Winter Garden (17 page)

She made tiny, petal-soft sounds at the back of her throat as she picked up speed, moving quickly against his thumb, his pubic bone, closing in on her release.

Then just as quickly she pulled back, and he opened his eyes, wanting to watch her this time, waiting to experience his own satisfaction so he could witness her loveliness in full when she climaxed.

It didn't take her long.

She began panting, whimpering over and over again at his exquisite assault, straining against his thumb while she cupped her own breasts and played with her nipples.

Thomas had never seen anything so erotic in his life. He was close to the brink, and she was guiding him to it without trying.

Suddenly her eyes flew open, and she squeezed his legs with her own. “I'm almost there, Thomas. Almost there. Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please—”

She screamed a low guttural sound that penetrated the cottage walls and shook him to the core. Then he felt her muscles contract around him, tugging at him, bringing him along with her to that wonderful, fulfilling edge. She jerked against him, but he never stopped the torment of his thumb between her legs. Her head tossed from side to side, her fingers pulled at her nipples, her palms caressed her breasts as she kneaded them, and he could take no more.

He gripped her thighs tightly with both hands. “I'm coming, Maddie, I'm coming with you—”

And just as he did, he moaned deep in his throat, and she pulled up from him so that he fell out of her, his seed spilling onto his stomach in pulsating waves. She placed her cleft on his erection and rocked against him, rotating her hips second after blissful second, until the pleasure subsided and he was thoroughly satiated.

At last her body movements calmed, and she slumped forward to kiss him, wrapping her arms around his neck, hugging him gently.

He kissed her in return and raised his hands to stroke her hair. Finally, wordlessly, she snuggled into him, her face in his neck, her warm breath brushing his skin.

Thomas stared into the dying fire. He held the woman he loved in his arms, and it was one of the saddest moments of his life.

M
adeleine stood in front of the faded mirror in her bedroom, glancing over what she could see of her figure, assessing detail to make certain all was perfect. She'd donned her evening gown for tonight's ball, the only dress she had yet to wear in Winter Garden, and she wanted to make an impression.

Its cut was of typical design, though a stunning creation from shoulders to toes. Made of shimmery white satin, neck rounded and low, sleeves long and fitted at her arms, it pulled in tightly at the corset to then spread wide and fall luxuriously over full crinoline. Royal blue satin flounces near the bottom of the skirt, as well as tiny rosebuds of the same material and color at the neckline, were the only decorations to adorn it. The style was simple, elegant, and the effect truly spectacular. The masked ball would be a huge event,
both for the town and their investigation. Tonight, for the first time since her arrival, she and Thomas would be inside Baron Rothebury's home.

Madeleine added only a trace of false color to her lips, pinched her cheeks, then smoothed her hands over her hair. Instead of plaiting it as she usually did, she'd pinned it loosely to her crown, allowing only a few tendrils to frame her face and throat. Now she added the final touch—a dab of perfume and pearl ear bobs. She desperately hoped Thomas would be pleased by her appearance, for although reluctant to admit it, she realized she'd dressed to impress him most of all.

Inhaling deeply for confidence, she swept up her new, beautiful mantle in her arms, grabbed her muff and small reticule that contained nothing more than lip color and a linen handkerchief, then dimmed the light and left the confines of her bedroom for the parlor where Thomas awaited her.

The room was dark when she entered it, save for the glow from the lingering fire and one small lamp. Madeleine noticed him immediately, and the sight stopped her dead.

He stood by the grate, a slight frown on his mouth, gazing down to the mantelpiece and lifting the music box lid with his thumb, over and over, each time it dropped back into place. A nervous action, probably.

He wore black, all black from what she could see, and although conservative in style it suited his dark features perfectly. Hearing her enter, he turned to her just then, and the full sight of him made her sway with uncertainty and infinite delight.

He was devastatingly handsome, his hair combed
away from his beautiful eyes and rugged face. She could see now that his waistcoat was a midnight blue silk, his cravat as white as her gown, and she wondered for a second or two if he had planned that. His clothes were expensive, and they matched hers, yet he couldn't have known what she'd wear. He hadn't seen this dress as far as she knew. Still, they would look like a couple, and she rather liked that idea.

His eyes traveled over every inch of her, lingering briefly at her bosom, and she felt herself blushing under his scrutiny.

“I have been to countless balls across England and Europe, Madeleine,” he admitted pensively, breaking the silence in a voice both airy and resonant. “But never have I seen a lady as beautiful as you are tonight.” He shook his head negligibly. “Words cannot describe it. You simply take my breath away.”

Madeleine felt as if the sun broke free from the clouds to shine down on her in warm, golden brilliance. Men of quality so frequently commented on her beauty, but never had she felt—beheld—such sincerity in a compliment. If Thomas was trying to romance her into falling in love with him, his strategy was slowly chipping away at the shield of stone she'd built around her heart. He had to know that. She also once again recognized that glimmer of deep caring in his tone, and at last she melted into it, understood it. Suddenly she saw the challenge before her, before both of them. He was falling in love with her. That explained everything, and for the first time in ages she was scared to death.

“I think you just want me in your bed but are afraid to ask me bluntly to join you, Monsieur Blackwood,” she replied through an exaggerated sigh, striding closer
to him, covering her fears with congeniality. “But with better persuasion I won't even argue.”

“What better persuasion could there be than telling you I find you more beautiful than words?” He put one hand on his hip, shoving his frock coat out of the way of his enormous chest. “I will admit, however, that I have been fantasizing for weeks about what you must look like without any clothes.”

She pursed her lips in feigned contemplation, placing her mantle and reticule on the sofa as she passed it, only stopping when she stood next to him. “That's…a bit more persuasive. Perhaps I'll let you peel them off of me later.”

He blinked, then grinned soundly. “Now you have me aroused, madam. An uncomfortable state before a ball. I certainly hope you're not teasing me.”

She knew he was teasing her at the moment, but he charmed her nonetheless. Placing a palm on his waistcoat, she rubbed the smooth, costly silk. “I'm not teasing when I say that you've stolen my breath as well, Thomas. You look marvelous tonight, handsome and sophisticated. Aristocratic. I'm so taken with you suddenly that I'm not sure what to do about it.” She lowered her voice to a soft plea. “Any suggestions?”

“Other than making love? That depends,” he reasoned darkly. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he asked, “How taken with me would you say you are?”

She almost laughed at his obviously anxious attempt to find out. But he'd posed the question in a serious manner, and she knew he needed to know. She didn't want to make light of it, either.

Reaching up to straighten his cravat that didn't need
straightening, she nonchalantly admitted, “More taken than I've been with a man in a very long time. Maybe ever.”

Madeleine sensed that he was acutely affected by her honest answer because of the flagrant way his gaze penetrated hers, his jaw hardened with a thick swallow. He wanted to embrace her but he held back for reasons unknown, as he had for days. He'd been somewhat aloof since Christmas, and as much as she wanted to deny it, she felt flustered and more than mildly disturbed by it. She tilted her head in question. “You've neglected me lately, Thomas. Why?”

He absentmindedly lifted the lid to his music box again, just a half an inch or so, then lowered it. “I don't think neglecting you is how I would phrase it exactly.”

“Oh. You've just been busy, then?”

“Naturally,” he quickly retorted.

“I see.” She waited a few seconds, then decided to clarify. “Writing letters, making social calls, and walking in the village?”

“And thinking of you constantly,” he whispered.

Those words had their effect. “Kiss me, Thomas, and prove it, before I start to think you're no longer interested in me as a woman.”

That did it. For an infinitesimal moment he looked amused by the demand. Then he reached up with his palm and placed it on the back of her neck, caressing it lightly before he drew her lips to his.

His touch was gentle yet vibrant and nourishing, like a steady, misty summer rain. He smelled heavenly, felt both powerful and immense as he drew her into his arms. He didn't invade her mouth with his tongue in a rise to passion, but instead drifted along the current of
soft sensation, of emotional tenderness, making love to her lips with his own. It was the sweetest kiss Madeleine had ever experienced.

When he pulled away from her seconds later, she had no desire to open her eyes. She clung to him, her head back, palms flat on his silk-covered chest, feeling dazed. He massaged her neck with his fingertips, then placed delicate kisses on her forehead and lashes, on her temple. She wanted the moment to go on forever.

“What are you thinking now, Maddie?” he murmured against her cheek.

“Mmmm…That it's wonderful.” She leaned closer to whisper, “I've never felt like this in my life.”

He stilled in mid-kiss to her jaw, and she noticed. Gradually he lifted his head, and she opened her eyes to the striking dark depths of his. In all of her life she'd never seen a look like that from a man, and she couldn't begin to describe it if she had to. He wanted her sexually, he wanted her emotionally, he wanted all of her, and his longings were there before her, exposed to her view. Yes, he was falling in love with her, as no man had ever done, and not only was she frightened, she marveled at it.

She reached up and slowly traced his mouth with her fingers. “I'm scared of this, Thomas.”

He breathed deeply at her husky admission and brushed his lips back and forth across her fingertips. “I know.”

His warm breath teased her skin, his intensity unnerved her, but when he offered nothing more in response, she quickly took control of herself again and stood erect, stepping back to a safer distance. He let her
go easily.

“We need to leave, Madeleine,” he said before she did, straightening his frock coat, sweeping the sleeves down with his palms. “We need as much time as possible in Rothebury's house.”

She nodded, suddenly shaken by the static in the air, grasping her throat with her bare hand because she couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. Of course, the work came first. Why had she forgotten that? She blinked quickly and turned away.

He waited for her to gather her things, then he helped her into her beautiful new mantle before he attended to his own twine coat. After pulling her reticule over one wrist, she stuffed her hands deeply into her sable muff, and they left the cottage in silence, stepping out into the cold, cloudy night.

M
adeleine's first impression when she finally stood inside the Baron Rothebury's home was that the Winter Masquerade was truly the event of the season. Everyone of adequate social standing appeared to be in attendance, wearing formal party regalia, imbibing fine liquor, and nibbling delectable morsels that numerous polished footmen carried on silver trays to three buffet tables at the north end of the ballroom.

The house itself was smaller on the inside than it looked from across the lake, which surprised her. They'd entered through the large front doors, stepping into the foyer decorated with pale marble flooring and bare apricot walls that instantly drew attention to the marvelous crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A large circular staircase in dark oak, straight ahead of them, presumably led to the private quarters on the second floor.
To their immediate right, inside partially closed doors, appeared to be a parlor, then likely the library or private study behind it, followed by the dining area and kitchen in back. To their left, taking up most of the main floor as far back as she could see, was the ballroom.

Madeleine handed her mantle and muff to the butler, then walked gracefully toward it, Thomas following close behind her. At the stunning peach and emerald stained-glass archway separating the ballroom from the foyer, she paused long enough to tie a white satin mask to her face, given her by a very fastidious footman who nodded appropriately, and gestured for her to descend the short staircase to the festivities below.

Quickly, she glanced around her surroundings, taking note of Rothebury's style. His taste was expensive and eclectic. She noted several furniture pieces of various colors and designs, and antiques of all sorts lining the walls or sitting atop marble and glass shelves. Like the rest of the house, the ballroom structure was old, but recently redecorated in woodland green and gold. Windows with ornate frames lined two walls, the others adorned floor to ceiling with mostly oil paintings from sundry artists. The majority of those invited had evidently arrived, as the room seemed crowded and rather stuffy; an octet played an unfamiliar, albeit lovely, waltz at the far west end as dancers took to the floor in growing numbers.

As she lowered herself onto the first step, Thomas now beside her, a slight but notable hush fell across the gathering below. Although masked, it was obvious who they were. Madeleine imagined they made a striking pair, but there was likely a great deal of shock at their
appearance among the guests as well. She and Thomas had said little on their long walk from the cottage, taking the roads around the village instead of the path beside the water to spare dirt on her white gown, but now he leaned over to whisper in her ear.

“The baron is standing near the east wall, beside the window, talking with Margaret Broadstreet.”

Madeleine tried to ignore the frictional heat from his body and the tingle on her neck where his breath lingered as she focused on the baron. Impressively dressed, he wore an impeccably tailored frock coat and matching trousers of deep purple, a lavender satin waistcoat, and a black cravat to match his mask.

As if on cue, Rothebury caught her eye, tipped his head, and graced her with an almost imperceptible nod, his lips twisting into a sly, knowing grin before he cocked his head and looked her up and down. Madeleine inwardly recoiled from the inelegant regard, but smiled to him warmly in acknowledgment. Just as quickly she felt Thomas grasp her elbow with long, firm fingers in an act of possession. At least she hoped it was.

“Let's move toward him first,” he proposed quietly, being thoroughly practical as he began to descend the stairs. “We can make introductions and then perhaps part ways.”

The suggestion annoyed her somewhere deep within. Contrary to her own practicality, she wanted to remain at his side all evening. But instead of arguing his point, she simply nodded and followed his lead.

“Not going to comment?” he asked wryly.

“Comment?”

“On the fact that you don't want me to leave you alone to the spider's attack?”

She stalled three steps down and flipped her head around to eye him shrewdly.

He grinned, devilishly, fully aware of what she was thinking. She fought an urgent need to verbally censure him—or kiss him again.

“I'm quite competent, Thomas, and he's a charming man,” she replied ever so sweetly. “I'm sure we'll get on just fine, and with a little persuasion he might learn to…appreciate my presence.”

He squeezed her elbow then rubbed his thumb along the bone. “Appreciate your presence? I think, Maddie, he'll probably appreciate your outstanding, milky-white breasts bursting up so beautifully from the top of your gown.” Smirking, he admitted, “My fingers have been itching to remove your corset and let them loose in my palms since we left the cottage.”

“So you
noticed
them,” she remarked with feigned relief, tossing her curls with a lift of her chin. “I worked so hard to make them conspicuous.”

“Did you?” he exaggerated.

She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. “But I won't let the baron touch, if that worries you, Thomas. I'm reserving that honor.”

He blinked. “Reserving it?”

A rotund woman in yards of gray silk marched up in front of them, her rosy face hardening beneath her white mask, irritated because they blocked her exit from the ballroom. Thomas took the cue and pulled Madeleine aside, then out of the way as he continued steadily down the steps to the main floor. He still clasped her elbow, and she made no move to break free of him.

Turning to face him at last, Madeleine nestled up as close as decency allowed under the circumstances, and lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “I want them touched and kissed and sucked by someone who makes me burn with a look, makes me hot with a simple caress, and makes me forget myself when he's inside me. In Winter Garden that could only be you, Thomas.”

Although nobody could have possibly heard her, his eyes widened in shock at her outrageous comment in so public a place. For a second only. Then, disregarding all propriety, he fairly yanked her against his muscled chest.

“When you say things like that, it makes me hard, Madeleine, and as much as I enjoy the sensation when I think about you, I don't want to attract attention from the ladies here.”

She couldn't feel his erection, if indeed he had one, but she caught the endearing quality in his voice, the light pleasure in his eyes, and the sudden cold glances from those standing around them.

She pulled back a little to murmur gently, “You already attract a good deal of attention just by standing here, and frankly I think they're jealous because you are with me.”

“Where I belong,” he added simply.

She'd give anything to know just how seriously he meant that, but instead she said softly what was in her heart. “I wish I could kiss you.”

His face grew markedly pensive in the course of seconds, his gaze burning with a vibrant hunger. “I wish you could, too.”

They were words saturated with meaning, barely
heard, and for Madeleine the chatter of gossip and high-pitched laughter, the sound of the lovely, melodic waltz, the heat of bodies and the parade of masked figures in fine jackets and swirling skirts faded around her. Suddenly she didn't care about the baron, or opium, or Winter Garden. All that existed in this crowded ballroom, in her lonely, singular universe, was Thomas.

“Will you dance with me instead?” she requested in a downy-soft breath, knowing it was a horrible substitute for kissing, but unable to think of anything else that would allow her to touch him.

His eyes grew stormy, and his shoulders dropped with his long exhale. “Nothing would please me more. But I cannot dance, Madeleine.”

She never could have prepared herself for that. Like a cold slap to the face, his statement sucked the air from her, stung her, mortified her. He couldn't dance. His disabilities prevented it. And in her own fierce desire to understand him intimately, to engage him as her own this night, she had forgotten that.

But she wouldn't let him know it. Smiling beautifully, she remarked, “It doesn't matter anyway. Let's do the work we came to do.”

His facial features relaxed, softened, and then he reached up with his free hand and ran his thumb along her chin. “How very tactful you are, my beautiful Maddie.”

She shivered in the heavy ballroom heat. He'd never been possessive of her before, laying claim to her as his, and the thought made her suddenly uncomfortable which she hoped, for some very obscure reason, he didn't notice.

“Would you like champagne?”

She shook her head, erasing her troubled thoughts. “Not yet. I want to keep my head clear tonight. Let's go see Rothebury.”

Quickly he turned, nudging her again in the direction of the east wall where they had first spotted the baron. The area had become quite congested and noisy, the dance floor overflowing, and Madeleine was forced to squeeze her way through whatever openings she could find, Thomas following closely just behind her.

She couldn't help but observe his limp now. For weeks she had given it little regard since he seemed to move around easily enough, a very strong and capable man, comfortable with his own form in his environment. But after bringing his injury again to light, his continuous stagger seemed pronounced, more than conspicuous to all, and her heart flooded with compassion and affection for the man who'd probably endured ridicule and revulsion from his contemporaries, from ignorant souls lacking grace. She understood this because she'd lived with it herself through the years, from those like Lady Claire who assumed she was a whore because of her unusual beauty or her illegitimacy and apparent lack of decent breeding. Thomas had said he was a recluse, and the word had meaning to her now. In her own way, although extroverted when it came to her work, she had been a recluse all her life.

At last they neared the baron who stood elegantly composed, a half-filled glass of champagne in one hand, the other resting at his side while he listened to Mrs. Broadstreet, a stout woman with fiery red hair wearing a gown in the ghastly shade of pink flamingos, dis
cuss with some dramatics the horrid state of current local produce prices. Something of that nature was all Madeleine could gather from the silly conversation to which only the baron himself listened with scant interest. She could see his head bobbing infinitesimally, the creases in his high forehead where his thick brows met, but it was obvious that he couldn't care any less about Mrs. Broadstreet and the cost of pickled beets. Still, he was smooth in his attentiveness. Very smooth.

Almost immediately he noticed them as Madeleine and Thomas approached, and he grinned broadly in a cheerfulness she suspected was false. He turned away from Mrs. Broadstreet's corpulent figure, who stopped speaking in midsentence, and Madeleine smiled in return, reaching out for him with her hand.

“Monsieur Baron, it is such a pleasure to see you again, and under such exciting circumstances. I am so pleased we could attend your Winter Masquerade.”

“Mrs. DuMais.” He drew the title out in a very genteel voice, ignoring Thomas as he reached forward with his hand to clasp hers loosely. “The delight is mine. I've been anxiously looking forward to the moment when your supreme beauty would grace the halls of my humble home.”

A ridiculous comment, but she gave an appropriate soft laugh. “Have you? I am charmed, Monsieur Baron.”

“And Mr…. Blackwood, is it?” he carried on, now glancing up to Thomas. “I don't believe we've met.”

He didn't reach for Thomas's hand, and Madeleine suspected he clung to hers so he wouldn't have to.

Thomas stood rigidly at her side and slightly behind her. “But you are wrong, Baron Rothebury. We met at
Mrs. Bennington-Jones's garden party last September. Don't you recall? A small social gathering for her daughter Desdemona in celebration of the young lady's recent nuptials?”

Madeleine caught the faintest tick on the baron's mouth at the mention of Desdemona, but he hid any negative feelings well, smiling ever so craftily as was his nature.

“Ahh, yes. I now remember,” Rothebury replied very slowly. “You remained at Lady Claire's side for the entire event, I believe.”

If the baron had thought such a situation odd, or intended his remark to be a revelation of indecency, however slight, neither Madeleine nor Thomas reacted to it. Margaret Broadstreet, however, wrinkled her nose and stood back a step, her spine a little straighter, glancing down Thomas's large, dark form.

“You're very likely correct,” Thomas agreed without explanation. “Is she here this evening, by the way?”

“Lady Claire? Oh, yes, of course,” he rebuffed with a blasé lift of his champagne glass. “I imagine she's sitting, however. We all know about Lady Claire, and she did seem rather…fatigued.”

An awkward moment passed, and still Rothebury had not released her hand. Others began to take notice of them in their small circle near the window, closing in to ogle her and Thomas as invited but highly suspicious and unusually intriguing guests. Many faces Madeleine recognized, some she'd met briefly, while there were still others she'd never seen before. All of them, though, were extremely curious about her position at the ball tonight.

“I also remember, Mr. Blackwood,” Mrs. Broadstreet chimed in with only a trace of irritation at not being formally introduced. “But I don't think I've met this woman. She is the Frenchwoman who lives with you, is she not? We've heard all about her in the village.”

This woman. Madeleine was growing sick to death of being given such a common distinction in an inflection that made it sound despicable. Instead of reacting, however, she did what she always did and bore it gracefully. With a little persuasion she was at last able to pull her fingers from Rothebury's, although not without some resistance and what she was certain was a purposeful stroke or two of his thumb.