by Henke, Shirl
* * * *
Quint locked the doors of the library and drew the curtains, then opened the message, which had come all the way from France. He smiled at Franklin's cribbed, uneven penmanship and began to read a witty and detailed report on the latest news and gossip circulating in Paris, Vienna, Berlin—and most importantly, London.
* * * *
Madelyne smiled until she felt her face frozen in place in spite of the heat. The more people questioned her about her absent bridegroom, the more she wanted to turn and flee the whole hot, crowded spectacle. When Andrew brought her a cup of refreshment, she took it gratefully and sipped. “What's in this? It's delicious but too potent for me, I fear.”
”A special treat, quite in favor the last time I was in London,” he said, drinking with relish. ”Tis a special brandy, with orange peel soaked in it for flavor. Then tis watered down and strained. A most pleasant flavor, don't you agree?”
Watered or not, the drink went immediately to her head. She smiled at his kind face and took another sip. The musicians were playing, and it was obviously far past time for the bridal reel to begin. Where was Quintin?
Answering the unspoken question in her eyes as she scanned the room, Andrew said, “Let me send a houseboy to search for my absent cousin. I'll not see you neglected on this special day.”
“Ah, there you are, m'dear,” Robert said, working his way through the press toward her as Andrew excused himself. Her father was with Robert, looking harried and uncomfortable, the way he always seemed when forced to be around his only child.
Theodore harrumphed and cleared his throat, then said bluntly, “You're all settled now, and I must entrust you to the very good care of your husband and his father. I'm off for Charles Town as soon as I can get rid of these damnably hot satin and velvet fripperies. Cornwallis is in a pickle in North Carolina at Ramsour's Mill. Fool royal militia disobeyed orders.” He ranted for several minutes, then gave her a swift peck on her cheek and was gone.
Andrew reappeared just as the orchestra struck up a reel. He turned to Robert and said, “With your permission, sir, I'd like to lead my new cousin out in the first reel, since we've been unable to locate Quintin. Everyone is grown impatient for the dancing to begin.”
Robert scowled, then smiled cannily. “Why not? If that young whelp can't tend to his obligations, we’ll not wait for him.”
Andrew took her hand and they walked to the head of the wide open space in the parlor where the carpets had been rolled up to facilitate dancing. The oak floors gleamed with wax, stretching out a good fifty feet in length, room enough for a dozen couples to line up for the reel. With much clapping and toasts to the health of the king and the Blackthorne family, the dancing began.
Madelyne's hurt over her father's hasty departure and Quintin's apparent desertion faded as the dancing progressed. Andrew was solicitous and kind as well as a skillful dancer. After several strenuous reels, the music slowed to the gentle cadence of the minuet.
When they stopped for refreshment, two British officers and several young planters crowded around her, asking for the honor of dancing with the bride. If any marked the absence of her groom, they were discreet enough not to mention it. Madelyne forced the thought from her mind, smiled and danced, her head spinning from orange brandy. After several dances, Andrew again claimed her hand, laughingly sending young Lieutenant St. Clair away crestfallen.
Quint stood in the doorway watching Madelyne, once more surrounded by admiring men. The creamy, soft flesh revealed by her low-cut bodice was dewy with perspiration. Her eyes glowed and her cheeks were flushed. She leaned close to Andrew as they met in the center of the row and began to skip between the lines of dancers to the rhythm of the reel. She was laughing intimately at some jest of his as they parted at the opposite end of the floor.
When the reel ended, the pair bowed to each other and then headed to the huge cut-crystal punch bowl. Andrew's hand over the one she had placed on his arm seemed altogether too possessive to Quint. He stalked toward them, not at all certain what he was going to say, but quite sure that his bride would be taught a lesson in deportment.
Robert stood at the side of the room, next to General Prevost, watching his scowling son's progress through the crowd. “Looks like a storm's brewing again. She'll lead him a merry chase or I miss my guess,” he said with relish.
Chapter Eight
“Admirers are apparently drawn to you like bears to honey,” Quint said as he stepped smoothly beside Madelyne and Andrew and drew her possessively away from his cousin.
“Perhaps I'm simply irresistibly sweet,” she said, smiling boldly up at his dark face.
“I'll find out the truth of that tonight...when I taste of you,” he whispered low.
To Madelyne the words sounded more like a threat than an endearment. With a curt nod at Andrew, Quintin drew her away. She tried to pull free of his grip, but he merely tightened the pressure on her hand.
“You were most rude to Cousin Andrew. I wished to thank him for leading me out in the dancing—since you chose to absent yourself from the odious obligation.” She knew she was huffing like a schoolgirl in a snit and hated the sound of hurt pride evident in her voice.
“Ah yes, dear Andrew, always the long-suffering and gallant Blackthorne, the one who attends to proprieties.” He paused and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look up and meet his eyes. To onlookers it seemed a tender gesture. “But mark me, wife, you belong to me, not to my cousin.”
“Then by all means, have a care for performing your duties,” she snapped.
A slow smile spread across his mouth as he escorted her from the room. “As soon as our bridal feast is over I fully intend to perform my duties—to the fullest.”
Madelyne's cheeks again flamed, but she bit back a retort and walked in silence to the dining room. I'm no match for his skill with sly innuendo. She thought about the night all too quickly approaching, and her flushed cheeks grew pale. If only she knew what he would do to her. Fanny Hill had been no appreciable help. In fact, it had rather frightened her.
They sat at the head of the great long table as a legion of servants served fish courses, followed by fowl baked in savory pastry, haunches of rich venison, and crisply roasted pork. Every imaginable fresh vegetable the gardens of Blackthorne Hill could yield was stewed and braised to accompany the meats. Puddings, floating islands, syllabubs and trifles laced with brandy and filled with sweet whipped cream and ripe fruits, were presented in a dazzling array.
Quint watched Madelyne shove a piece of roast pork about her plate until the servants took it away, virtually untouched, then said, “Unlike our Jewish guests, you're not forbidden to eat pork.” She declined to comment.
“Delphine's desserts are unequaled,” he taunted as he dug into a plate swimming in caramel cream. She merely stirred the layers of cream and fruit in her portion of trifle until it was a soggy mess, untasted.
”I seem to have lost my appetite,” she said quietly.
“Bridal nerves?” he asked, not unkindly. His conscience was getting the better of him. The girl was sheltered and young in spite of her outlandish behavior. Surely she was a virgin and naturally fearful about tonight.
“Yes, I suppose I am nervous,” she confessed, daring to meet his eyes. For once he was not scowling or mocking her.
“It will be all right, Madelyne.” He darkened, recalling his earlier crude taunts, wishing he could call them back.
.“I've had no one...no woman to talk with...” Courage failed her, yet she felt the need to reach out to this kinder side of her mysterious husband.
“Yes. I can imagine your Aunt Claud would not have been of much help,” he said, smiling.
Madelyne felt some of her nervousness leave her. Merciful Heaven above, if he smiled at her like that more often, she would melt! When he stood up and reached for her hand, she eagerly responded, glad to quit the crowded room filled with important people who had proposed endless healths to the bridal couple.
* * * *
Madelyne looked into the large oval mirror as she sat on a Chippendale stool, staring at her reflection while her new maid brushed her hair. She could see herself and Nell in the floor-length mirror—a slim, small woman huddled pale and still while her tall, angular companion fussed with her hair. Nell's face was reddened and creased with age, her once yellow hair faded to a dull gray, but her smile was genuine as she spoke.
“Here now, ain't this hair the loveliest color—so dark a red it looks ta be black till the candle's flame catches it. Then it fair glows like live coals.” She bent from her waist with each stroke of the tortoise-shell brush, sliding it through Madelyne's hair.
As Nell chatted and worked, Madelyne remained silent, staring into the mirror, which reflected nearly all of Quint's big, masculine room. It was filled with heavy walnut furniture, and the wall panels were painted a deep green in a marbled pattern. An English hunting scene and several pictures of famous racehorses were the only concession to art, obviously carelessly chosen, as if Quint had not long occupied the room...or cared to spend little time in it.
The dressing room off to her left was filled with coats, breeches, and boots, all arranged in orderly perfection by his valet. Next to a large easy chair, a pipe, tobacco, and a crystal decanter of brandy were the only indications that her husband did more than dress, bathe, and sleep in this cold, austere suite.
Unwillingly, her eyes were again drawn to the bed, which was wide and long, custom-made for a tall man. Thick, soft goose-feather ticking invited a weary body to sink into its depths and sleep, but Madelyne was far too agitated for that, even if such were allowed on a bridal night.
Seeing her mistress's covert glances toward the canopied bed, Nell gave a toothy grin and said reassuringly, “Ye’ll be wantin' ta climb beneath the sheets. Here now, let me arrange the netting so the mosquitos don't bother that pretty soft skin.”
“You're very kind, Nell,” Madelyne said as she stepped onto the low stool by the bedside and climbed into the waiting bed while the maid lowered the mosquito netting around it, then rearranged the deep maroon bed curtains.
“It be warm tonight. Ye want me ta leave the curtains open for the evening breeze?”
Before Madelyne could reply, Quint's voice cut across the room from the doorway. “Leave them open, Nell.”
She did as she was bidden, then bobbed a curtsy to the master and quit the room.
Madelyne looked so tiny, swallowed up in his big bed, pale as the snowy sheets she had pulled up to her neck. He crossed to his dressing room while removing his coat, which he tossed carelessly across a chair.
In spite of the warm night air, Madelyne felt a little shiver run down her spine. She could hear the rustling noises of clothing being removed. I won't be a cowering ninny, she scolded herself, straightening up. The silence lengthened until Quintin appeared in the doorway, dressed in a banyan of deep red-and-navy printed cotton. She could see the black hair on his chest curling out where the lounging robe hung open, carelessly belted at his narrow waist.
Freed of its neat queue at his nape, his hair made his face seem almost savage. Quintin, more than his cousin Devon, looked as if he possessed Indian blood. When his green eyes swept from her face downward, penetrating the sheer pale pink silk of her sleeping gown, Madelyne felt a frisson of heat stain her cheeks and move lower into her belly.
Quint stared at her delicate loveliness. He had wanted a plain, dutiful girl who would obey him and be a faithful wife and good mother to his children. There was not a meek, dutiful bone in Madelyne Deveaux's body—no, Madelyne Blackthorne, he corrected himself.
For better or worse, he had wed her. At least he would enjoy the bedding. Just looking at her swathed in the voluminous silk layers made his body go rigid with excitement. He cursed himself for the past weeks of sexual abstinence. He was as randy as a stag in rut and he hadn't even touched her yet.
Madelyne watched him advance slowly, then sink one knee into the softness of the bed. His long legs needed no step stool to climb into it. For a moment, she feared he would remove the banyan; she was certain he wore nothing beneath it. But he did not, only leaned across to her while one hand reached out to her. He took a lock of her hair and twisted it slowly around his fist, then raised it to his lips.
“I’m glad you didn't cover your hair with one of those foolish mobcaps,” he said hoarsely. ”Tis glorious this way.”
She warmed to the compliment but even more to the gentleness of his touch as he tugged ever so softly on the imprisoned hair, pulling her closer to him. Madelyne leaned forward. To keep her balance she had to stretch out her hand, and her palm pressed against the hard warmth of his chest. She could feel the beat of his heart and the crisp silky texture of the mat of hair beneath her fingers. When she splayed them and rubbed her palm experimentally where his robe gaped open, she felt his heartbeat accelerate.
Quint took a steadying breath, vowing to go slowly lest he frighten her, but the chit was not making his resolution an easy one. He tugged again on her hair, and she tumbled against his chest with a small muffled gasp. The tantalizing fragrance of honeysuckle enveloped him as he smoothed the masses of silky dark hair away from her face, then tilted her chin up and leaned forward to meet her lips with his own.
The kiss was brushing, light, experimental. She felt like wax in the sun, melting, warm, and pliant. Would the delicate caress turn violent again as it had that frightening night in Savannah? Madelyne prayed not, for this was utterly wondrous, robbing her of breath. She gave in to the seduction, letting her lips mimic his, teasing, whispering across his beautiful mouth.
He moved to touch her eyes with his lips, then her temples, where a fluttering pulse beat swiftly. When his warm lips caressed her throat, she held fast to his shoulders and let her head drop back, eyes closed, breath quickening. She was drowning in hot, sweet pleasure.
Murmuring low, indistinct words of encouragement, he laid her back on the bed and ran his hand from her shoulder down the side of her breast to her slender waist, then back up to cup her breast and let his thumb circle and tease the nipple. It contracted into pebbly hardness, causing her to moan softly.
Quint wanted desperately to tear the seemingly endless folds of silk from her body and bare it. He fought the urge and instead let his hands explore softly through the nightgown. When she arched against his hand, he moved from one breast to the other to excite it in turn. She was innocently wanton, and her instinctive, unpracticed response inflamed him.
Once more his lips touched her throat, where her pulse was beating wildly. He moved up to her cheek, then centered his mouth over hers and kissed her, this time with more force, his tongue touching the seam of her lips until she parted them. Slowly he tasted her, restraining the urge to plunge inside and plunder as he had the first time. He could feel her nails digging into his shoulders, hear her ragged little cries of pleasure. His blood boiled, racing through his body, setting him afire.
Madelyne felt his kiss grow more demanding as his tongue teased hers, then withdrew only to plunge in once more. She felt an answering need to taste him and boldly let her tongue follow his lead. When he groaned and increased the ferocity of the kiss, she felt no fear, only hunger. One little hand came up and tangled in his shaggy, night-dark hair, pulling him closer, closer.
Quint slid his hand to the ribbon holding the neckline of her gown closed. He untied it, then pulled the
gathered opening free, murmuring against her mouth, ”I would see all of you.”
Cool night air touched her bare breasts for an instant, but then the heat of his mouth covered one while his hand cupped the other. He teased the aching nipple with his lips and tongue, then suckled it until she cried out. When he repeated the exquisite assault on her other breast, Madelyne fairly swooned with the pleasure.
“Yes, yes,” she whispered, arching toward his seeking mouth. She could feel his hands pulling the unfastened gown lower until it bunched about her hips. When he splayed one long-fingered hand across her belly, intense heat coiled low inside her, sending out dizzying waves of desire. She was shameless, unprotesting.
Quint slipped the voluminous folds of silk from her hips, slid the gown free of her legs, and tossed it to the floor. His eyes followed the trail of bared flesh from her pert, perfectly formed breasts to her tiny waist and flat little belly, then lower to where that cluster of dark russet curls beckoned him. He paused a moment in his perusal, then swept his gaze down her slim legs with their flaring calves and delicate ankles. As his hands followed where his eyes had already traveled, he breathed, “You are exquisite. Too damnably perfect…”
Madelyne could barely understand his murmured words, but she could sense the urgency in him, for she felt it hammer at all her senses. He had undressed her. Would he now bare his body for her as well? Earlier she had feared it; now she wanted—needed—to see him, to feel his hard body pressed to hers, unencumbered by clothing. Her hands slid inside his open robe and she explored, feeling a heady sense of power when his heart slammed against her palm. She moved lower. The belt impeded her progress, but before she could untie it, he ripped it free, then shed the loose banyan with a swift, sensuous shrug. His eyes locked on her face, studying her reaction to his nakedness.