Winter Garden

by Adele Ashworth

  He didn’t reach for Thomas’s hand, and Madeleine suspected he clung to hers so he wouldn’t have to.

  Thomas stood rigidly at her side and slightly behind her. “But you are wrong, Baron Rothebury. We met at Mrs. Bennington-Jones’s garden party last September. Don’t you recall? A small social gathering for her daughter Desdemona in celebration of the young lady’s recent nuptials?”

  Madeleine caught the faintest tick on the baron’s mouth at the mention of Desdemona, but he hid any negative feelings well, smiling ever so craftily as was his nature.

  “Ahh, yes. I now remember,” Rothebury replied very slowly. “You remained at Lady Claire’s side for the entire event, I believe.”

  If the baron had thought such a situation odd, or intended his remark to be a revelation of indecency, however slight, neither Madeleine nor Thomas reacted to it. Margaret Broadstreet, however, wrinkled her nose and stood back a step, her spine a little straighter, glancing down Thomas’s large, dark form.

  “You’re very likely correct,” Thomas agreed without explanation. “Is she here this evening, by the way?”

  “Lady Claire? Oh, yes, of course,” he rebuffed with a blasé lift of his champagne glass. “I imagine she’s sitting, however. We all know about Lady Claire, and she did seem rather…fatigued.”

  An awkward moment passed, and still Rothebury had not released her hand. Others began to take notice of them in their small circle near the window, closing in to ogle her and Thomas as invited but highly suspicious and unusually intriguing guests. Many faces Madeleine recognized, some she’d met briefly, while there were still others she’d never seen before. All of them, though, were extremely curious about her position at the ball tonight.

  “I also remember, Mr. Blackwood,” Mrs. Broadstreet chimed in with only a trace of irritation at not being formally introduced. “But I don’t think I’ve met this woman. She is the Frenchwoman who lives with you, is she not? We’ve heard all about her in the village.”

  This woman. Madeleine was growing sick to death of being given such a common distinction in an inflection that made it sound despicable. Instead of reacting, however, she did what she always did and bore it gracefully. With a little persuasion she was at last able to pull her fingers from Rothebury’s, although not without some resistance and what she was certain was a purposeful stroke or two of his thumb.

  “Yes, I’m here under Mr. Blackwood’s employ,” she said in her own defense, facing the lady directly. “But I’m sure I haven’t heard of you, Mrs….?”

  “Margaret Broadstreet,” the baron offered congenially.

  “We’re from the north,” she put in, “but we come to Winter Garden every year during the cold season, as my husband suffers.”

  Madeleine was beginning to believe it. “Is he here tonight as well?” she asked pleasantly.

  “He is in the smoking room with several acquaintances discussing whatever it is men discuss in such places,” she returned somewhat hotly. Then, with shoulders erect and a crisp lift of her thin, pink lips, she disclosed, “He is the second cousin once removed of the Baron Seeley, you know.” Forcing a chuckle from her throat, she lifted her thick, ringed fingers and splayed them across her chest. “But I’m sure you’d know nothing about English titles and such.”

  “Of course, she wouldn’t. She’s French.”

  The shrill voice came from behind her, yet Madeleine knew at once that it belonged to Penelope, and they all turned to regard her.

  A large, sturdily built woman to begin with, she now looked enormous and thoroughly silly wearing a satin gown in dark purple, the full, swishing skirt covered in row after row of white lace. The high neckline pulled far too tightly across her expansive bosom, and the stiffness of her corset crunched her thickening waistline in to nearly bursting. She looked like a plump grape made ready to be squashed into wine. It was also amusing to note how her gown harmonized with Rothebury’s attire almost to perfection. They were a matched set, albeit unintentionally, and from the look of coldness in the baron’s eyes as he observed the lady joining them, it became clear to Madeleine that he was not pleased. No, it was more than that. Richard Sharon hated Penelope Bennington-Jones.

  “The French are quite sophisticated, and certainly aware of titles and their historical and contemporary implications, Mrs. Bennington-Jones,” Thomas said easily as she drew her heavily perfumed figure up to his side.

  Penelope glanced at him askance, up and down, her cheeks puffing in silent indignation. “You’re looking rather well, Mr. Blackwood,” she replied brusquely, brushing over his comment as she opened her fan in front of her face.

  “Thank you.”

  “And so are you, Mrs. Bennington-Jones,” Madeleine offered politely.

  Penelope shifted her feet and began fanning herself. “How thoughtful of you to notice.”

  Madeleine didn’t know whether to laugh or compliment the lady on such a splendid reply. Penelope purposely avoided eye contact with her, but she’d come back with a tactful comment that, although meant to be rude, didn’t really sound that way.

  “The French often notice such things,” Margaret cut in, reaching forward to pat Penelope on the arm. “They’re very conscious of fashion and whether a person is well or not.”

  “Really?” asked the baron, taking a sip of his champagne and standing back on his heels. “How do you know this, Margaret?”

  The impact of the seemingly innocent question was subtle, and yet Madeleine knew it was supposed to be condescending, to make the lady stumble in reply. Everyone knew it.

  “This is a well-known fact, Baron Rothebury,” came Penelope’s tight rejoinder as all eyes turned to her. “The French are a rather…uncivilized bunch, of course, when they are together in a group, but generally they’re also keen about appearances.”

  Rothebury’s gaze iced over as he glared at the woman. Certainly it was beyond doubt that he had the superior position in his home, at his ball, and in title. But it was clear that Penelope also had some unusual connection to him. She wouldn’t have otherwise made such a bold statement in defiance of his.

  Margaret reached for a glass of champagne as a footman passed, jumping in to add, “I think you may be correct, Mrs. Bennington-Jones. Since we’re speaking factually, however, it must be noted that while the French may care about appearances, they certainly have little taste when it comes to them.”

  Penelope shook her head. “No, the problem with the French is not that they have no taste, or style for that matter, but that they simply have no tact.”

  “Unlike the English, Mrs. Bennington-Jones?” Thomas asked in a hard near-whisper. When all eyes focused on him again, he smiled coldly and reached out to gently squeeze Madeleine’s upper arm. “We’ve been standing here for five minutes, and aside from the good Baron Rothebury, not one of you ladies has offered a kind word to Mrs. DuMais—the Frenchwoman in our presence. She is a guest in our country, yet you have openly insulted her and her culture.” He stood stiffly and folded his hands behind his back. “While under my employ I have found her to be intelligent, charming, and gracious. I have lived in Winter Garden for several months now, and I have yet to see such graciousness in one of the ladies from the village.”

  They all nearly gaped at him, an absurd picture beneath their masks, stunned into silence. It was truly a comical moment, and one that Madeleine would not soon forget.

  Without waiting for rebuttal, Thomas looked once more at Rothebury who, most questionable of all, had narrowed his eyes in what Madeleine could only describe as appraising speculation.

  “If you will excuse me, Baron Rothebury?” Thomas concluded, his voice fairly dripping with contempt. “I think I’d like to mingle.” He turned to her. “Care to join me, Mrs. DuMais?”

  Of course, she did. She wanted to hug him, too. “Actually I was going to be extremely bold and ask the baron if he would enjoy a dance or two.”

  Rothebury stepped forward instantly, closing off the other two ladies as he offered h
er his arm, his countenance shining with enjoyment that now appeared to be genuine. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Thomas nodded once. “As you wish.” And then he left her staring at his large, broad back, disappearing into the crowd.

  Chapter 16

  Richard was restless. Even as he danced a Bach minuet with the most lushly beautiful woman he’d seen in ages, he felt not relaxed and centered as he should, but tense and distracted.

  His party was naturally a success, as it had always been in past years. He’d once again given great care to choosing the best food, drink, and music, sparing no expense. Lavish decorations abounded, the gentry mingled and laughed, and still he couldn’t seem to concentrate on the affair with any ease.

  At nearly thirty-three years of age he’d done many interesting things but none compared to his lucrative trade in stolen opium. He did it for the money, true, but also for the adventure. For months he’d enjoyed his success, spending the extra funds, refurnishing his study, library, and bedchamber with outstanding antique pieces bought at auction. But something in the last few weeks had started gnawing at him like a dull knife to the gut, and he couldn’t exactly put his finger on the cause.

  Now he held the alluring Madeleine DuMais in his arms, peering at her through the eyes of her mask. She was truly a vision of unparalleled beauty, wearing an exquisite gown that accentuated her generous, pale breasts and a shapely figure that showed no sign of ever having borne a child. Her skin was incredibly flawless, her up-swirled, chestnut hair thick and shiny, her lips full and beckoning. Richard felt his body react as it did the day in the woods three weeks ago when he’d spent much of the time envisioning her naked in his bed. She was a cultured woman, experienced, and no doubt knew how to please a man. She’d all but said as much. He’d thought about her often since that fateful day, and now she was here, in his home, dancing and laughing softly at his wry wit.

  He’d become immediately aware of her as she’d walked through the stained-glass archway into the ballroom. But when the scholar stepped in directly behind her, pausing at her side and allowing Richard a view of the two of them together, a measure of foreboding had struck him soundly. This is what roused his restlessness now. He was sure of it. Although it had stirred his uneasiness when Penelope had mentioned them weeks before, his sudden anxiety tonight was brought about by seeing them together. Unfortunately the marked coincidences that had lured both an unusually gorgeous Frenchwoman and a crippled, unknown English scholar to Winter Garden could no longer be denied.

  They were an impressive pair, if Richard considered it objectively—Blackwood large, dark and commanding in appearance, Madeleine stunning to look at, true visual perfection. Aside from the man’s obvious injuries, they presented an illusory, almost fairy-tale likeness as a couple, and everyone had taken note of it. Richard had even found it highly amusing to watch Penelope the bitch, Margaret the snob who was in actuality a nobody in station, the scholar, and Madeleine in their gauche exchange. Blackwood had settled the score, though, Richard had observed with clarity and some level of surprise, and not without noticing the subtle indications of admiration from the man’s lovely escort.

  They were attracted to each other. Very plainly, although they each did their best to hide it. But from each other? Or only the rest of them? Richard didn’t know, and he also wasn’t certain how it made him feel. On the one hand he wanted the woman, and badly. On the other, he couldn’t afford to allow her into his life in any meaningful way. He had property to manage, a clandestine business to run, a house to maintain, and he wasn’t at all interested in producing an heir at the moment. He would marry at the appropriate time, of course, and have a son eventually, but marriage for him lay in the distant future, and certainly not to a common, widowed Frenchwoman, regardless of her unusual beauty or how much she desired him. And he intended to discover the level of that soon enough.

  The minuet ended, and breathlessly Madeleine smiled at him, fanning herself daintily with perfectly tapered fingers. He smiled in return and brought his mind to the present.

  “Would you care to walk, Mrs. DuMais? I could use some fresh air and would be delighted to show you some of the treasures I’ve recently collected in my study and library.”

  His words had meaning beneath them, and she took the hint.

  “Of course, Monsieur Baron—”

  “Richard, please,” he stressed, offering her his arm.

  “And you must call me Madeleine,” she insisted in a heavy, thoroughly titillating French accent, curling her fingers around his sleeve at the elbow.

  He patted them with his free hand, her skin warm and soft. Suddenly, urgently, he needed those warm, soft fingers wrapped around him intimately, stroking him.

  “The library first, Richard?” she asked in a velvety purr, fairly sparkling with impish intimation.

  His bedchamber would be his choice, but the ballroom was crowded with neighbors and guests of relative importance, and many of them would observe the two of them leaving together. They couldn’t chance being gone too long. The library would suffice for now, as she’d suggested during their first meeting in the woods, and later, with great hope, he could take her naked.

  “The library it is, Madeleine,” he agreed with a subtle gesture to the stairs.

  They walked in silence, although the noise level in the ballroom had grown to a pitch too loud to converse casually. He climbed the stairs after her, watching her hips sway, the soft, light curls in her hair bob at her shoulders with each step. She fascinated him, which Richard found fascinating in itself. A woman hadn’t unsettled him like this in years.

  The foyer had grown a bit more crowded as well, but mostly with individuals on their way to the smoking room behind the ballroom, the ladies withdrawing room next to that, or a few brave souls who chanced a breath of cold air in the bitter night. Richard stopped three times to chat with certain guests that by mere influence required a greeting, introducing Madeleine only as a visitor to their country and their village. She charmed them with her sophistication, and with each passing minute, Richard grew more and more anxious to get her alone.

  At last they proceeded down the corridor toward the rear of his home, passing his study. If anyone noticed the two of them isolating themselves from the others, nobody would comment openly about it. At least not tonight and in this house. Discretion would reign the conversations of nearly everyone invited to this affair. Richard knew them all, and his power among the villagers was essential to their welfare, if not their gossiping tongues. Let them speculate. They would learn nothing anyway.

  Madeleine didn’t speak when he finally escorted her into the library. Then he closed the door behind them and softly turned the lock in place.

  Facing her once more, he noticed the briefest hesitancy in her eyes as she glanced to the bolt, but then it vanished as she drew a long breath and looked around the room.

  “It’s lovely, Richard.”

  He began sauntering toward her. “I think so as well.” He’d meant her, of course, but he also knew that she had been speaking of his library. Newly decorated in burnt almond and evergreen, it was a beautiful room with vaulted ceilings of the original construction. There was elegant though simply designed Queen Anne furniture—two satin settees in dark green and two chairs in velveteen gold facing each other, and a cherry wood tea table between them all. Bookcases lined the walls, although they were mostly filled with priceless antiques he’d collected through the years, from Italy, Egypt, the Far East. He had pottery vases from ancient Rome, ivory jars from India, jade carvings from Japan, tapestries from Turkey, and plush rugs woven in Spain, all purchased with money collected by those in London who bought his opium for the needy elite. Yes, it was a marvelous business indeed.

  “But where are your books?” she asked with a trace of confusion.

  The question didn’t surprise him; in point of fact he expected it. It was a library after all, and his collection within it was scarce.

  “Those few b
ooks of value are kept here, naturally, on the top shelves,” he replied, reaching behind his head to untie his mask, “but I have others, ones I peruse on occasion, in my private quarters upstairs.” He paused when he stood in front of her, dropping it on one of the settees, then lifting his hands behind her head to untie hers. “Perhaps you’d like to see them sometime, Madeleine?”

  He’d posed that as a question while he removed the white satin cover from her face, but she didn’t comment right away. Neither did she react to his forwardness, which he found exceptionally gratifying.

  Tossing her mask on the settee beside his, Richard reached up and stroked her cheek with his palm. Her skin was warm and flushed, but her eyes, lighter than the summer sky, were steady as they remained locked with his.

  “Where do you keep the books you buy from Lady Claire?” she asked softly.

  That puzzled him a little. She drew him in with her impassioned gaze and brazen grin, asked for his advances by fairly fondling him with nothing more than a husky murmur, and posed a question having nothing whatever to do with sexual play. In fact, it was so far removed from the path of attraction they were following that it stumped him. For a moment only.

  With a crooked lift of his lips and a stroke of his thumb across her cheekbone, he moved closer to reveal, “I’m a book dealer, Madeleine, remember? I buy what she’s willing to sell and then I give them to a distributor who sells them to someone who is willing to pay more. It’s simply a hobby that provides me the income to purchase lovely things such as these that line my bookshelves. If it must be known, I prefer owning priceless foreign artifacts to books.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said airily.

  Smirking, he leaned forward to add in a whisper, “Please don’t mention that to anyone. Everybody in Winter Garden thinks I’m an independently wealthy intellectual.”

  She smiled fully at the teasing remark. “I’ll keep your secret, Richard. But do you have one person you deal with or many? And how do you send them, in boxes?”