Winter Garden

by Adele Ashworth

  It had turned pale, lifeless, and wrinkled, and sagged at the neck and around the eyes, which she tried to hide with a severe application of powder that only made it more noticeable.

  Lady Claire was dying, in Madeleine’s opinion. Even now she slouched in her chair from too much wine, conversing with Thomas somewhat clumsily, ignoring Madeleine as well as her food, while her fingertips toyed nervously with her small, crystal glass of ruby-red medicine she waited impatiently to take at the end of her meal. She was certainly a habitual user, and the routine of mixing it with alcohol would one day likely be fatal. It was only a matter of time before her death from either taking too much at once, or the giving out of a lifeless body that could accumulate no more excess.

  Thomas must have known it, too, known far more than he’d intimated during their first conversation the day of her arrival in Winter Garden. That’s why he flattered Lady Claire, as he put it. The woman was indeed lonely, drowning in drink and laudanum. And Lady Claire detested her, Madeleine assumed, because she was French perhaps, but probably more likely because she had stolen, to some degree, the only attention the woman received from an attentive man.

  The two of them were speaking now of the Childress library across the hall from the grand music room they’d already discussed, of its large and unusual assortment of books collected by her husband’s family for more than three generations. Thomas nodded where appropriate and listened courteously as Lady Claire carried on about something entirely insignificant. Madeleine imagined he smiled at the woman with sparkling soft eyes but she herself couldn’t see them to know.

  Madeleine leaned back so a servant could remove her empty plate, while another dutifully placed dessert in front of her—bubbling baked apple cobbler topped with whipped, sweet cream. If she learned nothing at all today, at least she would depart well fed.

  “They’re part of such a magnificent collection, Thomas, that the good Baron Rothebury has been buying them from me from time to time these last few months,” Lady Claire announced proudly, lifting her spoon and stirring the cream on her cobbler. “I thought you’d find that interesting since you are a scholar. Perhaps you’d like to see them, too.”

  At the mention of the baron, Madeleine concentrated on the discourse once more, lifting her spoon and dipping it into her cobbler, saying nothing for a moment because she wanted to see where Thomas would take it.

  “Baron Rothebury is buying your books?” he asked casually to clarify.

  Lady Claire smiled enough to reveal yellowed teeth. “It’s a hobby of his.”

  “Is it?” He appeared quite interested. “What do you suppose he wants with old books?”

  The lady’s eyelids sagged as she tipped forward and placed a small, gaunt hand on his coat sleeve. “These aren’t just old books, Thomas. Some of them are worth quite a penny. And he’s a collector himself, you know.” Her forehead creased. “No, that’s not right. Actually, I think he’s more of a dealer.”

  Now Madeleine found herself intrigued. The peculiarity of such a preoccupation by a certain suspect was more than could be ignored.

  “A book dealer,” Thomas repeated. “How fascinating. I’ve only met the man once, though, so I really don’t know him.”

  He leaned back in his chair, and Madeleine had to wonder if Thomas was trying to pull away from the lady’s obviously tight grip. Of all the things she could read in him, she knew he was certainly not attracted to this woman.

  Lady Claire’s groomed brows lifted in forced surprise. “Goodness, I thought everybody knew the baron.” She gave a nervous laugh and dropped her spoon from her left hand loudly on her china plate. “But perhaps you haven’t lived in Winter Garden long enough. I shall have to invite you both to tea someday.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Thomas said, turning to his cobbler.

  It would never happen. Madeleine knew that, and so did he.

  “Do you know Baron Rothebury well, Lady Claire?” Madeleine interjected at last.

  The woman’s features waxed brittle as she shifted hard, bloodshot eyes to her for the first time in minutes. “Not nearly as well as I know Thomas.”

  “I wouldn’t imagine so,” she returned quickly, politely, scooping an apple slice onto her spoon. “But I have heard a great deal about him in recent days and I think I would like to meet him.”

  Without a second of pause, the woman sneered. “I don’t think that will happen. He is not of your class, Mrs. DuMais.”

  A footman coughed. Thomas shifted a booted foot across the polished floor. Caught completely off guard, Madeleine nearly choked on the smooth, rich cinnamon-flavored confection sliding down her throat. Never had anyone of gentle breeding been so pointedly rude directly to her person.

  She stiffened and slowly lowered her spoon to her plate. “I realize he and I probably have little in common—”

  “I think that is an understatement,” the lady cut in. She finally lifted her hand from Thomas’s sleeve and sat up, reaching for her wineglass, gripping it gracelessly enough to splash a few tiny drops over the side. “I suppose where you are from women of all kinds express familiarity with well-bred gentlemen, but it doesn’t happen here.”

  Even in France, familiarity meant a great deal more than acquaintance. Madeleine remained composed, but her appetite had floundered. Seconds of uncomfortable silence passed, then Thomas cleared his throat and leaned a little toward her, shielding her in a manner with his broad shoulder.

  “I think what Mrs. DuMais means is that she would like to meet a number of people during her stay in Winter Garden,” he offered very smoothly, his voice and smile conveying charm and reason. “Baron Rothebury is only one. And perhaps it won’t happen. She won’t be in England very long.”

  Lady Claire’s gaze narrowed as she looked from one to the other. Then she took a long swallow of wine and set the glass back on the table. “I’m sure that’s for the best. He hosts a ball each January, you know. The annual Winter Masquerade. A beautiful party every year. Perhaps you’d like to escort me, Thomas?”

  “I should find that most enjoyable, Lady Claire,” he answered thoughtfully. “But in truth, I doubt I’ll receive an invitation. I’m not especially of his class, either.”

  She looked stung. “Of course you are. You are an educated man.” Waving a hand in irritation, she dismissed it. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter in the least. I shall take you as my guest.”

  Thomas nodded very slowly, spooning a bit of his cobbler. Then with deliberation, he murmured, “But what of Mrs. DuMais?”

  The lady’s expression tightened. “What about her?”

  Thomas shrugged subtly. “Who will escort her if she is still in town?”

  Madeleine knew he was intentionally provoking the woman. There were an assortment of reasonable responses already discussed, not one of them needing to be spoken again.

  Lady Claire bristled in her chair, making the bones in her shoulders even more pronounced. “She is not worthy of an invitation, Thomas. She is your employee and nothing more.”

  The air grew stifling suddenly. Madeleine folded her hands in her lap, waiting, refusing to speak in her own defense and ignoring the insults for the good of her profession.

  Thomas took another bite of his cobbler then laid his spoon to the side. “But she is also educated, Lady Claire, and as Englishmen we should be hospitable while she is visiting our country, don’t you agree?” He smiled again and leaned forward over the corner of the table. “Maybe the baron would find her company charming. That would leave more time for you and I to spend together.”

  The tops of the lady’s cheeks and nose reddened; her thin mouth curled. She refused to look at Madeleine. “The good Baron Rothebury would naturally find her charming, Thomas. Just to look at her is to see what she is.”

  Madeleine stilled as the first wave of outrage pulsed through her. She supposed for a moment that such an incredible statement uttered in total disrespect bothered her so much, as it never would have before, because she
was in some small regard afraid that Thomas would believe it. But he played his part perfectly.

  “Lady Claire,” he said easily, “I’m sure Mrs. DuMais is of good family—”

  “I’m sure she is not. And she is not for you, Thomas.”

  That was enough. Her embarrassment was thorough; the rudeness overwhelming. “You are right, Lady Claire,” she affirmed brazenly, tilting her chin and staring into the woman’s vicious eyes. “My mother was an actress.”

  The instant satisfaction beaming on the Englishwoman’s face was at first laughable, then suddenly unimportant because at that moment Thomas reached out, under the table, and placed his palm high on her thigh.

  Her first coherent thought was that it was a large palm, warm even through the layers of her skirt and petticoats, with long fingers that reached into the gentle crease between her legs.

  She didn’t move, and he didn’t look at her. With his left hand he reached for his wine, took a large, slow swallow, then lowered it back to the table.

  Ignorant to the rising heat in the room, Lady Claire lifted her wineglass and did the same. “Was your father also an actor, Mrs. DuMais?” she asked with harsh sarcasm, seconds later.

  Thomas squeezed her slightly. Whether it was a warning or just a show of understanding, she couldn’t guess, but right at that moment she didn’t care, for he still hadn’t made a move to release her from his grasp.

  She tried to speak with confidence. “I didn’t know my father, Lady Claire.” An outright lie, and one that would only solidify the lady’s delight, but she refused to degrade the memory of the only bright part of her life by revealing it to a woman who would no doubt ridicule it.

  “I see,” Lady Claire replied with exaggerated concern. “Then they were never married?”

  Madeleine felt his fingers move. He didn’t say a word, but she took the action as warning this time. Even now she felt his large body so close beside her, the warmth of it radiating through his brown woolen suit, his palm scorching her leg as his fingers pushed very close to the center between her thighs. Then her heart began to pound, because it occurred to her that although he could feel nothing directly, he was quite aware of exactly where he touched her.

  Her cheeks flushed, and perspiration broke out between her breasts, but she knew he wanted to witness her continued composure. That had to be his point. She thanked God that he hadn’t yet looked at her because she was certain if he did she would fail.

  With arms as heavy as thick tree branches, she pulled her hands from her lap. One she raised to rest on the arm of her chair, the other she placed lengthwise across her thighs, under the table, closing her palm over his knuckles.

  He didn’t move.

  “Naturally my parents were married,” she murmured, her tongue thick and dry as she tried to balance her thoughts. “He was English, Lady Claire, and a sea captain. He died in the West Indies before I was born.”

  Their hostess visibly cringed from the revelation and lifted her wineglass for a final time to gulp the remaining contents. “Were you aware of this when you hired the woman, Thomas?”

  He drew in a very long breath before he shared his concern. “Yes, but in choosing a translator, I felt education to be more important than a background one can never change.”

  Lady Claire put her glass down hard and gaped at him, appalled. “Good breeding means everything.”

  In a very cool voice, he countered, “I think what one makes of one’s own life is far more significant in the end.”

  Madeleine felt an immediate swell of pleasure from his defense of her, especially since there was such a risk to their work in his expressing such opinions.

  The lady glared at her, and then her eyes turned lifeless with acceptance. “Her appearance has bewitched you, Thomas.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not easily bewitched, madam. I know exactly who she is.”

  A tremor passed through her at the decisiveness in his voice, but he still hadn’t looked at her, and he had yet to move his hand from her leg. The tone of the conversation was starting to turn against them both, however, and she couldn’t let that happen with so much at stake.

  “My mother only took to the stage, Lady Claire, because she had no other options,” she explained gravely, recovering her poise and working the lie splendidly. “I shall be grateful to her always for raising enough money in such a degrading profession so that I could be educated in Switzerland and eventually find a suitable match in my late husband.”

  Thomas, at long last, turned his head to face her, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. Not yet. She felt their warmth on her skin, knew she was reacting to his touch by the blush in her cheeks and that he saw it.

  “And what of your family now, Mrs. DuMais?” the lady gruffly pursued, once again fingering her crystal glass of laudanum. “Is your mother still working?” She drew out the last word as if it were something despicable. Evil.

  Madeleine had regained her senses and was ready to respond. Until Thomas moved the fingers on her thigh even closer, then covered her thumb with his. She was now certain he touched, just minutely with the tips, the intimate center between her legs.

  She grew hotter still and finally, bravely, chanced a glance into his eyes.

  He knew what he was doing. He knew, and she liquefied from the gentleness and pleasure those honey-brown circles conveyed. His expression remained neutral to the best of his ability, but she read his thoughts. He wasn’t at all worried that they would be discovered. He was enjoying this.

  She tried to faintly push his fingers aside, but he refused to withdraw them. What annoyed her, though, was that he wouldn’t do this at the cottage when they were alone, but he would do it here. He insisted they couldn’t be lovers, and yet he purposely aroused her in Lady Claire Childress’s dining room while they worked. She didn’t understand his motives at all.

  “Mrs. DuMais?”

  Sharply she looked back to her hostess, who waited patiently for an answer.

  “I—” She straightened a little and shook herself to carry on. “I’ve not seen my mother in years, Lady Claire.” It was now time to get to the point, before she gave herself away. “Over time she grew to enjoy the addictive qualities of opium and ceased to function rationally. I’m not at all sure whether she still lives.”

  Thomas felt the instantaneous shift in mood. Excitement of several orders ran thick in the air and, mingled with the friction between the women and the contact of his skin to her gown at the point where sanity reached the entrance to paradise, it created the most incredible wave of desire in him. Unlike anything he’d felt in years. She was marvelous—in action, in beauty, in cleverness, and the ability to disguise her feelings. This couldn’t be easy for her, and yet she remained in perfect form. The need to lose himself in her eyes, in her embrace, to tease her body in escalating pleasure was overwhelming. He wanted her desperately, but the only time he could allow himself to touch her was when she couldn’t respond. It was safe now, and although he’d never planned to confuse her with such a forward act, he just couldn’t bring himself to pull back.

  “I’m sure she overindulged, Mrs. DuMais,” Lady Claire said in a disgusted, ragged breath, interrupting his carnal thoughts like a callous slap to the face. “Living such a-an unrestrained life will do that to a woman.”

  Madeleine was tight beside him, but she remained totally self-possessed. “Opium in any form can be addictive, Lady Claire, and can kill. Even the laudanum at your fingertips.”

  Thomas shifted his gaze to the head of the table. That was the knife thrust. The woman’s eyes blazed, her face grew red beneath sagging skin. Then it hardened with a rage she couldn’t hide.

  “This is medicine, Mrs. DuMais. I have a heart condition that requires attention. I take neither more nor less than my physician prescribes.”

  Madeleine shifted her bottom in her chair, lifting her hips and squeezing his knuckles at the same time so that he couldn’t budge them. He clenched his teeth; drew a sharp inhale. The
re was no mistaking her actions. She had purposely taken the advantage away from him. His fingers now grazed the place of his ageless hunger, and even through her clothes he felt the heat of her there, felt the outline of soft, luscious curls that would one day beckon him to bliss….

  That was impossible. She was fully dressed in layers, and he could feel nothing. He was a starved man, and his imagination carried him to a feast he couldn’t yet taste. His heart pounded, and although he faced away from her, he still closed his eyes momentarily to regain control. He could take no more and he was certain she knew it. Gently he pulled his hand away, and she let him go.

  “I am sure you need your medicine, Lady Claire,” Madeleine acknowledged softly, her thoughts unreadable in her level voice. “I was not speaking of you but of my mother. It is true, however, that opium, when taken too much in any form, is deadly.”

  The woman had nothing to say. For seconds intense hatred flowed without discretion from a lady of quality who knew to behave better. But she was drunk and nearly incoherent. Thomas had seen it in her before.

  Quickly Lady Claire raised her crystal glass to her mouth, closed her eyes, and drank the contents, allowing it to slide down her throat before she licked her lips of the excess. When she looked at them again, her focus was clouded, her face tired. Old.

  “It is time for me to rest, Thomas,” she mumbled sadly. “As always I have enjoyed your company and wish you to return. Perhaps next time I’ll show you my extensive library, and hopefully some of the other private rooms in my extraordinary home.”