Heiress Without a Cause

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

"I still don't like it," Ferguson muttered as their coach waited in the line of equipages slowly approaching Westbrook's mansion.

Madeleine drew her cloak more firmly around her shoulders, soaking in the last few moments of warmth before she would have to surrender the garment at the door. Her costume was designed for admiration, not comfort. "Would you rather be branded a murderer?"

"I may commit murder if anyone ogles you - and they will, I assure you. I would worship that dress if I could have you to myself in it."

"Don't say a hardened rake like you has never seen such a display," Madeleine retorted, her cheeks flushing at the thought of what was to come.

"I haven't," he said flatly. "Seeing you in the foyer when I retrieved you from our house was enough to make me want to drag you upstairs and strip you out of that dress. In the atmosphere of Westbrook's ball... I must warn you that I'm not sure how long I will be able to keep my hands off you."

His eyes were as heated as his words, and she felt a small throb of pleasure deep in her belly. They had said little to each other on the drive out from London to Westbrook's Richmond estate, but that was probably for the best - if he could arouse her just with a few words, they might not have ever reached the masquerade.

The carriage rolled to its final stop and a footman opened the door. Ferguson stepped smoothly to the pavement before reaching up to assist her. Rather than taking her hand, he grasped her around the waist, lifting her out of the coach and into his arms. He released her slowly, so close to him that she slid down his body, feeling every muscle - and his growing erection - through the single filmy layer of her gown. She gasped as she landed, pressed fully against him, wishing just as much as he did that they could abandon the party and go back to their secret house.

"I may not last long either," she whispered, looking up into his eyes and seeing him fight the desire to toss her back into the carriage.

He ran his hands down her arms, grazed against her bottom, and then set her firmly on her feet. "If we see enough people in the first hour, we can escape early and have some time alone."

Alex supported the plan, true to his word despite the impropriety, but he would be watching the clock for her return - which meant the less time they spent at the masquerade, the more time they would have to themselves. "Oui, monsieur le duc," she said, slipping into Marguerite's French accent.

He took her arm and escorted her up the stairs to the grand entrance. A footman took her cloak and Ferguson's greatcoat and she heard rustling whispers rise up around them. If they already drew this much notice, they might not need even an hour to cement Marguerite's return.

"How do I look, monsieur?" she asked, twirling in a slow circle in front of him. It was a vixen's move, one she would never make anywhere else - but here, in this dress, it felt right. She guessed how she must look - the fabric clinging to her breasts and hips, almost translucent in the light, her nipples hardened points as they strained against the gown. Her hair was powdered to disguise its true color and Lizzie had threaded a chain of garnets through her tresses, mimicking the blood-red pomegranate seeds Persephone was known for. She had abandoned the sheaf of wheat as impractical, but a cluster of poppies wrapped around her wrist, and high-heeled Grecian sandals added the inches that Marguerite always displayed on stage. The lace of her drawers peeked out at the hem of the dress. She had never worn them before, and they might shock others more than if she had worn nothing at all - but it was the one concession she demanded for her modesty, so that at least one extra layer concealed her sex under her scandalous gown.

She turned back to Ferguson just in time to see him swallow hard. He looked like someone had bashed him in the head. Finally, he said, "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."