Heiress Without a Cause Page 6

Ferguson would bet his birthright that whoever Madame Guerrier was, she never seriously considered that actresses usually became mistresses, even if the example of the great Mrs. Jordan and her large brood of royal bastards should have concerned her.

  And if the woman was as naïve as she seemed in the alleyway, she would be wholly unprepared for the onslaught of men who would try to claim her.

  Damn. If only he had kept his mouth shut about the theatre. If the woman wasn’t ruined by the ton discovering her, she would be if Westbrook started sniffing around her skirts.

  Or rather, around her breeches — he looked up just as she sauntered onstage, her lithe legs perfectly showcased in the light. He cursed again under his breath.

  As he glanced at Westbrook, then back to her, a plan began to form. He couldn’t stop the others from wanting her. But he could remove her eligibility as a mistress. All he had to do was get to her first...

  * * *

  Madeleine took another bow, trying to relax in the face of the audience’s acclaim. The applause was thunderous. Even with only two days to print handbills and send out announcements, Madame Legrand had sold out the theatre.

  However, while the applause was gratifying, her stomach knotted up under her waistcoat. She felt like she could barely breathe with the bindings around her breasts. She had learned during intermission just how many members of the ton were in the audience, and the damp, moist air of the playhouse felt like her ruin closing in on her.

  But some secret place, which she would never confess to, was thrilled at her forced return to the stage. In all her years as a debutante, she had never walked into a room and felt — adored.

  Tonight, they adored her. The sound crashed around her, and the stage reverberated under her with the stamping of their boots. At her next ball, she would be Madeleine again, and these same men wouldn’t look at her twice.

  Here, they were at her feet.

  She mentally shook herself as she bowed a final time and left the stage. She was still in danger of being caught and she needed to hurry if she wished to reach Salford House in time for that night’s round of parties. But when she entered the backstage area, a very agitated Madame Legrand greeted her. “Madame Guerrier,” she said, using the pseudonym almost warningly. “The duke from the other night. He’s back here and we can’t get him away. He said he would cause a scene if we tried.”

  Madeleine compressed her lips. How dare he come back here like this? It was yet more grist for Madame’s blackmail — and a temptation Madeleine needed to avoid. “I will send him away,” she said forcefully.

  “It’s not him what I’m worrying over,” Madame said, her accent slipping. “It’s the line of gents outside waiting to see you.”

  “What?” Madeleine demanded.

  “You must be careful — act like you have been in the theatre all your life,” Madame said urgently. “No one will recognize you if you stay in costume, but I forgot what the fancy men will think of a pretty thing like you when you’ve no high-born name to protect you.”

  Madeleine’s blood turned to ice. “I must find Josephine. She will know what to do.” She brushed past Madame, too angry to spare consideration for the woman she once trusted.

  But when she shoved open the door to her dressing room, it was Ferguson who leaned against her wall. Josephine was nowhere to be found. She wanted to rail at him for his presumption, but the dark, dangerous look in his eyes stopped her short.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Saving you,” he said, striding toward her. He looked like he should be bare-chested and holding a dagger, like a Grecian marble come to life and ready to do battle for her.

  Madeleine drew a deep, shuddering breath. He didn’t look like a savior. There was something too primal in the way he stalked toward her, despite the cool perfection of his waistcoat and cravat.

  She started to back away from him. His hand shot out to stop her. “Stay here,” he grated. “It isn’t safe for you to leave alone.”

  Somewhere at the back of the theatre, she heard a shout, followed by the slow tread of a man’s booted feet on the old floorboards. The man was coming closer, but his pace was almost leisurely — as though he did not expect to be denied.

  She shivered. Ferguson’s hand skimmed down her cheek to lift her chin. He looked hard into her eyes, holding her gaze for a long moment, until he made a momentous decision that she could not fathom. Underneath his resolve, she saw the flickering of something deeper she could not name.

  “Trust me, Madeleine,” he whispered.

  She gasped as he used her real name, too shocked to argue.

  And then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The heat of his kiss, the firm pressure of his arms wrapped around her shoulders, and the wildfire of fear from the encroaching footsteps threatened to burn her. She tried squirming away from him, but he kept her trapped against him. So she kicked his shin, and she felt him flinch as her foot made gratifying contact with bone.

  But just as she thought he might let her go, she heard the door open behind her. The sound of those booted feet coming to a stop froze her in Ferguson’s arms.

  Holding her like she was a racing trophy, he looked over her head at whoever had entered behind them. “She’s a feisty lass, isn’t she?”

  She tried to turn, but he draped his arms around her shoulders, a prison disguised as affection. Behind her, she heard a man drawl, “Indeed. I do hope you are prepared to give her up, though.”

  “Give her up? You are better acquainted with me than that, Westbrook.”

  Madeleine sucked in a breath. The earl of Westbrook’s name was whispered in the ton — more often around her now that she was on the shelf — but he did not frequent the debutante-rich circles Madeleine moved in.

  She turned around to face him. It was stupid, but they had never spoken, so the chance he would recognize her was small. Westbrook was quite handsome, in a sinister way, with a physique and complexion not yet devastated by drink. He had dark hair that swept back from his face, and grey eyes that would be lovely when warm — but now, as they stared uncompromisingly at Ferguson, they were cold and intimidating.

  He was accustomed to getting what he wanted. And what he wanted now was Madeleine as his mistress.

  She might have found it funny if her situation weren’t so dire. Ferguson, however, was unamused. He took charge again, sitting in her dressing chair and pulling her down onto his lap. She landed with a muffled gasp, her legs falling astride his thigh, her back pressed to his chest, and his arms quite proprietarily encircling her waist.

  He kissed the side of her neck, right over the vein, and she was surprised to discover how sensitive she was there. She arched her neck unconsciously, then realized that Westbrook, still watching from the doorway, would think she wanted more.

  Westbrook’s grey eyes glittered. Madeleine felt utterly out of her depth.

  “Madame Guerrier, I assure you that you would be more secure under my protection,” he said, with all the calm of a man conducting a business arrangement. “Ferguson — Rothwell now, I suppose — has been out of London for nearly a decade, and I doubt he will remain for any length of time. You should think about which of us is better placed to support you.”

  He sounded like he had negotiated with mistresses for years. There was a lot about the demimonde she did not know. But she suspected his argument would sway a high-flying courtesan.

  Ferguson cut her off before she could answer. “How does the lovely Lady Greville feel about this?” he asked, his lips still grazing over Madeleine’s throat.

  The earl waved a hand and his onyx signet ring flashed in the candlelight. “Not that I should like to admit this, but it is the lady’s decision to end our arrangement. If she no longer wants me in her bed, I see no reason to delay finding a new companion.”

  Ferguson’s lips pulled away from her and she felt his arms tighten. “I do hope you are not leaving Caro out
in the cold.”

  Westbrook laughed bitterly. “My dear Caroline can shift for herself better than any of us. But I forgot all about your connection with her — it was your precipitous flight from her bed that sent you off to Scotland in disgrace, was it not?”

  Madeleine’s head snapped up at that. Westbrook met her eyes. “I did not intend to offend you with this nonsense, Madame Guerrier,” he said silkily. “But you should know what you are signing up for if you choose to align yourself with Rothwell.”

  “You are no saint yourself, Westbrook,” Ferguson said. He sounded calm, but she could feel his legs tense beneath her as though preparing for a fight.

  Madeleine was drowning in this conversation, and there was nowhere that offered safe purchase. Ferguson had behaved abominably by kissing her without so much as a by-your-leave, and apparently his illicit connections from ten years earlier still haunted him — but Westbrook had a reputation as a dangerous predator. Worse, he was a wealthy, titled predator, which made him nearly unstoppable. Without Ferguson there, he may have already carried her off. Josephine had disappeared, but neither she nor Madame could have saved Madeleine from Westbrook without giving her name away.

  Westbrook turned his gaze back to her. “So, Madame Guerrier, I must ask why you are throwing yourself away on Rothwell. Even leaving aside the rumors about his brothers, the whole ton knows that he has turned his back on London life. If you choose him, you will find yourself out on the streets within the month.”

  “Did you offer Lady Greville the same security?” Madeleine asked. She had never played the role of a hardened mistress — but in for a penny, in for a pound.

  “Caro got what she wanted out of our arrangement, which is more than I can say for what she got from Rothwell.”

  She wasn’t ready to forgive Ferguson for taking command, but she couldn’t express interest in Westbrook just to get revenge. And since Ferguson had guessed her true identity, she could not risk offending him. So she murmured, “I am flattered by your offer, my lord, but my understanding with his grace is of longer duration.” Ferguson squeezed her, and despite the distracting nuzzling at her neck, she was glad that he was at her back.

  Westbrook was shocked for a single second, but he smoothed his face and put his hat back on his head. “You wound me, Madame Guerrier. But I am quite particular in my tastes. No doubt Rothwell will end this soon — or you will end it yourself, if he proves dangerous. If you find yourself wanting a new companion, I am at your service.” He kissed her hand, gave a curt nod to Ferguson, and took his leave.

  Madeleine leaned back into Ferguson’s chest, not knowing how tense she had been until Westbrook left the room. Talking to Westbrook in the ton could have caused a scandal for an unwed almost-spinster. Accepting his kiss while sitting in Ferguson’s lap made her feel like she was already ruined.

  She listened to him walk away, and her rage rushed back with every step. As soon as she heard the stage door close in the distance, Madeleine sprang to her feet. “Are you mad?” she shrieked. “What in the world are you doing?”

  Ferguson put a finger on her lips. But after his autocratic possession of her body in front of Westbrook, she was in no mood for his control.

  She opened her mouth and bit him.

  “Bloody hell,” he swore, jerking his hand back. “What was that for?”

  “Don’t shush me like a child! I deserve an answer for what just happened.”

  “And you shall have all the answers you want as soon as we’re in my coach,” he said, opening the door to check their surroundings. “But unless you want the whole theatre to hear our discussion — and there will be a discussion — I suggest you accept my shushing and come with me.”

  She wanted to bite him again, but she knew he was right. He took her arm and ushered her out of the dressing room, pulling her toward the back door. “There may be more outside. Act like you haven’t a care in the world.”

  She glared at him. “I was not born yesterday, Ferguson. If anyone gives us away, it will not be me.”

  He grinned. “You may be the most vexing mistress I’ve ever had.”

  Madeleine sucked in a breath as her fury renewed itself, but they were out of the theatre and into the alley. Several men, all vague acquaintances from the ton, loitered as the glowering doorman watched them. Someone had given him a cudgel, and no one else appeared eager to storm the theatre.

  “Madame Guerrier!” they cried with one voice. In the darkened alleyway, she should have been afraid — but there remained that fascinating feeling that she was in control, not them. She suddenly understood the Caesars of the world, perhaps better than any woman of her station could.

  “You are all too late, gentlemen,” Ferguson said.

  Their acclaim turned to disappointment. “Rothwell?” one man said. “I see you’ve lost no time in finding a new mistress.”

  He shrugged. “I must keep up appearances.”

  “Damned expensive bauble,” another observed. “You could have just bought a new horse and been done with it.”

  Madeleine couldn’t keep herself quiet. They discussed her like she was a commodity, and seeing how men spoke about women when there were no ladies present annoyed her. “I am worth more than a horse, I assure you,” Madeleine said, slipping back into her French accent for the crowd.

  “And much more fun to ride,” Ferguson drawled, pulling her closer to him.

  The men roared. Madeleine blushed, wishing she could have controlled her surprise, but Ferguson’s ribald comment caught her unawares. Was this what it was to be a courtesan — an object for entertainment?

  The crowd was still laughing, some of them shouting suggestions for Ferguson’s future happiness with his new mistress. She may have liked their adoration from the safety of the stage, but in the alley, their desires felt dangerous. She was glad she couldn’t remember any of their names. It would be bad enough seeing them in the ton, let alone knowing which wives or fiancées they were ignoring in favor of her.

  “When he tires of you, Madame Guerrier, I wouldn’t mind taking you for a ride myself!” yelled one of the men, sounding drunker than the rest.

  Three offers of carte blanche in one night — it must be a record for a spinster of her status. She waved a hand. “Rothwell will not cast me off yet, will you, cher?”

  He started to speak, but she brushed her fingers over his lips. “Don’t tell me here,” she said with a wink. “You can tell me in the carriage.”

  Ferguson scowled at her, displeased by her mimicry, and pulled her fingers away from his mouth to thread them through his. He tugged her away from the crowd, guided her around the corner to his waiting coach, and lifted her in before settling across from her. The coach lurched forward without him giving a direction. Where in all of London could he take her while she looked like this?

  And what would he do with her when they reached their destination?

  But before she could ask, he exploded.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “What in the devil were you doing?” he yelled.

  “What in the devil was I doing?” she asked, her temper flaring to match his. “I was merely making the best of the situation you forced me into. You, on the other hand, have gone mad! And now I’m trapped in a carriage with you, bound for an unknown destination, and you ask what I was doing?”

  He leaned forward until his face was mere inches from hers. In the flickering lamplight of the coach, he looked grim but determined. “If I had not intervened tonight, you could be in a coach with Westbrook right now — and you would like that much less, I assure you.”

  “I could have dealt with Westbrook,” Madeleine said.

  “Bollocks,” Ferguson retorted, leaning back into the red velvet seat. “He would have had you out of those breeches before you launched a protest.”

  His comment reminded her of her costume — and his lingering caresses in her dressing room. She crossed her legs uncomfortably. “You paint such a picture of my honor. Do you think that be
cause I am an actress, and not the paragon of virtue chaperoning your sisters, I must be ripe for the taking?”

  It was Ferguson’s turn to shift. “Not at all. I just know how rakes like Westbrook act when presented with a challenge.”

  “Because you act the same?” she asked sweetly.

  She had backed him into a corner. He scowled in response. “This isn’t about me. This is about you, and the ruin from which I am trying to save you. Which, let me remind you, I must save you from — you are associated with my sisters, and I cannot let you be ruined.”

  “And your brilliant plot to save me from ruin is to make me your mistress?”

  “It is the only way. I saw the men in the theatre. If your actress does not have a protector, half the men there are willing to do the honors.”

  “So in the time you spent sending away Josephine, bribing the doorman, and arranging whatever else it took to make this plan, you couldn’t have just hired a dozen men from the nearest pub to guard the door?”

  His mouth opened and shut several times, as though he thought better of every defense he might have offered. Finally, he recovered his resolve. “This is still the better plan,” he said. “Even when I am not at the theatre, you needn’t worry about another man backstage if they know you belong to me. But it is my fault you are so close to being discovered by the ton — and I intend to guard you until the last performance.”

  “Why should I not just ask Alex to guard me?”

  “Given how well you’ve kept this secret so far, I suspect he does not know. Do you really want to tell him?” Ferguson asked.

  She paused, then gave the tiniest shake of her head.

  Ferguson smiled, looking just as predatory as Westbrook. She wondered if the two of them were really so different — if Ferguson had lived in London for the past decade, would he be as hardened as the earl?

  He leaned in again. “As far as I am concerned, your reputation is my responsibility now. The sooner you accept that, the easier a time we will have of it.”

  Madeleine arched a brow. “That is quite a bold statement.”