Heiress Without a Cause Page 9

  “I still do not think I shall be discovered,” she said. “Ferguson only caught me because he followed my coach to our house, not because he recognized me outright. He will arrange things so no one else may follow me here, and my secret should stay safe.”

  “You have to tell Alex,” Amelia insisted. “He could put an end to all of this, or at least make sure Rothwell’s protection isn’t necessary.”

  Madeleine hesitated just a bit too long. “Methinks the lady doth protest too little about ‘Ferguson’s’ involvement in her affairs,” Prudence snickered.

  Prudence had always had the most shocking sense of humor, at odds with her dry interest in the ancient world. Madeleine did not appreciate it now, particularly not with Amelia’s gaze weighing on her. “I am not concerned about ending Ferguson’s involvement,” she lied. “But Alex would put an end to my time at the theatre. I am not sure I am willing to give up these last few weeks prematurely.”

  It was the same reason she hadn’t told Ferguson that she was being forced to continue acting — if anything, he was even more likely than Alex to take drastic measures to ensure her safety, with or without her consent.

  Amelia looked stunned. “You would rather risk being sent away forever than stop acting at Madame Legrand’s? You didn’t ask for this — the woman forced you into it. Why is continuing so important to you?”

  “You know why,” Madeleine said, feeling a kick of anger that matched Amelia’s temper. “You can hide behind a male name to publish your books and Prudence can pretend to be male in her letters, but I cannot act without going out in public. It isn’t fair for you to deny me that when you can still do everything you please with your own art.”

  She stood then, setting her teacup onto the cart with a dangerous amount of force. “If you will excuse me, I believe I shall rest until it is time to attend the Leynham affair tonight. I will do my best not to cause a scandal before then.”

  Her cousin tried to call out to her as she left, but she didn’t want to hear the words. She walked as fast as she dared up the stairs to her room, locking herself in against any attempts Amelia might make to gain entrance.

  She lay down fully clothed on the counterpane and stared up into the canopy over her bed. She had not told the entire truth to Amelia and Prudence — but she knew she could not, not after seeing Amelia’s reaction to what she did share. It was true that she did not want to stop acting, but she had feigned a carelessness toward Ferguson that was the opposite of how she felt.

  Even though she knew better, knew that both her reputation and her heart were in danger, she was not ready to cut ties with Ferguson. Once their masquerade was over, he would have no reason to pay attention to an orphan with passable looks, and he didn’t need any of the riches that would come from marrying her. He had a title to think of now, even if he didn’t seem to want it. Eventually, he would put his duty above his feelings. While it wouldn’t cost him his life, unlike her father’s convictions, it would force him to marry an appropriate lady — and he could reach higher than her, both for rank and fortune.

  Until then, though, the next few weeks might be the only time she would ever feel adored — by the ton, by the audience, by the duke who promised to save her.

  She just had to hope a few weeks would be enough.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  That night, Madeleine wished she could have attended anything but Lady Leynham’s ball. The woman was a notorious skinflint and the refreshments were dreadful — the ham was even thinner than at Vauxhall, if that was possible, and the lemonade tasted as though it had made only the briefest acquaintance with the rind of one fruit before being delivered to the ballroom.

  Her stomach rumbled under her blue and cream striped ball gown. She sighed and eyed the buffet, but the footmen must have been trained to handle people of her hungry ilk. She had already eaten four sandwiches, and they avoided her gaze so that they would not have to offer her another one.

  If her reputation survived the month, the reducing diet she feigned to throw Aunt Augusta off the scent might still kill her.

  She scanned the ballroom, realizing after her eyes were already moving that she was searching for a particular shade of burnished hair amongst all the blondes and brunettes. Ferguson would never attend a ball such as this. Even if he did attend, he would not express more than passing interest in her when she was in her spinster garb.

  But she still wanted to see him. And she still had enough sense to be scared by the impulse to find him.

  Alex strode up to her, catching her as she surveyed the trays again. “There’s no harm in having a sandwich,” he remarked as he joined her. “Those little things look like they’ve been reduced themselves.”

  Madeleine laughed as she saw one of the footmen bite back a grin. “Don’t you have better things to do than keep us poor females company?”

  “It does Mother good to see me at these functions occasionally. If she thinks I might stumble into wedlock on my own, she only mentions it once a week instead of once a day. The same would be true for you if you weren’t avoiding the ton so assiduously.”

  His tone was still light, but his dark eyes were serious. “The ton does not amuse me as it used to.”

  “I can’t say I blame you. But is anything else amiss? You haven’t dropped by my study in weeks.”

  She read there occasionally, a habit she had continued since childhood, when Uncle Edward’s presence was sometimes enough to keep her nightmares at bay. But she couldn’t do it now, not when she was deceiving Alex so thoroughly.

  “Everything is fine,” she said. “I just feel less eager to play the social games this season.”

  “If anything is wrong, promise you’ll tell me?”

  She nodded, unable to say the lie aloud.

  “Then if you’ll forgive my desertion, I think I shall escape to White’s. I will think of you with pity while I take my supper there.”

  His remark merited a swift retort, but she froze when she saw the man who appeared behind him. Ferguson leaned against a pillar, wearing cool, unrelenting black, with his arms crossed like an impatient warrior. He stared directly at her, a man who didn’t care that the gossips tracked his every glance.

  Madeleine regained her senses just enough to laugh at Alex’s jest, but her eyes were still locked on Ferguson’s. Everything else fell away — the music faded, the bright silk and velvet gowns dimmed in the candlelight, the hum of conversation disappeared, and even the feel of Alex’s lips brushing against her gloved hand in parting failed to register.

  Alex pulled her back into reality with a shake of her shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t need to eat something? You are as pale as a sheet.”

  She waved a hand. “No, go to White’s. I shall survive another hour.”

  “Let me take you to Amelia,” he said, turning to take her arm. It was only then that he saw Ferguson still leaning against the pillar.

  “Surely you aren’t in such a state over him?” he asked, his voice dropping into an incredulous whisper.

  She shook her head, more to clear the thudding of her heart than to answer his question. Ferguson pushed himself away from the pillar and strode toward them. She felt Alex’s grip tighten on her arm. Her sober cousin would not like the type of man Ferguson had been.

  “Lady Madeleine, a pleasure to see you again,” Ferguson said, kissing her hand. She had barely noticed when Alex did it, but the ritual gesture from Ferguson was enough to awaken something in her blood. She curtsied for him, and for the first time, the dip felt like a seduction.

  “Salford,” he continued, turning to her cousin. “Do you mind if I steal Lady Madeleine for this dance? You surely see enough of the fair lady at home.”

  Alex didn’t look happy, but he couldn’t say no — not when Madeleine had already pulled away from him. He stalked off without saying goodbye, headed straight for the exit as though he needed to leave before changing his mind.

  Madeleine thought it unfair of Alex to judge Ferguson fo
r actions that happened a decade earlier, but she forgot her cousin as Ferguson took her hand and tucked it into his arm. She felt his muscles beneath the fine, smooth cloth of his jacket and she wondered again how he had become so hard.

  “Thank God I found you,” he said as they skirted the dancers who awaited the first strains of the waltz. “I was in no mood to come here and discover you already gone.”

  “Is everything all right, your grace?” she asked.

  “Do not call me your grace,” he bit out. Then he saw her face and softened his tone. “I’m sorry, Mad, but I’ve no wish to be reminded of what I have inherited.”

  His tone was bitter. She speculated that he was upset about more than just the title. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

  Ferguson looked out over the crowd. “Not here. I would take you out to the garden, but I doubt we could escape undetected.”

  He was right. Too many speculative eyes tracked their progress through the ballroom, looking for any indication of an understanding forming between them — or of the moody, unstable brooding his older brother had exhibited. “Can you tell me tomorrow?”

  “There is nothing to tell,” he said, with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Merely boring family business. Would you care to dance? I think we can waltz without giving the harpies too much to sink their talons into.”

  Madeleine laughed as he pulled her onto the floor. The rhythm came easily for them and she forgot her hunger as a different kind of need slowly worked through her. She relaxed into him, simply enjoying the feel of his arms around her. That belief that everything would come out perfectly stole over her again, and she was struck by how safe she felt with him — as though he could protect her from anything.

  “Do you think I shall ever see your hair as it really is?” he asked.

  “What?” she asked dumbly, startled out of her dreamlike state.

  “Your hair. I’ve only seen it in a wig, or pulled up tight under one of these awful caps. Do you think I shall see it in all its glory?”

  It was a dangerous question. “The proper response would be ‘no,’ of course.”

  “Of course,” he said. “But even though I knew I would be seeing the spinster tonight, I could not stay away. You are the only reason I came out. If not for hope of seeing you, I would have remained shut up in Rothwell House, cursing my inheritance.”

  “I am pleased that you wished to see me,” she said, keeping her voice cool. She wasn’t ready to admit that she had hoped he would attend as well. “I do wonder if it was an intelligent desire.”

  That statement made his head snap up. “You would prefer not to see me?”

  “No, definitely not,” she said hastily. “But the way the gossips watch us when we dance — it is bringing me a type of renown I’ve never had before. Renown that, I might add, I would rather not have while handling my current... difficulty.”

  “So you want to keep me in a box and just bring me out when you need me?”

  All lightness was gone from his voice, sucked away and replaced by something far darker. She sought out his eyes, trying to reassure him, but he kept them focused over her head. “Ferguson, it isn’t like that. I must have a care for my reputation.”

  “And that reputation will be made worse by dancing a single waltz with a duke in a full, well-lit ballroom?”

  She stopped talking then, unable to think of anything that could explain her position without angering him further. When he phrased things as he did, it did seem like she was using him for her own gain — something that no one had ever been able to accuse her of before. It wasn’t her intention, but that did not make his feelings on the matter any less real.

  When the waltz came to a halt, he bowed over her hand. She started to pull away, eager to escape to the other spinsters, but he held her firm in his grasp. “Mad, I’m sorry. I did not come here tonight to start a fight.”

  “Then why did you come, Ferguson?”

  “You,” he said. “Regardless of what you’re wearing or where you are, I wanted to see you. And now that I have, I shall take my leave.”

  He strode away then, moving through the crowd without a backward glance, acknowledging others’ greetings with just enough of a pause to avoid causing mortal offense. He reached the door before she even remembered to close her mouth.

  “You are more attractive when you do not look like a gaping fish,” someone said beside her.

  She turned and found Sophronia, duchess of Harwich, staring at her with undisguised interest. She liked the old woman, despite her tongue. “Thank you for the reminder, your grace.”

  “If you become my niece, you won’t be able to stand about looking confused,” Sophronia said. “Not that anyone would blame you. Ferguson is one of the more confusing men in my acquaintance.”

  “Whyever do you think I would become your niece? Ferguson hasn’t the slightest interest in me, I’m sure.”

  Sophronia swatted her with her reticule. “Do not play dense with me, young lady. Everyone in London just saw him come to this ball, drag you out of the crowd, dance with you once, and leave. What other sign of interest do you need? A proclamation written in his own blood and read by the lord chamberlain?”

  “I have always appreciated your imagination, your grace. It is quite a gift,” Madeleine said drily.

  “I do hope the boy is intelligent enough to offer for you and you have enough sense to accept,” Sophronia said, ignoring Madeleine’s last sentence. “You have more to recommend you than most of the other fools of your generation. It is a shame that he seems taken with that actress in Seven Dials, but then, men will be men. Don’t let the gossip about her bother you. He knows he has to make a proper match, and a common strumpet like her isn’t it.”

  Madeleine choked back her laugh. “I will remember, your grace.”

  Sophronia walked away, no doubt to torment someone else. Still, her conversation had given Madeleine two important bits of information.

  First, everyone knew that Ferguson had taken Madame Guerrier as his mistress. If the duchess of Harwich felt comfortable discussing it with the woman she thought would be Ferguson’s future wife, then everyone else in the ton knew too.

  Second, and more alarming, Sophronia thought Ferguson would offer for Madeleine. Regardless of how she felt when she was with him, she absolutely did not want to be a duchess. Being dependent on Alex was one thing. Being the inferior bride of a duke was quite another.

  But if she was a topic of conversation within the ton, people would be looking for her at social events — and would notice that she was routinely absent. A girl who hoped to land a duke would not spend half her evenings quietly at home.

  Which meant that, regardless of why he had sought her out, Ferguson had just made their masquerade more difficult.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After he left the ball, Ferguson went to White’s. Not that he wanted to socialize — he still didn’t intend to stay in London, and so didn’t want to waste time either rehabilitating his reputation or gambling with his old cronies. But after hearing Madeleine’s concerns, he realized that he needed to reenter society. It was vitally important to hear any rumors about her when they first arose, if only so he could try to change their course.

  He examined his surroundings as he entered. His shoulders tensed, and he felt like he was walking into a battle, but he maintained his usual poise. White’s was still the same club he had known ten years earlier. Ferguson supposed that they must have reupholstered chairs and refurbished rooms, but the atmosphere was the same — the same sodding aristocrats playing cards and placing wagers.

  The only change that mattered was that his father no longer presided over the older Tories, gathered as always in one corner of the main room. Their gazes were calculating, either wondering how to curry his vote in the Lords or betting on how long it would be before he snapped like Richard had. He felt like he had returned to his first days at Eton. He felt too young for a dukedom, and his thick red hair made
him an outcast in this bastion of English society. Thank God it had darkened as he grew older — but in moments like this, he felt ten again, and utterly out of place. He hadn’t belonged at Eton initially either, but he learned how to manage, using his fists when he couldn’t humor his way out of a problem.

  Those same fists had earned him his name. The boys had called him Avenel, his father’s surname — and the first act of rebellion in his life was to abandon his father’s name and demand to be called by his mother’s. Even the teachers gave in, until his father was the only one in the world whose mind he couldn’t change.

  Fists wouldn’t help him now, particularly not if everyone was waiting to see him lose control. He could try humor, but he held little hope for success. Most of the peers were braggarts, dullards, or popinjays, and the remainder were too stiff with protocol or too wasted by drink. That left the smarter rakes, like Westbrook, or the sober, intelligent lords like Alex Staunton. Neither of those groups would be charmed by Ferguson’s drawled quips.

  Speaking of the devil — he heard Madeleine’s cousin hail him. He felt that childish flare of hope that someone might want to befriend him despite everything — but when he turned, the man was bearing down on him with the look of a sea captain about to keelhaul a sailor.

  “Rothwell,” Alex said again. He was the earl of Salford now, having inherited sometime after Ferguson left; relearning titles and names alone could take Ferguson an entire season. “Would you be so kind as to spare me a moment of your time?”

  “At your service, old man,” Ferguson said in a jovial tone that made Salford grit his teeth. He shut down the desire for friendship and seized the initiative. “You’re not still sore over that widow from so many years ago, are you? I saved you a great deal of trouble by winning her, if you must know.”

  Salford’s face turned even more forbidding as he steered them into a private room. “I see the past decade has not improved your comportment, your grace.”

  “I thought you were an art collector, not a Puritan,” Ferguson retorted. “Will you be calling in the ghost of old Cromwell to read me my sins?”