Scandalous Again

by Christina Dodd

  He let her pummel him with her fists, rock on him until he lost his mind and his patience. He grasped her hard, moved her on him. Up and down, hard and fast, thrusting and moving until his seed spurted from him, making real his claim on her.

  This time, this time she had made a promise. This time, she meant it.

  This time, she would never leave him.

  Gabriel held an exhausted Madeline against his chest. Slowly, his hand passed over her back, rubbing her in glorious appreciation. He hadn’t liked letting her take the lead, but his restraint had made his reward all the sweeter.

  He heard—felt—as she took a long breath of recovery. Without lifting her head, she kissed his neck. “I love you. I love you so much.”

  Ah. That was just what he wanted, needed, to hear. He hugged her tighter.

  “I swear to you, I’m yours. No matter what happens in the future, I’ll always be yours.” She flung her arms wide. “I am the duchess of Magnus. A duchess of Magnus never breaks her vow. I am yours to command.”

  “You swear?”

  Placing her hand over his heart, she said, “That is my solemn vow.”

  The dreadful tension in him relaxed a little. She truly understood now. She comprehended what he needed. What they both needed.

  She asked, “Will you marry me?”

  He stiffened. She had asked him to be her husband. That wasn’t right.

  Then he realized he suffered from affronted masculinity, and he chuckled at this reversal of roles. He had asked her last time; perhaps it was justice that she ask him now. Lifting her head, he gazed into her eyes. “I would be honored to be your husband. It’s a role I’ve been waiting to play for four long years.”

  She must have seen something in his countenance that gave her pause. “We can put the past aside, can’t we?”

  “We will.” They must.

  With wobbly dignity, she stood, then backed away so he, too, could stand. “I’ll do everything for you. You’ll live like a king of old, with servants to do your every bidding, a castle or two, London in the spring, hunting in the fall. . . .”

  Uneasiness crept over him. “Sounds delightful. What would I do?”

  “Enjoy the wife who adores you and obeys your every wish.”

  “That’s doing it up a little brown.” He stood, also, and drew on his trousers. “I want to marry you, Madeline, not some stranger who resides in your body and fulfills my every wish.”

  She bowed to him as the maidens in the harem must have done to their master. “There. You see? You told me what you wished and I will obey you. I won’t fulfill your every wish.”

  “That’s better,” he said with some humor. Yet something was still not right. He pulled on his shirt and watched as she sprawled in the chair he had abandoned. “Maddie.”

  She rested her head against the back of the chair and smirked at him, to all appearances a woman sated and happy. “Yes, my love?”

  Pressing his palms on either side of her face, he leaned toward her. “It’s more urgent than ever that you leave now.”

  “I can’t do that.” Her smile lingered as if his anxiety were not important. As if he exaggerated the danger. “I can’t leave you to do this alone.”

  Again that uneasiness swept through him. “You’ll distract me.”

  “I’ll help you. I’m really quite formidable, especially when I know I have you behind me.”

  Softly, he answered, “I have you behind me.”

  She laid her hands over his. “We’re behind each other. When we’ve got this situation cleaned up, I’ll go to London, rescue Eleanor and explain everything to Mr. Knight—”

  “You will?”

  “Then we’ll send our announcement to the Times. I think I can have the wedding arranged in less than six weeks.”

  Now he knew what was wrong. Now he understood. He was marrying Madeline, the woman of fire and hidden passion . . . who cared for everything and everyone that was hers, because she didn’t dare trust anyone else to do so. He straightened. “Do I understand this correctly? All you want is a man who’s there when he says he will be, who’ll do what he says he’ll do, who’ll keep his wedding vow till death do us part.”

  “Yes.” She could barely breathe for joy.

  “A man you can rely on.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got one. Me.”

  She cocked her head, not comprehending his trepidation, not anticipating his ultimatum.

  “But you’re afraid that if you do try to lean on me, I’ll step away and you’ll fall on your face. It’s what happened with your father, time and again.”

  At the mention of her father, her expression changed from carefree contentment to guarded unease. “No, I don’t rely on Papa.”

  “Yet you still carry the bruises from the times you tried.”

  She stood, adjusted her gown, pressed at the wrinkles with the palms of her hands. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

  He knew very well she did understand. She just didn’t want to face the truth. “So you ran away from me rather than stay and see if I could hold up for the long run, and now . . . now you say you’re mine, but you’re still holding back.”

  She answered too quickly. “I’m not!”

  He went after her, cornered her, when it would have been so much easier to just let the matter go. “Tell me, Madeline, what tasks will you trust me with at your estate?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shall I take over the responsibility of paying the servants?”

  “Well . . . no, I do that. I’ve got a system worked out.” She essayed a troubled smile, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. “There’s no need for you to bother yourself.”

  He pressed her harder. “Shall I buy the Twelfth Night presents for everyone? I’ll make a list and take care of the matter.”

  “I always have that planned months in advance. There’s no reason for you to—”

  “Bother myself. I know.”

  She backed away as if he were a wolf and she a defenseless sheep.

  “Look at you,” he said softly. “Every guard has been raised. You’ve got your arms crossed across your belly and your brow is puckered. I’ll wager your stomach hurts.”

  “I . . . just . . .”

  He had almost believed her. For one brief, shining moment, he thought he’d achieved his dream—and his disappointment made him savage. Made him honest. “Everyone thinks you’re so strong and self-confident, but inside you’re a frightened child, waiting to suffer betrayal again from those who should love you most.”

  “That’s not what I’m like!”

  “I want everything, Madeline. Your heart, your soul, your thoughts, your dreams . . . I want to know you. I want to be with you. I want you to trust me.” Coming to her, he kissed her forehead. “Come back when you can give me, not just your glove, but your hand.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  All Madeline had to do was make her way back to her bedchamber. Putting one foot in front of the other, she concentrated on thinking of nothing.

  She met one of the Misses Greene; she smiled and nodded, forgetting that, as a companion, she should curtsy. Miss Greene stared, but didn’t speak. Perhaps Madeline’s expression was peculiar. Maybe she wobbled as she walked. She didn’t know. She didn’t care.

  She met Lady Tabard, who told her that Thomasin had gone to her bedchamber after hearing the good news. “This very afternoon, before Lord Tabard could enter the game, Lord Hurth begged leave to ask Thomasin for her hand in marriage. There. What do you think of that?”

  Madeline stared dully at Lady Tabard, then realized she should offer her congratulations.

  Before she could speak, Lady Tabard cut her off. “Lord Tabard told her, and she didn’t behave badly at all. She’ll accept, I think. I really think she will. Surely she’ll realize the great honor he has done her—and Lord Tabard says he’s incredibly wealthy and will be a marquess on his father’s death. Yes, this will put her off her infatuat
ion with Jeffy, I’m sure. It’s what I’ve always wanted for her.” Lady Tabard grasped Madeline’s hand. “Lord Tabard and I are cognizant of our debt to you, dear Miss de Lacy. It is through your efforts this wonderful opportunity has arisen. I have told Lord Tabard that we shall give you an extra day off next month.”

  Madeline didn’t truly understand why this woman was gushing, barely recalling Hurth and Thomasin and the whole wretched matchmaking mess.

  Lady Tabard added hastily, “And an increase in your wages, of course. We don’t want to lose Thomasin’s new companion!”

  Giving a dry sob, Madeline pulled away. “Excuse me.” Making her way to the bedchamber, she shut the door behind her and began to collapse, her back sliding against the wall.

  She heard a snuffling from the bed, and froze. Of course. Lady Tabard said that Thomasin was in here. Madeline stared at the weeping lump flung across the counterpane. It would seem Thomasin wasn’t happy about receiving a marriage proposal. Or perhaps she had some other silly problem that afflicts eighteen-year-olds.

  Madeline would be expected to provide sympathy. She didn’t think she could.

  Lifting her head, Thomasin stared at Madeline. In a voice husky with weeping, she asked, “What’s . . . wrong?”

  The way Thomasin looked, miserable, yet concerned, took Madeline by surprise. The compassion overset her, and she blurted, “I have to get out of here. Lord Campion just . . . just . . .”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  Madeline shook her head.

  “Did he yell at you? No, you wouldn’t care.” The truth dawned, and Thomasin sat up, her eyes red and puffy, her hands in fists at her side. “Did he reject you?”

  Madeline nodded.

  “That cad. How dare he?”

  Madeline’s fragile composure gave way to a burst of sobbing. She had never heard herself make such a noise in her life, not even when she was eight and her father forgot her at an inn. Stuffing her fists to her mouth, she tried to stop the raw desperation of the sound.

  “You poor dear!” Thomasin leaped up and hurried to Madeline’s side. Putting her arm around Madeline’s waist, she said, “Come on. There’s room enough for two on the bed.”

  Still crying pitifully, Madeline staggered forward and threw herself on the bed. For the first time, she opened her mind to the truth.

  Gabriel didn’t want her. She’d yielded him her whole being, and he didn’t want her.

  Clasping the covers in her hands, she cried, doubled over in pain.

  Thomasin rubbed her shoulder. “Men are all louses, dirty, rotten, unscrupulous swine.”

  Madeline nodded and wept some more.

  “You . . . you’re really the duchess, aren’t you?”

  Madeline caught her breath, lifted her head and stared at Thomasin.

  “Or rather . . . the marchioness of Sheridan and the future duchess.” Thomasin pressed a handkerchief into her hand. “At first I thought you were the reason Her Grace and Lord Campion parted, but when I heard the rumor that you were in truth the duchess, I realized that that explained why you were so bad at being a companion and so good at directing just . . . everything else.” Thomasin’s eyes filled with tears once more. “Because of you, I’m a success. A huge success.” With a wail, she threw herself back on the bed. “And I’m so ashamed!”

  Struggling up on her elbows, Madeline took her turn patting Thomasin on the shoulder. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed about.”

  “But I do. I’m having a good time, dancing and flirting, while poor Jeffy is home, alone and unhappy.”

  Madeline paused in mid-pat. “Oh. You’re feeling guilty.”

  “Ye-es.” Thomasin sobbed in the pillow. “And . . . and Lord Hurth asked Papa for my hand, and I en-enjoyed the attention.”

  “Of course you did. He’s rich, and even if he has execrable taste in clothing, he’s never proposed to anyone else in his life. It’s a triumph.”

  “But Jeffy . . .”

  Madeline’s patience had evaporated in the heat of her own crisis. “Do you really think Jeffy’s home pining for you? Or is he at some country dance right now courting another handsome female?”

  Thomasin’s crying stopped abruptly. Sitting straight up, she glared through red-rimmed eyes. “You’ve been talking to That Woman. She’s never approved of Jeffy.”

  “Is that why you fell in love with him? To make your stepmama unhappy?”

  Thomasin gave off outrage in waves. “Just because you’re the duchess—”

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t possess good sense.” Madeline looked about for another handkerchief, and finally handed Thomasin a corner of the sheet. “Jeffy’s not for you. You know it. If you really loved him, you wouldn’t care who proposed. You would dance and frolic, secure in the knowledge you had found your true love—and that he was waiting for you to return. You haven’t found him, yet, because Jeffy is just a boy of whom your parents disapprove.”

  The two women stared at each other.

  “Have you found your true love?” Thomasin asked.

  Madeline’s lower lip trembled. “I have.”

  “Well, if that’s true love, I don’t want it,” Thomasin said roundly.

  Madeline slid back down onto the pillow. Tears squeezed out of her eyes, but they didn’t ease the pain. “You’re wise.”

  “Perhaps I’m not a duchess, and perhaps I don’t have good sense”—Thomasin took a breath—“but when I watched you two together, I would have sworn he loved you, too.”

  Madeline struggled to answer without weeping bitterly. “He says he does, but he says I don’t trust him.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes! Yes!” But he’d been so sure. And he hadn’t looked happy about rejecting her. More weary and sad. Once more, Madeline buried her head in the covers. “I don’t know. I think I do, but when he wants me to let him take responsibility for”—Madeline waved a hand—“anything, like hiring the gardeners, it makes me ill.”

  Thomasin patted Madeline’s shoulder once more. “So Lord Campion didn’t reject you. Not really. But to live with you, to marry you, he insists you give yourself to him completely. To trust him with your heart.”

  At this totally unnecessary and unasked-for clarification, Madeline sobbed anew.

  Thomasin said defiantly, “You told me the truth. Why can’t I tell you?”

  What a stupid question! “Because I don’t . . . wa-want . . . to hear it.”

  “Well, I didn’t, either.”

  With tear-filled eyes, Madeline looked around the small bedchamber and thought about the evening to come, spent in the company of wives, sons and daughters while the men gamed. She thought about tomorrow, so dull. She thought about waiting, anticipating the next time she would see Gabriel.

  She couldn’t stand it. “We should leave.”

  Thomasin swallowed. “What?”

  “We should leave here. Now. Tonight. I’ve got the queen’s tiara. My father isn’t here. You don’t want to remain.” And although Madeline couldn’t rescue everyone from Mr. Rumbelow’s nefarious plans, she’d grown fond of Thomasin. She could rescue her. She wanted to rescue her. “Let’s go.”

  Thomasin slid off the bed and viewed Madeline with a mixture of confusion and hope. “Where?”

  “To London to liberate my cousin, Eleanor.”

  At the name, Thomasin started. “We met her at the inn. She’s the real companion.”

  “Yes. Very good.” Madeline slid off the bed on the other side. “We’ll leave a note, tell your parents who I am and where to find you when they’re done with this party.”

  “They’ll be furious with you.”

  “By the time this party is over, they’ll thank me.” Madeline could say no more. “I’ll introduce you to the best hostesses as my special protégée. Lady Tabard will be thrilled.”

  With her hands clasped at her bosom, Thomasin stared into space. “Jeffy really doesn’t love me, does he?”

  “I don’t know, dear. You know that
answer better than anyone.”

  Thomasin’s head dropped. “I might as well go.”

  Bitterly, Madeline added, “Gabriel wants me to leave, so this will make him happy.”

  Wetting her handkerchief, Thomasin wiped her streaked face. “Do you think that’s why he rejected you? So you would leave?” She wet another handkerchief and offered it to Madeline.

  Madeline’s heart gave a quick, buoyant leap as she pressed the cool cloth to her hot cheeks. “Mayhap.” She thought of that grieved, intense expression on his face, and hope failed her. “No. He doesn’t want me as I am, and I can’t be anybody else.”

  Thomasin considered Madeline critically. “I don’t think he wants you to be someone else, I think he wants you to be . . . better.”

  “I’m fine as I am. I don’t want to talk about it.” Madeline grabbed her carpetbag and stuffed a handful of clothes inside. “Pack your bag. Let’s go.”

  “I don’t know how to pack a bag,” Thomasin snapped.

  “Neither do I. Whatever you can’t fit in, the servants will send on later.” Removing the box containing the tiara from under the bed, Madeline placed it carefully among the clothes. She put the black velvet holster, with its pistol, atop of that, and closed the bag.

  Thomasin stuffed her valise so full of clothes and jewelry, Madeline had to help her close it. They hefted the bags. Thomasin gave a little moan at the weight. Then, quietly, the two women moved down the corridor, down the stairway and out the front door.

  They met servants, but no guests; everyone was in their room making their preparations for the evening.

  Twilight had turned the landscape into a pale, muddled tangle of trees and lawn, and changed the monstrosity of a house from a work of bad taste into a looming menace. The decision was made, and Madeline wanted to leave now.

  MacAllister was right. Mr. Rumbelow was dangerous. Someone was going to die.

  Madeline feared it would be an innocent, and . . . and Gabriel would not be distracted by Madeline if she were out of his way. It was true. She knew it. She just hated to leave him to face death alone.

  Standing at the top of the stairs, Thomasin looked around as if expecting the carriage. “What do we do now?”