All's Fair in Love and Scandal (8 page)

“Did Papa always lose?” she asked softly. “I remember the arguments about his losses. Were there also nights he came home flush with winnings?”

Her mother sat in silence for a long time, her gaze fixed on something in the far distance. “Not many. When he won, he took his winnings to the pub, and then . . .” She sighed. “Why must you talk about him?”

“Because I know almost nothing about him.” She lifted one hand and let it fall. “All I have are memories of him laughing, and of arguments. As a child I thought he was both wonderful and terrible, and now . . .”

Adele gave her a sideways glance. “He is very like the man you are falling in love with; is that what you are saying?”

“No,” said Madeline at once. Her mother’s eyebrow rose. “I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think he is like your father, or you are not falling in love with him?”

Neither. She just didn’t want to say it out loud. Madeline stared into her tea, wishing she hadn’t come. It was horrid to think Douglas was cut from the same cloth as her wastrel father, although the similarities were impossible to deny. That made it all the worse that her mother’s second charge was true. She hadn’t wanted to like him, but he charmed her. She hadn’t wanted to be attracted to him, but she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about every little touch of his body against hers, even a mere brush of their hands. She didn’t want to fall in love with him, or with anyone, and yet she felt herself slipping a little more each time he made her laugh.

“He must not be entirely like your father, or you would never have given him a second glance,” said her mother, breaking into her thoughts. “You certainly never cared for that kind of man before. Arthur was so serious and responsible, so honorable.” Adele smiled wryly as Madeline looked up in surprise. “Did you think I didn’t notice it? Arthur was unlike your father in every way. He reminded me of Canton, and I approved wholeheartedly of that.”

“Mama.” Madeline hesitated. “Is Canton . . . Could he possibly be . . . Is he my natural father?”

Adele’s spine seemed to wilt a little. She sighed again, and raised her hand to touch two fingers to her lips. “How long have you been waiting to ask that question?”

“Years,” she admitted. The first time she’d heard the whispers, she’d wanted them to be true. Canton was kind and amiable and she wanted to be his daughter. Later she had reconsidered, recoiling from the ugly word “bastard.” But now she thought it didn’t matter. Whether the blood of a reckless gambler flowed in her veins, or the blood of a steady, dependable duke, she was still herself. She believed in luck only so far as she believed that she made her own.

“You are my child,” said Adele softly. “
Mine
. Henri never wanted a daughter. Canton is not my husband. You were mine alone, darling, and I was fiercely determined that you would never need a father. But of course you would wonder. I know what people say. The truth is . . .” She hesitated, looking suddenly uncertain. “The truth is that I do not know which of them is your father.” She turned her eyes away as Madeline reeled in shock. “I have long felt God would forgive me for infidelity because committing that sin prevented me from a greater one. I did not know how I could live with Henri another day. Canton . . . He surely saved me from murder.”

Madeline’s mouth was dry. “Did you love him even then?”

“Oh yes.” Now Adele’s face softened. “Enough that I agreed to anything he proposed. I suspect he paid Henri’s debts, just as I know he endured Henri’s taunts. He sacrificed his dignity many times for my sake. In turn, I cared nothing for the shocked whispers that I was his mistress. I was very happy to be his mistress. Willingly I closed my eyes to any consequences and went where he led.” She put her hand on the table, palm beseechingly open. “But then I had you. I cared for consequences for you when I never did for myself.”

“Why didn’t you marry him, after—” Madeline stopped before she could say the rest:
after my father died
. Was Henri Dantes her father? She had no idea how to refer to him. “After you were widowed,” she finished. “He must have asked.”

“It would only have appeared to confirm what everyone said about us,” answered her mother. “Neither I nor Canton wanted that, for your sake.”

It would have confirmed that her mother had been unfaithful. Madeline knew the duke would have wanted to spare Adele that. “Why did you marry him—Henri—in the first place?”

“Because I was a simpleton.” Her mother’s expression grew stony. “He was like a hurricane, buffeting me from all sides until I could neither see nor think straight, always cajoling, seducing, never giving me a moment to quiet my senses and think. To be fair, it might not have helped me. I was young and foolish and beside myself with joy at being pursued with such intensity and passion. It turned my head and he knew it.”

There was one source of consolation. As flattering as Douglas Bennet’s attention had been, Madeline didn’t think he’d turned her head. And even though it sometimes felt like a hurricane, most of it had sprung from within herself, when the dawning realization that she liked his attention began warring with her own sense of self-preservation. That had never happened to her before. Her affection for Arthur had dovetailed perfectly with her discretion, and his intentions had been honorable in any event. Their marriage had been safe, secure, peaceful, and content. She feared her fascination with Douglas Bennet would be neither discreet nor honorable, and heaven only knew how it would end.

“This man you are trying not to fall in love with.” Adele tapped the table. “Send him away.”

She blinked, snapping out of her thoughts. “What?”

“Send him away,” her mother repeated. “Set him an impossible task, or a wager he cannot win. If he refuses to go when he loses, you will have your answer. If he keeps his word . . .” She shrugged. “Henri never kept his word. If he had gone away for a week I would have realized how unsuitable he was, and he was determined not to allow that.”

“What if he goes and I discover that I don’t really wish him gone?” she whispered.

A gentle smile warmed her mother’s face. “Then you will get him back, darling. If he is worth your love, he will honor his vow to go, but return at the first word from you. Trust me; I have sent Canton away three times, trying to end it for both our sakes. Every time, I missed him so dreadfully my resolve withered away, and he was on my doorstep within hours.”

“What if he doesn’t return?”

Adele shrugged. “Then he is not worth your tears. Either way, sending him away will answer your questions.”

Madeline supposed it would. If he refused to leave, it would confirm that he had no real respect for her. If he left and didn’t return, she would have saved herself humiliation and heartache. But if he behaved honorably, and still wanted to be with her after that . . .

“Thank you, Mama.” She rose and kissed her mother’s cheek again. “You have been an invaluable help.”

Adele clasped her hand, relief softening her face. “What else is a mother for, darling?”

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

D
ouglas thought his campaign was going beautifully on both fronts.

Albright was proving a first-rate conspirator, throwing himself into the deception with relish. Under the guise of regular boxing matches, they planned what to say and when. Albright expressed growing doubt to Spence that Madeline could be Lady Constance, while Douglas told Spence he was more and more convinced she
was
. He freely padded his accounts with reports of how many times he’d called on her, how welcome he was in her home, and every evening that he left a party or soiree with her on his arm, for all to see, bolstered his credibility. Both he and Albright could see Spence was coming to believe Douglas, and after several days, they agreed it was time for the key play: making another wager with Spence.

“How much should I ask?” Albright asked as they left the boxing saloon after a sparring bout.

“How much do you want?”

Albright considered. “Two hundred would be splendid.”

“Good.” Douglas nodded. “Not so high he’ll be suspicious, not so low to be immaterial.”

They both felt Spence deserved to lose some money, but at the moment he had nothing at stake. Without proof of Lady Constance’s identity, he would simply sit back and wait. Douglas’s goal was to goad Spence into some public declaration, which he could then counterattack and destroy, squashing any suspicion that fell on Madeline. By wagering that Madeline Wilde was
not
Lady Constance, Albright would prod him along; Douglas planned to push him still further by intimating that he saw no reason to split the bounty after all. Keen to win Albright’s money and determined not to let Douglas cut him out, Spence would fall right into the trap. Not only would he look like a complete cad, accusing an innocent woman of scandalous behavior, he’d be out two hundred pounds to Albright, without a penny of Chesterton’s bounty in recompense.

“I’ll approach him tonight.” Albright’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “And you?”

“I have plans to take the lady driving tomorrow. I’ll be sure to let him know.”

His companion laughed. “Well done. I hope you make progress on all counts.”

Douglas winked and took his leave. He headed toward home, thinking very pleasurable thoughts about tomorrow.

He had succeeded in getting Madeline to call him by name, and allowing him to do the same. He was welcome in her house, and she seemed happy to see him when they met in society. He made her laugh regularly. Oddly enough, by ceasing all the usual ways of indicating interest in a woman, he seemed to have warmed her feelings toward him. It was a revelation. In his experience women wanted to be charmed and flirted with; they liked the chase as much as he did. But by not pursuing her as hard as he normally would have, Douglas found he knew fascinating things about her.

She hummed when she walked. He thought his ears were deceiving him on one of their strolls through the park, but no—and with a start he recognized a mildly bawdy tune popular in some of the more boisterous taverns. When he caught her eye, incredulous, she merely smiled.

She knew horse racing. He’d never met a woman who cared for anything about a race beyond what gown and hat she might wear, but Madeline knew her horses. She refused to wager on them, but she discussed them with knowledge and interest.

She was left-handed. He discovered this when he called on her one day and saw her bare hands. Traces of ink stained her left thumb and forefinger, and she blithely professed to have been writing letters before he arrived. It made him think—unhappily—of that large quantity of paper again. What was she writing? He could only hope it really was letters and not another erotic recounting of a night of sin.

Even if he could persuade himself it was all fiction, pure works of fancy, he couldn’t stand to think of her picturing another man that way, let alone two or three or fifty, even if all the men were as imaginary as the acts. And if she was thinking of
him
as she wrote, that was hardly better; Douglas wanted there to be nothing fictional about their erotic relationship—not that it had begun yet.

With any luck, he’d change that tomorrow.

He had divined that she didn’t like crowds, so he chose a quiet spot away from town. With a picnic hamper stowed in the boot and a bright sunny day ahead, he handed her into the carriage. “You’ve worn good sturdy boots,” he said with approval. He’d sent a note with that request earlier.

“You did warn me to.” She cocked her head. “Although you didn’t explain why.”

“That must be a surprise.” He sprang up beside her and they were off.

As they drove she tried mightily to guess where he was taking them. He smiled when she said Kensington, laughed when she suggested Greenwich, but he almost drove off the road when she asked, almost slyly, “Are you stealing me away to Gretna Green?”

“What? No,” he protested, fighting to control the horse. Like the carriage, it was hired for the day, and he had yet to get a feel for the animal or vehicle. His sudden tightening of the reins had nothing to do with her implication.

“No, I see not.” Her eyes shone as she laughed at him. “The mere suggestion of elopement almost cost us both our lives.”

“Nothing like that.” The horse finally settled back into a steady trot, with an occasional toss of his head. Douglas told himself the sudden jolt of danger had caused his heart to pound, not the idea of carrying Madeline away to Gretna Green, just the two of them, sharing every moment of every day . . . and night . . . on the long road north. That would be a very dashing way to prove his interest was honorable—although it would leave him married. To her.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She still wore a pleased smile, as if she’d bested him in some way. Did she mention Gretna Green because she had been thinking of marriage? To him?

“Do gentlemen regularly attempt to carry you off to Gretna?” he asked, unsettled by the whole line of thought.

“No, this would be my first time.” She tipped her head in that way she had, so that she was looking up at him around her bonnet brim. “I suppose it would be your first as well.”

“It would.” He cleared his throat. “I daresay this carriage isn’t adequate to the journey.” It was an open curricle, comfortable for a short drive but no more.

“Decidedly not.”

“It would be presumptuous to set off for Gretna without being certain the lady wished to be married.”

“Very.”

“And yet,” he said slowly, “you didn’t leap from the carriage at the thought.” He glanced at her just as she looked at him. Their eyes met and for a moment he wondered if maybe—

She faced forward again and laughed lightly. “Why should I? People go to Gretna to be married. I feel entirely safe from marriage with you.”

He frowned. Marriage wasn’t on his mind, and yet . . . “Now why would that be? Neither of us is already married. It’s certainly
possible
.”

“But not plausible.” Madeline’s brows went up and her lips curved, as if she was about to hear a juicy bit of gossip. “Or perhaps I am mistaken. Have you decided to wed?”

“No,” Douglas said before he could stop himself. He hadn’t, not at all, but the idea that she had completely dismissed him that way rankled. He was an eligible match, damn it. If he did want to wed, he could find a willing bride within days. Madeline had no right to feel
safe
around him, not when he wanted her with an almost unbearable hunger. Not for marriage, true, but she should at least be aware of the possibility.

“And that’s why I’m not worried.” She touched his hand. “We both know you’re not a marrying man.”

He was still brooding over that as he turned off the road and brought the carriage to a halt. With some effort he shook off those thoughts—what a wretched thing to spoil his carefully planned excursion, marriage—and summoned a smile. “Are you ready to work?”

She looked around in bemusement. The carriage sat at the edge of an orchard, and a servant was coming toward them with baskets. “At what?”

“Cherry picking. They’re just coming into season, and we have the trees to ourselves for the day.”

Incredulous delight dawned on her face. “Cherries?”

“My favorite.” He grinned, feeling an unexpected burst of relief that she was pleased. He jumped down and held out his hand to help her out of the curricle. “I expect to take home a full pail, so you’ll have to pick your own if you want to do the same.”

“So unchivalrous!” But she took the pail the servant handed her and headed toward the grove with him.

For an hour they picked cherries. Douglas set the ladders against the trees, but she waved aside his offer of assistance. She caught him stealing an appreciative glance at her ankles as she climbed, and she pelted him with cherries until he retreated to another tree.

“Why cherries?” she asked when they had filled their baskets and come down from the ladders to enjoy the picnic lunch.

“Stealing fruit from the orchards was one of my sins as a lad.” He popped one into his mouth. “Cherries are my favorite.”

“A thief!” She laughed.

“Guilty. But worth every bit of penance. Tell me you don’t agree.” He picked out a cherry so ripe it was nearly black and held it in front of her lips.

“I’ve eaten so many, my mouth will be scarlet forever.” She pursed her lips into a pout to illustrate.

Douglas’s eyes riveted on her mouth. The fruit dropped from his fingers and gently he touched one fingertip to that pout. “Beautiful,” he murmured. She didn’t move, seemingly as fascinated as he was. Her expression subtly altered, softening until she almost looked surprised. Slowly he leaned toward her, braced to stop at any sign from her. Instead her face tipped up toward him, and her eyes fluttered closed a moment before he kissed her.

He felt like a boy again, hardly able to breathe for the excitement coursing through him. His heart beat against his ribs like a mallet. Her mouth was soft under his, as sweet as the cherries. When her lips parted under his, a shudder ran through him. She turned into his arms, her hands landing on his arms. He cupped her jaw and deepened the kiss until he felt drunk on the taste of cherries and her.

With a soft moan, she leaned into him. Her arms circled his neck and she didn’t protest when he pulled her into his lap—instead she parted her knees and straddled him, pressing against him as she kissed him back with enough passion to make him lose his mind. Blindly he undid the buttons of her pelisse, baring her skin to his hungry eyes.

“Madeline,” he gasped, raining kisses down her throat. “My God. I can’t think of anything but you.”

Her spine arched as he tugged off her pelisse. “As a friend?”

He groaned. Her skin was as tempting as fresh cream. “That and more. Let me make love to you.”

She went very still. “What do you mean?”

Douglas traced his fingertip along her collarbone. “Let me show you.”

She shivered. “The way you show tavern maids and ballet dancers?”

His finger stopped.

“Let me guess. They are coy and coquettish. They simper and giggle. Then they take you into their beds, or let you carry them off to yours, and let you have your way.” She shook her head, even though she still sat astride him, breathless and seductively mussed. “Girls like that know how delicate a man’s dignity is. I can hear how they cry out, moaning and screaming as you bend them over or bid them straddle you on a chair.”

“What have you got against chairs?” he asked in a low voice.

Her eyelashes fluttered, the only sign his words affected her. “Nothing. But that is not making love. That is tupping.”

Douglas ran his hand down her back, imagining her bare skin. “Does it matter what you call it if both people find it highly satisfying?”

“So they tell you—but they’re well paid to do so, aren’t they?”

He smiled and lowered his lips to her bosom again. “Money has nothing to do with it.”

She drew back. “Are you sure of that?”

“Yes,” he said at once.

This time she shrugged. “Then try it. The next time you have one on your knee, eager for a romp in bed, tell her you have no coin. Tell her you are destitute, and see how eagerly she leads you up the stairs for a tumble.”

Douglas pulled a face, half amused, half annoyed at her insistence. “I’d rather have you show me what you think making love should be.”

She lifted his chin. His gaze snagged on her lips, soft and red and parted in invitation. “Try it.”

He didn’t really want to think of a buxom barmaid on his knee right now, not when he was consumed by thoughts of Madeline. Just the thought of leaning forward and kissing her until she gave up this nonsense about the difference between tupping and making love was driving him wild. “You seem very sure of it,” he said, trying to keep his mind focused on the conversation. “What would you wager on it?”

He knew as soon as he said it that it had been a bad idea. Hadn’t he lost every wager with her so far? But it was too late now, and maybe his luck was about to turn. It was certainly due. He didn’t like to think that it would be a lost wager that got her into his bed, but at the moment, he was reckless enough to chance anything.

Her shoulders straightened and her lips compressed. He caught a flash of gold in her eyes. She scrambled off his lap and took a long look at him, from his boots to the top of his head. Her unashamed and unhurried study sent the blood roaring through his veins. God, he wanted this woman, and he’d wager his last possession to get her. “If I’m right and she turns you aside, you won’t speak to me again, or call on me, or trouble me in any way.”

Douglas recoiled. He didn’t want to agree to that. “Why that?”

“Why not that? If you’re certain you’re right, what does it matter what I might win? You have nothing to lose.”

He didn’t like it. He didn’t wager what he couldn’t bear to lose. “You’d have to balance that with something very tempting indeed.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head. “If you win . . . Let me think, what would tempt you? If you win . . .” She paused for a long moment. Douglas’s imagination ran wild, picturing all the things he’d like to win from her. “If you win, I will publicly own authorship of my writing.”