Her second consideration centered on the question of impotence. She had felt him briefly through his clothes, and that part of him seemed to be perfectly formed—well proportioned and long and very definitely hard for her. He had certainly been erect, but had he been able to sustain it? She couldn’t tell after she’d stretched out on the sofa, and with a little embarrassment, she realized she hadn’t thought of trying to touch him when he’d started to bring her to orgasm. But then that was natural. Still, he’d said he wasn’t impotent, and one would suppose the man would know his own body.
The only other conclusion she could draw was one of nonconclusion. He didn’t want to be completely intimate with her for reasons known only to him, which, she reminded herself, was exactly what he’d told her three nights ago. This notion troubled her the most, and that, in turn, amused her. She was reaching the point in their relationship where she was beginning to care for Thomas as a person, and she wanted him to want her. She wanted him to need her. She wanted him to make love to her, not just for the sake of sexual release, but for the sake of being intimate with her alone.
Madeleine pushed a long branch out of her way and stepped into the clearing beside the lake. As suspected, Thomas sat on the bench, staring out across the calm water, his legs spread wide, elbows on knees, hands clasped together in front of him. He wore his heavy twine coat, scarf and gloves, leading her to believe he’d been out in the woods for quite some time.
She walked toward him slowly, arms crossed over her stomach, her leather shoes crunching on the leaves and twigs at her feet. He undoubtedly heard her approaching but he didn’t move his body or look in her direction.
“It’s a beautiful morning,” she said brightly.
He exhaled forcefully through his nostrils, nodding. “My favorite time of day.”
“Mine, too.” She stood behind him and off to one side, gazing down to his profile. Tiny lines spread out from the corner of his eye, his lips hard set and grim. He looked older this morning than his thirty-nine years, but distinguished and darkly handsome. She wished she could kiss the tension from his face but she didn’t think she should be so forward. It was obvious that he needed the space.
“I have two questions to ask you, Thomas,” she remarked after a moment of silence.
His jaw tightened noticeably, but he said nothing. Apparently she would have to do all the work.
“What do you think Baron Rothebury does with the books?”
Quickly he jerked his head around and stared at her, his eyes wide, mouth slack. The fact that he appeared so suddenly surprised at the innocuous question made her suck in her cheeks to keep from giggling.
“Books?” he repeated, confused.
She raised a brow and rubbed her toe along the forest floor. “Lady Claire’s books. Why is he buying them?”
He sat a little straighter, composing himself as he realized where her thoughts were heading, but he didn’t move his steady gaze from hers. “I’ve been wondering about that, too. After meeting him I can’t believe he’s a collector or a dealer. It doesn’t fit his personality, or at least what I know of him. He’s an extroverted man, educated to the degree most nobles are, but he’s not an intellectual.”
Madeleine took a step closer and briefly scanned the baron’s home on the other side of the water. “He also doesn’t seem to be of need financially, which is exactly what was said at Mrs. Rodney’s tea. Buying books just to sell them as a dealer wouldn’t be especially profitable anyway. And that means,” she reasoned solemnly, “he purposely lied to Lady Claire.”
“Yes, I believe he did.”
Thomas’s voice sounded gruff to her ears. Masculine. She looked back into his lovely brown eyes, wanting him again. “Why?”
He shook his head, brows drawn together. “I don’t know. Socially she’s of his class, but I can’t imagine him calling on her for anything. He might invite her to parties because it would be expected, but other than that I’m not sure why he’d want anything to do with her, or her extensive library.”
“Maybe because she wants you, Thomas,” she maintained smoothly, running the fingers of one hand back and forth along the top of the bench. “The woman certainly doesn’t hide that fact, and he doesn’t like you for reasons unknown. Maybe he feels you’re intruding in Winter Garden where the opposite sex is concerned?”
His eyes narrowed carefully, his gaze piercing hers, and it suddenly occurred to her how that must have sounded. Like a jealous wife. How thoroughly unlike her. She could kick herself for making such a statement without thought or provocation.
“So he’s buying her books to get even or attract her attention? That makes no sense at all. He wouldn’t find her any more appealing than I do.” He paused, then lowered his voice in calculation. “You’re a better thinker than that, Madeleine. What are you really saying to me?”
She tried not to consider that an insult. He was right, naturally. She felt her cheeks flush hotly, which, of course, he noticed. But she didn’t turn away. She needed to get to the point. He was waiting for an answer.
Straightening, she dropped her arms to her sides and daintily raised her chin. “I want to know why you left me last night.”
He almost smirked. “I thought so. I’m sorry about that.”
“I didn’t ask if you were sorry, I asked why,” she returned matter-of-factly.
He hesitated, rubbing his hands together nervously. “It’s complicated.”
That irritated her. His answers to personal questions always seemed to be purposely evasive, and she was tired of it. She tried to ignore the feeling; to remain cool was her persona. “That’s a very common excuse for you, Thomas, but I really would like an explanation this time. I think I deserve it.”
Shifting uncomfortably on the bench seat, he faced the lake once more. “It wasn’t you.”
“I should hope not,” she agreed curtly. “You obviously made certain I would enjoy myself. And I also think it was obvious that I did.”
His cheek twitched, and Madeleine wasn’t certain if he was amused at her comment or annoyed. She couldn’t see his eyes. But he seemed to grow more discomfited by the second.
“Are you afraid to become intimate because of the injuries to your legs?”
The words drifted softly through the morning air, but her question hit its target. Everything was out in the open now. He would have to talk of it.
Stiffly, palms to thighs, he pushed himself up to a standing position. With one shove of his gloved fingers through his hair, he walked forward several paces until he stood on the shoreline.
Madeleine waited, unmoving.
“I’m not in the least afraid to be with you, and that wasn’t the problem last night,” he said through a coarse breath.
She refused to be intimidated by his unnecessarily cool manner. “Then why did you leave me?”
Abruptly he replied, “I’m a man, Madeleine.”
Was she supposed to be shocked? “Yes, I know. I felt the evidence of that.”
“You don’t understand.” He thrust his hands in his coat pockets and stared at the water. “You were there, and I was ready. You were—hot, so hot. So…wet inside. Wet for me. I was making you that way.”
Madeleine frowned and began to walk toward him. The conversation had immediately jumped from the evasive to the intimate. She supposed this was the perfect place to discuss it, though, as they were secluded, but she kept her response hushed nonetheless. “It’s a natural physical reaction, Thomas. I desire you. I’ve desired you since the day we met.”
“Why?” he whispered without looking at her.
She hadn’t expected that, and it gave her pause to wonder if he were attempting to alter the tone of their talk. “You’re a very attractive man,” she answered candidly, standing close to his side. “I enjoy your smile, your quietness, your…thinking, rational mind. You are unlike any man I’ve known before, and every day I want even more than that last to be your lover. I think we could find enjoyment in each other’
s arms for the time we are together, but I don’t understand your reluctance. If it’s because of your physical problem, I can tell you now that I find you to be one of the most masculine men I have ever known, handsome of face and form, and very charming despite your private nature. You are robust and intelligent, and I think strongly attracted to me. Why do you keep protesting what is sure to take place?”
He exhaled loudly. “I don’t think I’ve ever protested the desire, only acknowledged that our being intimate with each other could complicate our work.”
Madeleine calmed on the inside and smiled broadly. “You will be my lover.” It wasn’t a question. She’d stated it without reservation or expectation, and he didn’t deny it this time. He didn’t say anything. She grew warm to her toes from his silent affirmation and confidently reached out to place a palm on his arm. “Why not last night?”
He breathed deeply and closed his eyes, stalling.
For the first time, Madeleine caught a glimmer of something else, another explanation for his quick departure, and her heart and body began to melt.
“Tell me, Thomas,” she said gently.
He stood rigidly, eyes tightly shut as he faced the brightening sky. Finally, in a murmur of his own, he revealed, “You can’t understand what it was like for me, Madeleine. You were there, so beautiful, wanting me, moaning my name, begging me with your eyes and body to love you, to touch you, to caress your breasts, your hard nipples. Then you let me put my face on your mons, so near where your need was greatest, to touch you there, and you were wet, so wet, and the dark hair between your legs rubbed my cheek and lips. I could—smell you, reach out with my tongue and taste you, and you were so sweet, Maddie, so sweet to taste. And then you let me put my finger inside of you and you were hot, and soft, and wetter still. And when you climaxed—”
His voice shook, and he swallowed hard, his body stiff at her side, his eyes squeezed shut. Madeleine silently watched him, partly in confusion, partly in wonder, while he recounted what sounded like a far-distant memory.
“When you climaxed,” he continued, almost inaudibly, “I could feel you. Oh, God, it surrounded me, and I could feel it, feel your wetness cling to me, flow over my fingers, feel you squeezing me inside, stroking me, rubbing against my hand. You climaxed because of how I touched you, just touched you—” He shook his head again and clenched his jaw. “You can’t understand what knowing that, what being there and experiencing that, can do to a man. You were moaning my name, responding to my touch, and I realized I was smelling and tasting and feeling the release of true feminine beauty. It was no longer a dream. It was real, you were real, and I couldn’t—” He tensed and shuddered. “I couldn’t contain myself, Madeleine. I haven’t been with a woman in years.”
The cold outside completely disappeared for her as a surge of exquisite warmth spread through her body and lingered. She didn’t know if she was more stunned by his disclosure, touched by his honesty, or flattered. But it was true, she decided there, that a man had never been so open with her, especially about something that so affected his masculinity.
No man had ever described female sexuality to her in such lovely terms before, either. Even the French, who were, in general, more graphic about it, described it from a distance, as if it were a beautiful thing to admire and treasure, like a work of art. Thomas had described it as if he were a part of it and could feel it inside him, could feel her intimately with all his senses. As if he found her sexuality beautiful, and beautiful to him alone. Madeleine knew at once that this was one of the most unique moments of her life, if not one of the most wonderful.
So. What could she say to him now? That it was all right? That it didn’t change her desire for him? That she understood, when in fact she was a woman and probably didn’t? Could she ask him why his sexual life has been lacking for years, and how many has it been anyway? She did, however, understand that he was embarrassed, and the moment between them now, regardless of his honesty, had to be exceedingly awkward for him. This was probably not the time for a detailed discussion of his past. But she could, if nothing else, let him know how she felt.
Brushing breeze-blown hair from her forehead and lashes, she squeezed his arm once and released it. “Thomas, I have been with my share of men,” she admitted softly, “but you are the only one who has ever made me feel like a beautiful woman with just common words.”
He opened his eyes and slowly pivoted his rigid form to look at her.
She smiled faintly into those soft brown circles that bore a distinct hesitancy to believe, clutching her cloak with both hands to keep from reaching for him. “You are not poetic but you are sincere and descriptive in a very romantic way. Next time you will make me feel beautiful with your body, and I intend to share in it and make it last. I only hope that I can prove worthy enough for such a giving man.”
The harsh contours of his face relaxed minutely; his gaze softened for her, sparking with what she could only describe as pleasure, and perhaps a shade of amazement at her response.
She straightened to carry on. “So. What do you intend to do today?”
A flash of amusement crossed his features at her quick change of topic, but she ignored that, keeping her expression blank and her chin lifted self-assuredly.
“I intend to call on Mrs. Bennington-Jones in the hope of visiting with, or learning something about, Desdemona,” he said in a feather-soft drawl. “And you?”
Madeleine had the most difficult time keeping her lips from his, fighting the intense urge to seduce him right there on the bench. If she walked two feet forward she’d be in his arms.
“I think I will bathe at the inn then dress to call on Rothebury,” she instead forced herself to say. “It is time for us to meet.”
Without waiting for a reply, she lifted her skirts and retraced her steps to the edge of the brush. Tossing a glance over her shoulder, she caught him staring at her, eyes narrowed in assessment, hands still in his pockets, his large, imposing body filled out impressively.
“Be careful,” he cautioned in a husky timbre.
For the first time in her career, she wasn’t offended by the edge of male superiority in a colleague’s words and manner, because this time she sensed a flicker of emotional caring. He’d meant what he said, not because he was a man and she a woman, but because he liked her. Madeleine relished that knowledge, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply, how strangely, he affected her.
“I think I should be warning you of the same thing. Mrs. Bennington-Jones could beat you to death with words.” Looking him up and down, she lowered her voice to impishly add, “And I am very, very glad you are not impotent after all.”
His deep chuckle reverberated through the trees.
Chapter 11
Madeleine had originally intended to surprise the baron at his home, knocking on his door and introducing herself to him in a neighborly fashion. The problem with that plan, however, was that she had no valid reason to do so. He might not be in residence, or, of even deeper concern, her visit might look suspicious. As a village newcomer, it would be more appropriate for him to call on her, and, of course, he would never do that. Her only alternative, then, was to stumble across him as he rode along the path beside the lake, making it appear as if the meeting were coincidental.
At ten o’clock she set out, wearing her morning gown, traveling cloak and gloves, her hair brushed into a long braid that she’d wound atop her head. She’d also added just a trace of color to her cheeks, lips and eyes. It wasn’t enough to notice really, but she wanted to enhance what she could. First impressions were everything.
She had only traversed the path for a few minutes when she spotted the baron coming toward her through the trees. He sat atop his gray horse, dressed appropriately in dark brown riding clothes, his face taut with either physical effort or concentration, assessing the curves on the trail as he had yet to notice her.
Madeleine drew a deep breath and smoothed her hands over her cloak, a
ssuming a casual air. It would only be a matter of moments until he saw her, and she wanted to be prepared.
And then he did.
Still some distance away, the baron pulled gently on the reins to slow his horse’s gait. He didn’t appear to be startled by her sudden presence, although he carefully studied her from head to foot, and obviously so, seemingly unconcerned whether she would take offense at his intense scrutiny. She pretended not to be aware of his indelicate behavior, giving him first a gentle look of surprise at finding him there, followed by a beautiful smile and a slight nod of her head as she continued to walk toward him.
He moved closer as well, likewise producing a grin on his mouth just as quickly as he saw hers. It was contrived, and she knew it. It never reached his eyes.
“Good day, monsieur,” she said pleasantly, strolling to his side.
“And a good day it is, madam,” he instantly replied in a heavy drawl, brazenly looking over every inch of her face. “Or at least it is now that I’ve come across such a lovely woman on my path. Are you a vision or reality?”
Such artificial, calculated words were meant to impress the insecure. Or the innocent. Did he think she would be so naive? Likely not. He had called her madam, which meant he either assumed she was or had been married, or he knew her identity already. He was smart, challenging her position here now with adulation and subtle seduction, waiting for a reaction. Madeleine felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck.
“Goodness, monsieur,” she returned through a soft chuckle, “you flatter a lady so. I hope you don’t mind that I am walking on your property, but I didn’t realize anyone owned it.”
She let the words trail off into the crisp, calm air, expecting an introduction at last. He didn’t disappoint, but neither did he dismount—an overt attempt to remain in a superior position as he looked down on her from above.
Winter Garden Page 13