Heiress Without a Cause Page 12

  “That is unkind,” Amelia said, her spine stiffening. “He isn’t one of my suitors — he is someone who I fear could really hurt you.”

  “And how does it feel that he is not one of your suitors?” Madeleine asked, her headache driving some malicious desire she couldn’t acknowledge. “Are you jealous that he chose me instead of you?”

  “Jealous? I would sincerely wish you happy if I thought the man would come up to snuff,” Amelia exclaimed. “But men like Rothwell do not change. He could hold this over your head for the rest of your life. You cannot stand against one of the most powerful men in Britain. You need to end this now before anything happens.”

  “He is not as bad as you make him out to be, Mellie. He can be quite amusing and considerate...”

  Amelia cut her off. “He is courting you. Men are always at their best during courtship. But he will turn into what he has always been — a rake. There is a chance he will instead turn into his father, since most men do. But that would be even worse, and neither outcome would make you happy.”

  “He’s not courting me. He is helping me avoid detection so that his sisters are not ruined, nothing more.”

  “I saw the way he looked at you last night,” Amelia insisted. “He has his own interests at heart, not yours. You have to tell Alex everything.”

  “No. If I tell Alex, he will force me to stop, and I am not ready.”

  “Not ready to give up acting, or not ready to break off your relationship with Rothwell?”

  “Acting,” Madeleine replied, even though she suspected the real answer was some combination of the two.

  Amelia wore a defeated look that Madeleine rarely saw on her strong-willed face. “Please do not get caught,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze Madeleine’s hand. “I could not bear it if you were banished.”

  Madeleine watched her leave, not sure if she wanted to hug her or hit her. Amelia had always been the domineering type, but her insistence that Madeleine tell Alex everything was surprising. After all, Amelia had been perfectly willing to support Madeleine’s desire to act before Ferguson became part of her disguise.

  She picked up her tea, realized it was cold, and sighed as she set it down. She was not proud of how she had spoken to Amelia, and for the first time, she truly saw the selfishness of what she was doing. At first, playing Hamlet in male garb was a grand lark — but as the ton discovered the theatre, the stakes rose, and her acting threatened to bring down her entire family. No one had recognized her, and she now doubted that anyone ever would, but there was still a chance someone would discover her.

  And yet even with that risk, she refused to quit, refused to sacrifice the last handful of nights when she could feel the worship of the crowd — and, more than that, feel like she had a life of her own. Those same nights were also her last chance to see the adoration in Ferguson’s eyes as he collected her backstage after each play, to seize the opportunity to kiss him again as they had done in his carriage.

  Selfish or not, she was not ready to give him up.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A few hours later, Madeleine stood outside Rothwell House, wishing she could refuse Sophronia’s invitation to plan the twins’ upcoming debuts. She had barely spared a thought for the girls since the night Ferguson took her as his false mistress. But it wouldn’t be wise to irritate the dowager duchess, even if Madeleine did not want to be a chaperone.

  As she ascended the steps to the imposing front door, she wondered how quickly she could find suitors who would remove the girls from her care. With their dowries and looks, it could be accomplished well before the end of the season. She may not have had success on the marriage mart herself, but she knew how most matches were accomplished. As long as the twins were more amiable than they were during their visit to Salford House, they possessed everything necessary to make brilliant matches.

  The door swung open just as she reached it. An old butler greeted her with the proper degree of deference and led her upstairs to the family wing. As they walked, she was glad her acting abilities covered her fascination — of all the houses she had visited in London, this was perhaps the nicest.

  It felt more like a palace than a house, really. She had been once before, to a ball the old duke and his third duchess gave to celebrate Richard becoming the heir to the dukedom. The timing was odd, since Richard was an erratic man not given to elegant parties, and he was replacing an alcoholic older brother who had drowned in the Serpentine — but the general sentiment was that the duchess had seized on it as an excuse to give a party. After all, there had been little to celebrate since Ferguson’s banishment and Ellie’s disastrous marriage.

  At that party, Madeleine had seen only the ballroom, which was impeccably decorated and could hold nearly five hundred people when opened into the drawing rooms around it. If anything, the rooms on the second floor were even more elegant. Most families devoted all their wealth to the public spaces, but it shouldn’t have surprised her that the old duke cared as much about the private rooms, particularly since he rarely offered entertainments. For a man obsessed with status, and with ready funds available, it made a sort of twisted sense to create lavishly appointed rooms that no one else would see or use.

  They passed through room after gorgeously decorated room — a library, galleries full of family portraits, and several drawing rooms. A fire burned in every grate, and Madeleine could hardly guess the expense of heating every room in a house this size. As with many older houses, there were few passageways. The large rooms all connected to each other, which gave Madeleine the opportunity to see more of the house than she otherwise might have.

  She was distracted from her discreet perusal of the furnishings by the music wafting toward her, becoming more distinct as they progressed. The song began to take shape for her as they walked. It was an old melody, a version of the folk song “Greensleeves,” but as it was played in this house, it sounded like a dirge. The pianoforte was mournful, and the harp had all the cheer of Juliet in her tomb. It was sad music, expertly played, and she guessed that the musicians had spent much time practicing with each other.

  Despite the tone, Madeleine could not remember ever hearing something so beautiful. She didn’t want it to end, and so she was grateful when the butler silently ushered her into the room without the usual announcement. The twins sat at the instruments, facing each other and ignoring everything beyond the bubble created by their music. Sophronia was nowhere to be seen, but Ellie was present. A rapt expression lit her face and temporarily stripped away the veneer of easy humor that Madeleine had seen her display in her own home.

  Whether by coincidence or as a direct reflection of Madeleine’s arrival, the threads of the song slowly rewove themselves. As Madeleine hovered in the doorway, she felt the music change, gain speed, as something more akin to anger entered the melody. The girl at the piano looked grimly at her fingers as they rushed over the keys, while the other twin was nearly on the verge of tears. By the time they brought the piece to a close, Madeleine felt almost like she was under physical attack, even though it surely had nothing to do with her.

  Then they turned to her, and she took an involuntary step back. The looks they gave her matched the music completely — sadness overlaid with hatred.

  Ellie chuckled. “You will have to do better than that in the ton, my dears, unless you want the whole world to know your thoughts.”

  The pianist smoothed her expression first. “Lady Madeleine, what a wonderful honor to receive you,” she said. If her eyes weren’t still filled with anger, she might have sounded sincere.

  Madeleine’s champagne headache pounded back into her consciousness. The urge to turn tail and flee was an almost physical thing. Their talent was impressive indeed to rework the song with their changing emotions, but that didn’t make her feel any better about bearing the brunt of their anger.

  She sternly reminded herself of her role — she was their chaperone, not their friend. “Shall we dispense with the pleasa
ntries and move to the matter at hand?” she asked, taking a seat in the armchair across the teacart from Ellie. “The sooner we can settle on your debut, the sooner I can leave you in peace.”

  They shot her matching looks of resentment, and she didn’t bother trying to hide her sigh. At least she had a night off from the theatre — this could well take all afternoon.

  “Maria and I do not wish to debut,” the pianist declared. “You may take yourself off now that we’ve settled it.”

  So Kate was the angry one and Maria the sad one. “Why do you not wish to debut?” Madeleine asked.

  “We do wish to debut,” Maria said, twisting her fingers in the folds of her black gown. “Just... not yet.”

  “Is it the mourning period?” Madeleine asked gently. “There may be some raised eyebrows for coming out so soon, but everyone knows your circumstances. I do not think many will find fault.”

  Kate snorted. “We would have already left off mourning if we had bought any gowns in the last four years that were not black, grey or lavender. It is the old man’s fault we still have not debuted — we do not miss him.”

  “Then why not come out? If your dancing is as superlative as your music, you will be the sensation of the season. Your poor brother will be inundated with requests for your hands before the first ball even ends.”

  Maria and Kate exchanged looks.

  “If you do not believe me, you should see the other ladies out this year — not a single one could hold a candle to either of you.”

  She wanted to flatter and encourage, if only so she could finish with them and leave, but as Maria’s lip started to tremble, Madeleine knew something was amiss. “Will you tell me what is causing your concern?”

  The twins glanced at each other again, the instinctive gesture of two girls accustomed to having only each other for support. Then it all spilled out — in a torrent of words, interrupting and finishing each other’s sentences, Kate and Maria compared their previous life to the worst sort of prison. All they wanted was a reprieve before being forced to seek out husbands.

  “Did you tell Ferguson this?” Madeleine asked when their words petered out into silence.

  “We tried, but he is just as bad as Father,” Kate said bitterly. “He cares only for settling us quickly so he can return to Scotland.”

  Madeleine felt her face drain of color. Ferguson had never mentioned a desire to return to Scotland — but then, she had no reason to demand his confidences despite the role he played to protect her.

  Ellie noticed her pallor. “Tea, Lady Madeleine? You do not look quite the thing today.”

  Madeleine turned toward the woman, expecting mockery from one who so overtly hated Ferguson, but there was only sympathy on her face. As Ellie poured, she said to the twins, “Our brother is not quite like Father yet, although he shall be someday. I can assure you that he will not arrange your matches just to teach you a lesson. He wants you off his hands, but I doubt he specifically seeks your unhappiness.”

  “Is that what happened with you and Folkestone?” Kate asked, as though a grand mystery had been resolved. “Father never mentioned it, save to say that Maria and I were not under any circumstances to emulate you.”

  Maria gasped at her twin’s directness, but Ellie just laughed. “Good — I hope I made the old devil lose some sleep. My story does not bear repeating, except to say you would be wise to choose a man who can give you the kind of family you want. Ours always seems to find a way to fail you.”

  The words struck home for everyone in the room. The twins were both speechless, stunned by their sister’s blunt wisdom and the anger beneath it. For Madeleine, though, the impact was different. She had spent her life wishing her parents had lived for her, and marriage was the only way to build a family that was hers. No man had ever lived up to that expectation, and she had all but given up hope that it would happen.

  The only man who made her reconsider her spinsterhood was Ferguson.

  And that same man planned to return to Scotland at the end of the season, once again leaving his family behind.

  She sipped her tea to calm her churning stomach. They continued discussing the debut, and she reassured them that she would not pressure them into marriages they did not want. The twins ultimately agreed to debut a month later, giving them time to plan the festivities and also purchase the full wardrobes necessary for their stations.

  Sophronia finally arrived, and the talk devolved into invitations, catering, and remedying the twins’ wardrobes. Through it all, Madeleine’s thoughts kept returning to how they all felt about Ferguson. Their condemnation did not match the man she knew — just as her actions in Seven Dials were far removed from the paragon of virtue the Stauntons saw. She knew better than anyone that blood did not always breed familial loyalty. If it did, her parents would have left France with her rather than giving their lives to her father’s country.

  The evidence pointed to Ferguson leaving London again. Whether it was a stubborn desire to thwart his father from this side of the grave, or the cowardly abandonment that Ellie hinted at, she didn’t know.

  But what if his family was wrong? Could she risk believing that he was really a hero bent on saving her from ruin? Or was ruin inevitable — and would he abandon her the moment she became inconvenient to him?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A week later, Madeleine thought she might emerge from the month-long run of the play with her reputation intact. There was not even a breath of suspicion that Madame Guerrier was not who she claimed to be. The ton was enthralled by the French actress, clamored to see her on stage, and never hinted at an alternative explanation for her identity.

  The constant praise slowly alleviated the fear underscoring every performance. The aristocrats saw what they wanted to see, oblivious to the deception playing out under their collective noses — so oblivious that Madeleine began to wonder if she could maintain the deception forever.

  She said as much to Ferguson as he escorted her into “her” house after yet another standing ovation and no hint of recognition from anyone. “Wouldn’t it be lovely to always live like this?” she asked as Bristow took their coats, hats and gloves.

  Ferguson stalked over to the solitary card on the console table and ripped it in half without opening it. “If Caro doesn’t stop writing to you with dire warnings about my character, I don’t know what I shall do.”

  “At least she’s confining her warnings to Marguerite. She must know that the mistress is in danger where the spinster is not.”

  He paused in front of her, opened his mouth — then clamped it shut as though he had thought better of his statement. Finally, he said, “Do not doubt that my intentions toward you are honorable, Mad.”

  She had no idea what he meant. Did he simply mean that he would not touch her again? He had behaved like a proper gentleman over the past week, even though she wanted him to kiss her again. But as the nights progressed, he grew increasingly agitated, seeking her out at every ball, talking with her as long as he could in their secret house before sending her back to the Stauntons.

  They had talked of all manner of things — books, art, the gossip he missed during his absence. And he listened too, as though her opinions were all he cared to know. She had even told him everything she felt when she was on stage, how the act of performing excited her in a way that nothing else in her life ever had.

  But even though she loved their conversations, she thought Ferguson’s interest had cooled. From what she had heard, a rake never talked to a woman when he could have her in his bed. She started to think that their first carriage ride, when he kissed her breathless, had been just a bit of fun to him — but his talk of “intentions” brought all those feelings rushing back.

  She wanted to know what he meant, but he pulled her forward and they climbed the stairs in silence. If they succeeded in their masquerade, both of them would be free to return to their old lives. A discreet conclusion to her acting career should be her sole goal, particularly since
any further liaison with Ferguson would be impossible.

  In all their conversations, the one topic he never discussed was the future — and he avoided all mention of Scotland. After talking to his sisters, she’d wanted to ask him whether he was staying in London. But she had no claim over him, and she wouldn’t risk revealing the feelings slowly growing in her heart. The thought of a lifetime without ever seeing Ferguson again saddened her more than she cared to admit. And when he inevitably left, she would lose her chance to experience everything Ferguson’s touch had awakened in her.

  It might be worse to know, to ache for those feelings for the rest of her life — but once their month together was over, she might never have the opportunity again.

  So when he swung open the door to her chamber and released her arm, she reached out to him. “Won’t you come in? I have heard it is all the rage for mistresses to allow men to watch their toilettes.”

  His eyebrows slammed together. “Where the devil did you hear that?”

  “I have been in the theatre for weeks, Ferguson. Surely you don’t think me that innocent?”

  It was the wrong thing to say. She recognized the implication immediately. He pushed her into the room, and her waiting maid squeaked in protest.

  Madeleine was too arrested by the fierce gleam in his eyes to spare a thought for Lizzie. “Get out,” Ferguson said, his words directed at the maid even though his gaze never left Madeleine’s face.

  Lizzie disappeared, closing the door behind her. Ferguson broke away and turned the key in the lock. Madeleine heard the bolt slide into the hole with a metallic whisper, amplified in the silent room — a sound that was dangerous and exciting all at once.

  He turned back to her, slipping the key into his coat pocket. “Now, Lady Madeleine,” he said, in a dark drawl that made her flush, “do you care to explain why I am here?”

  She blushed even hotter, ashamed of the desire that tempted her. “You may leave if you wish, your grace,” she whispered.