Winter Garden (10 page)

Raising a fingertip, he traced the rim of his china cup. “I suppose it would be in our best interest if I made her acquaintance.”

He read a mixture of feelings as they crossed Penelope's face—doubt, irritation, disgust, and even flattery that he had included her as somewhat of an equal in his
statement. Then she masked her expression once more and nodded in agreement. “I'm sure you'll not invite her to the Winter Masquerade, Lord Rothebury,” she readily advised. “The woman is not of our class, and her presence at the ball would certainly be pernicious.”

Pernicious?
Only by stealing the attention from your own ugly daughters
, he wanted to insert but had the good breeding not to. Still, he couldn't ignore the remark. He had the power, and she needed to remember that.

“Mrs. Bennington-Jones,” he began directly, his smile charming, “I'll do what is necessary to discover what I can about her. If she is beautiful, that will make my efforts all the more enjoyable, and I should be delighted to extend her an invitation.”

He watched her blanch, then color profusely in the cheeks. She couldn't say anything to counter without being rude or insolent, and they both knew it.

Placing his napkin on the table, he stood. “I'm sure you have other social calls to make, madam, and I am anxious to begin my morning ride. I'm so pleased you were able to visit.”

Reluctantly she also raised her body to a standing position, because there was nothing else she could say or do.

“Thank you for the
tea
, my lord,” she murmured tightly.

He supposed he had to give her credit for that one.

She extended her hand, and he squeezed her knuckles gently, choosing not to raise them to his lips, which she clearly noticed. Then abruptly she turned, and with a
swish
of her skirts and a hard tug at her hat for good measure, she regally strode from the dining room.

Richard remained where he was for a solid minute, staring at the empty doorway. For as long as he'd lived in Winter Garden he'd never trusted anyone, and to do so now would be a wild risk he refused to take. Too much was at stake. But it was apparent that he needed to meet the Frenchwoman soon, and the avoidance of wild risks certainly didn't preclude his socializing with a beautiful woman. Or from starting a discreet investigation of his own.

I
t was well after ten when they left the cottage. Darkness prevailed, save for the glow of a three-quarter moon directly overhead, the air cold, moist, and very still. The lingering scent of an early-evening rainfall and damp earth roused her senses as Madeleine silently walked behind Thomas into the backyard toward the cluster of bushes that would lead them to the path beside the lake.

During the last few days their suspicions about Richard Sharon had been building. Madeleine believed him to be the smuggler, more out of intuition than anything else, and that she trusted. She worked from intuition frequently, and hers had yet to fail her. She did, however, understand rationally that facts were far more important in the end, and now they had facts anew and were acting upon them.

For the third consecutive night of what could turn out to be many frigid hours in dark silence, they were sneaking onto the baron's estate to observe what they could clandestinely because Thomas had received urgent word from Sir Riley that another shipment of opium had been stolen from the docks at Portsmouth only five days ago. It had been several weeks since the last theft, and this bit of news couldn't have come at a more fortunate time for them in their investigation. It also gave Madeleine the opportunity to accompany Thomas to Rothebury's property as she hadn't before. Of course, they had no idea if they'd witness anything at all, but by their estimation the stolen crates would be making their way to Winter Garden within the next several days, and it was more likely that they would be smuggled in at night. If she and Thomas saw or heard anything at all, the proof would be at their fingertips.

They cleared the brush at that moment to stand side by side at the edge of the lake. It shimmered like thick, black ink, and from the moon's reflection off the water she could see the manor house in the distance, now dark and looming, silhouetted in shadow. Whatever else the baron did, he retired early. Not a light could be seen in any window.

Thomas took her hand in his companionably, to help her along the unfamiliar path, she supposed, and she raised her eyes to regard him. He stared out across the water, his harsh, warrior-like features etched into lines of calculated contemplation. Then he glanced down to her, and a ghost of a smile lifted his lips.

Her heart fluttered from anticipation—an uncommon feeling for her. She'd been stimulated within by men before, but never by one so ruggedly masculine,
and certainly never by a simple look. Suddenly she felt the most intense desire to kiss him again.

He obviously had other ideas.

Holding her hand firmly, he turned, and together they began to make their way through the dense brush in a southerly direction toward Richard Sharon's Winter Garden home.

They'd talked little to each other during the last few days. Thomas had kept to himself, and so had she, each of them going about their business for the good of the government. She'd worked the village market, meeting a few of the common people with the pretense of purchasing goods, while Thomas, for his part, had called on and visited with a few members of the local gentry. Together they had attended church service, which many had found so peculiar that they'd concentrated more on Madeleine and Thomas's presence than on the vicar and his lengthy lecture on forgiving one's neighbor of trifle irritants. They'd also watched the baron's home from the distant trees for the last two nights, but so far they'd neither seen nor learned anything of real significance. She wouldn't go so far as to say the limited conversations between them since their kiss had been a kind of avoidance. Rather, it would be more correct to say they were simply returning their concentration to the issues that had brought them to Winter Garden in the first place. Madeleine also realized, work aside, the days since their kiss had been uncomfortable for Thomas. This was why she hadn't pursued a discussion about it specifically. Until now.

“I've been doing some thinking, Thomas,” she said, broaching the subject thoughtfully, breaking the silence at last as they ambled along the path.

He lifted a long tree branch, holding it away so she could pass beneath it, but he didn't release her hand. He didn't respond immediately, either, so she carried on. There was nobody around to see or hear them, and the baron's property was a good walk away.

Confidently she expounded. “I've been thinking about the kiss you gave me last Saturday.”

“Have you?” he replied quietly, giving no indication of being surprised at her choice of topic. “And what are your conclusions?”

So like Thomas to be pragmatic. Smiling, voice steady from an imminent triumph, she answered, “Aside from the fact that it was rushed and somewhat awkward, I found it to be quite…consuming.”

He tossed her a fast glance that she felt more than saw as she fixed her eyes on the darkened thicket straight ahead.

“Did you,” he responded rather blandly. After a brief pause, he added, “Consummation can be a marvelous thing when it happens because of total will. And between two people who want it desperately.”

That confused her a little because she wasn't entirely sure what he meant, and she was almost equally certain he wanted it that way.

“It was also obvious that there wasn't any artistry involved in your maneuver,” she carried on, “but then, neither was there a casualness about it.”

He chuckled lightly but didn't interrupt.

“So, after days of reflection,” she concluded, “I decided that this was strictly because you were so centered in it. Our kiss totally consumed you—not in style or the desire to please, but in its sheer intensity. You put everything into it while restraining yourself from going
farther physically, even after I practically begged you to.” Madeleine dropped her voice to a husky whisper. “I don't think I've ever before witnessed such a singular response in a man.”

He hesitated briefly in his stride, drawing a long, slow breath, and she took advantage of his momentary unsureness.

“And do you know what else I think, Thomas?”

“No, but I'm beginning to fear it.”

She grinned broadly and squeezed his hand. “I think it was the most wondrous of any kiss I've experienced in years.”

That comment, uttered in absolute honesty, drew him to a standstill. He turned to face her, gazing down into her eyes, his voice and features heavy with caution. “If that's a compliment, then I'm very flattered. But I have my doubts that a woman as sophisticated and lovely as you would consider an awkward kiss from me to be wondrous.”

“You find me lovely, Thomas?” she pressed softly, instantly filled with satisfaction, knowing he'd said this before, but sighting deeper meaning in it now.

Without pause, he whispered, “I find you breathtaking beyond adequate words, Madeleine.”

Her satisfaction turned to sublime warmth so subtly fulfilling she had trouble responding to it immediately. How many men in her twenty-nine years had remarked on her beauty? Yet not one, until tonight, had ever left her feeling so overwhelmingly pleasured inside.

The lingering smell of rain and the chilly nighttime air blanketed them as she moved up against his body, nearly touching.

Very slowly, clinging to his hand and staring into his eyes, she whispered, “I am hoping, Thomas, that we will kiss over and over again in the days and weeks to come. Because you see, what made your kiss so wondrous was not your style, experience, or lack of it, but the fact that it so totally engaged you. Until last Saturday I had never, in my life, been kissed by a man and felt, for that brief moment in time, as if I were the center of his universe.”

She watched his smile fade, his lips part just slightly, and silently she pleaded for him to lean over and take her mouth again, to feel that heady power between them once more.

“Will you kiss me again?” she asked in a small, challenging voice.

His eyes narrowed as he focused intently on her, his scar twitching as the side of his mouth curled up. “You seem to be doing all the thinking, Madeleine,” he returned dryly.

She fought the urge to laugh. Instead, she reached up and touched his face with a gloved palm. “I think you will.”

His smile deepened. “Confidence becomes you.”

She did laugh at that, very softly. “Have you thought about our kiss since Saturday?”

“Constantly,” he said forthrightly.

Again she felt that sudden rush of warmth. “And?”

“It went beyond my dreams, Madeleine.”

That took her breath away. She sighed audibly, faltering in her stance, unable to offer a suitable reply.

He reached up and grasped her palm that still lay across his cheek. Then without further comment, he
rubbed the knuckles of both gloved hands, released one, turned, and began to walk again, pulling her along with him.

They paced themselves, rounding the corner so that they were finally heading west, nearing the property line where they would pick up the well-drawn path Baron Rothebury used when he rode each morning.

“I am not a virgin, Thomas,” she said moments later, deciding it might be best to bring that into the open.

He never slowed his step although he was silent for several seconds before responding. “I can either say that I assumed as much, Madeleine, in which case I would be implying that I think you are loose. Or I can act surprised and say I don't believe it when we both know you're a twenty-nine-year-old, independent woman who is merely being honest. In either case I'm insulting you.”

The perfect answer. She grinned again as the tension left her. “You should have been a solicitor.”

“An upstanding profession that would better pay my living expenses, I'm sure.” As an afterthought, he added, “But then I wouldn't be here with you.”

That made her insides turn from warm to hot. He wanted her physically but he also enjoyed her. He could never know how much that meant.

“How did you feel when you learned you'd be working with a Frenchwoman on this assignment?”

He straightened just enough for her to know the question put him a little on edge.

“It was my decision to bring you here, Madeleine,” he murmured.

She had no idea how to take that revelation either.
“Why?”

He continued to stare straight ahead. “Your professional reputation is excellent. I also thought help from a woman would be invaluable, and that although you'd draw some attention of your own, as a Frenchwoman you'd never be considered a serious threat. You'd…rouse the social scene in this community without being suspected for more than you are.”

Another logical answer, and probably correct. “Why won't you call me Maddie as I asked you to?”

He hesitated. “It's rather personal.”

An owl hooted in the distance; a small gust of cold wind came from nowhere and rustled through the trees, rippling the water on the lake, creating waving lines of black and moonlit silver. His shoulder brushed hers as they had to move closer together on the path, and she reached up with her free hand to grasp his coat sleeve, holding his arm against her tighter than was probably necessary. He made no move to disengage her.

“Personal because your reasons are private in nature,” she probed with growing interest, “or personal because it would imply a greater intimacy between us?”

He thought about that for a moment. “When my feelings are centered, I imagine I'll call you Maddie again.”

His feelings? “I'm certain I don't understand that explanation at all, Thomas.”

He stopped short and turned to face her fully once more. Staring down at her with shadowed eyes, he stated softly, “I have reasons for not getting intimately involved with you, Madeleine.”

“And they are?”

“Personal,” he repeated.

That annoyed her a little. “And the fact that it would complicate our working relationship, as you said before.”

“Yes.”

“But you want to,” she goaded brusquely.

Slowly his gaze swept what he could see of her face. “Yes, I want to,” he whispered. “But not now.”

“Thomas—”

He lowered his lips to hers. It wasn't the kind of kiss she'd been hoping for after a discussion of one so heated, but it was a lingering one, gentle enough to silence her rebuttal and weaken her legs. Then without warning he withdrew.

“Time is short,” he said through an unsteady breath. “We're getting close and shouldn't risk the talk.” With fingers still wrapped around hers, he resumed walking.

She didn't argue. They didn't speak from that moment forward as they traveled along the edge of the water, now on Rothebury's estate and nearing the house from the east. A thin layer of clouds had begun to move in to partially conceal the moon, forcing Thomas to keep his full attention on the path.

The problem the two of them shared, Madeleine decided, was the lack of emotional intimacy of any kind between them, and it suddenly occurred to her that maybe Thomas was reluctant to pursue a deeper physical involvement without it. Two reasons for this came to mind. Either he held much sadness over the death of his wife, having loved her deeply, and refused to give in to quick sexual desire out of respect for her memory; or his insecurities got the best of him because he considered himself too physically impaired to attract the at
tention of a vibrant woman. Perhaps he feared rejection, or being hurt in the end. She'd never known a man who didn't place great value on his masculinity. Then again, she'd never met a man who couldn't accept a physical relationship without emotional involvement.

Still, one fact was paramount. He desired her as she desired him. There was no question now. He possessed a strong self-control and he never would have kissed her if he'd intended to keep their relationship perfunctory. They would be lovers eventually, and she was equally certain he knew it.

Abruptly he halted beside her, shaking her from her pleasant thoughts, pulling her tightly against him and hushing her quickly with a finger to her mouth.