Then with a tug at her wide skirts, Desdemona whisked past Madeleine and continued down the quiet road toward the home she was soon to leave, her shoes crunching noisily on the narrow, ice-covered street.
Chapter 21
Madeleine returned to the cottage in a daze, walking blindly, slowly at first, mindless to the fact that her extremities were freezing, her nose, cheeks, and lips numb from cold.
She couldn’t decide if Desdemona was thoroughly insane or incredibly wise beyond her years. The facts remained that, yes, things change, times change. Her life was not now the same as it was last night before she and Thomas had made love. Nor was it the same as it had been even early this morning when she’d gone to Desdemona, fully in control of her mind and emotions, with a professional purpose, only to return dumb-founded, uncomfortable, and scared of the unknown.
She needed to see Thomas, she decided, picking up the pace and praying she wouldn’t slip on the ice. She needed to feel his lips on hers, his skin next to hers, to feel him inside her. She wanted desperately to be with him, to run from him, wished suddenly that she had never met him. Mostly she just wanted to look into his eyes and witness for herself what Desdemona said was there for all to see.
But could she see it? If indeed he loved her, shouldn’t she have recognized it before now if others had? Had she been blind to it intentionally? Or was the notion of some endless love he felt for her pure folly on the part of an impressionable young woman with romantic dreams?
Life was so complicated when feelings were involved. She had never been passionately in love with anyone so how could she know how it felt? Jacques had loved her, and she had loved him, she supposed, but that was somehow different from what she felt for Thomas. Her feelings for Jacques had been comforting, soothing, companionable, simple, and their lovemaking had been pleasant and, in general, fulfilling. Indeed, with the few men she’d bedded over the years, sex had ranged from the enjoyable to the routine, satisfying a mutual lust and allowing for a measure of brief closeness. Nothing more and nearly always forgettable.
From the moment she’d met Thomas, however, her reactions to him as a man had been unusual—remarkable, really—and thoroughly unexpected. With Thomas the air crackled when they touched, her stomach fluttered when they kissed, her heart pounded erratically when he walked into the room and looked her up and down with his dark, narrowed, direct eyes, drawing her in with his irresistible mouth. Their lovemaking was like nothing she’d ever experienced with anyone, though she couldn’t say exactly why. It was just…magnetic.
What did she feel for him, exactly? She really didn’t know him all that well. She knew many of his likes and dislikes, his social and political views, his aspirations and devotions because they’d had a great deal of time to discuss them, and yet much of himself he kept secret. Could she possibly be in love with the part she knew, love him as he was?
More significant, though, was the idea that he might be deeply in love with her. She really didn’t think it was possible. No man had ever loved her deeply before, and she supposed she was partly to blame for that. She just didn’t allow anybody to get emotionally close enough. She respected herself, enjoyed and admired the woman she had become, but time could not forget that she was the illegitimate daughter of an opium-addicted actress, who had danced in music halls and lost her virginity at the age of fifteen with the first of many lovers, and Thomas very well knew all of this. She was also nearing thirty. Many a man might want her as a mistress, but no respectable gentleman would ever want her as a loving wife. Not when they knew who she was, which was precisely why her work came first above all things. It was all in the world she had that was truly hers, that she had earned using her own cleverness, sagacity, dedication, and determination. It was the only thing that would get her through life with a measure of pride and happiness, as well as a sense of accomplishment. She would never give it up for love or marriage. Never. Thomas knew this because she’d told him so.
Did he love her anyway? After a few minutes of serious reflection she concluded that he probably did not. He was likely infatuated, as she’d paid him undivided attention, made love to him by pressing him into it when he had denied it would happen, had become his friend and working companion, but they had only known each other for a few weeks. Surely love took longer to bloom. Still, it left her with few answers and many troublesome questions.
The wind had stirred the loose snow so that the porch was covered with a thin layer of ice when she finally stepped onto it a few minutes later. She unlatched the door and walked inside the cottage, the heat of the coal fire and the scent of furniture wax and toasted bread hitting her soundly with the rustic feel of home. This wasn’t her home, though, and she would do well to remember that. She would be leaving shortly, to return to her life in France, to sunshine and warmth and her private residence on the Rue de la Fleur in Marseille, to her maid, Marie-Camille, and her extensive wardrobe and food that she missed. And her work in France. It was where she was needed. Regardless of the looming sadness at the thought of leaving Thomas, she must remember where she was needed.
With renewed resolve, she unbuttoned her mantle with cold, stiff fingers, then hung it on the rack with her muff. She shivered, quickly rubbing her hands up and down her upper arms to help them warm, then smoothed a palm over the coiled braid at her nape to make sure it was still in place. That done, she straightened her spine and fairly glided into the parlor, and then the kitchen where she found Thomas, pen in hand, head bowed, mulling over paperwork scattered across the table. She paused at the door and stared, warming to the bone at the rugged, masculine, arresting sight of him, her resolve instantaneously deserting her.
The cloudiness of the day made lamplight essential, and the glow from it created a thin, wavy streak of silver down the center of his dark hair that fell without his notice over his forehead. He wore plain, black trousers, a white linen shirt rolled up at the cuffs and unbuttoned at the neck, and, of course, his expensive, specially made leather boots with the gold buckles and the wooden, right foot insert that he’d shown her in detail this morning. His face, unshaven since yesterday, gave him a scruffy appearance, tempting her to slide her palm across it, to feel the tingling roughness against her skin, which in turn reminded her how those bristles had sensually grazed her inner thighs last night.
Just looking at him, thinking about that experience, made her weaken inside. Her belly quivered, her breath quickened, and as she considered it now, she realized she’d never felt any of these feelings for another man. Just Thomas.
Abruptly he glanced in her direction and jerked his body upright, startled to see her, having been so engrossed in his paperwork he hadn’t heard her come in.
Her gaze met his, melded with it, and she leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over her bosom as her lips curled up ever so slowly in a soft smile of contentment.
He noticed it and grinned boyishly, showing polished teeth and blushing skin.
Blushing. Thomas was blushing. From thoughts of last night? From embarrassment at their heated, uncontrollable passion of only hours ago? She ached to know, but wouldn’t ask. His reaction was just so charming, so wonderful and endearing, making him look years younger and utterly content.
“I sent an urgent note to Sir Riley,” he said after clearing his throat. “I explained the situation in detail, and expect to hear back from him as early as tomorrow.”
She said nothing, just watched him intently—the fullness of his mouth, the tiny, almost indistinguishable cleft in his chin, the way his eyelashes curved out long and thick, his refined, aristocratic nose, the way that ever-present piece of hair that never seemed to bother him fell down between his dark brows.
“Did you learn anything?” he asked when she didn’t respond, resting his pen in the inkwell on the table, his voice a bit more sober.
“Yes,” she murmured, never taking her eyes from the glimmering, honey-brown recesses of his. “I think I did.”
And then without furth
er remark she drifted toward him and gracefully sat on his thighs, ignoring the surprise on his face as she pulled her legs up and under her gown, curling into him. She snuggled against his massive chest, wrapping her arms around his neck and clinging to him as she began to kiss his jaw and cheek, inhaling the scent—Thomas’s scent—that she’d come to know so well.
His response was predictable and fast. He embraced her without comment and began kissing her in return, small pecks of affection to her cheeks and chin and brow, his lips feather-soft.
Immediately she’d had enough of the preliminary. Heat rising, she quickly took his mouth with hers and kissed him deeply, possessively, aching, needing, and he sensed it all, felt everything. He raised his hands behind her and unpinned her braid, letting her hair fall loosely down her back and then threading his fingers through it until it began to come apart. Then one hand was on her breast, kneading it through her gown, caressing her nipple to a point of delightful sensation. A whisper-soft moan escaped her mouth.
She felt his erection just barely through the layers of clothing, and she adjusted herself on his lap a little, moving as close as possible, spreading her legs for his probing hand. He obliged her unspoken demand, taking advantage of her position by inserting his palm up her gown to caress her calf, stroking it over her stocking. She wove her fingers through his hair and then pushed her hips up, begging tacitly for his touch.
He groaned then, coming alive with a burning raw hunger, and suddenly there was fire—searing heat—between them. She clawed at his shirt until the first two buttons popped, and then her mouth found his chest and she traced his nipples with her wet tongue. He groped for her petticoats and pulled at them until he was able to shove his hand inside, fingers searching, finding the slit then probing it.
He stroked her, slowly at first, and then quickly, more intimately as she became wetter and slicker against his hand.
She moaned softly at the back of her throat, stealing quick breaths when she could, kissing the muscles of his chest, raising her lips to his neck, his jaw again, tracing his scar and then his mouth with the fine point of her tongue.
His breathing grew shallow, but he never gave up the relentless pursuit of her pleasure as she grew closer to it.
It was so fast, so hot, so charged.
Magnetic.
Within seconds she felt herself rising to the edge of satisfaction as his fingers explored, stroked, his mouth took hers, his tongue plunged inside to suck.
Yes! her mind screamed as she kissed him back fervently, squirming and pushing against his hand. Yes, Thomas, yes!
Love me!
And then she experienced that glorious explosion within. She jerked her head back and closed her eyes to the intensity of his, crying out her pleasure, savoring the wonderful, rich moment as she never had before.
Bliss enveloped her for seconds, and then she raised herself, held tightly to his neck, and snuggled into his chest.
“I want to stay here forever,” she heard in a far-off whisper, realizing only partially that the words came from her.
He didn’t ask for clarification. He withdrew his hand from under her gown, lifted her in his arms, holding her close as his aching, tired, damaged limbs carried her slowly from the kitchen, up the stairs, and into his bedroom.
Chapter 22
Dreamily Madeleine awakened to a dark, gloomy morning and the sound of steadily tapping rain on the rooftop above. It had been falling for two days, melting all the snow, which naturally made the roads a muddy mess that iced over during the night and turned the village an ugly brown color. Madeleine detested the unusual cold spell outside when she needed to brave it, but she cherished the warmth within the cottage, so much so, in fact, that she was not looking forward at all to this afternoon’s meeting with Sir Riley that was bound to be the beginning of the inevitable end of her stay in Winter Garden.
Although she hadn’t felt him leave, Thomas had already risen from her side and was probably preparing tea for them downstairs. She took the moment by herself to snuggle deeper under the covers, avoiding the chill in the air until she was forced to confront it.
She’d slept in the nude for the last two marvelous nights in Thomas’s large bed, in Thomas’s arms, on Thomas’s pillow that smelled of him, in Thomas’s room that so perfectly fit his personality. The room, in fact, was rather subdued in point of function but carried conspicuous traces of his personal elegance, such as his wardrobe of four fine woolen suits and complementary silk shirts, his carved, ivory jewel case that sat atop a finely crafted, gold handled, mahogany highboy that matched the headboard and a decorative chest at the foot of his bed—a larger bed than hers. And most striking of all, most captivating of all, was the notable oil painting—very old and surrounded by an expensive, gilded frame—of a large, peach-colored country estate at the bottom of a sloping hill. Emerald green grass and lush oak trees filled out the terrain encircling the two-story house. Colorful peonies, chrysanthemums, and roses lined the gravel path that circled around to the front marble white steps rising between two graceful pillars. Thomas had brought the painting with him from his home in Eastleigh, and it was the only item to brighten the four dark walls.
Sighing, accepting the inevitable, Madeleine finally dragged her body upright and shivered as the cold air came into contact with her skin. At the very same moment Thomas entered the bedroom carrying a tray and looking devastatingly handsome in a worn, ecru linen shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, and navy trousers.
He smiled at her mischievously. “I brought you breakfast, but if you’re trying to seduce me, it’s working.”
She followed his gaze and realized at once that her nipples were hard from the icy air. “Yes, I rather enjoy keeping a room cold on the outside chance of seducing the next gentleman who enters.”
He closed the door behind him with his left booted foot. “You’d seduce someone other than me?”
He sounded hurt, in a wry manner that made her smile. Propping up the pillows behind her head and leaning back on them, she said, “Only if he had more money.”
“Oh, I see…” Tray in hand, he walked to her side of the bed and, without looking at her, placed their food in the center of the mattress, beside her legs that were still beneath the blankets. “Funny, though, I would only expect a statement like that from a virgin. Or perhaps a widow. You are neither.” Before she could respond, he placed both hands on the coverlet, one on each side of her hips, quickly lowered his head, and took one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking it gently, expertly.
It had an obvious effect on her body, but she resisted with a little laugh and a push with her fingers through his hair. “You have made your point, sir. Now kindly let me eat before it gets cold.”
Groaning, he pulled back, then dropped a quick, solid kiss to her closed lips. “I brought enough for both of us.”
He stood again and grasped the handles of the tray as she positioned herself against the headboard, leaving her breasts bare to his view should he forget how much he enjoyed them. It was the least she could do, she thought with some self-centered amusement.
She turned her attention to the food. He’d scrambled eggs, fried ham, spread what appeared to be blackberry jam on thick slices of toast, and completed the meal with a generous portion of canned pears. He’d divided the food between two china plates, and added two mugs of tea with cream and sugar. Undoubtedly delicious, and her stomach growled.
“This smells heavenly,” she praised with convincing honesty.
“Thank you.” He sat beside her, spreading his own napkin on his thighs. “Madam,” he offered with his palm.
She grinned and lifted a fork. “You’re the only man I’ve ever known who cooks, Thomas.”
“Ahh, but you’re the only woman I’ve ever cooked for, Madeleine,” he replied jovially.
“Really? So why do you cook for me?” she asked after swallowing her first bite of steaming eggs.
He shrugged a shoulder and studied his ham while he cut it. “
Someone has to do it. Beth can’t be here for every meal, and you’re obviously too pampered to cook for me, at least for breakfast when you prefer lounging in bed.”
“Ha!” She fairly giggled, then leaned forward and kissed the side of his lips. “That’s an excuse if I’ve ever heard one, Mr. Blackwood. I have yet to lounge in your presence.”
He grinned but added nothing more as they both focused on the food.
“Sir Riley should be arriving by four,” Thomas disclosed matter-of-factly, after a few moments of silent eating. “I imagine he’ll be punctual.”
Madeleine tried to ignore the sense of unhappiness that managed to creep its way under her skin, while recognizing at the same time that this was the opening she needed to discuss the central issue facing just the two of them.
After swallowing a spoonful of pears and taking a sip of her tea, she dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and delved bravely into the subject of their real concern.
“You know I’m going to be leaving England soon, Thomas,” she reminded him quietly, although she knew he had to assume as much.
He didn’t look at her but took a large swallow of his tea. “I don’t know why we need to be discussing that now. Our work here isn’t completed.”
That was true, and yet he didn’t exactly say he wanted her to stay, which, by so evading the issue, had put the burden of explanation on her shoulders.
She had to be strong in her stand to bring their affair to a satisfactory conclusion, and now was as good a time as any. She didn’t want to part enemies, because truthfully she didn’t really want to part at all. What she’d said to him after her talk with Desdemona was true. She wanted to stay here forever—detached from the outside world and encircled in the comfort of his arms. But she’d confessed that want in the heat of passion, and he should know that such wants, while desirable, weren’t practical. Leaving was simply something that must be done, however unpleasant for either of them, and under the circumstances, she couldn’t see an alternative.
Winter Garden Page 26