Winter Garden (8 page)

“Lady Claire,” he said easily, “I'm sure Mrs. DuMais is of good family—”

“I'm sure she is not. And she is not for you, Thomas.”

That was enough. Her embarrassment was thorough; the rudeness overwhelming. “You are right, Lady Claire,” she affirmed brazenly, tilting her chin and staring into the woman's vicious eyes. “My mother was an actress.”

The instant satisfaction beaming on the Englishwoman's face was at first laughable, then suddenly unimportant because at that moment Thomas reached out, under the table, and placed his palm high on her thigh.

Her first coherent thought was that it was a large palm, warm even through the layers of her skirt and petticoats, with long fingers that reached into the gentle crease between her legs.

She didn't move, and he didn't look at her. With his left hand he reached for his wine, took a large, slow swallow, then lowered it back to the table.

Ignorant to the rising heat in the room, Lady Claire lifted her wineglass and did the same. “Was your father also an actor, Mrs. DuMais?” she asked with harsh sarcasm, seconds later.

Thomas squeezed her slightly. Whether it was a
warning or just a show of understanding, she couldn't guess, but right at that moment she didn't care, for he still hadn't made a move to release her from his grasp.

She tried to speak with confidence. “I didn't know my father, Lady Claire.” An outright lie, and one that would only solidify the lady's delight, but she refused to degrade the memory of the only bright part of her life by revealing it to a woman who would no doubt ridicule it.

“I see,” Lady Claire replied with exaggerated concern. “Then they were never married?”

Madeleine felt his fingers move. He didn't say a word, but she took the action as warning this time. Even now she felt his large body so close beside her, the warmth of it radiating through his brown woolen suit, his palm scorching her leg as his fingers pushed very close to the center between her thighs. Then her heart began to pound, because it occurred to her that although he could feel nothing directly, he was quite aware of exactly where he touched her.

Her cheeks flushed, and perspiration broke out between her breasts, but she knew he wanted to witness her continued composure. That had to be his point. She thanked God that he hadn't yet looked at her because she was certain if he did she would fail.

With arms as heavy as thick tree branches, she pulled her hands from her lap. One she raised to rest on the arm of her chair, the other she placed lengthwise across her thighs, under the table, closing her palm over his knuckles.

He didn't move.

“Naturally my parents were married,” she murmured, her tongue thick and dry as she tried to balance her
thoughts. “He was English, Lady Claire, and a sea captain. He died in the West Indies before I was born.”

Their hostess visibly cringed from the revelation and lifted her wineglass for a final time to gulp the remaining contents. “Were you aware of this when you hired the woman, Thomas?”

He drew in a very long breath before he shared his concern. “Yes, but in choosing a translator, I felt education to be more important than a background one can never change.”

Lady Claire put her glass down hard and gaped at him, appalled. “Good breeding means everything.”

In a very cool voice, he countered, “I think what one makes of one's own life is far more significant in the end.”

Madeleine felt an immediate swell of pleasure from his defense of her, especially since there was such a risk to their work in his expressing such opinions.

The lady glared at her, and then her eyes turned lifeless with acceptance. “Her appearance has bewitched you, Thomas.”

He shook his head. “I'm not easily bewitched, madam. I know exactly who she is.”

A tremor passed through her at the decisiveness in his voice, but he still hadn't looked at her, and he had yet to move his hand from her leg. The tone of the conversation was starting to turn against them both, however, and she couldn't let that happen with so much at stake.

“My mother only took to the stage, Lady Claire, because she had no other options,” she explained gravely, recovering her poise and working the lie splendidly. “I shall be grateful to her always for raising enough money
in such a degrading profession so that I could be educated in Switzerland and eventually find a suitable match in my late husband.”

Thomas, at long last, turned his head to face her, but she couldn't meet his eyes. Not yet. She felt their warmth on her skin, knew she was reacting to his touch by the blush in her cheeks and that he saw it.

“And what of your family now, Mrs. DuMais?” the lady gruffly pursued, once again fingering her crystal glass of laudanum. “Is your mother still
working?
” She drew out the last word as if it were something despicable. Evil.

Madeleine had regained her senses and was ready to respond. Until Thomas moved the fingers on her thigh even closer, then covered her thumb with his. She was now certain he touched, just minutely with the tips, the intimate center between her legs.

She grew hotter still and finally, bravely, chanced a glance into his eyes.

He knew what he was doing. He knew, and she liquefied from the gentleness and pleasure those honey-brown circles conveyed. His expression remained neutral to the best of his ability, but she read his thoughts. He wasn't at all worried that they would be discovered. He was enjoying this.

She tried to faintly push his fingers aside, but he refused to withdraw them. What annoyed her, though, was that he wouldn't do this at the cottage when they were alone, but he would do it here. He insisted they couldn't be lovers, and yet he purposely aroused her in Lady Claire Childress's dining room while they worked. She didn't understand his motives at all.

“Mrs. DuMais?”

Sharply she looked back to her hostess, who waited patiently for an answer.

“I—” She straightened a little and shook herself to carry on. “I've not seen my mother in years, Lady Claire.” It was now time to get to the point, before she gave herself away. “Over time she grew to enjoy the addictive qualities of opium and ceased to function rationally. I'm not at all sure whether she still lives.”

Thomas felt the instantaneous shift in mood. Excitement of several orders ran thick in the air and, mingled with the friction between the women and the contact of his skin to her gown at the point where sanity reached the entrance to paradise, it created the most incredible wave of desire in him. Unlike anything he'd felt in years. She was marvelous—in action, in beauty, in cleverness, and the ability to disguise her feelings. This couldn't be easy for her, and yet she remained in perfect form. The need to lose himself in her eyes, in her embrace, to tease her body in escalating pleasure was overwhelming. He wanted her desperately, but the only time he could allow himself to touch her was when she couldn't respond. It was safe now, and although he'd never planned to confuse her with such a forward act, he just couldn't bring himself to pull back.

“I'm sure she overindulged, Mrs. DuMais,” Lady Claire said in a disgusted, ragged breath, interrupting his carnal thoughts like a callous slap to the face. “Living such a-an unrestrained life will do that to a woman.”

Madeleine was tight beside him, but she remained totally self-possessed. “Opium in any form can be addictive, Lady Claire, and can kill. Even the laudanum at your fingertips.”

Thomas shifted his gaze to the head of the table.
That was the knife thrust. The woman's eyes blazed, her face grew red beneath sagging skin. Then it hardened with a rage she couldn't hide.

“This is medicine, Mrs. DuMais. I have a heart condition that requires attention. I take neither more nor less than my physician prescribes.”

Madeleine shifted her bottom in her chair, lifting her hips and squeezing his knuckles at the same time so that he couldn't budge them. He clenched his teeth; drew a sharp inhale. There was no mistaking her actions. She had purposely taken the advantage away from him. His fingers now grazed the place of his ageless hunger, and even through her clothes he felt the heat of her there, felt the outline of soft, luscious curls that would one day beckon him to bliss….

That was impossible. She was fully dressed in layers, and he could feel nothing. He was a starved man, and his imagination carried him to a feast he couldn't yet taste. His heart pounded, and although he faced away from her, he still closed his eyes momentarily to regain control. He could take no more and he was certain she knew it. Gently he pulled his hand away, and she let him go.

“I am sure you need your medicine, Lady Claire,” Madeleine acknowledged softly, her thoughts unreadable in her level voice. “I was not speaking of you but of my mother. It is true, however, that opium, when taken too much in any form, is deadly.”

The woman had nothing to say. For seconds intense hatred flowed without discretion from a lady of quality who knew to behave better. But she was drunk and nearly incoherent. Thomas had seen it in her before.

Quickly Lady Claire raised her crystal glass to her
mouth, closed her eyes, and drank the contents, allowing it to slide down her throat before she licked her lips of the excess. When she looked at them again, her focus was clouded, her face tired. Old.

“It is time for me to rest, Thomas,” she mumbled sadly. “As always I have enjoyed your company and wish you to return. Perhaps next time I'll show you my extensive library, and hopefully some of the other private rooms in my extraordinary home.”

It was meant to be an intimate invitation, clear to all of them, but he wouldn't respond to it now. Madeleine sat beside him, and he sensed the anxiety in her. They'd seen enough, and they'd been clearly dismissed.

After placing his napkin on the table he buttoned his jacket to hide what remained of his rigid need, then stood with some grace. Lady Claire offered him her hand in expectation, and he took it in his, lowering his head to brush his lips against the back of it.

“It is always a pleasure to visit you, madam. Lunch was superb, as usual.”

The woman dropped her chin graciously. He released her and turned toward Madeleine, pulling her chair out and helping her to rise. “Shall we go?”

“Yes, Thomas,” she replied pointedly, gazing into his eyes, revealing nothing. “I think we should return to the cottage and discuss what we've started.”

And it had started.
He
had started it, and there was no turning back. She was confident and determined, and he was, in part, feeling the gravity of it all beginning to sink in.

“Thank you for a delightful luncheon, Lady Claire,” Madeleine said to their hostess.

She was ignored.

With that, Madeleine straightened her shoulders, turned, and strode regally from the dining hall as he followed, his palm to her back. Lady Claire certainly noticed him touching her, and at that moment it was exactly what he wanted.

T
hey walked to the cottage in silence. The sky had turned a dark, smoky gray, the day bitter with cold, and the village square had emptied of all but those who needed to be there for essentials.

Of course, they had many things to discuss, but Madeleine was lost in her thoughts, and he didn't interrupt them. He wasn't sure what he would say that wouldn't sound evasive or gauche, and another discussion of work seemed trite. He realized she intended to bring the subject of his gross breach of decorum to his attention as soon as they were safely inside the cottage walls. At least that gave him a few more minutes to conjure up an excuse of some sort, although for the life of him he couldn't think of one other than that he craved so badly to touch her intimately that she should be pleased he hadn't leaned in and sucked the skin at her throat in front of Lady Claire and all of her servants.
Madeleine probably wouldn't be amused to know that, though. He couldn't decipher her mood exactly, but he was fairly certain she was annoyed, as her step had been nearly a pace in front of his for the entire return trip through the village, which had to be purposeful since he couldn't walk as fast as she could anyway.

As they reached the gate to the property, she waited for him to unlatch it and hold it open for her to step through. A frigid gust of wind whipped around them, knocking her hood from her head, and she shivered.

“It's cold,” he murmured, then felt ridiculous announcing something so inept.

She stopped abruptly on the stone path and whirled around, nearly causing a collision between them. He reacted by grabbing her shoulders with gloved hands to steady her.

Her eyes were blazing, huge and accusatory as she stared into his, but she didn't push him away.

“Yes, Thomas, it is cold,” she agreed matter-of-factly. “And since the weather is something you feel especially safe discussing with me, let's discuss this aspect of it.” She tipped her head slightly, her features flat. “My lips are freezing, and I would like you to warm them for me.”

His breath caught in his chest. He'd never expected that. Instinctively he dropped his arms to his sides and took a step back.

She clearly didn't like that response to her demand. Her glare hardened, and her eyes narrowed to thin slits. She gripped her gloved hands together in front of her so tightly the leather pulled at the knuckles.

“We are a man and a woman physically attracted to each other, Thomas, and you are quite aware of it,” she
said soberly. “Decide what you want from our relationship, and I will honor it, but I think it's time you stopped teasing me.”

He blinked, startled so much she probably noticed it. She wasn't just annoyed with him now, she was infuriated. Was he teasing her? Is that how she perceived his actions? He supposed it had to be. He'd stood so close to her two nights ago, breathing heavily at her neck while telling her they couldn't be lovers, then boldly caressed her inner thighs without permission less than thirty minutes ago.

The icy wind blew a strand of her hair across her cheek, and he reached out and touched it with his fingers, drawing it back behind her ear. She shivered again but she held his gaze squarely, daring him to deny her.

His nerves charged at the thought of kissing her at her request. His body, even in winter chill, grew tight again with need. Suddenly he'd never been more desperate to do anything. It was time to move forward, to openly acknowledge his interest where touching her surreptitiously and stroking her with words did not. He grasped her elbow firmly through her cloak, turned her toward the cottage, and led her along the path to the front door.

“Thomas—”

“If I am to kiss you, Madeleine, I can't do it outside where anyone can see.”

That logic subdued her a little, at least enough to silence her, but he knew without looking that she smiled with satisfaction.

He stopped at the door but didn't release her as he fished into his coat pocket for the key. Smoothly, surprised he wasn't shaking noticeably, he unbolted the
lock, pushed the door open, pulled her inside behind him, and closed it with a loud
thud.

He turned to her then, standing in the entryway, and although his pulse was pounding in his ears from the most intense anticipation he'd ever felt, his body remained remarkably calm.

They stared at each other, the sound of their breathing ringing hollow in the empty foyer. For a brief moment he hesitated because he hadn't done anything like this in years. Nervousness pierced him with uncertainty and a shade of embarrassment. But she was waiting, her cheeks and nose pink from cold, her beautiful blue eyes challenging him to change his mind, to withdraw.

He had no intention of withdrawing now. This would be the contact of his fantasies, the beginning of his dreams.

Still bundled in winter layers, standing a foot apart, he bent toward her, pausing only a second when he watched her close her eyes. Then he tilted his head and closed his.

He first noticed the coolness of her face, the scent of flowers on her skin, and then he felt the sweetest softness against his mouth—cold, inviting. Perfect.

A very slight, utterly feminine sound carried on the exhale that left her throat at the initial joining. His breathing grew shallow, his heartbeat raced from that small response of contentment, and he was instantly transported to the brink of heaven.

He lingered with his lips just barely pressed to hers, warming them as they warmed his, drinking in the pleasure, and she didn't immediately push for more. He wanted to savor it all for memory, and she was allowing
him. She reached up gingerly with her hands, lightly encircling his neck with her palms, the leather soft and cool on his skin. He closed his arms around her waist, pulling her toward him a little, absorbing the feel of her as he gently began to move his lips against hers.

She followed his lead, opening for him, picking up the rhythm, leaning into him until their chests touched. Her breathing began to quicken as well when he ran the tip of his tongue briefly along her upper lip, and that ignited him inside.

He groaned and crushed her to him, raising one hand from the curve of her spine to the back of her head. She did the same, her arms around his neck, hands on his hair, clutching him now with intensifying need. Her tongue mated with his, their breath mingled, and the sounds of their joining echoed loudly in the small, empty foyer.

Thomas pushed her back a foot or so until she rested against the wall, the air quickly charging with a consuming, physical hunger as his lips now moved frantically against hers, tasting, savoring, craving more.

She lowered her arms, her fingers reaching for the buttons on his coat. But he wanted the control, and he grabbed her hands and forced them back, positioning them on either side of her head, her knuckles flat against the paneled wood behind her.

He pinned her there, supported by his greater strength, deepening the force of his mouth, his heart thundering, sweat beading at his neck and forehead, gloved fingers wrapped around hers in a vague display of his command. And then he plunged his tongue into her farther still, searching, finding, sucking hers, burning inside.

She lifted her body to his, held powerless but desperate to feel. She kissed him back for moments, hours it seemed, expertly, passionately, giving as he gave. Then finally she gasped against his mouth and broke free, jerking her head to the side, pushing her breasts into his chest, pressing her lips to his jaw.

“Touch me, Thomas,” she begged in a raspy, hot breath against his skin.

God, how he wanted to touch her! To feel her naked flesh scorch his, to stoke the flame between her legs, to envelop himself in her wet heat, to love her until she climaxed around him, in his arms. His body begged him to drag her to the floor and take her here. Now.

But he couldn't. It would be an act without emotion on her part, the beginning of casual interludes between them, Madeleine leaving him in the end, expecting and wanting nothing more. He'd risked too much already to allow that to happen.

At that moment determination overtook sexual urging, and he slowed his actions, remembering his purpose, his reasons for bringing her here. He drew his lips across the milky softness of her cheek, sucked her earlobe, grazed it with his teeth, felt her tremble against him.

“Please—”

“Not now,” he whispered with a restraint he couldn't believe possible. They were the hardest words he'd ever said in his life.

She whimpered from frustration, from unfulfilled want, and he traced the curve of her throat up and down with his parted mouth, inhaling the scents of soft wool and woman for a final time before squeezing his eyes shut and withdrawing his touch.

She turned away from his face, and he lowered his forehead to the cold, hard wall behind her.

For nearly a minute they stood like that, their heartbeats drumming loudly in the otherwise silent house, their breathing irregular and fast. He still held himself firmly pressed against her, and she didn't immediately try to move.

“Madeleine,” he whispered, and could think of nothing more to add.

She attempted to inhale deeply, and he pulled back enough for her to draw breath, releasing her hands at last which she dropped to her sides. He coiled his into fists and shoved them against the wall behind her head, keeping his eyes shut.

“You are marvelous, Thomas,” she murmured shakily, the words barely heard.

That wrapped his heart in exquisite warmth.

“You don't know me,” he countered huskily.

He felt her turn to look at him. Then she reached up with her gloved fingers and drew a line down the scar at his mouth.

“I will in time.”

The certainty in her voice captured his imagination, and let free the possibilities implied.

Slowly he pushed himself up and rotated his body, falling back against the wall to stand next to her, allowing his eyes to open finally as he stared at the dark, polished wood paneling across from him.

“You are not practiced, are you?” she asked quietly, seconds later.

She was attempting to measure the awkwardness of their kiss, the depth of his experience, and for the first time since they'd met, he considered lying outright. In
the end he decided against it. “It's more accurate to say I'm out of practice, Madeleine.”

For moments nothing happened. Then she sighed and reached for his hand, squeezing his fingers gently. “Do something for me, Thomas?”

He turned his head to glance down at her at last, swallowing forcefully at the sight of her heightened color, the heat of arousal still in her eyes, the playful smile lifting her full, sensuous lips.

“You called me Maddie once before,” she whispered very slowly. “I would like you to call me that again.”

Before he could respond, she released him, stood upright, and entered the parlor as she headed to her room.