by Mary Campisi
His jaw twitched. Twice. When he spoke, his words were directed at Gregory. “I never meant to harm anyone. I came here to collect on a debt.” His voice turned hard. “On my life, I won Lingionine from your brother.” He cleared his throat and gentled his voice. “I regret the circumstances under which we met, but know this Gregory—I do not regret having met you. I have considered it a great honor to call you my friend.”
Oh drat, why did he have to speak in such a manner? As if he meant it? Madeline shifted her gaze to the large hand he’d just extended in Gregory’s direction. Of course, her little brother accepted it, maybe even relished the inclusion into the secret society of male handshakes.
“Take care of the family,” Douglas Fontaine said. He turned to her then, the first time he acknowledged her presence and said in the dismissive manner of one accustomed to casting aside those he considers irrelevant, “It appears I must depart without seeing your eldest brother. Please convey my sincere regret, for I would very much have enjoyed a few moments with him.”
With that he turned and quit the room. Moments later, Douglas Fontaine and his valet, Ethan Montague rode off into the blistering sun, leaving Madeline once again, alone.
* * *
“Come man, it’s been nine days. How long do you plan to sulk?”
Douglas glanced up from his reading—a veritable tome on the Egyptians. “I have concluded my business and am quite ready to return home.” He took in Ethan’s impeccable attire and continued, “You are the one who has expressed a desire to remain in London a few weeks. Dancing girls and all that.”
“A ballerina,” Ethan corrected. “Katarina. Longest legs I’ve ever seen. Quite nimble too.”
“Katarina. Kitty. Kassandra. Might you be working your way through the alphabet?”
Ethan laughed and adjusted his cravat. “What an ambitious idea. I rather like the sound of that.” He sighed and eased into the chair next to Douglas. “But it would be much more fun with you beside me. Why I wager if we endeavored to work in earnest, we might be escorting and cavorting with Penelope’s and Priscilla’s before week’s end.”
Douglas shook his head and went back to his reading. If he ignored Ethan, maybe the man would go away. Not likely though, considering his friend had made it his personal mission to cheer Douglas, not that he needed cheering for he certainly did not. What was wrong with a man tending toward the serious now and again, gaining a bit of introspection on life? One could not stroll through his days without thought or care to direction or purpose. At some point, things had to be dealt with. For Douglas, that point was now. His current state had nothing to do with a woman and certainly not that woman.
“She’s just a girl.”
Damn him, the man could not let it go. Douglas grunted and turned a page.
“You would like Kassandra…”
Douglas re-read a sentence. He would pretend Ethan had left.
“….pitch black hair…eyes as blue as sapphires…”
…the Egyptians were thought to be an industrious group…
“…..and the softest skin….”
…a people who were…
“….will make you forget all about Madeline…”
Douglas shot out of his chair and towered over Ethan. “Forget her? How do you propose I do that?” He thumped his chest with his hand and muttered, “She’s inside me. You could not possibly understand.”
“You love her.”
There was no point denying it. “Love her? My heart beats for her.”
Ethan’s lips twitched. “A lovesick Douglas Fontaine. How enchanting.”
“Shut up or I’ll wrap that cravat around your head.”
Ethan ignored him because of course he knew Douglas would do no such thing. “Tell me, how does that brain of yours acknowledge love? Did you analyze the cause and effect of Madeline on your senses and therefore deduce the emotion must be love? Or did you chart your experiences and interactions as a mathematician would? Or—” he attempted unsuccessfully to hide a grin “—did you try all of those and fail miserably?”
Douglas scowled. “I should have let Gravesburn call you out. Then we would not be having this conversation.”
Ethan looked properly affronted. “I was not the one crawling out of his wife’s bed that night. It was Harford. Gravesburn specifically said Sunday, not Saturday.” He tapped a finger to his chin and said, “Had he mentioned Saturday evening, I would have done the honorable thing and owned up to the deed.”
“Being the honorable man you are.”
Ethan smiled. “There is that.”
“One of these days, you’ll get yours.”
“We’ll see.”
Which meant no woman on this continent or any other would trap Ethan Montague. What the man did not know was that no amount of determination or attempt at analysis would protect him from every woman. And there would be that one particular woman who would twist his insides and make him forget he had lived many years without her. Once he knew of her existence, spoke with her, touched her, he would want no one else...
“So, what do you plan to do?”
For someone so intelligent, there were times when Ethan was quite dense. “Do? I believe I told you my plans a few moments ago. I shall be returning to Virginia.”
“Without Madeline? Are you daft?”
“You are the one who is daft. Did the woman not spew my name as though I were the very devil? If she could spit fire, she would have burned me alive.”
Ethan raised a brow and lowered his voice. “Love and hate are often confused emotions,” he countered as though he were a grand philosopher. “At least that’s what I’ve read and it would make sense—if one were analytical about it. And we know you have an overabundance of that quality. All you need do is turn the heat of anger into passion.” He paused and grinned. “You can do that, can’t you? For, if you were unable to find a way, I would be most happy to offer my services.”
“Speak in that manner again, and I will not apologize for my actions.”
Ethan raised a hand and stepped out of reach. “I am in the mood for a redhead this evening and Katarina would not appreciate a bloodied lip. Too apt to break open if overworked.”
“You wouldn’t want to put extra strain on any of your body parts, especially the one between your ears.”
“Ha! I see your sense of humor is creeping back.”
Douglas cast him a stone-faced look. “I was not joking.”
Ethan eyed him a moment as if to determine the validity of his comment. When he spoke, a bit of seriousness crept into his voice. “Well, then. Permit me to take leave before you shroud me in misery.”
“Enjoy,” Douglas said. “Though I’ve never known you not to where women and drink are involved.” He moved to the desk and retrieved two envelopes, one large, one small. “I’d like you to deliver these to the solicitor you procured for me and instruct him to see that Madeline receives them once we depart.”
“I shall not ask what is inside, but I am curious why you would delay delivery until your departure. Are you afraid of the contents? Or afraid of her response to them?”
Damn, but the man was too insightful. Well, Douglas did not have to own up to the fear. “Why would I be afraid? I am merely attempting to save Madeline from further discomfort.”
“Discomfort?” Ethan spat it out as though he’d never heard the word before. “The only discomfort that exists is a result of the fat head you’ve suffered from your brain overworking its reasoning capabilities where reason should not be employed. Can you not just visit Madeline once again? Beg, even though that’s a foreign word to you. Do what you need do to win her back. Damn it, Douglas, you belong together.”
“Are you espousing a commitment to a woman? And marriage?” Certainly he could not have heard correctly.
“Sadly, I am. I do not relish losing my drinking and carousing mate, but I have no desire to watch you pine away and shrivel into a sick little pup. So, marry her if you must, but do it now
.”
Ethan was most loyal to Douglas, but a student to duty and honor as a general course, he was not. How could his friend understand a broken vow, a conscience clouded or misguided, when the man had been discarded by a vagabond mother and tossed about by an abusive uncle who sought to beat him as a pastime? If not for Douglas’s mother, who spotted a starving boy on the side of the road while venturing to Charlottesville, Ethan Montague would not have lived to see his eighth birthday.
“I cannot marry her,” Douglas said, his heart heavy with the truth. “I deceived Madeline, forfeited my honor and took hers. How could I expect her to forgive my many transgressions when I cannot forgive them myself?”
“Bah!” Ethan sliced a hand in the air and slapped the envelopes against his knee. “Should she not be the one to decide?”
Ethan may know the intricacies of relationships and thoughts before they were spoken, but even Matilda could tell Madeline had no desire to see Douglas again, and surely not as a husband. “I do not wish to discuss this further. I am returning to Virginia in three days and if you are not aboard, we sail without you.”
Chapter 23
With the departure of Douglas Fontaine and his subterfuge, a vague unrest settled upon the inhabitants of Lingionine. No one could venture past a window without glancing outside and the glancing usually involved overlong perusals of the grounds. The mail became an event in itself with the residents crowding around as Madeline opened each piece. Conversations lessened as did sleep and patience. Even Matilda appeared out of sorts, giving less than her usual amount of milk.
The only person who appeared unperturbed was Weston, who moved about the house with his usual indifference and attitude. Though it was quite obvious from his backhanded comments that he did not relish the idea of houseguests, especially the three in question, he remained mostly quiet on the matter. That should have been telling and signaled an alarm, but Madeline had other concerns far greater than her brother’s current state of inconvenience.
Madeline knelt in the garden and loosened the earth around a patch of lavender. Tending her plants provided a respite from the endless list of daily responsibilities. When she sifted her hands in the soil, lifting clumps of moist earth, she knew true peace. True happiness. But today, that peace and happiness eluded her. The source for such upset invaded her brain and try as she would, the image would not depart. Dark curls sweeping along the back of his neck…the silver eyes, the deep laugh…the big—She thrust the last from her mind and concentrated on the problem that refused to disappear.
She had not a clue as to the man’s intentions. If only she knew, she could prepare a fight or at the very worst, plan a departure. But to where? They hadn’t enough funds to travel to the next town and there were no relations, distant or otherwise. And what was she to do with Regina, Annabelle, and Sarah? It was not safe for them to move about freely what with the jewels Regina had pickpocketed and the dead husband Annabelle had left behind. And Gregory? Lingionine was the only home he had ever known and now he might well be forced to leave it.
Oh, drat and double drat. Why had she ever had the terrible misfortune to meet Douglas Fontaine? She was blissfully content before the blasted man landed in her life amidst a pile of straw and suspicion. But then he came along and of course, he could not be what she thought him to be. No, he had to follow the male species and garner their most undesirable traits—dishonestly, undependability, coarseness, insensitivity. She paused on pushing him into the insensitive category as visions of soft caresses and heated kisses filled her senses. Perhaps he was not insensitive to everything…good Lord! Of course he was insensitive. As a matter of fact, he was a brute. What man with a pinch of caring would harm a boy’s good opinion of him the way Douglas Fontaine had? Weston was not an innocent either, lest he try to blame this situation entirely on the man currently holding the deed.
“Madeline. There you are.”
Speak of the man with the clever tongue and enough stories to fill a book, most likely a volume of fairytales. Weston moved toward her, stopping a safe enough distance away to insure his boots did not get muddied.
“Must you play in the dirt like a servant?” He eyed the garden as though it were a depository for chamber pots and scowled. “Can one of the staff not perform such a menial task?”
Madeline sat back on her heels and admired the newly transplanted lavender. “Tending the gardens comforts me. And besides—” she shot him a sideways glance “—we are quite lacking in the area of hired help.” Did he not recall two years ago when he sold the silverware that was to pay the servant’s wages and headed to Italy? Of course he did, but he knew she would not bring that tidbit up.
Weston cleared his throat and said, “Yes, well, you’ll figure something out, Maddie. You always do.”
Yes, she always did. Most times she wanted to be the one in charge, but there were those few occasions when she would have welcomed a bit of help. Of course, Weston would not provide the help, and whether he was truly incapable or merely coddled was not readily apparent. Nevertheless, the burden of the solution rested on her. And the burden had grown cumbersome and heavy. If her eldest brother would not help her, at least he could provide an answer or three.
“Tell me the truth about you and Douglas Fontaine.”
He had not expected that. Weston stumbled forward, almost stepping into the moist dirt before righting himself. “I told you what happened,” he said in a clipped voice.
“You told me a story, Weston, but I think it was not the truth. At least not all of it.”
“What’s this about, Maddie? Did that blackguard fill your head with tales of how he was double-crossed? You don’t believe him, do you? Not a word is true, I swear.”
She did not miss the way his gaze darted back and forth, skittering from the watering can at her side to the muddied hem of her gown and settling on the mound of fresh dirt before her. “Weston? Why would you have the deed on your person?” The story behind that would prove most telling, though whether her brother would provide an accurate accounting of the reason was uncertain.
He jerked his head with indignation, a trait he employed when caught in one of his own tales. “I had dealings with our solicitor.” He huffed and finally met her gaze. “Matters of great importance.”
“Hmmm. Mr. Sterling?”
“Yes. Sterling.”
Indeed. “Weston, the solicitor’s name is Mr. Yearling and we’ve had no need of him in years.” It pained her that her brother could not relay a truth with any regularity. She had held such hope that this time would be different, but alas, it was the same as all the other tales, fraught with more holes than French lace.
“Maddie, details such as names and the like have never held interest for me. Yearling. Sterling. Sherling. What matter is it now? Lingionine is lost.” He raked a hand through his hair and muttered, “Damn him.”
There was no sense attempting to coax the truth from her brother as Weston’s sense of right and truth were not always recognizable. Madeline continued thinking on this unfortunate truth later in the day as she sipped her afternoon tea with Regina, Sarah, and Annabelle. Mrs. Fowler had baked sugar cookies, the very same kind Douglas Fontaine had stated were his second favorite confection. Later that night, he confessed Madeline was his first. Oh bother, how much longer was this silliness going to continue? The constant reminders, the near tears, the anger…the ache consuming her heart?
“Have a cookie, Madeline.” Annabelle offered the tray to her with a pat on her hand. “You have barely eaten these past days.”
“Not even enough to keep a mouse happy,” Regina added as she dunked a piece of cookie in her tea.
“You must keep up your energy,” Sarah said. “And never give up hope.”
Annabelle cast her a reproving look. “Hope? Lies and deceit leave no room for hope. Better she see the world for what it is—a cold and often ugly place where the weak and fanciful are trampled.”
“Not everyone is like your dead husband,”
Sarah said, hands on her belly. “Hope is the only thing that keeps many of us moving in and out of our days.”
“He wasn’t a bad sort. For a man.” This from Regina who broke off another wedge of cookie.
“He did have a certain air about him,” Annabelle admitted. “I knew he was no commoner.”
“Please.” Madeline set down her cup and met their watchful gazes. “I would rather not…I would rather not…”
“Yes. Of course.” Annabelle intervened when it became apparent Madeline would not be able to finish her thought without great effort. Or mayhap tears. Or a breakdown.
“We will not venture down that road again,” Sarah vowed, her eyes bright.
“Clamped shut,” Regina added, pinching her lips together with her fingers.
Oh, indeed this rag-tag group had become dear friends and they would not see her harmed or subjected to pain and misfortune. Sadly, they could not patch the gauge in her heart…
A stream of blasphemes outside the drawing room interrupted Madeline’s thoughts seconds before the door burst open and Ethan Montague appeared with Weston following close behind.
“You cannot simply strut in here and demand an audience with my sister. That bastard may own Lingionine but he does not own Madeline.”
Ethan ignored Weston and bowed at the gawking women, teacups paused midway to their lips. “Ladies.” His gaze landed on Annabelle and narrowed a fraction before he added, “Ah, Lady Annabelle. So good to see you again. Did you enjoy the view the other night?”
She shrugged and looked away. “I barely remember it.”
Ethan Montague’s jaw twitched several times and his smile lost a bit of its brightness. “Then I shall endeavor for a repeat performance.”
Annabelle looked well and truly aghast. “I think not.”
Fortunately, Weston interrupted before the sparring revealed what had occurred that night. “What is going on? Who viewed what the other night?” He clenched his fists and turned to Ethan. “Montague, if you touched one of these women, I will call you out.”