Heiress Without a Cause

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

That night, Madeleine sat in silence in Ferguson's coach. Josephine rode with them, on Alex's orders, and there was nothing they wished to talk about with an audience.

But despite her maid's presence, it felt like she and Ferguson inhabited a special world, created just for the two of them. The thought consumed her, made her wish that they never had to rejoin the world that would someday pull them apart. She felt it just watching him stride into a room, whether it was the theatre or a crowded ballroom in Mayfair, and it was all she could think of when she fell into his arms. In those moments, she forgot her reasons for refusing him - and never wanted to let him go.

But could those feelings last when her time at the theatre ended? Or did she feel so special with him because they were in extraordinary circumstances, magical only because they could never be repeated?

She looked across the coach. His face was inscrutable in the shadows. If they could talk, she knew what he would say about her thoughts - that what they had was unique, and that she should become his duchess.

But she had seen love matches flare out, leaving two unhappy people trapped in the wreckage. Ferguson had seen his own father destroyed by love - it could be a poison as much as a pleasure. Could this bond they shared turn into something lasting?

Or would it grow darker, twist around into loathing as the pressures of society overtook them?

Perhaps the pensive look on her face was what convinced Josephine that it was safe to leave her alone with Ferguson when they arrived. The maid left her in the foyer, telling her to dress while she cleared the path into Salford House.

Madeleine did not feel confident loving anyone. But she didn't feel like letting go either. So as soon as Josephine was out of sight, she took Ferguson's hand and pulled him up the stairs.

His lips were on her before he even shut the door. He had been unreadable in the coach, but now his desire for her was unmistakable. Their mouths locked against each other, his hands skimming over her derriere, her fingers burying themselves in his hair. The heat, the hunger, all the swirling need and frustration and desire and fear - the strength of it all scared her, even as it added a fierce edge to their kiss.

He untied her cravat and pulled her shirt off her head, dumping it on the floor before claiming her lips again. She tried to do the same to him, but he caught her hands and pulled away.

"You must return to Salford House too soon, love," he said. "We have to dress you, not undress me."

He used the endearment like it was easy for him, like he had already come to terms with what was between them. She loved it and hated it, just as undecided about the word as she was about what he wanted from her. So she kissed him, not wanting to think about the question he would undoubtedly ask her again.

He stopped her after one last kiss and turned her bodily toward the mirror. "No more, Mad, if we're going to get you ready again."

He disappeared into her dressing room. She stared at herself in the mirror while he rummaged through her clothes. She still wore her powdered wig from the theatre, disheveled from Hamlet's final madness, which heightened the pallor of her skin - and the blush spreading across her cheeks. Her breasts were bound, but she was bare from the waist up, and her belly narrowed under her ribs before her hips flared out to fill her breeches.

Ferguson returned, dumping a dress and underthings on the chair beside her. Then he stood behind her, placing a kiss on the nape of her neck as he started to pull hairpins out of her wig.

"Do you intend to be my lady's maid, then?" she asked, her voice coming out in a breathy thread.

"If you are willing to submit to my ministrations," he said. "Or I could ring for Lizzie, but I would have to leave..."