Heiress Without a Cause Read online

  And when her acting career ended, their illicit, stolen time together would end as well.

  “If only I could have more than one dance a night,” he murmured.

  “Do try to be generous,” she said, tapping his arm with her fan in mock reproof. “You cannot go about monopolizing all my time.”

  “Even if we could practice new forms of entertainment?”

  It was an obvious gambit, and her eyes sparkled with laughter. “I do find it easier to learn from an excellent instructor, your grace.”

  He flashed back to the image of her in his carriage, dress open and eyes full of heated wonder. No one in the ton would guess that she was capable of such abandon.

  But he knew. And the more nights he spent with her, the more he doubted his ability to let her go.

  They fell silent. There was nothing more they could say to each other in public that would not give them away. When he held her, though, that silence was a gift. Within their dance, he didn’t have to worry about titles, or the vast estates he had inherited, or the wreckage he had made of his sisters’ lives. There was just Madeleine, and the belief that he could be the man she needed — even though he had failed with everyone else.

  Spending time with her was also turning him maudlin, he thought.

  At least maudlin and lovesick were preferable to bitter and ashamed.

  The dance ended well before he was ready to let her go. She looked up at him, some unreadable look on her face — perhaps her thoughts had taken the same turn as his.

  Then she looked over his shoulder and her gaze turned wary. He swung around, ready to protect her even though the notion of a physical threat in a ballroom was ludicrous.

  “Hello, Ferguson,” Caro said. His former mistress — now Westbrook’s former mistress, he supposed — was dangerously seductive, in a dark blue gown that clung to her like she had been sewn into it. Her blonde hair was piled high on her head and her face was cleverly painted. Despite her fashionable attire, he noticed the hardness beneath her appearance and felt another flicker of guilt.

  She wanted something from him. Whether it was love or revenge, he didn’t know. Either way, he didn’t care to find out with Madeleine on his arm.

  “Lady Greville,” he said. Giving her the briefest possible bow, he fixed his gaze at a point above her head. He wouldn’t cut her — he still wished her happy, after all, even if neither of them had any illusions about love when they were together a decade earlier — but he did not want to give her the slightest bit of encouragement.

  Even without eye contact, he could tell she was startled by his coldness. Still, she pressed on. “I thought I would see you at all the usual haunts. Don’t tell me you’ve become the sober duke your father was? Or, worse, that you’ve taken to your chambers like Richard did in the last year of his... illness?”

  He didn’t like the insinuation, and he met her eyes. “Caro, I’ve no desire to hurt you, but I am no longer the man you knew ten years ago. I do wish you all the happiness you deserve, but I shan’t be the one to provide it.”

  It was an abrupt remark. He didn’t want to waste time on a thinly veiled conversation when one statement could give her the answer she needed. She blanched, and her blue eyes moistened. But just as he thought she might leave, she turned her gaze on Madeleine, who still held Ferguson’s arm. “My apologies for interrupting your time with the duke,” Caro said. “I know how precious these moments must be for one who is desperate to snare a husband.”

  The venom in her tone surprised him. Ten years earlier, he was more than willing to provide the sexual satisfaction she could not achieve with her husband, particularly since her heart was not engaged — but any wildness within her had turned to something darker. “I suggest you leave before you embarrass yourself further, Lady Greville.”

  “Is that why you left London after our affair? You were too embarrassed about being caught in my bed to come back?”

  “You know why I left, Caro. It had nothing to do with you.”

  She tilted her head as though trying to remember, but her glittering eyes never left his face. “Oh, of course — getting caught with me was just the scandal you needed to get your father to banish you. You cared about your freedom more than anything else, even though it nearly destroyed me. If Greville hadn’t died within the year...”

  Caro broke off before revealing what Greville might have done — or what he likely did, when he discovered his young wife in the arms of his best friend’s disreputable son. He had been too much of a coward to call Ferguson out over it, and as far as Ferguson knew, the affair had been hushed up. But just because Greville was a coward with other men did not mean he ignored a disloyal wife.

  She turned back to Madeleine. “You’re not young, Lady Madeleine, and so I understand if you are pinning your hopes on the duke making good with you. But there are worse things than being an ape-leader. Ferguson will show them all to you if you stay with him.”

  “I appreciate your concern over my age and status, Lady Greville, but you need not trouble yourself,” Madeleine said smoothly, ever the actress. “I suggest you take this conversation elsewhere if you don’t have the sense to end it, though. The next dance is about to begin.”

  Caro narrowed her eyes at Madeleine’s astonishing directness. “Have a care, Lady Madeleine. If you let your claws show like that, Ferguson will run off to that mistress of his. What is the name of that girl from Seven Dials? I would wager she’s not even French — probably just a little workhouse rat. Ferguson likes them desperate, after all. And if he does turn into his brother, better that he does it in the slums than in the ballrooms.”

  A small crowd had gathered around them, pretending to prepare for a quadrille, but they all listened avidly. No surprise there — the ton always circled at the slightest hint of blood.

  But everyone was shocked when the earl of Westbrook emerged from the crush to grasp Caro’s elbow. Westbrook was the last man Ferguson expected to see at Caro’s side, particularly at a boring affair such as this one. “You’ve made enough of a show of yourself for one night, don’t you think?”

  Caro tried to pull away from him, but he held her fast. “Leave off, my dear,” he said in a low voice. “This isn’t who you are.”

  She blinked up at him, and the tears she had hidden during her verbal attack came back to the surface. Ferguson watched her soften, saw the girl she had been beneath the woman she had become, and felt something uncomfortably like guilt replace his annoyance.

  Westbrook looked right at Ferguson, his eyes holding a deadly glare. “Stay away from Caroline, Rothwell. You’ve damaged her enough for one lifetime.”

  The earl turned away then, dragging the woman with him. He may have claimed that he wanted to take a new mistress since Caro had left him — but his feelings for her went beyond what he pretended at the theatre. Ferguson never expected to see Westbrook give up his bachelor life, but he seemed ready to throw it away for Caro.

  Madeleine coughed in an artificial way, drawing him back to her. “Can we leave the dance floor?” she whispered.

  The sharks still watched them. He plastered on his most disaffected look. Forcing his features into some semblance of boredom was even harder than talking to Caro. “Shall I procure you some refreshment after that shocking display, Lady Madeleine?”

  She inclined her head, having an easier time of maintaining vacant pleasantry than he did. He escorted her through the throngs, found a glass of champagne — and watched her down it, then a second one, like she was a sailor at the grog barrel.

  He took the empty glasses away and handed them to the startled footman, taking two more glasses from the tray. “Slower this time, Mad,” he said as he gave her another glass. “We wouldn’t want you to choke to death.”

  “At least I wouldn’t have to see Lady Greville again,” she muttered. But she sipped this one — still faster than most ladies would, but not fast enough to raise eyebrows.

  Then she stared at him over the glass, eyes fil
led with questions. The one she asked was not what he expected.

  “How many other women will treat us to a display such as Lady Greville’s?”

  He looked around. They were mostly secluded, still in full sight of the ballroom, but far enough from other guests to talk freely. “Are you asking how many mistresses I’ve had?”

  “Consider it a matter of academic interest. If I’m to chaperone your sisters, I need to know which ladies might cause them trouble.”

  “Is it only academic interest, Mad?”

  She drained her glass and gestured for his, still full in his hand. “I never overindulge, but you have driven me to it,” she said. “And yes, it is only academic interest. Why should I care what kind of man you were in the past?”

  He gave her the fourth glass of champagne. Other than in his carriage, he had never seen her this close to losing her composure. “You seem overwrought.”

  Madeleine waved her glass. “Why would I be overwrought? Your decision to leave that poor woman to face Greville alone while you went about your life in Scotland doesn’t affect me at all. But between that and leaving your family under your father’s thumb, it’s important for me to know who else you’ve disappointed if I shall help your sisters navigate the ton.”

  He didn’t like that she claimed this had nothing to do with her — as though she had no feelings at all for him beyond the assistance he provided. And he especially didn’t like the implications she made about his character. “I was desperate then. I’m not desperate now. And I will not abandon you, Mad, no matter how badly this all turns out.”

  “How many?” she asked, ignoring his excuses. “A handful? A score? Enough to fill this ballroom?”

  “Caro was the only one with whom I parted badly,” he said, sidestepping her request to count his past mistresses. She would run into some of them — it would be impossible not to — but they were all too discreet to mention it in front of her.

  She sighed into her champagne. He could tell from her flushed cheeks that she was already feeling the effects. “I wish I could believe you, Ferguson,” she said softly.

  She turned on her heel and walked toward the chairs along the opposite wall, taking another glass of champagne as she went. She swayed slightly as she walked, no longer steady on her feet, and he watched until she made it safely to her seat. But even though he didn’t want to leave, wanted to tell her he was a different man than everyone thought, he did not follow her. She didn’t want to listen — and she would not be pleased if he drew any more attention to them than Caro already had.

  So he turned on his heel, striding out the door with her condemnation still ringing in his ears. He couldn’t promise her he would never leave her. That would require giving up his dream of returning to Scotland, and he was not prepared to take that step. If he stayed to fulfill his duties, he would inevitably get bound to the dukedom as well — and there would be no freedom for him, despite his power.

  Of course, he could protect her just as easily in Scotland, if Mad agreed to marry him.

  He stood in the cold April night, feeling everything tilt into place. As Sophronia reminded him nearly daily, he would have to marry someday, if only to produce an heir. Madeleine was the perfect candidate — excellent reputation, equally excellent dowry, and a secret rebellious streak that would make his father spin in his grave. If he took her to Scotland and stayed there, he could risk marrying someone he cared for. After all, it would be hard to turn into his father if he never stepped foot on a ducal property again. And Scotland wouldn’t be so dull with a woman like Madeleine at his side.

  All he had to do was convince her that he wasn’t the man the ton saw — and that life as his wife would be a suitable replacement for the theatre.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The next morning, in the breakfast room, Madeleine had a revelation.

  Gin may have been called “blue ruin” by the lower classes, but champagne was the devil’s drink.

  At least she was still feigning her reducing diet to avoid dinner parties. Even the smell of the rasher of bacon on the sideboard made her stomach heave. She nibbled a dry piece of toast, for once grateful that she was confined to bread. She still felt unsettled, though, like the room would start spinning again if she moved her head.

  “Can I bring you anything else, my lady? Kippers, perhaps?” Chilton asked.

  She put her hand to her mouth at the thought. The butler had already given her a once-over when she arrived for breakfast; he must have seen her come home the night before. But the end of the ball was a hazy, champagne-drenched blur, and she did not remember preparing for bed.

  She declined the offer. The unusual good humor on his face suggested that he knew what was wrong with her. Chilton had been a fixture in the house since she arrived in London, and he sometimes betrayed an amused, affectionate nature at odds with his choice of careers. She should have been mortified — but of all the things she had done in the past few weeks, arriving at the breakfast table still suffering from the effects of too much champagne was the least of her sins.

  Aunt Augusta entered the breakfast room, her forehead wrinkled with concern. She did not take a plate from the sideboard; it was well past the time she usually broke her fast. She sat down across from Madeleine and gave her a searching look. “Are you feeling well, my dear? I heard about your encounter with Lady Greville at the ball last night.”

  No doubt everyone had heard about their conversation. A notorious widow confronting a prim spinster about the most eligible bachelor of the season was too juicy to ignore. “Lady Greville said nothing I could not deal with.”

  Her aunt frowned. “Then why were you foxed when we came home last night? I wanted to ask you then, but you were not in any state to answer questions.”

  A wave of nausea hit her, but she couldn’t evade Aunt Augusta’s questioning. “I may have been a bit startled by Lady Greville. The duke sought to calm my nerves and I had more champagne than I intended.”

  “You must have drunk a whole bottle to leave you in the state you were in,” Augusta said. Then her voice softened. “I cannot blame you, though. Lady Greville used to be a sweet woman, but she is not someone I would recommend knowing now.”

  “Then you aren’t angry that I had so much champagne?” Madeleine asked, feeling a little like she was nine years old again, new to England and this house.

  Aunt Augusta laughed. “I’ve had too much champagne before myself. There’s no harm in it occasionally, but you should not do it every night. It would be hard to chaperone Rothwell’s sisters if you develop a reputation for overindulgence.”

  Madeleine did not want the reminder of her responsibilities. She was supposed to go to Rothwell House in a few hours to make plans for their debut, but she was not eager to see the twins if they were still openly hostile.

  Augusta interrupted those thoughts, and her tone snapped Madeleine back to attention. “I do hope you know that if something is troubling you, you may always come to me? You have not seemed yourself in weeks...”

  She trailed off, hoping that Madeleine would open her heart in the silence. Madeleine smiled tightly, nodding her agreement. If she could take Aunt Augusta into her confidence, it would all be easier — but Augusta would never permit her to act, let alone spend time with Ferguson as his supposed mistress.

  Her aunt sighed. “Very well. If I can be of help, though, do let me know? Perhaps you can retire to Lancashire early this summer if you are still bent on avoiding society.”

  It was the kind of reward that Amelia would want, not Madeleine — particularly not when this was the most exciting season she’d ever had. But Augusta didn’t suspect that. “Thank you, Aunt Augusta. I will be fine, I am sure.”

  Her aunt stood, rounding the table to pat her fondly on the head. The gesture usually comforted her, but not this time. If she couldn’t tell the family her secret, she would have to be more careful — with Alex and Augusta both asking questions, it would be even harder to maintain her ruse.
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  Augusta left and Chilton replenished Madeleine’s tea. She sat quietly, hoping that if she sat long enough she might be able to stand again without the room spinning. It took longer than she anticipated and she finally sent Chilton away, earning an impertinent smile from him when she said she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

  But her solitude was soon interrupted again, this time by Amelia. Her cousin sank into the chair Augusta had vacated, and Madeleine noticed how much Amelia’s frown was beginning to match Augusta’s.

  “What happened last night?” Amelia asked. “I’ve never seen you drink so much in a week, let alone at a single event.”

  Madeleine shrugged. Even that movement was too much for her head. “Can we discuss this another time, Mellie? I have the devil’s own headache, and I must somehow recover in time to go to Rothwell House this afternoon.”

  “Should you be spending any more time with the man than you already are?”

  “I likely won’t even see him. I am visiting the twins to discuss their debut.” She paused, not sure she wanted to continue the conversation, but knowing Amelia would whether Madeleine wanted to or not. “But even if I were seeing Rothwell, what does it matter to you?”

  Amelia lowered her voice. “I do not like that your life is in the hands of someone we do not know — someone who has a terrible reputation. Do you not think it is time to tell Alex so he can find a solution that does not involve Rothwell?”

  Even though her encounter with Caro the previous evening had raised doubts about Ferguson’s past, she did not like Amelia’s characterization of him. “That is just like you, isn’t it? You’ve judged him and determined he is not worthy without even a single real conversation.”