Winter Garden (19 page)

Yet a new, odd sensation coursed through her, too, as she tried to rationally understand her response to this man's touch. She wasn't the least bit attracted to Richard Sharon; in truth, she was repulsed by him in every regard. But her body simply behaved as it was meant to behave, as it would at the hands of any man and stim
ulating caresses. What really mattered was that the only man she wanted indisputably,
intimately
, was the one she hadn't yet had to completeness, the one she desired desperately, the only man she'd ever known who didn't tell her how physically beautiful she was before he kissed her each time, but instead commented on her ability to play an intelligent game of chess. The only man who cared more about her experiences in childhood, ignoring the bad parts and assimilating the good, than he did about her experiences in bed. The only man she had ever known who, before he made love to her, wanted to know her as an individual with a past she couldn't change, with hopes and dreams that counted for something. Several times through the years she'd been with men who didn't particularly attract her, but never before had she felt guilty about it. Now she knew why.

Richard released her mouth and drew back a little, moving to her throat where he left small, moist pecks, lowering his arm from her back so that he cupped her bottom and pulled her against him. As if a fierce gust of wind had blown through her, clearing her mind, she understood herself totally at last. Her newfound knowledge created its own broad smile across her just-kissed mouth, her eyes still closed as she tried not to push the annoying hound at her neck away too quickly, stirring suspicion. Yes, she wanted only Thomas, all of him, and this episode of becoming aroused by the stroking of Baron Rothebury's hand only validated her feelings, clarified them, and liberated her. She had trouble containing her laugh of pure joy.

“Richard, we can't do this here,” she repeated in a
whisper, rubbing her palms across his shoulders as she felt him move his lips to her chest and begin to lift her skirt.

“We can if we're fast,” he murmured, giving her an obvious nudge in the direction of the settee. “We need each other, Madeleine.”

“I think so, too, but not here,” she stressed, gently attempting to put some physical distance between them. “We have to meet somewhere else. Another time. Somewhere safer.”

Madeleine gave thanks to a benevolent God when laughter rang out loudly in the corridor just beyond the library door, reminding them of their delicate position. The timing couldn't have been better.

Richard groaned and stalled his actions, raising his head at last and resting it on her shoulder until his breathing evened. Seconds later he lifted fully, his passion slowing as he looked into her eyes. His gaze was hot and hooded, his face was flushed with lingering desire, and he still had not removed his hand from her breast.

“You'll have to come at night,” he said urgently, caressing what he could feel of her bottom through her petticoats, “when nobody will see you.”

More voices erupted just outside the library, then faded. Madeleine glanced in the direction of the door, clinging to him as expected, her palms to his chest, licking her lips as if nervous. “I don't know, Richard. Someone will notice, a servant, a guest. And your reputation—”

“Nobody will know,” he drawled, grinning in a manner that made her skin feel as if the spider had crawled upon it. “There are other ways of entering this
house besides the large front door, Madeleine,” he said smoothly, his composure returning.

Suddenly he grabbed her hand and pulled it down between their bodies, making her touch him, forcing her to cover his erection over his trousers. Never had Madeleine felt so sickened by such an aggressive gesture. She needed to get away.

“How long has it been since you've been with a man, Mrs. DuMais?” he mumbled, rubbing her hand blatantly over him.

Against every natural instinct within her, she wrapped an arm around his neck and leaned forward to kiss his lips again, briefly so as not to further arouse. “Far too long,” she whispered against his mouth.

He chuckled. “I know how to please a woman. Remember that.”

“I'll think of nothing else until the next time,” she said shakily, running the fingers of her free hand through his hair. “But we need to get back to the ballroom now, before we are missed.”

He kissed her cheek and jaw again, then sighed and stepped back. “I don't suppose you'll tell the cripple about us,” he stated arrogantly, his sly grin returning.

Madeleine drew a deep breath, resisting the overpowering urge to strike him hard in the face with her fist. A horribly unladylike thought. But the comment did make her wonder if the man were afraid of Thomas, deciding quickly that he should be.

“I would never mention a word to anyone, Richard,” she replied in feigned alarm that she hoped he witnessed in her wide-eyed expression.

He ran his palm across her breasts, deliberately and slowly, one final time before dropping it to his
side. “Good. I would regret it terribly if you were sent back to France.”

“As would I,” she agreed, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. The heat from the room had gotten to her, and she was starting to perspire. She needed air.

“I want to see you soon,” he commanded quietly.

“I'll see what I can do.” Reaching down, she collected their masks from the settee, handed his to him, then retied hers on her head. “No promises, but I'll try to meet you along the path again, if I'm able to get free.”

“I'll bring you in at night, Madeleine, if you can get away without him noticing.”

With a weary lift of her lips to a smile, she ran her index finger up and down his upper arm. “I'll try.”

“Soon,” he repeated.

She nodded.

He took her hand in his, and together they walked to the door, listening momentarily for sound from the other side. When quietness prevailed, the baron unlocked it, opened it slowly, then led her through to the cool, dimly lit corridor beyond.

 

F
rom the end of the darkened hallway, where Lady Claire had escaped the crowds to drink her “medicine” without a prying gaze or word of reproach from those ignorant of her condition and need, she watched them leave the library in some haste, heading in the direction of the foyer.

Baron Rothebury had appeared first, smiling placidly. Then the French slut followed, her palm on his arm in a manner that to Claire seemed indecent. The wom
an's appearance was disheveled enough to reveal to all what they'd been doing behind the closed door.

She'd lured the good baron into the quiet seclusion of the library, no doubt. It was common knowledge that the French were far too liberal with their sexual views and levels of promiscuity. And men of any nationality, of course, could not help their base hungers. If approached they would, every one, fall victim to a woman's charms. Baron Rothebury had unfortunately, and no doubt unwittingly, become a fly in this one's web. Still, the smile of bland satisfaction Claire had seen on his mouth indicated to her that he'd been able to properly reprove the woman, though likely not before she had him trapped in an intimate embrace. The French always did such things at social gatherings, even in front of others, or so she'd heard.

Claire tipped her flask of medicine to her lips for a second swallow, then screwed the lid back into place and stuck it into her reticule where she drew the strings tightly against any who might have probing eyes. She needed to return to the ballroom but she wasn't sure what to do about what she'd just witnessed, if anything. Bringing the slut's actions openly to light could also tarnish the baron's good name, even considering that he had nothing to do with the initial onslaught of affection. Claire couldn't deal with the repercussions if the baron turned against her, regardless of her good intentions.

Then she thought of Thomas. He was obviously taken with the Frenchwoman, which, if Claire admitted honestly, stung her deeply. She quite liked Thomas herself, and would be willing to bed him, under the proper
conditions, of course, if he would only show half an interest. Perhaps if he were made aware of the Frenchwoman's obvious taste in seducing those with titles and money, experiencing no shame to the consequences, he would then find pleasure elsewhere, maybe even in her arms. Convincing him was certainly worth a try. If nothing else, she would derive immense gratification in watching the slut's fall from grace in the eyes of the scholar who held her in such esteem.

Straightening her aching body, Claire held her chin high, clutched her reticule against her corseted waist, and headed once again in the direction of the party.

T
homas strode quickly toward the main front doors of Rothebury's home again, shivering from the cold that had penetrated his body to his bones. He'd spent the last fifteen minutes outside without his coat, in the biting wind, studying the house at different angles and getting a much closer observation than ever before. No one would be suspicious of a party guest getting a breath of fresh air if he were caught, however frigid the night, and without a coat of some kind it would be apparent that he wouldn't be staying outside too long, wandering about, doing something he shouldn't.

His short time spent in the nasty January chill had been well worth the discomfort. He had learned something, and slowly the pieces of the Winter Garden opium-smuggling operation were beginning to fall into
place. He wanted to talk to Madeleine but knew he would have to wait until their return to the cottage, partially because he didn't want to chance being overheard discussing the case here, but also because he needed to clearly think things through and make sense of all they'd learned in the last few weeks.

Right now, though, he simply wanted to see her.

Thomas suspected that she was beginning to fall in love with him, although he also knew that since this was exactly what he'd craved for so long his imagination could be playing with notions and hints of feelings that simply weren't there. Yet tonight, when he'd kissed her before they'd left for the masquerade, he'd witnessed a whirlpool of emotions in her that she had never allowed to surface, at least not in front of him. She was frightened of the intense attraction between them but she didn't attempt to leave him or even curb their sexual encounters—what few they'd had. Indeed, she seemed all the more anxious to build on them, which both amused and warmed him. He could only conclude that although somewhat bewildered by the heady tenderness of their deepening relationship, she wanted it, or she would have cooled the passion and distanced him from her life by now. They were almost there, to a place where he could tell her all. It scared him more than anything had in his life, but prolonging the lie would only make the secrets seem worse in the end. He knew Madeleine intimately and trusted her with his past, his necessary deceit, and especially his heart.

Finally he climbed the steps to the baron's front doors, which were opened at once by a conscientious footman. The heat inside knocked the breath from him momentarily, making his body shiver and his partially frozen
skin tingle, but it was surely welcome. He avoided introductions to a small gathering of jovial guests standing at his immediate right by quickly tying his mask to his face again then heading toward the ballroom entrance.

He stopped short when his gaze suddenly fell upon Lady Claire Childress standing by the stained-glass portal, smiling at him cunningly, probably waiting for him. He groaned inwardly at what he could best describe as an intrusion into his privacy. It felt like one anyway.

He smiled in return, very formally, taking note of her ever-thinning figure in pale green taffeta that made her hair look sharply gray and her skin sallow. Although the appropriate length, the dress hung from her as if made for another, fuller figured woman, the beaded neckline and sagging sleeves falling loosely away from her small breasts and shoulders, exposing the edges of her white linen chemise beneath it. She was a ghost of a woman, and every time he saw her she looked less alive than the last. She surely didn't have much time left on this earth. The saddest thing of all was that her death was probably not now preventable.

“Lady Claire, I'm delighted to see you here tonight,” he said with charming grace, forcing himself to walk toward her.

She laughed delicately, as a lady should, and extended her arm. “Thomas. It is such a pleasure to see you, as always, but I thought you'd said several weeks ago that you would escort me if you came to the Winter Masquerade.”

He noticed instantly from her slightly slurred words that she was drunk and pouting, her bottom lip turned down and out just enough to express her disapproval and sustained hurt at being disregarded. Thomas loathed the
pouting tactic from a mature woman. In Lady Claire it annoyed him more than her drunkenness, but he hid it well.

Grasping her bony, gloved fingers with his, he raised her knuckles to brush them against his lips, then quickly released her hand. “I apologize profusely, dear lady, but I didn't know until just a few days ago that I'd even be coming. My invitation arrived late.”

“I see.” She took in his entire appearance with shrewd eyes while she sipped her champagne. “I suppose you then came with the Frenchwoman you employ.”

She stated that as fact, in a quiet, calculating voice. Thomas got the distinct impression that she knew this already and had a greater point to make regarding the matter. He played along.

“Yes. She also received an invitation from Baron Rothebury,” he admitted, standing back on his heels and clasping his hands together behind him. “We walked here together, but I haven't seen her since early this evening. I imagine she's mingling or dancing in the ballroom.”

“Likely so,” Claire acknowledged, taking another long swallow. “The woman does seem to attract a good deal of attention, doesn't she? No doubt all the local gentlemen are surrounding her even now.” She paused for effect, licking her lips, then asked slowly, “Have you danced with her yet?”

She'd put the question to him candidly, and Thomas caught the first whiff in the air of her malevolent objective in their discourse.

He never took his eyes from hers. “My legs are stiff tonight, and I don't care to dance, Lady Claire. Other
wise I would surely ask you.”

“Of course. Probably due to the unusually cold weather.”

She had to know, or suspect anyway, that his injuries prevented him from dancing altogether. Instead of explaining, he simply nodded once. “Probably.”

One side of her mouth lifted slyly, and she tilted her head fractionally. “I saw Mrs. DuMais with the baron, and, of course, she looked beautiful this evening. But then, I'm sure you noticed.”

The music and noise from the ballroom at his right had grown so loud he could barely hear the lady speak. To counter it, he took two steps to his left so that he stood next to the wall, beside her, giving him a better vantage point from which to view the foyer and all who walked within it as well.

“Most of the ladies here are as beautifully gowned and just as lovely, Claire,” he rebuked in a manner that implied sagacity in his word choice but sounded like a scolding.

It had no effect on her.

After finishing off the contents of her glass in two long gulps, she lifted her face as close to his as she could get it. “But we all know she's an exceptional beauty, Thomas. To deny it now would be to make a mockery of me.” She laughed bitterly, then dropped her voice to a near-whisper. “Actually, I saw her leaving the library with Baron Rothebury, and they looked like they'd had a very entertaining exchange, indeed. They spent a good deal of time locked behind closed doors, alone together, and by her mussed appearance I don't know just how proper the encounter was, although it was terribly clear
that they weren't dancing. She is French, after all. A widow in need of a man, and he is a randy one at that. Everyone knows it. Quite a pair they make, don't you think?”

Thomas's heart began to pound, but he refused to react, because that's exactly what she wanted him to do. Naturally his instinct told him to smash his fist into the wall at his side, or better yet into Rothebury's teeth. As always, though, because of his very proper upbringing, gentility prevailed. He stood cool and composed, not a change in his features, staring down in well-hidden disgust at the drunken, wrinkled face a satin mask couldn't hide, only inches away.

Because he remained levelheaded by both nature and culture, he allowed her blunt words to sink in, to digest in his very rational mind before he replied. The anger he'd felt at the sudden and vivid picture of Madeleine and Rothebury making love to each other floated neatly from his body as he decided after a moment or two that such a conclusion made no sense at all. He knew Madeleine better than that. It didn't happen, not here at a party and not in the man's library. He suspected that Claire had seen them, and perhaps the baron had attempted to seduce Madeleine; but as certain as he was that there was a God in heaven, he knew Madeleine didn't instigate the liaison. Thomas knew that regardless of her feelings for him as her associate and lover, it wasn't necessary for her to gather information from intimate contact with the baron, and she was simply too smart to allow a casual affair with a suspect to interfere with their work.

Claire must have seen the resolution in his eyes, for at that moment her expression changed to one of ve
hemence.

“You don't believe me,” she spat in a whisper.

Her outrage took him aback, and he blinked, looking her up and down. “I believe you saw them, but I'm not sure what that has to do with me,” he countered flatly. “She is my employee and nothing more. What the woman does privately is her business.”

Claire shook her head in contempt. “Don't treat me like a blind cow. You're in love with her. Everyone can see it, Thomas, because it's pitifully obvious. She is a slut, no matter how beautiful she is on the outside. You're an educated man who has fallen for someone who can give you nothing but heartache and disease. You
look
at her as if you haven't bedded a woman in decades. It's appalling, really, and you should be ashamed.”

That absolutely infuriated him as nothing ever had. He closed his hands together in tight fists at his sides to keep from striking out. He'd never come so close to slapping a woman in his entire life.

“You are drunk, madam,” he said in icy coldness, “and would do well to return home.”

She scoffed, then snickered. “Afraid to tell me how you really feel?” she asked in a whisper thick with the influence of alcohol. “I could have given you riches for your attention, Thomas. Would have taken you to my bed should you have asked. Your being crippled means nothing to me. You didn't need to fall for a common woman who's likely been with dozens of men, who will leave you for the next suitor who offers something more, something better, perhaps just his perfect legs and the ability to dance a waltz with her when she asks.” In a voice of sorrow, she stepped back to mumble, “She will break your heart and she will do it laughing.”

Thomas had had enough. Regardless of the fact that Lady Claire's last words pushed deeply into the pockets of his only remaining doubts, he refused to have anything more to do with a woman who spoke from pure spite, who hurt him by mentioning something she knew mattered intensely.

Glaring at her now, he leaned very close to murmur harshly, “You reek of liquor and speak without thought. As a lady of quality, you should know better than to attack with words you can't prove, but because you're intoxicated, I'm ignoring them. The very funny thing, Claire, is that Madeleine DuMais, being lowbred and common, through no fault of her own, would never stoop to such coarseness by speaking so unkindly of you. She has outclassed you in every regard.” He stood erect once more, glowering into her puffy, shocked eyes, his repugnance hopefully apparent in his. “You are a mess, and in time I hope that you can overcome your addictions. But just to clear the air, I'd like to end this pointless conversation by saying that I would never, under any circumstances, be interested in sharing your bed. The thought alone makes me shudder. Good evening, madam.”

He brushed by her and entered the ballroom.