Heiress Without a Cause

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Later, at Lady Blexham's ball, when Mad was Lady Madeleine again, wrapped up in muslin and weighed down by her spinster's cap, Ferguson pulled her into his arms for their waltz. They had parted ways less than an hour earlier, but he didn't want to waste any opportunity to have her to himself. If all went according to plan, the twins would debut soon, and she would spend her evenings escorting them.

And when her acting career ended, their illicit, stolen time together would end as well.

"If only I could have more than one dance a night," he murmured.

"Do try to be generous," she said, tapping his arm with her fan in mock reproof. "You cannot go about monopolizing all my time."

"Even if we could practice new forms of entertainment?"

It was an obvious gambit, and her eyes sparkled with laughter. "I do find it easier to learn from an excellent instructor, your grace."

He flashed back to the image of her in his carriage, dress open and eyes full of heated wonder. No one in the ton would guess that she was capable of such abandon.

But he knew. And the more nights he spent with her, the more he doubted his ability to let her go.

They fell silent. There was nothing more they could say to each other in public that would not give them away. When he held her, though, that silence was a gift. Within their dance, he didn't have to worry about titles, or the vast estates he had inherited, or the wreckage he had made of his sisters' lives. There was just Madeleine, and the belief that he could be the man she needed - even though he had failed with everyone else.

Spending time with her was also turning him maudlin, he thought.

At least maudlin and lovesick were preferable to bitter and ashamed.

The dance ended well before he was ready to let her go. She looked up at him, some unreadable look on her face - perhaps her thoughts had taken the same turn as his.

Then she looked over his shoulder and her gaze turned wary. He swung around, ready to protect her even though the notion of a physical threat in a ballroom was ludicrous.

"Hello, Ferguson," Caro said. His former mistress - now Westbrook's former mistress, he supposed - was dangerously seductive, in a dark blue gown that clung to her like she had been sewn into it. Her blonde hair was piled high on her head and her face was cleverly painted. Despite her fashionable attire, he noticed the hardness beneath her appearance and felt another flicker of guilt.

She wanted something from him. Whether it was love or revenge, he didn't know. Either way, he didn't care to find out with Madeleine on his arm.

"Lady Greville," he said. Giving her the briefest possible bow, he fixed his gaze at a point above her head. He wouldn't cut her - he still wished her happy, after all, even if neither of them had any illusions about love when they were together a decade earlier - but he did not want to give her the slightest bit of encouragement.

Even without eye contact, he could tell she was startled by his coldness. Still, she pressed on. "I thought I would see you at all the usual haunts. Don't tell me you've become the sober duke your father was? Or, worse, that you've taken to your chambers like Richard did in the last year of his... illness?"

He didn't like the insinuation, and he met her eyes. "Caro, I've no desire to hurt you, but I am no longer the man you knew ten years ago. I do wish you all the happiness you deserve, but I shan't be the one to provide it."

It was an abrupt remark. He didn't want to waste time on a thinly veiled conversation when one statement could give her the answer she needed. She blanched, and her blue eyes moistened. But just as he thought she might leave, she turned her gaze on Madeleine, who still held Ferguson's arm. "My apologies for interrupting your time with the duke," Caro said. "I know how precious these moments must be for one who is desperate to snare a husband."