“Does he tell you of his latest ventures?” she whispered.
The coy question annoyed her. Roberta could not possibly give two figs about Brock’s business. Not that she had any information to give her sister-in-law. Maddie realized with surprise that Brock had never discussed the details of his business with her, only told her of his desire to mingle with the ton for his professional growth.
“I have no notion what Mr. Taylor’s endeavors are, Roberta.” Except to seduce me to the altar. “I simply accompanied him to the Moore’s at his request.”
Based on Roberta’s pinched mouth, the answer did not satisfy her curiosity. Maddie elected not to volunteer any more information.
The woman smoothed her mouth into a smile, too calculating by half. “So you welcome his suit. For the money, I presume? It cannot be for his breeding.”
Though Roberta had no way of knowing about her past with Brock, warning instincts rose again.
“Mr. Taylor is not courting me,” she lied.
He was, but not in the traditional sense. Instead, he was intriguing and arousing her. With him, she never felt cold or sickened by his touch. Instead, Brock made her long to feel his hot mouth laving her breast again, to see his hot green eyes staring straight into her soul as he seduced her with his scandalous words. She longed to explore his solid, muscled body until his eyes closed in pleasure. Until he moaned for her. Night after night, he filled the little cottage with his spellbinding presence and verve...
Mr. Taylor was doing his utmost to seduce her into marriage. And, heaven help her, she felt as if she were melting dangerously close to surrender. Another night like the last, and she might well give in.
“No?” Roberta asked, all innocence.
“I am not interested in taking a new husband.”
Her former sister-in-law raised a skeptical brow. “But there is something between you. Mr. Taylor’s attention was quite marked when I saw you two dance.” She frowned. “You wouldn’t stoop to form a…liaison with a man of his station?” She sounded aghast.
Roberta’s views were typical of the ton and they infuriated her. “If I did, that would be my concern. I certainly wouldn’t advise you or ask for permission.”
“I see.” Roberta rose stiffly from the sofa.
Hoping the woman could see nothing of consequence between herself and Brock, Maddie led Roberta to the door.
#
“Are you going to a party?” Aimee asked, as she sat at Maddie’s feet four evenings later, clutching a ragged doll.
Maddie bent to the little girl and tweaked one of her blond braids. “Yes, but I shall think of you while you have a cozy evening with great-auntie Edith and Vema.”
“Is Mr. Taylor taking you?” Aunt Edith asked, entering the room through the open door.
“Auntie!” Aimee jumped up and ran to the older woman, winding her arms about Edith’s wide legs.
Edith bent and kissed the top of Aimee’s head, then looked back to her niece with a shrewd stare.
“Yes,” Maddie answered reluctantly. “Mr. Taylor asked me to accompany him to this gathering for business purposes.”
“Business. Of course.”
Edith sent her a benign smile Maddie knew too well to believe. The woman was likely amok with matchmaking thoughts.
Her aunt lifted her quizzing glass and peered at Maddie. “And he sent you a new dress for the occasion, I see. It is exquisite.”
In this, Aunt Edith was right. A rich gray-blue color provided the background for a burnished tapestry of flowers. The flounced dress was trimmed in delicate ivory lace about the sleeves and neckline, which draped in a V across her bosom. Only a small piece of lace preserved her modesty, shielding her cleavage from a stranger’s eye. The wide sleeves clung to the edge of her shoulders, then belled out in a rich swirl of silk before curling tightly about her wrists once more.
Maddie certainly could not fault Brock for his taste in modistes. The colors, styles, and cuts were always superbly flattering. She couldn’t guess how he had managed to estimate her measurements so accurately, and could only imagine the modiste must believe her to be Brock’s mistress.
Moreover, if Maddie had her way, that would soon be true.
“That pretty flush on your cheeks makes you look even more luminous than the stunning dress Mr. Taylor sent. Have a smashing time tonight.” Edith winked.
Maddie held in a sigh. “Truly, I have no intention of marrying the man.”
“You ought. I cannot remember when I’ve last seen you so passionate about anything. Come, Aimee. Say goodbye to your mama.”
“What’s pass’nate?” asked Aimee.
“It’s like having a fire in your belly.” The elderly woman tickled Aimee’s little tummy. “Isn’t it, Maddie?”
“It can be.” Still, everything she felt was lust. It had to be. She couldn’t afford to have genuine feelings for the man.
Not wanting to discuss the subject any more, Maddie held out her arms to Aimee, who ran to them with abandon.
Edith shrieked. “Do not wrinkle your mama’s dress!”
Maddie held Aimee close, savoring her special smell. She would have known it anywhere. “I do not mind. Miss me?”
“I will, Mama.”
“And I shall miss you. Be good for Aunt Edith and Vema.” She kissed the top of Aimee’s golden head.
The girl nodded, and Maddie began to shoo them out of her room when Matheson appeared.
“Mr. Taylor has arrived,” he intoned.
Maddie swallowed. “Tell him I shall be right down.”
In truth, she did not want to attend this party. But he had sent her a missive—and a new dress—demanding her accompaniment. As he had pointed out, she was hardly in a position to refuse.
Drawing in a deep breath, Maddie made her way down the creaky stairs, not unaware that the extravagance of her new gown looked distinctly out of place surrounded by crumbling plaster and faded carpet. She shook her head, refusing to dwell on what she could not change.
Left idle, her thoughts returned to Brock.
The cautious part of her knew that, if she had to spend time with Brock, doing so in public was far less dangerous than meeting him at the cottage. He could hardly seduce her in a crowd. However, the fearful part of her knew that she had no chance of breaking Brock’s will and persuading him to come to her bed during a friendly chat and a waltz.
At the threshold of her drawing room, Maddie found Brock within. She examined him as he stared out the window. He was the kind of man made for evening black. The austerity of the color enhanced the silky coffee shade of his hair. The fine cut of his costly suit emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and back, along with the narrow span of his hips, the hard muscles of his legs.
From touching Brock, Maddie knew that beneath his formal attire, he was no padding and all man. The memory sent her pulse into a riot.
Suddenly, Brock spun about. He displayed no surprise at her presence in the room. His gaze raked her, the appraising stare blatant and appreciative.
“You look beautiful,” he said simply, voice raspy.
Resisting the urge to lift a self-conscious hand to her hair, Maddie enticed him with a low-voiced murmur. “Are you certain you wish to attend the party?”
Brock’s mouth curled into a mischievous smile as he crossed the room to her side. “You sorely tempt me, Maddie. But tonight is business. The Duke of Cropthorne is expecting us.”
Without pause, Brock took her arm and led her out of the room, into the balmy London night.
“You know him?” she asked. She could not keep the surprise from her voice.
“Indeed.”
“How? When did you have occasion to meet a man of...” Maddie hesitated, uncertain how to best point out the unlikelihood that a man of Brock’s social standing should be invited to the house of a duke.
“His wealth? His rank?” Brock bit out. “As I said, it is business.”
“Yet he invited you to his home for a social gat
hering?”
Brock smiled again. “Tonight, they go together.”
“If you have Cropthorne’s social backing, you do not need the consequence that wedding me would bring,” Maddie quipped. “He is far more powerful.”
“He would not look nearly as lovely in your dress.”
Maddie was not fooled. She shot him a withering stare, which he answered with a mere smile. Brock was many things—arrogant, demanding, ruthless—but never simple. He never did anything without a purpose. If Cropthorne was willing to invite him to gatherings, then what role did she play in this game?
“I thought you were on a quest for acknowledgment, not beauty,” she said carefully.
“Ah, but why not have both? Besides, I can hardly arrive at Cropthorne’s without a proper female on my arm, can I?”
She supposed not, but something here felt off-kilter.
The puzzle nagged at her during their brief journey to her distant cousin’s house. She had not seen Cropthorne in some years, not since her father had badgered his sire for money. Of course, the late duke’s scandals had ensured that her father, though poor as a church mouse, would pass judgment and tell his audacious cousin exactly what he thought of such disgrace. The late Cropthorne had cared very little for anyone else’s opinion. Accordingly, the old duke had not given her father a farthing.
She and Brock arrived with the party in full swing. Upon their announcement, heads again turned. Furious whispering ensued behind fans. Gentlemen eyed her with frank consideration. She and Brock had been seen together in public several times now. If no announcement of forthcoming nuptials came soon, they would assume she’d become Brock’s mistress. And he knew it. That was what Maddie wanted, yet…the thought filled her with disquiet. She swallowed a curse.
Wishing the evening over, Maddie shot a furious glare at Brock. “You brought me here to cement the expectation of our marriage.” After all, few would imagine that she’d bring her lover to her cousin’s house—especially a cousin of such social importance.
He smiled, something bright and cunning. “No one will be surprised when we exchange vows.”
“And if we do not, I will be open to censure—”
Maddie would have said more, but Cropthorne approached, escorting the venerable Lady Litchfield. Was Gavin courting the young widow? Maddie would hardly know, not having spoken to her cousin since her debut. After his father’s scandals, she supposed Gavin wanted everyone’s good opinion. If so, he had to start with Lady Litchfield. As did everyone.
“Hello, Taylor,” the duke greeted. “And dear cousin Madeline,” he said with a gracious bow, then placed a brief kiss on her hand. “It has been years since I’ve had the pleasure of your company. I was sorry to hear of your husband’s death.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Around the room, every pair of eyes watched the exchange. Maddie felt their gazes—some curious, some disdainful—boring into her face, her back. As she felt the perspiration bead at her hairline, she stood even more stiff, erect.
“I am pleased to see you both,” Gavin said.
“Thank you for inviting us,” Brock returned smoothly.
Her cousin turned to his companion. “Lady Litchfield, you must know my cousin, Lady Wolcott.”
The pale beauty’s smile was like ice, transparent and lacking warmth. “Indeed. How do you do?”
“I’m well, thank you. And you?”
Lady Litchfield merely manufactured her chilly smile again.
Maddie glanced about the sumptuous room. Drinks flowed, people waltzed, matrons chatted. And everyone watched.
“Mr. Taylor, may I present London’s loveliest and most sought hostess, Lady Litchfield,” Gavin said. “My lady, this is Mr. Taylor, England’s most clever financier.”
Brock extended his hand to the pale widow, reaching for her gloved fingers. Lady Litchfield edged away and made a moue of distaste. Then she turned her back to Brock.
The party around them froze. The orchestra missed a note, before blurring into a quiet altogether. Utter silence descended before half the room issued a collective gasp.
The woman had given Brock the cut direct.
He stiffened, his smile fading. His jaw clenched so hard he looked as if he’d been made from stone.
Red heat rushed to her face. She burned from the inside out, her entire body stinging with shame and anger. The haughty witch had been unforgivably rude, rebuffing a fellow guest in front of their host, in front of the whole party! And Maddie knew that even now, the rest of the ton had taken note of the slight and knew that such behavior would be deemed acceptable.
All because he’d been born to lowly parents. As if he’d had any say in that matter!
And Brock, how must he feel? If she was embarrassed to be seen with a man who incited such rejection, the man himself must feel horrified by the slight of someone so socially important.
Maddie risked a glance toward him. Brock still stood in place, hand extended toward Lady Litchfield.
She burned all over again.
With a shrug, he adopted a rueful smile and dropped his hand to his side. “I knew I should have told my valet to put extra starch in my cravat. It’s distasteful of me, I agree. I shall know better next time.”
With a delicate little sniff, Lady Litchfield strode away from the group, making her opinion quite known. Brock watched, that wry smile still firmly in place.
As Maddie watched the self-important widow disappear into the crowd, she could not remember when she had formed such an intense dislike for somebody so quickly. A glance at her cousin proved Gavin’s chiseled features looked both tense and annoyed.
Despite the fact he must be suffering, Brock kept smiling.
She couldn’t help but feel empathy for him as she stood frozen in the shattered gathering.
“I think your cravat looks all that is fine,” she murmured.
“Of course it is,” Gavin snapped, glaring in the direction of his fleeting companion. “I’ll introduce you to some of the others we discussed, Bathurst, Elvaston. They are here.”
Brock nodded at her cousin, then turned to her. For the first time since his return to her life, Maddie saw clearly an emotion in his green eyes besides lust or anger; she saw appreciation. Warmth. The look softened his face, giving her a glimpse of the boy he’d been that fateful summer five years ago.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“You are welcome.” Head held high, Maddie sent him a tentative smile in return as they walked into the crowd.
#
Drawing in a deep breath in the misty midnight air, Brock stared at the Paddington cottage’s blue door. Tonight, he would meet Maddie here for the first time. She would be inside waiting, perhaps even pondering ways to break his self-control.
The remembrance of her warm hand stroking his shaft made him grit his teeth and sweat. Then into his mind thrust a memory of last night, when she had defended his cravat after Lady Litchfield’s slight and stood beside him proudly all evening. Maddie had surprised Brock. Hell, she had astounded him. Hadn’t she always thought him beneath her? Perhaps, but in that moment, she had taken his side against her own kind, against the ignobility of his birth. Why?
The smell of rain hung heavy in the spring air when he felt the first drop on his cheek, and he rushed to the door.
Tonight, he was the seducer. Though Maddie had been married to the despicable Sedgewick and shared his bed for two years, Brock had the advantage of wider experience on his side. Some of his lovers had been older, some younger—but all experienced, knowing what they sought in bed. He had paid attention to their desires.
Tonight, he would use every bit of his knowledge and skill to his advantage.
But his own breathing staggered at the thought of touching Maddie again, of taking off every garment until nothing stood between them. As much as he wanted to fuck her, that wasn’t all. Her defense of him last night had opened some part of his heart again. And when he’d brushed her mouth with the
pad of his thumb, as had been his habit all those years ago? Her mournful expression had wrenched his heart. He could almost believe that, deep down, she still cared, perhaps still loved him...if she hadn’t become Sedgewick’s wife. If she wasn’t so insistent on refusing his proposal now. But no. Maddie was all too willing to take him as a lover, but never as a husband. Resentment churned his gut. She still looked down her pert nose at him, as she had five years ago. Too bad for her. He would not rest until she became his wife—and she fell as hard for him as he was falling again for her.
#
Maddie woke to the soft patter of rain upon the roof of the darkened cottage in Paddington—and the feeling she was not alone. She sat up on the plush rose-colored velvet sofa, cursing herself for nodding off so near midnight, and wondered what had happened to the lamps she’d lit. Only two small candles flickered beside her now.
A vibrant warmth enveloped her shoulders, the back of her neck. Anxious, she made to rise and turn. A strong hand clamped about her scantily-clad shoulders kept her in place.
“Don’t move,” whispered a voice in her ear.
Brock. Not a stranger. Relief filled her.
Her relief was short lived when she felt more than saw a soft silk scarf slide over her eyes, and he knotted the scarf at the back of her head. Darkness obscured her vision. What did Brock plan? Anxiety and anticipation mixed. Her blood charged and raced.
When she reached for the blindfold, Brock grabbed her wrist with one hand and soothed her with a soft stroke across her nape with the other. “No. Trust me. I won’t hurt you.”
Crazily, she believed the low, hypnotic voice resonating in her ear, tingling down her spine. She dropped her hands to her lap. Yet uncertainty and tumult remained. What was he about?
“I intend to please you tonight. You are to think of nothing except your pleasure.”
“But what... why—” she protested.
“Shhh. Are you frightened?”
“No.” But being blindfolded left her with a terrifying feeling of vulnerability. Her entire reality suddenly hung suspended from the sound of his deep voice alone. The sensation filled her with a scintillating sense of the forbidden.
Shayla Black Page 11