Winter Garden (25 page)

For the first time since they'd met at the church, the young lady at her side gave every indication of being the enlightened one, the mature one, the one with the
knowledge as she smiled cleverly and shook her head very slowly.

“He's in love with you, you know.”

Madeleine paused in her stride, her mouth going dry. “I beg your pardon?”

“In love,” Desdemona repeated, “and very deeply, I think.”

The woman was clearly mistaken. “I don't think so.”

“No?” Desdemona chuckled at that. “Everybody in the village is aware of it, Mrs. DuMais. It is so extremely obvious I was certain you knew or at least suspected. But then I suppose where love is concerned we're all a little blind, especially when we don't want to see what is before us.”

Madeleine stilled from head to toe, awash with numbness, feeling trapped suddenly. Like a doe running head-on into her hunter.

“May I offer you a suggestion, Mrs. DuMais?”

The words sounded sharp and shrill to her ears, echoing loudly. Coldness blanketed her, and a wisp of wind swept snow crystals into the air to strike the bare skin on her face.

But she was a professional and refused to notice these things, refused to acknowledge a remark that was clearly unfounded. Attempting to remain dignified, she responded politely, “Of course.”

Desdemona scrutinized her, up and down, then admonished, “I would never forgo a chance to be with someone who loved me passionately. That will never happen to me now, because I will not leave my husband. I take my marriage vows very seriously, and we have a child on the way whose protection must be con
sidered.” She stepped closer and dropped her voice to just above a whisper. “But I saw Mr. Blackwood look at you once, while the two of you were walking together in the village, and I read his feelings for you on his face like an open book. He loves you desperately, Mrs. DuMais, the word is spreading rapidly through Winter Garden, and I am envious. He is a cripple, true, but I would follow him, or any man, to the farthest edges of the earth to have him look at
me
like that. Just once.”

Madeleine had never been so disconcerted by a disclosure in her life. She stood there, stunned, gaping foolishly, head spinning. Suddenly the words she'd been hearing in her mind all morning no longer sounded beautiful, but loud, raucous, piercing.

I don't want you to leave, Madeleine.

All I want is you, Madeleine. All I've ever wanted is you.

Will you love me now, Maddie?

He had asked her that with a tangible fear in his eyes, and at the time she'd assumed he'd been referring to lovemaking. Now the specifics of his phrasing took on a grave new depth that she could no longer ignore. What Desdemona suggested she had, in fact, considered herself, but not so carefully. Perhaps she just hadn't wanted to see it at all. She could deal with his lovemaking, a casual affair with a definite conclusion to which they both aspired. But she didn't think she could accept his love. Not real, passionate, desperate love. She didn't know how to handle it or return it. Madeleine felt herself begin to shake. She clutched her hands tightly together in her muff, trying to remain collected.

Desdemona stood erect once more and wiped her
palms down her mantle nonchalantly, no longer looking at her. “I'm sure you're aware that my mother hates you,” she confided frankly.

Madeleine didn't know whether to laugh or scream or thank the lady politely for such a quick shift in topic. “I suppose she does,” she managed to reply, her mouth as dry and grating as carpenter's sandpaper.

Desdemona brushed a ringlet from an icy-pink cheek. “Do you know why?”

She searched the younger woman's round, innocent face for a moment, uncertain how she was supposed to answer. “I imagine because I am French.”

Desdemona smiled satisfactorily and peered into her eyes. “But you are wrong, Mrs. DuMais. My mother despises you because you are so very English.”

Madeleine felt the blood drain from her face, and Desdemona snickered delightedly when she noticed it, hugging herself again and rocking back on her heels.

“You weren't prepared for that, were you?”

She couldn't move or speak.

Desdemona guessed this apparently and carried on with a casual lift of her shoulders. “Aside from your very thick French accent, you are the epitome of all that is respected in an Englishwoman, Mrs. DuMais. You are cordial when others rudely defame you, educated for your class, reserved as you should be, graceful and sophisticated in style and manner, and your grasp of the English language is superb. My mother abhors seeing those qualities in a Frog.”

Desdemona's gaze became intense. “It's possible there are many Frenchwomen like you. I wouldn't know. The point is, although we place so much value on breeding and class, it's obvious that the place or status of one's
birth is highly irrelevant to the person one becomes. You could be an Englishwoman should you choose to be, and others would learn to respect you as one. Perhaps that's what Mr. Blackwood admires about you, and wants you to see in yourself while you're here.”

Desdemona turned her attention to the village square, so empty and bleak and white. “You know, I have lived in Winter Garden my entire life and I have never seen it snow. Everything changes, and I suppose this is a sign that it's time to move on.” She glanced a final time to Madeleine and nodded once formally. “I will do what I can to help you, but I am leaving Saturday. The magistrate must call on me before then. Good-bye, Mrs. DuMais. I wish you well in your endeavors.”

Then with a tug at her wide skirts, Desdemona whisked past Madeleine and continued down the quiet road toward the home she was soon to leave, her shoes crunching noisily on the narrow, ice-covered street.

M
adeleine returned to the cottage in a daze, walking blindly, slowly at first, mindless to the fact that her extremities were freezing, her nose, cheeks, and lips numb from cold.

She couldn't decide if Desdemona was thoroughly insane or incredibly wise beyond her years. The facts remained that, yes, things change, times change. Her life was not now the same as it was last night before she and Thomas had made love. Nor was it the same as it had been even early this morning when she'd gone to Desdemona, fully in control of her mind and emotions, with a professional purpose, only to return dumb-founded, uncomfortable, and scared of the unknown.

She needed to see Thomas, she decided, picking up the pace and praying she wouldn't slip on the ice. She needed to feel his lips on hers, his skin next to hers, to feel him inside her. She wanted desperately to be with
him, to run from him, wished suddenly that she had never met him. Mostly she just wanted to look into his eyes and witness for herself what Desdemona said was there for all to see.

But could
she
see it? If indeed he loved her, shouldn't she have recognized it before now if others had? Had she been blind to it intentionally? Or was the notion of some endless love he felt for her pure folly on the part of an impressionable young woman with romantic dreams?

Life was so complicated when feelings were involved. She had never been passionately in love with anyone so how could she know how it felt? Jacques had loved her, and she had loved him, she supposed, but that was somehow different from what she felt for Thomas. Her feelings for Jacques had been comforting, soothing, companionable, simple, and their lovemaking had been pleasant and, in general, fulfilling. Indeed, with the few men she'd bedded over the years, sex had ranged from the enjoyable to the routine, satisfying a mutual lust and allowing for a measure of brief closeness. Nothing more and nearly always forgettable.

From the moment she'd met Thomas, however, her reactions to him as a man had been unusual—remarkable, really—and thoroughly unexpected. With Thomas the air crackled when they touched, her stomach fluttered when they kissed, her heart pounded erratically when he walked into the room and looked her up and down with his dark, narrowed, direct eyes, drawing her in with his irresistible mouth. Their lovemaking was like nothing she'd ever experienced with anyone, though she couldn't say exactly why. It was just…magnetic.

What
did
she feel for him, exactly? She really didn't
know him all that well. She knew many of his likes and dislikes, his social and political views, his aspirations and devotions because they'd had a great deal of time to discuss them, and yet much of himself he kept secret. Could she possibly be in love with the part she knew, love him as he was?

More significant, though, was the idea that he might be deeply in love with her. She really didn't think it was possible. No man had ever loved her deeply before, and she supposed she was partly to blame for that. She just didn't allow anybody to get emotionally close enough. She respected herself, enjoyed and admired the woman she had become, but time could not forget that she was the illegitimate daughter of an opium-addicted actress, who had danced in music halls and lost her virginity at the age of fifteen with the first of many lovers, and Thomas very well knew all of this. She was also nearing thirty. Many a man might want her as a mistress, but no respectable gentleman would ever want her as a loving wife. Not when they knew who she was, which was precisely why her work came first above all things. It was all in the world she had that was truly hers, that she had earned using her own cleverness, sagacity, dedication, and determination. It was the only thing that would get her through life with a measure of pride and happiness, as well as a sense of accomplishment. She would never give it up for love or marriage. Never. Thomas knew this because she'd told him so.

Did he love her anyway? After a few minutes of serious reflection she concluded that he probably did not. He was likely infatuated, as she'd paid him undivided attention, made love to him by pressing him into it
when he had denied it would happen, had become his friend and working companion, but they had only known each other for a few weeks. Surely love took longer to bloom. Still, it left her with few answers and many troublesome questions.

The wind had stirred the loose snow so that the porch was covered with a thin layer of ice when she finally stepped onto it a few minutes later. She unlatched the door and walked inside the cottage, the heat of the coal fire and the scent of furniture wax and toasted bread hitting her soundly with the rustic feel of home. This wasn't her home, though, and she would do well to remember that. She would be leaving shortly, to return to her life in France, to sunshine and warmth and her private residence on the Rue de la Fleur in Marseille, to her maid, Marie-Camille, and her extensive wardrobe and food that she missed. And her work in France. It was where she was needed. Regardless of the looming sadness at the thought of leaving Thomas, she must remember where she was needed.

With renewed resolve, she unbuttoned her mantle with cold, stiff fingers, then hung it on the rack with her muff. She shivered, quickly rubbing her hands up and down her upper arms to help them warm, then smoothed a palm over the coiled braid at her nape to make sure it was still in place. That done, she straightened her spine and fairly glided into the parlor, and then the kitchen where she found Thomas, pen in hand, head bowed, mulling over paperwork scattered across the table. She paused at the door and stared, warming to the bone at the rugged, masculine, arresting sight of him, her resolve instantaneously deserting her.

The cloudiness of the day made lamplight essential,
and the glow from it created a thin, wavy streak of silver down the center of his dark hair that fell without his notice over his forehead. He wore plain, black trousers, a white linen shirt rolled up at the cuffs and unbuttoned at the neck, and, of course, his expensive, specially made leather boots with the gold buckles and the wooden, right foot insert that he'd shown her in detail this morning. His face, unshaven since yesterday, gave him a scruffy appearance, tempting her to slide her palm across it, to feel the tingling roughness against her skin, which in turn reminded her how those bristles had sensually grazed her inner thighs last night.

Just looking at him, thinking about that experience, made her weaken inside. Her belly quivered, her breath quickened, and as she considered it now, she realized she'd never felt any of these feelings for another man. Just Thomas.

Abruptly he glanced in her direction and jerked his body upright, startled to see her, having been so engrossed in his paperwork he hadn't heard her come in.

Her gaze met his, melded with it, and she leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over her bosom as her lips curled up ever so slowly in a soft smile of contentment.

He noticed it and grinned boyishly, showing polished teeth and blushing skin.

Blushing. Thomas was blushing. From thoughts of last night? From embarrassment at their heated, uncontrollable passion of only hours ago? She ached to know, but wouldn't ask. His reaction was just so charming, so wonderful and endearing, making him look years younger and utterly content.

“I sent an urgent note to Sir Riley,” he said after clear
ing his throat. “I explained the situation in detail, and expect to hear back from him as early as tomorrow.”

She said nothing, just watched him intently—the fullness of his mouth, the tiny, almost indistinguishable cleft in his chin, the way his eyelashes curved out long and thick, his refined, aristocratic nose, the way that ever-present piece of hair that never seemed to bother him fell down between his dark brows.

“Did you learn anything?” he asked when she didn't respond, resting his pen in the inkwell on the table, his voice a bit more sober.

“Yes,” she murmured, never taking her eyes from the glimmering, honey-brown recesses of his. “I think I did.”

And then without further remark she drifted toward him and gracefully sat on his thighs, ignoring the surprise on his face as she pulled her legs up and under her gown, curling into him. She snuggled against his massive chest, wrapping her arms around his neck and clinging to him as she began to kiss his jaw and cheek, inhaling the scent—Thomas's scent—that she'd come to know so well.

His response was predictable and fast. He embraced her without comment and began kissing her in return, small pecks of affection to her cheeks and chin and brow, his lips feather-soft.

Immediately she'd had enough of the preliminary. Heat rising, she quickly took his mouth with hers and kissed him deeply, possessively, aching, needing, and he sensed it all, felt everything. He raised his hands behind her and unpinned her braid, letting her hair fall loosely down her back and then threading his fingers through it until it began to come apart. Then one hand
was on her breast, kneading it through her gown, caressing her nipple to a point of delightful sensation. A whisper-soft moan escaped her mouth.

She felt his erection just barely through the layers of clothing, and she adjusted herself on his lap a little, moving as close as possible, spreading her legs for his probing hand. He obliged her unspoken demand, taking advantage of her position by inserting his palm up her gown to caress her calf, stroking it over her stocking. She wove her fingers through his hair and then pushed her hips up, begging tacitly for his touch.

He groaned then, coming alive with a burning raw hunger, and suddenly there was fire—searing heat—between them. She clawed at his shirt until the first two buttons popped, and then her mouth found his chest and she traced his nipples with her wet tongue. He groped for her petticoats and pulled at them until he was able to shove his hand inside, fingers searching, finding the slit then probing it.

He stroked her, slowly at first, and then quickly, more intimately as she became wetter and slicker against his hand.

She moaned softly at the back of her throat, stealing quick breaths when she could, kissing the muscles of his chest, raising her lips to his neck, his jaw again, tracing his scar and then his mouth with the fine point of her tongue.

His breathing grew shallow, but he never gave up the relentless pursuit of her pleasure as she grew closer to it.

It was so fast, so hot, so charged.

Magnetic.

Within seconds she felt herself rising to the edge of
satisfaction as his fingers explored, stroked, his mouth took hers, his tongue plunged inside to suck.

Yes!
her mind screamed as she kissed him back fervently, squirming and pushing against his hand.
Yes, Thomas, yes!

Love me!

And then she experienced that glorious explosion within. She jerked her head back and closed her eyes to the intensity of his, crying out her pleasure, savoring the wonderful, rich moment as she never had before.

Bliss enveloped her for seconds, and then she raised herself, held tightly to his neck, and snuggled into his chest.

“I want to stay here forever,” she heard in a far-off whisper, realizing only partially that the words came from her.

He didn't ask for clarification. He withdrew his hand from under her gown, lifted her in his arms, holding her close as his aching, tired, damaged limbs carried her slowly from the kitchen, up the stairs, and into his bedroom.