She didn’t protest in any way as she spread her legs for him, welcoming him when he slid into her slowly, gradually, filling her to an ideal fit. She cushioned him warmly, accommodating his size as if made for him. Thomas stilled his body and braced himself when he came to rest deeply within her, his forearms laying flat on the rug on either side of her head as he peered down to her lovely, flushed, satisfied face. He’d done that, without doing a thing. He’d pleasured her twice tonight and he would do it again, as she needed it, coaxing her along to that marvelous brink of oblivion. But first he needed gratification himself.
In a drugged haze, her lips curved up contentedly. “I want to watch you this time,” she murmured thickly, caressing his chest with her hands, grazing his arms and neck with her fingers.
He slid very gently out of her once, then back in again. “This is my heaven. You are my dream.”
She raised her hands to cup his face, her smile fading, expression intense. “I’ve never known lovemaking like this. Do you believe me?”
Her question was spoken timidly, although she tried to hide that. He leaned forward and kissed her chin, her cheek, her lips, and forehead with absolute tenderness. “I believe you,” he whispered, voice strained, heart pounding, “because neither have I.”
She inhaled unevenly, and he lifted himself a bit to look into her eyes once more. They were shiny and brilliant blue and charged with love. For him. He knew it, as suddenly as if he had been slapped with it. To discover it now, like this, naked and warm against her, enveloped inside of her during the greatest physical intimacy, made this without doubt the most extraordinary moment of his life.
Perspiration beaded on his brow, but still he refused to move, holding back, giving himself time to adjust physically, emotionally.
She didn’t want to wait any longer. She ran her thumb across his lips and squeezed her inner muscles that surrounded him, urging him to orgasm, and that was all it took. He withdrew from her once more, waiting, holding back, the tip of him only just inside, ready to pull out completely and let himself go against her leg with one more stroke. Then the unbelievable happened.
She grabbed his hips with her hands, tightly, and wrapped her legs around his thighs.
“Yes,” she whispered possessively, from the depths of her heart to his.
His jaw hardened; he flexed his body, and then he drove himself completely into her as she wanted, as he felt himself coming to the edge.
“Maddie—”
He spilled himself inside of her then, during wave after wave of the most intense rush of pleasure he had ever felt, his eyes opened wide to the startled depths of hers, giving himself to her in body and spirit, revealing to her own wounded soul the love he felt inside for her, the beautiful woman who had let him in.
For the first time in his life, Thomas didn’t feel the pain in his legs or brood over the unfairness and harsh realities of life. He heard birdsong and the laughter of children, the crescendo of music and cascading waterfalls, and he felt the marvelous warmth of total contentment.
His joy was unspeakable.
Chapter 20
I don’t want you to leave, Madeleine.
The words kept ringing in her ears like an endless bell, sometimes beautifully, sometimes annoyingly. Like those chiming now in the distance as she walked in haste through a half-inch of snow, carefully put together in her morning gown and mantle, toward the church for Sunday morning service.
Madeleine had awakened in his bed only an hour ago, snuggled into his arms as if she’d belonged there her entire life, feeling as if she might never leave, realizing at once after the glow of the night had faded that such an idea was dangerous.
Of course, she would leave. Eventually. She had to, for she couldn’t stay in England only to do…what? Marry him? That was a preposterous thought, though not necessarily an unpleasant one. Still, she was surprised that the notion had occurred to her at all, as she had never considered herself the marrying kind of woman. Could she settle for just being his lover in Eastleigh as they worked as spies together? That seemed laughable to her. She would never be accepted in this country, as his wife or mistress, and her work was in France. That was where her talents and expertise were needed most, not here. Not permanently. Thomas had to know that, had to have known at the beginning that any relationship they might have had would be short-lived. She just wished the knowledge didn’t tear into her so deeply, as it did each time she thought of it, which was constantly of late.
Last night had been incredible, she reflected, beaming in a manner she couldn’t help and that she hoped would not be observed by the many Winter Garden ladies she was bound to encounter only a few minutes from now. Thomas had desired her so much, had been so attentive, so tender, so…energetic. He’d made love to her four times in as many hours, and at nearly forty years of age, that had to be a record of some kind. Going more than half a decade without a woman had certainly made him anxious to make up for time lost. She had given in to his need, finding her own satisfaction more times than she could count—or wanted to, for that matter. Finally, though, satiated and content, they’d slept in his bed, molded together as one, absorbing each other’s heat and total devotion, until just over an hour ago when she’d awakened with a curious thought, a theory plaguing her suddenly that she wanted to clarify by attending church of all places on this brisk, overcast winter morning.
The idea itself had come from considering her own selfish stupidity. Her first thought upon waking, after only three hours of sleep or so, which came after hours of blissful, restless lovemaking, was that she never should have allowed him to climax inside of her. He had been prepared to withdraw himself, and would have each time, but she had yielded for a reason, or reasons, unclear. She had wanted to give him a marvelous time because of the pain he had suffered, because of the inadequacy he’d felt all these years due to disabilities he assumed would disgust female companions. And yet, if she pondered it honestly, her reasons also included feelings far more complex in nature, that she couldn’t yet define, and possibly never would.
He still would have enjoyed himself even if he’d been outside of her at orgasm. It was her own selfishness that had wanted him to penetrate her when he’d reached it. She had experienced a sudden, inexplicable need to watch him find pleasure inside her, and she’d basked in the moment when he had. She’d never given in like that with another man out of her very real fear of getting pregnant with a child she’d never wanted, but last night with Thomas it simply hadn’t mattered.
Now, as the morning coldness weighed heavily on her shoulders and common sense took over, she had to face the fact that she could be carrying Thomas’s child. Right now. Inside of her. The thought made her shiver, but not with aversion, surprisingly. It made her shiver with an unusual kind of warmth, because his feelings for her went far below the surface, to the hidden place within her that needed him, that longed for something to hold him there, and he knew that place existed. He knew it. If she were pregnant with his child, he would love it unconditionally, regardless of their unmarried status, her illegitimate birth and past. She also knew this beyond question. If she gave birth to his baby, Thomas would forever be a part of her, loving that part. That was what she’d felt from the heat of his eyes at the moment of his physical release when he’d left his seed deeply within her. It was the only reason she’d allowed him in more than once last night.
Of course, there was always the possibility that she hadn’t conceived, but she was, nonetheless, frightened of the prospect. In theory, the idea of pregnancy was romantic and splendid. In reality, what she’d likely done was allow one night of extraordinary passion to ruin her life as she knew it.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Madeleine kicked the snow in front of her with the toe of her shoe, creating a mist of fine, white powder that clung to the sable fur at the base of her mantle. Rounding the final corner on the relatively deserted street, she spied the vicarage in the distance, the small church behind it now f
illing with locals in Sunday best, and she raised her chin with her graceful walk, trying to think of something else. It didn’t work.
Thomas’s baby. If indeed she carried it, she would keep it, and probably come to love it. What else could she do? It would be a child born of her own mistake, which would make it her responsibility. And that was the thought that had so stirred her to seek out Desdemona this cloudy, bitter morning, by herself because their conversation was going to become personal, and in a place where the lady would undoubtedly be, and where ignoring Madeleine would be unlikely and rude should she try.
She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought before of confronting the lady after church, as she’d wanted to speak with her for weeks now. Maybe because a conversation in Desdemona’s home seemed more practical, more intimate, and, of course, Madeleine rarely attended the small English church. But after the spark of clarity striking her this morning, she knew she didn’t have time to waste by calling on the woman and being told, again, that she was out or under the weather or resting. Talking on the street wasn’t the ideal situation, but at this point she really had no choice. Her only hope was that Desdemona would be there and would be able to escape her mother for a few minutes.
The service was amazingly full, considering that the party of the season had been held only last night. Many of the gentry were absent, Madeleine noticed as she sat in the back of the congregation, listening with not a shade of interest at the sermon droned by the very proper Vicar Barkley who had, upon their first meeting, made it clear without comment that he found her a fascinating addition to the Winter Garden community, but disapproved appropriately of her living with the unmarried scholar. It was curious that he allowed his daughter to work for them, but that was irrelevant apparently. And, of course, she was Catholic by birth, which didn’t endear her to anyone.
She did, however, take the time to observe the attendees now, looking at the backs of heads until she spotted the subject of her search in the second pew on the far right side, near the small, untalented but diligent choir. She wore a large straw hat in royal purple that sported three tall plumes of the same color, tied with a wide satin bow at her chin so that the hat slanted sideways to allow just enough of her fair hair to show becomingly. Penelope was nowhere to be seen, although Desdemona whispered to a larger girl with the same hair coloring sitting to her right whom Madeleine assumed must be one of the lady’s two sisters.
Madeleine waited until the choir finished singing for a final time, then stood as Desdemona did, watching the woman turn in her direction as she made her way toward the exit at the back of the church.
For the first time, Madeleine took special interest in the lady’s appearance, studying her critically. Desdemona was a slight, well-groomed and well-dressed but somewhat unattractive young woman, made more so by her dour expression and light blue eyes that had lost their excitement, even hope, in life. Her pregnancy was showing now, although only to the most observant as her woolen, dark gray and fox-trimmed mantle covered it well. She wore a gown the same color as her hat, but Madeleine could only see the lace cuffs as they extended below the sleeves.
So sad. That was the feeling she exuded. Her eyes were wide but vacant as they stared straight ahead; her skin, though fair, waxed more pale than it should, considering her youth and the natural blush that was reported to come with pregnancy. Madeleine suspected the reason, and it doused her with an uncommon sense of compassion and empathy for this young woman who had succumbed to temptation she wasn’t prepared to handle.
Desdemona, her sister following, spoke to no one on her way from the sanctuary as she headed toward the snow-covered vicarage garden, lost in her own thoughts. Madeleine cut through the disassembling crowd until she strolled up to Desdemona’s side as if it were an accidental meeting.
The lady blinked quickly when she turned her head and realized who walked beside her, slowing her stride though not stopping to visit.
“Good morning, Mrs. Winsett,” Madeleine began pleasantly, rubbing her hands together in her muff.
For a second or two Desdemona seemed confused at seeing her there. Then she smiled faintly. “Good morning, Mrs. DuMais. Have you met my sister Hermione?”
Madeleine shifted her focus to the girl now walking slightly behind Desdemona and to her left, and tipped her head in formal acknowledgment. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bennington-Jones.”
“Likewise, ma’am,” came the hesitant reply.
Sturdily built, taller, and even more homely than her sister, Hermione had a round face and rounder hazel eyes that implied a sheltered child within, though she was clearly near an age suitable for marriage.
“Where is your mother today?” Madeleine asked to clear the air quickly before she got down to the business at hand, peeking over her shoulder with the near expectation of seeing Penelope bustling in their direction, pointing her finger in irritation at Madeleine’s audacious attempt to seek her daughters’ company.
Desdemona snorted and stared forward again, her slim shoulders erect, mouth curled. “Mother is slightly under the weather today after the festivities of last night and, of course, the busy time she’s had lately preparing for my sister’s coming out.”
“Oh, I see. I hope she’ll be feeling better soon,” Madeleine replied as expected.
“Thank you. I’m sure she will.”
They walked side by side for another few seconds in silence, but Desdemona didn’t seem at all desirous of escaping her presence. In some fashion, Madeleine decided the girl wanted her companionship, if only for a little while.
“Do you hear from your husband?” she asked congenially.
Desdemona hesitated in answering, though she tried not to show it. “He has written me twice in the last month. He’s in Poland now, with the twenty-second infantry, as their chief weapons inspector.” She looked at her askance. “It may not seem important to you, Mrs. DuMais, but it’s important to the English cause. I’m also very proud of him.”
Madeleine stepped around a mulberry bush at the edge of the vicarage garden and headed out into the lane, uncrowded as those who had chanced the service quickly returned home to avoid the frosty air. “I’m sure it must be a comfort for him to know that you’re safely in England with family while you await the birth of your child.”
It was altogether subtle, but Desdemona stiffened at the remark. Directing her attention to Hermione, Madeleine suggested, “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I speak with your sister alone?”
Desdemona paused in her stride as the younger girl’s brows drew together in a frown.
“Mother is expecting us,” Hermione replied reluctantly, shifting her gaze from one to the other.
“And I shouldn’t be out in the cold air while I’m carrying,” Desdemona added with a great deal more confidence.
“Nonsense,” Madeleine scoffed. “Fresh air is good for you and the baby, and I really would like to discuss something with you privately. It’s important.”
Desdemona didn’t argue, but she and her sister exchanged another look that implied a suggested restraint on both of their parts—Desdemona toward Madeleine, and Hermione toward Penelope.
“I’ll tell Mother you’re on your way, Desi,” Hermione mumbled, a trifle flustered. “Good day, Mrs. DuMais.” Then she lifted her skirts and quickly crossed the road, treading as lightly as possible over snow and ice.
Desdemona watched her for a few seconds, then continued strolling along their original path, heading down Saderbark Road toward the village square.
Madeleine waited until Hermione was clearly out of earshot, then chose to delve straight into the issue that brought her to this imperative discussion on this particular morning.
“I was wondering about something,” she started, her voice suggesting an air of both concern and puzzlement. “You mentioned at Mrs. Rodney’s tea several weeks ago that you’d heard rumors of lights at night and ghosts on Baron Rothebury’s property.” She clucked her tongue. “I happened to be
out taking a late-night stroll recently and saw that light. Can you believe it?”
Desdemona stopped short and glowered at her with eyes a soft, innocent blue—and brimming with trepidation. “What do you want, Mrs. DuMais?” she asked coldly.
Madeleine caught the alarm in the young woman’s voice, and she pursed her lips, tipping her head an inch to the side in apparent contemplation. “You’re carrying the baron’s child, aren’t you, Desdemona?” she inquired very softly, without pretense or pleasure from bringing that out in the open.
Desdemona not only paled significantly, but also flinched as if struck. Her eyes grew to wide pools of a secret fear, a repulsion of their own kind, and something more. Something like hatred.
A lone horseman trotted by, advising them in a loud, terse tongue to take their conversation out of the center of the street, but neither she nor Desdemona looked his way, nor did they move as they stood staring at each other.
“That’s slanderous, Mrs. DuMais,” the lady said in a frigid voice. “I recommend you take your loathsome comments back to France.”
Madeleine wasn’t the least daunted or unnerved by Desdemona’s threatening rejoinder. She had, in fact, expected it. Smiling vaguely, she dropped her gaze to her feet and began shuffling the snow with her already frozen toe.
“It is, however, quite true, isn’t it? You met the baron several times during late-evening rendezvous when he took you into his home as his mistress through a tunnel that leads to his bedroom.” She lifted her lashes only, just enough to view the tangled cloud of disgust and apprehension on Desdemona’s ashen face.
Suddenly the younger woman stood stiffly erect, lips thinned, and then she lifted her skirts with a return of self-possessed dignity and swept by her.
Madeleine remained unfazed. “I have a proposition for you, Desdemona,” she called after her.
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