“I am Richard Sharon, Baron Rothebury.”
He stated that almost boastfully, evidently expecting her to know who he was. She played to his vanity.
“Ahh, yes. You own the house in the distance,” she replied sweetly. “Mrs. Bennington-Jones and her daughter Desdemona mentioned you at Mrs. Rodney’s tea one afternoon.”
He didn’t blink or lose his smile, but she did notice just the slightest tightening of his lips. She carried on thoughtfully before he could interrupt.
“She even suggested that your home was so old it might have been a haven for those not afflicted with the Death. I found that fascinating.”
“Fascinating, yes,” he conceded quickly, “but only rumor. When ladies gather at tea, they can be drawn into conversations of the most amazing nature, don’t you agree?”
She wondered how on earth he would know that. “I suppose so.”
He tipped his head toward her once in approval. “Actually, I own much of the surrounding land—from the edge of the lake to several miles south of here, and, of course, as far east as the Hope cottage at the edge of the village.” He lifted one corner of his mouth even as his thickly lashed, dark hazel eyes narrowed with suggestion. “You are the Frenchwoman living with the scholar there, are you not? I’ve seen you through the trees once or twice, and have found myself staring. You’re beautiful from head to foot, and such rare beauty is truly difficult to ignore.”
He tried to impress as he spoke, his voice deep and velvet soft, suspecting, or at least hoping, she’d understand his seductive intent. He was an intriguing man in a rather mysterious way, quite attractive to look at, and he probably appealed to the smaller sex in a very gracious but sensual manner.
His face was hard of line, cheekbones high and defined, his skin clear, clean-shaven and smooth. His eyes were arresting and intently focused, his mouth wide and inviting. He wore new, polished boots and clothes expensively tailored to fit his muscular form, his sandy-red hair and side whiskers trimmed to the fashion of the day, only slightly tousled from his ride.
Yes, he was quite handsome, and a very sexual man; he possessed an alluring presence that silently promised erotic pleasures in the bedroom. An innocent would be swept away if he chose her as his conquest. Madeleine, however, was experienced in the art of seduction and lovemaking, and understood his allure enough to guard against it. Or use it.
Smiling vividly now, she sauntered closer to his mount, even as instinct told her to back away. “Yes, my name is Madeleine DuMais. I am in Winter Garden temporarily while I translate Monsieur Blackwood’s war memoirs into my native tongue. He is a quiet but agreeable host, and the village is enchanting.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “I am very much enjoying my short stay here but am anxious to meet others.”
His brows rose. “Indeed. Then it is a pleasure to meet you, Madeleine,” he offered richly. “Perhaps the two of us can become better acquainted while you’re in England.”
His attraction was obvious, and so was his intent as he used her given name without awaiting the customary permission. She played on that.
Gracing him with an enticing grin, she reached up to pat the neck of his horse. The animal stirred, but the baron didn’t respond to it and neither did he take his eyes from hers.
“I should enjoy that, Monsieur Baron,” she intimated invitingly. “I’ve met several of the ladies from the village but none of the gentlemen.”
He glanced out over the water, toward the cottage, and Madeleine hoped profoundly that Thomas wasn’t watching conspicuously. She’d purposely avoided him in her last comment when referring to gentlemen of Winter Garden, and the baron seemed to grasp this. She didn’t want him thinking she and the scholar were lovers.
Suddenly his cheek twitched, and his gaze met hers again. His expression had softened, but his eyes were hard as glass. Penetrating. “You are not familiar with your employer, Madeleine?”
The hushed question, spoken with such bluntness, took her completely aback. She hadn’t expected him to be so straightforward in his approach. Then it occurred to her that maybe he was testing her to see just how virtuous she was.
Indecision sliced through her, but after only a second’s hesitation, she decided to play the experienced.
Dropping her voice to a delicate murmur, she admitted, “No, Richard, we are not familiar with each other. Mr. Blackwood tends to keep to himself.”
“Does he.”
He sounded convinced, but Madeleine detected a suspicious undertone in his simple reply. He wasn’t sure he believed her, and that gave her the very first advantage.
She was about to suggest they stroll, he on his horse, she beside it, back in the direction she had come, when he unexpectedly lifted his leg over the back of the animal and dropped to the ground to stand at her side.
He wasn’t a tall man, but he was toned and hard of stature. Next to her he stood just above her in height, but somehow towered over her in feel. It made her nervous—the advantage once again his—and she countered it by starting to walk. He followed, pulling his horse by the reins.
“So, Madeleine,” he continued jovially, “how long do you intend to stay in our lovely community?”
She shrugged negligibly, acutely aware of his presence at her side. “Until the work is finished, I suppose. I imagine I’ll be here most of the winter.”
“That seems like a rather long time to translate.”
“Does it? I hadn’t considered it, but then I’ve not translated war memoirs before.”
“Mmm. What war, may I ask?”
She looked up to his face. “The Opium War. Are you familiar with it?”
“Oh, my, yes,” he replied without pause, his eyes boring into hers. “England had much at stake in the opium trade. Still does. Did Mr. Blackwood become a cripple in the East Indies, then?”
His tone fairly dripped with condescension, angering her because she was nearly certain his tactlessness was deliberate.
“I believe so, during one of the many skirmishes with China, although we haven’t reached that point in our work. I have yet to learn of his later war years, or earn his full confidence in the matter.” That thought turned her anger to sadness. She really had no idea how he had acquired his injuries, since Thomas had yet to trust and open himself to her as he had asked her to do. Soon, though, she would insist on it.
“I see,” the baron responded thoughtfully, adding nothing more.
Suddenly he reached out and grasped her arm, bringing them both to a standstill. Madeleine felt the pressure of his touch through her cloak and gown, and she fought the desire to shake herself loose.
He didn’t withdraw. She stared into his eyes, a forced, partial smile upon her lips, her expression inquisitive as she tried not to appear threatened. Thomas had said the baron was as smooth as oil, and that description fit him precisely. He looked at her frankly now, his gaze falling momentarily to what he could see of the curve of her breasts. When he raised his eyes to lock with hers again, they were heated, and he made no attempt to hide that fact.
For the first time that she could recall, Madeleine was intensely unnerved by the advances of a man. She stood alone with a stranger in a cold forest, the sun behind the thickening clouds, the silence deafening, and the baron understood her concern. He had to, and he was using it. The man was a snake. No, not a snake. A spider. Creeping silently in and out of people’s lives, his eyes calculating as they watched and absorbed many things at once, drawing innocents into his web where they could not escape. Now he wanted her and made no attempt to conceal it.
His horse fidgeted again, and without looking at it, the baron yanked on the reins to quiet it. Madeleine didn’t know a thing about horses, but she was certain Rothebury was never gentle with them, and his harsh approach at controlling the animal didn’t seem to help.
“Perhaps, Madeleine,” he proposed in a gruff whisper, “you would like to attend my annual ball the second Saturday after Christmas? It is a masked affair, but I would b
e honored to introduce you to local gentry and those of importance who will all, of course, be attending.” Very slowly, he began caressing her arm with his thumb. “It would also give us a chance to become better acquainted.”
Despite the brisk, still air and the restless horse, Madeleine centered her thoughts on only his words. Not their suggestive nature, but the fact that he wasn’t inviting her into his home before the ball three weeks from now. That was remarkably strange. He didn’t want her in his home, and yet it was more than apparent that he desired her physically.
His wrist brushed the side of her breast as he stroked her arm, making her shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asked with feigned concern.
“Extremely.” She gave him a lucid smile and embraced herself, clasping her elbows with her palms, effectively cutting off his hold on her as he had no other option but to drop his arm. “I’m not used to such a chilly climate. My native Marseille has much more appealing weather.”
“Of course.” He stood back a little, and for a moment Madeleine feared he might take his leave in annoyance. As much as she desired it, she wasn’t ready for him to depart just yet.
Against her inner counsel, she took a step toward him, lowering her lashes so that they half covered her fair eyes, tilting her head and toying with the buttons on her cloak.
“It would be my pleasure to accept your generous offer, Richard. I adore parties, and it would be the perfect excuse to get to know you better. But it would only be proper if I were escorted by Mr. Blackwood. I assume he is also invited.”
A shadow of something fell across his face. Doubt? Irritation?…Alarm? But he played the gentleman by not arguing.
“He will also be welcome as my guest,” he said with just a shade of reservation.
“Wonderful.” Her lips twisted coyly. “And I do hope you will show me some of the rooms in your great house. Lady Claire has told me of your marvelous book collection and your interest in trading them. A library is the perfect place to…talk alone. Don’t you agree?”
That startled him. He tried to hide it, but he was disturbed by her statement. He blinked; his forehead crinkled in the slightest of frowns, and she knew it wasn’t because he was surprised at her suggestion of an interlude between them. He was concerned either about the books, or about Lady Claire discussing him. She had the upper hand again.
“So you’ve met Lady Claire,” he maintained, his voice betraying his caution.
“Once a lovely woman, I’m sure.” It was the best compliment she could think of.
Abruptly he returned to his slippery, charming self. “Yes, indeed, though her beauty could never compare to yours, Madeleine.”
She hated the way he said her name. Caressingly smooth, pronouncing each letter as if he were making love to it. In its own way it repulsed her.
With that thought the image of Thomas came to mind—a man of integrity, so powerful, dark, and honest. She remembered his large body sexually hard for her; his moving reaction to touching her intimately. It had only been two hours since she’d seen him last, and yet she missed him. Now. Anxiously.
“Well, I suppose I should be on my way,” she declared through a sigh.
He chuckled, an oily, aggressive sound. “Impatient to return to work?”
She laughed softly, as expected, inclining her head daintily. “No, not really, but I suppose it is my duty to do so. My employer is no doubt wondering where I am.”
His features hardened ever so subtly. “I’m sure that he is,” he said coolly.
It took everything in her to reach out and clasp his arm with her palm. But she did, and he didn’t move. She felt the tightness of his body even through layers.
“It is such a pleasure to finally meet the man I have heard so much about in only the few weeks I have been in Winter Garden,” she admitted softly.
“The pleasure is mine, Madeleine DuMais,” he countered just as quietly, grasping her gloved hand with his own.
“Until next time, monsieur.”
He squeezed her fingers. “Next time.”
She turned, but he didn’t let go of her hand.
“One more thing I forgot to mention.”
Madeleine hesitated and glanced back to notice the deep crease in his brow, his sharp focus now on the ground.
“Monsieur?”
“Your employer, Mr. Blackwood…”
She waited. “Yes?”
“Where is he from, exactly?”
He had to know, and yet he asked her. Why? “I believe he is from Eastleigh, only staying here for the winter months. But again, I do not know his personal life and habits all that well.” She paused for effect, then added, “Why do you ask?”
The baron shook his head briefly in apparent confusion, still looking at the twigs and dark mud at his feet, clinging possessively to her hand. “That’s very odd.”
He wouldn’t release her until he made his point, and for no discernible reason, her pulse began to race. “Odd?”
He never raised his face, but he lifted his lids so that he peered into her eyes, his now hard, hazel-brown circles of triumph.
“I have asked about him in Eastleigh, and nobody has ever heard of a scholar named Thomas Blackwood.”
Madeleine felt the cold seep into her bones. Rothebury was lying, of course, or he wanted her to think so. Had he actually suspected Thomas for more than he is and really investigated him? That was what she found most troubling of all.
“I’m sure there is an explanation,” she insisted congenially, trying desperately to control the shake in her throat. “Perhaps he hasn’t been there in so long the residents have forgotten him. He is, after all, a traveled man.”
The baron’s mouth curled shrewdly, and he squeezed her hand again, almost painfully. “I’m sure you’re right. What I meant by odd was that nobody in the vicinity of Eastleigh has the surname Blackwood. That means his family is not from there. I only had someone check because I heard he is interested in buying the Hope cottage, and since it sits alongside my property, I was curious about the possible new owner. I’m sure you understand.”
She stood quite still. “Of course, Richard.”
“Maybe you could ask him about it sometime.”
She didn’t reply, and he didn’t wait for an answer.
With that he dropped her hand, faced his large mount, and in one effortless action, raised himself upon it once more.
“Words cannot express my delight in meeting you here this morning in the seclusion of the forest, Madeleine. I only wish we had more time to spend alone, getting to know each other.” His intrusive eyes grazed her figure once more, slowly, down and up. “You are an exceptionally beautiful woman, and I hope we’ll meet here again.” He lowered his voice. “Perhaps even at night. It would be a physical pleasure to see your lovely skin illuminated by moonlight.”
That struck her like a slap to the face, at several levels, from the base to the professional. But most jarring of all was that in a manner she couldn’t explain, she felt molested.
“You have been most charming, Richard,” she returned politely, her body unnaturally tense, mouth dry, unable to comment on his last remark. “And I’ll look forward to my invitation to the ball.”
“And I, too, will look forward to showing you my…library. Until then, madam,” he promised with confidence. Then he was off, in the direction he had come.
Madeleine started trembling. Coldness oozed through her, and yet it was more than just a physical reaction to the weather. Baron Rothebury scared her, for reasons unknown. She had intentionally entered the web, and the spider had discovered her. Trapped her. Stalked her.
Turning, she walked calmly in the direction of the cottage until she knew he was out of sight. Then she lifted her skirts and began to run.
Chapter 12
Without intention, Thomas was gone most of the day. He, too, had bathed at the inn after Madeleine had left to meet Rothebury, partly because he was used to daily baths and refused to go more than tw
o days without one while in Winter Garden, but mostly because he worried about Madeleine and knew he would probably watch her from the forest if he could. She didn’t need that. She was perfectly competent, and the baron certainly wasn’t dangerous, at least not at an initial meeting.
At late morning, Thomas called on Sarah Rodney, hoping to extract what information he could from her, as the town’s historian, regarding Rothebury’s property, only to learn she’d been in Haslemere for the last ten days caring for her daughter who had just given birth during a difficult confinement. She would likely be there until after Christmas, according to her butler. Unfortunately there didn’t appear to be any other way to gain information about the manor house aside from asking Rothebury directly or traveling to London to do some investigation. Winter Garden didn’t have a specific place where legal records were kept that would date back to the time when the baron’s family didn’t own it. He could write the Home Office to begin checking, but he didn’t want to. He would wait for now.
His next stop had been to the home of Penelope Bennington-Jones. Desdemona, who lived with her widowed mother while her husband was away serving his country in the Army, was a trifle under the weather, or so he’d been told. Penelope, though, seemed pleased enough to receive him. Overly pleased.
Since Thomas’s arrival in the village the summer prior, he’d only called on her formally twice. During those meetings she had been cordial but aloof, treating him respectfully as a guest of both her home and community, as she must. This time, however, she was exceptionally sociable, which in turn made him highly suspicious. She was a determined woman, inquisitive to the extreme, and today she’d purposely kept him talking for more than two hours. Her questions were direct and about him personally—his background, his war service and education, his reasons for bringing Madeleine to Winter Garden. Of course, he and Madeleine knew their roles and how to respond to inquiries, having discussed them with each other, but what struck him was the abrupt turnaround in Mrs. Bennington-Jones. She’d been conversing with others in the village about them, and most probably to Rothebury. Now she was taking it upon herself to investigate. Thomas was sure of it.
Winter Garden Page 14