew it would be.

His hand reached for her sex again, but he didn’t linger — he just smiled wickedly as he felt how wet she was for him. She wasn’t sure what he wanted from her, even though she had a fair guess, but he didn’t leave her in the dark. Grasping her hips, he pulled her forward, then nudged her down, slowly, until the tip of his shaft brushed against her opening.

In the past two weeks, he’d given her more orgasms than she could count, but he hadn’t penetrated her since their first night in this room. She braced herself for the pain, ready to bear that moment for the pleasure that would follow. But when he surged into her, she only felt heat — and his cock rubbing against something deep inside her that had her aching to come again.

His hands at her hips guided her down until she was fully impaled, her legs deliciously strained as she straddled him. She gasped as he filled her, gasped again as his hands urged her upward, then pulled her down again. It took only a few strokes for her to realize she could control the tempo, and she threaded her fingers through his so he no longer set the pace. He smiled at her, almost a grimace as he tried to control herself.

She rose up and came down, over and over. The only points of contact were his manhood in her passage and his fingers wrapped in hers. Her breasts were still bound, aching for stimulation, but she was too impatient to give in to that desire. She quickly approached that pinnacle again, and she moved faster, her strokes shorter and harder as her need overtook her.

The climax exploded on her and she screamed again, her legs collapsing as she went over the cliff. He grabbed her hips, slammed up into her one more time before his own release overtook him. She felt his seed spill inside her as he fell back against the chaise, pulling her down to rest against his chest.

She lay against him for endless minutes, rising and falling with his breath, feeling him soften inside her. His hand slid through her hair, stroking her back, and she curled against him, utterly content.

Dreams had never come true so easily before — but now she couldn’t wait for the next one.

She smiled at the thought, and he roused himself to kiss her. “Thank you, Mad.”

“What are you thanking me for?”

“Besides making me take you against my better judgment?” he asked, quirking a grin at her. She swatted at him, and he caught her hand to place a kiss in her palm. “For believing in me enough to marry me. I won’t let you down.”

“I know,” she said. The fear was still there, but it was almost like she was afraid because she was accustomed to being afraid, not because she really felt it. How could she feel it when Ferguson held her the way he did?

He let her go too soon, reminding her that she needed to get back to Salford House before they brought Alex down upon their heads. He sent Lizzie up to help her, perhaps not trusting himself to keep his hands off her long enough to get her into a dress.

But when she walked out of her room, properly decked out in muslin, with her hair pinned up beneath a cap, he waited for her. “Before you go, Mad — there’s one more thing I wish to show you.”

He took her arm, escorting her down the stairs to the drawing room. The room had the bare minimum of furniture necessary to make it appear lived in, in case any suitors tried to peer in through the windows, but she had never entered it before. There was a settee, two chairs, a spotless rug, and a small table, with an ornate chest sitting upon it that was out of place in the austerity of a house no one occupied. It was intricately carved, with the Rothwell coat of arms across the top and a chain of Celtic knots around the sides. Several bands of heavy iron crisscrossed the oak, and a large, heart-shaped lock held it shut.

Ferguson pulled a key out of his pocket and opened the chest. As he lifted the lid, two tiers came out with it on clever hinges. The box was two feet long, a foot tall, and a foot wide — and it was brimming with jewels.

“What on earth is this?” she asked, stepping forward to see the contents in the light.

Rubies, sapphires, diamonds, emeralds, ropes of pearls, amber beads — every color, shape and size imaginable, like a queen’s ransom spread out before her. “These were my mother’s,” Ferguson said. “There are other suites of jewels in the Rothwell vault, but I thought we might find a betrothal ring for you here. I haven’t looked yet, though — if you don’t like any of these rings, we can have Rundell and Bridge make whatever you want.”

He sifted through the top tier, pulling out a ring that was more suitable for a man. The band was dark, like tarnished silver or even iron, with a ruby set into it. The band had the same Celtic motif as the chest, and Ferguson winced as he held it.

“That looks too big for me,” she said, wondering why it was in a woman’s collection.

He twisted it slowly, tracing the knots with his finger. “The stone was my mother’s, but my father had it reset for himself.”

He slid it onto the ring finger of his right hand. She had never noticed before, but he didn’t wear a signet ring. This was a better fit, though — it was a hard ring, meant for a powerful man, not the lily-white hand of a dilettante.

Then he looked up and seemed to catch himself. “She had other rings, though. Shall we look?”

It took several minutes to sort through the pile. The top tiers held loose gems, rings, earrings, and other small baubles, but the lower section of the casket held complete sets, each wrapped separately in flannel. There was a set of emeralds, another of rubies, and a third of diamonds. She expected sapphires as Ferguson unwrapped the last bundle — but instead of the soft click of stones rubbing on stones, she heard the crinkle of old paper.

“What is it?” she asked, leaning over Ferguson’s arm. She was draped in several different necklaces, feeling almost obscene as her pearls and diamonds brushed against him.

He fanned the papers out in front of them, and bits of dried sealing wax rained down on the table. “Why on earth would he save these?” Ferguson muttered, more to himself than to her.

She tried to get a closer look. She guessed they were love letters, but she was wrong — the wrappers were all addressed to Ferguson, with the ducal crest as the seal.

She placed her hand on his, and she felt it tremble. “What is it, Ferguson?” she asked again.

He rearranged them slowly, tapping them against the table to line them back up into a neat pile. “Father wrote to me while I was away, but I always returned the letters unopened. I didn’t expect him to save them.”

He carefully wrapped them back up in the flannel, slipping them into base of the jewel case. “Aren’t you going to read them?” she asked.

“Not now,” he said shortly, dumping jewels in to cover the letters. She pulled back, suddenly unsure of what he needed. If she discovered letters from her parents... she would have killed someone before she let them be taken away.

He must have sensed her disapproval, because he turned around and pulled her hands into his. “I’ll read them someday, Mad. But tonight, I want all my memories to be of you. I know now that my father doesn’t own me, and I don’t have to become him. The letters will be there when I’m ready.”

She hugged him, and the comfort of his arms was just as vital to her now as the other pleasures he gave her. They stood there silently, and her heart ached for him, but she wasn’t worried anymore. He seemed at peace with who he was, who he was meant to be.

She left a few minutes later, after selecting a gorgeous emerald ring that he would present her with after making the formal request to Alex in the morning. He kissed her one last time before she slipped through the door to the alleyway. They would soon live together, but she would miss the feeling of wickedness she had in their little house. Luckily, with Ferguson as her husband, she could have wickedness whenever she desired.

She couldn’t believe they had escaped the theatre, that everything felt so right — but the dream was real.

And she couldn’t wait for the rest of their dreams to come true.

Three nights later, at Lady Andover’s ball, Madeleine felt a brief burst of her old panic. Not that her feelings for Ferguson were different — but her position in the ton was.

Outwardly, little had changed — she was still the same Madeleine, safe and dull as ever. But the addition of the enormous emerald on her right hand attracted the scrutiny of everyone in the ton.

It had taken two days before Alex was satisfied with the marriage settlements. Ferguson raised no objections to Alex’s demands, and she suspected Alex enjoyed stalling the negotiations more than he should have. But word had spread as Madeleine was seen wearing Ferguson’s ring, and by nightfall, everyone was buzzing.

Some were quite happy for her; Lady Jersey, for instance, was very kind in her usual chatty way. And Ferguson’s aunt Sophronia, the duchess of Harwich, was thrilled, even if she looked a bit grim about the eyes as she watched Madeleine being accosted by well wishers.

But not all who came to her were pleasant. Oh, they were kind — but almost pitying, too, as though they were sorry that she had been so long on the shelf that she would settle for a man of dubious morals, even if he was a duke.

“I do hope his temper has improved,” said one matron doubtfully.

“A splendid match, I’m sure, although I told Lady Sefton that I would not have leapt so soon after his father’s unfortunate demise,” remarked another.

“You’ll be wanting a stout lock on your door in case he goes mad like his brother,” a third lady said, no doubt thinking her advanced age excused her bluntness.

The rumors about his brother — and the possibility that Ferguson might also be tainted — surprised her. She knew he wasn’t mad, but she didn’t expect others to view him with such suspicion. Would it always be like this for her, spending the rest of her life watching the ton scrutinize Ferguson for any hint of encroaching insanity?

But when he emerged from the crowd to stand beside her, her doubts vanished. It might almost be amusing to hear the ton’s gossip if he was beside her to enjoy it.

And if it wasn’t amusing, at least he could make it up to her when they were alone.

“How are you this evening, my love?” he asked.

As he greeted her, he picked up her hand and kissed the ring he had given her. She smiled at the gesture, feeling warmth spread through all the places tonight’s foray into society had frozen. “I shall be better when we are married, I believe.”

His thumb slid down to caress the pulse point in her wrist — a gesture she never would have guessed as erotic, but all the more of a tease since she could not kiss him that night, let alone take him into her bed.

“It is only a month away — surely we can survive,” he said, not sounding sure at all.

Madeleine would have married him within the week, but her aunt refused to plan a wedding with such unseemly haste. Augusta was thrilled with their match, already shopping for Madeleine’s trousseau — but she still insisted on Madeleine being chaperoned when he called, even though the twinkle in her eyes said she knew it was already too late for that. Augusta had never minded the girls’ unconventional pursuits as long as they were discreet; now that Madeleine was safe from scandal, she had returned to the calm understanding she always displayed.

So unless some miracle occurred, they would only have stolen moments at parties such as these for the next month — and it felt like being sent to a nunnery, after all she had experienced at Ferguson’s hands.

He pulled her onto the dance floor, claiming one of the waltzes she now always saved for him. In the only act that betrayed his autocratic tendencies, Ferguson demanded that she only waltz with him — a promise she kept eagerly, since no other partner would satisfy her.

“The twins said you went on a shopping excursion today?” Ferguson asked as they settled into the rhythm of the dance.

“Yes, and they were eager to bankrupt you,” Madeleine said. “Not that I can fault them — they’ve dressed only in mourning for nearly four years.”

“Just remember they will soon be spending you into Fleet Prison too,” Ferguson laughed.

She thought the laugh sounded forced. There was a tightness to his jaw that worried her. Perhaps he felt the additional eyes upon him tonight as well — they were being given an oddly wide berth by their fellow dancers.

She didn’t remark on it, though. She kept her tone light and fixed a smile on her face.

“I will tire of the shopping long before we are paupered. They could have finished hours earlier, but you should have seen them — like little girls in a sweet shop. I do not believe they had been to a modiste’s salon before. Kate said your father had dressmakers come to them.”

“Father tried beating Henry and Richard, and verbally flaying me and Ellie. By the time the twins grew older, he must have thought it easier to just keep them penned up.”

He said it so matter of factly, still staring slightly over her head to survey the crowd, that her heart broke a little for him. “They are improving, though — they were civil to me today. And they are thrilled that you are marrying and staying in England. It will be good for them to have us to help them navigate the ton.”