Three Little Secrets (13 page)

Merrick stepped farther into the room. “I am afraid, Treyhern, that I must be going, too.”

After a little polite protestation, the earl ceded to their wishes and called for both their carriages. They stood chatting almost awkwardly, until a footman bowed himself into the room to inform them the two conveyances awaited.

Helene waved good-bye as Madeleine started down the steps. At the front door, Merrick offered his arm, but she pretended not to notice. To her disconcertion, he instead set a warm, heavy hand to the small of her back, and went down the rain-slick steps beside her. Lord Treyhern already stood on the pavement, motioning to the coachmen.

There was a break in the drizzle, but the cobbles still glistened with damp. It would be good to get home, where she could perhaps begin to relax. She needed to put away these maudlin thoughts of what once had been and think only of the here and now. She must focus on Geoffrey and try to figure out what could be done for him. His outburst tonight had been beyond the pale.

Suddenly, Geoff tugged at her sleeve, the gesture almost childlike. She looked down to see that his eyes were round, his face again bloodless.

Oh, dear God. Not again.

“Mamma,” he said, “I think Mr. MacLachlan should ride back to Walham with us.”

Merrick leaned forward on his gold-knobbed stick, caught her eyes, and lifted one eyebrow almost insolently.

Madeleine cut her gaze away. “Do not be silly, Geoff,” she said coolly. “Mr. MacLachlan has a carriage.”

“But—but I think the three of us should go together!” he said stridently. “I—I wish to speak with him. I wish to—to ask him something. About building things.”

“About building things?” Madeleine echoed.

“Your son has a naturally inquisitive mind, my lady,” said Lord Treyhern.

“Yes, I do,” said the boy a little desperately. “And I wish—I wish to build something.”

“What?” she asked flatly.

Geoff licked his lips. “Well, a—a windmill. You know. Like the one we saw in Scarborough? Mr. MacLachlan, have you ever seen a windmill? Are they not quite amazing?”

“I have seen a few in East Anglia, but they are less common in Scotland,” said Merrick. “And yes, they are quite amazing.”

“May he, Mamma?” whined the boy. “May he not come up with us in our carriage?”

Suddenly, Madeleine saw the way of things. Geoff was afraid he was going to be scolded for his outburst with Lady Ariane—and he was. But he was hoping to forestall it with a guest in the carriage.

This time, Merrick leaned so near, his shoulder touched her. The arrogant devil was enjoying her discomfort. “I should be happy to accompany you, Lady Bessett,” he said, his lips far too near her ear. “I should in no way wish to disappoint a child.”

Madeleine stiffened. Merrick’s scent teased at her nostrils, just as it had that day she had so foolishly peeked into his bedchamber. Suddenly, the vision of their bodies pressed together in his office returned, and with it came the heat and the carnal awareness of his very large, very male body.

Beside her, Lord Treyhern shifted his weight uncomfortably. “Shall I send Mr. MacLachlan’s coachman on ahead, then, ma’am?”

Madeleine forced a tight smile. “Yes, my lord,” she managed. “I thank you.”

“Grimes may go home without me,” said Merrick. “I shall walk from Lady Bessett’s house.”

The earl went to the horses’ heads, and spoke a few words up at the driver, who tossed a strange look at Merrick, then clicked to his horses and set off in a clatter of hooves and a jingling of harness. Madeleine was stuck with him now.

With an artful flourish, Merrick threw open her carriage door, and presented an elegantly gloved hand. “After you, my lady?”

The devil’s boots do na’ creak.

M
errick watched in barely veiled amusement as Madeleine shot him one last contemptuous glance, then reluctantly took his hand to climb into the carriage. He despised her, of course, but did not mind tormenting her. Indeed, he had agreed to the boy’s outrageous scheme in part to infuriate her. So it was more than a little humbling when the sight of her blue silk skirts slithering provocatively over her arse made his mouth go dry. A just punishment, that.

But blister it, she was
his wife
. The wife he had never forgotten. The wife he could not touch. It was damnable, and it had blighted his life. Was he to be left hanging in purgatory until one of them died?

She
had not waited, had she? She had taken another man to her bed, and her stuttered excuses about an annulment were naught but guilt-ridden blither. Suddenly, Merrick’s situation seemed more intolerable than ever.

Behind him, Treyhern cleared his throat. Merrick realized that they were waiting on him.

He followed the boy into the carriage, a sleek, well-appointed barouche, took the empty rear-facing seat, and laid his walking stick across his legs. He and Madeleine were so close their knees brushed. Merrick made no effort to move. The carriage gave a sharp jerk and rattled away from the curb.

The silence in the carriage was deafening. Oddly, the boy was fidgeting almost nervously and staring out the window, barely aware of their presence. Merrick looked again at Madeleine, and deliberately caught her gaze. He wondered what she was thinking. Unfortunately, he knew what
he
was thinking.

“I find it very odd,” he said in a low, quiet voice, “how one moment in time can suddenly throw one back to another time and another place, often when one least expects it.”

She shrugged. “I daresay.”

He gave a muted smile. “There is something about a summer’s rain that is almost romantic, is there not?” he murmured. “Indeed, I remember another such carriage ride like this. In the early evening, following an afternoon rain, when the roads had just such a sheen.”

“I have had a hundred such carriage rides,” she said coolly. “This is England. We get rain.”

“Ah, and so I would have said myself,” he answered. “But this, Lady Bessett, was a ride to remember. The atmosphere, you see, was just as it is now. And the scent in the air—tell me, my lady, what is that lovely perfume you are wearing? A sort of jasmine, is it not? Yes, the air was filled with just such a fragrance.”

She was glowering at him now, but she was none the less lovely for it.

He smiled, and made a stab at her jugular. “Tell me, Lady Bessett, have you ever driven north beyond Penrith through the Vale of Eden?”

At that, Madeleine went utterly pale.

Most certainly she had made that drive—with him, during their impetuous, impassioned flight to Gretna Green. Fleetingly, he closed his eyes, and remembered. Good God, they had been wild for one another then. Just a touch, just a sidelong glance, and desire would spring forth as if it had been weeks instead of days or mere hours.

“The Vale of Eden,” he echoed pensively. “It makes one think of—well, of sin, and of temptation, does it not?”

It was an apt description of their visit. They had been within a day’s drive of the border, and he had been growing increasingly desperate to wed her with every passing mile. And so he had pushed the horses hard, driving well into the early hours of the evening. The maid had slumped against the hood and begun to snore, as had become her frequent—and quite convenient—habit. At some point, Madeleine had set her small, warm hand on his thigh a little anxiously.

He could no longer recall what had troubled her; the deepening gloom, or a perilous bend in the road, perhaps? He remembered only that he had returned the caress, settling his hand reassuringly over hers. And then he had kissed her, a swift but gentle meeting of their lips which had somehow lingered longer than simple reassurance required. By then, Madeleine had proven herself a sweetly insatiable lover. Her hand had inched higher, her nails had dug deeper.

In response, he had slid one arm around her, pulling her against him. And somehow, as it so often did with them, matters got out of hand. Whatever discomfiture she had suffered had turned to something very different. They had exchanged knowing, heated glances. Madeleine’s small, clever fingers had slid farther up his thigh, then a little farther still, to lightly stroke the growing evidence of his arousal. In an instant, he had pulled the carriage off the road and lifted her down.

Just then, Madeleine recalled him to the present, twitching at her skirts to neaten the folds.

He cleared his throat sharply. “I believe, Lady Bessett, that stretch of road is my most fondly remembered in all of England,” he said quietly. “There are many scenic spots at which one may pull over and admire the—oh, what would one call them?—yes, the beauties of nature.”

“Are there indeed?” she said coolly. “I cannot recall.”

Ah, but she did. Merrick could see it in her eyes, which were simmering with heat now. They had simmered with heat on that earlier night, too, albeit from an entirely different sort. Together he and Madeleine had strolled deep into the gloom of some farmer’s empty pasture, far enough to ensure at least a measure of privacy. Still, it had been a rash, passionate thing to do, and the risk of being caught, of making love like wild things beneath the open, moonlit skies, had been like an aphrodisiac—not that either of them had needed it.

With hands which shook, Merrick had undressed Madeleine then and there, with naught but the stars above, and an old woolen blanket spread beneath their fevered bodies to cover the lush Cumbrian grass.

“Cumbria, I believe, has a lot of soft grass,” he remarked.

“Yes,” she said tightly. “I believe they, too, get rain from time to time.”

But on that night, his mind had not been concerned with the weather. Because the ground was hard and the grass damp, he had taken the bottom, and set his hands around her slender waist. She had laughed and caught her balance when he lifted her on top of him, her eyes widening with delight. She had enjoyed her newfound power, quickly learning how to ride him. How to torment him. How to pull her muscles taut about his throbbing cock and rise up slowly, drawing out his desire like a fine, twisting ribbon of fire. Even now, after all the bitter years, he could still see the faint sheen of moonlight on her small, round breasts. The delicate pink nipples, so firm and proud. Her lovely face, a mask of near ecstasy.

Her breasts were much fuller now, he thought, staring at the cut of her bodice. He wondered, a little less dispassionately than he might have wished, just what they looked like. Would those nipples still be just as deliciously delicate and pink? How would they weigh in a man’s broad palms? Would they fill his mouth and drive him insane? God, perhaps they already had.

“Did you know, Lady Bessett, that it can get quite hot in Cumbria?” he asked. “Indeed, I get a little overheated just remembering that particular evening.”

She was now too indignant to speak. He was not perfectly sure why he was bent on tormenting her—or himself. But on that long-ago night, it had been she who was bent on torment.

Over and over, Madeleine had risen up on her finely muscled, milk white thighs, milking him, driving him right to the edge, then leaving him there, until at last her own release edged near. She had cried out, and tossed her head back in the faint moonlight, her hands flowing over her body, caressing her belly and her breasts, stroking herself and stoking her own passion as she lost herself in a release which had left him feeling wild with desire and almost wickedly voyeuristic. And he had known then, as he pumped himself into her with all his joyous, youthful fervor, that he was the luckiest man on God’s earth.

He leaned across the carriage, closing the distance between their bodies. “I can tell you quite certainly, Lady Bessett, that I have rarely been better satisfied with a good, hard ride,” he murmured. “Those rich, rolling hills and perfect, swelling mounds. The hidden treasures. The sheer fertility of the landscape. It makes one wish to simply reach out and…well,
touch
it.”

She jerked back so sharply she almost bumped her head.

He grinned at her across the carriage.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I fear I have the headache. Would you mind awfully?”

“Mind what?” he asked solicitously. “Being quiet? Why, not at all, my dear. I shall simply sit here and just envision it in my mind, laying bare every little detail. In my imagination. Quietly.”

“How merciful of you,” she snapped.

Her face had flooded with lovely color. As if suddenly realizing it, Madeleine turned away, her haughty profile cast into shape and shadow by the flickering carriage lamp. Perfect beauty. Perfect cruelty. He sometimes thought Madeleine the epitome of both. And even knowing what she was, goddamn it, he still burned for her.

He let his eyes run down her simple, but well-cut gown. He had bought enough female finery to know that such elegance came dear. Her jewelry, too, was expensive. The late Lord Bessett, it seemed, had left his widow well provided for.

But perhaps it was not her husband’s money which sustained Madeleine in such style, he thought as the carriage turned the first corner. Perhaps it was that bastard Jessup’s. Or perhaps it was the vast wealth which had passed to her through her deceased mother. As it happened, Madeleine had been quite an heiress—a fact he’d learned only after falling head over heels in love with the girl.

But what difference would it have made? He had not chosen to love her—indeed, it had been damned inconvenient. He had been too young and too poor to take a wife, and she—well, she had simply been too young. Like many girls of her class and age, Madeleine, he had come to realize, had simply been in love with the
notion
of love. After living the life of a bored little rich girl in the country, she had come to Town ready for a bit drama. She had wished to be swept off her feet. And he, foolishly, had wielded the broom.

He was almost grateful when the boy spoke, his voice tentative as he looked up at Madeleine. “Mamma, are you angry with me?”

Merrick watched Madeleine’s hands fist in her lap. “Geoffrey, I am not angry,” she said. “I am
not
. But you really mustn’t say such hurtful things. And where on earth did you get such a silly notion anyway?”

Merrick wondered what the devil they were talking about, but it was none of his concern. Madeleine seemed to have forgotten his presence, and the boy was literally squirming now. “I don’t
know
!” he cried. “It just—it just popped into my head, that’s all. One minute I was watching the cards, and then her—her hand, it…it was just
there
, in mine. And then the words burst out.”

Madeleine’s exasperation showed. “My dear, you simply must stop spouting off such nonsense when it ‘pops into your head,’” she scolded. “Have I not cautioned you time and again about that habit?”

“It is not a habit,” said the boy.

“Well, what would you call it?”

“I do not know,” he whispered. “I hate it. I hate myself. I wish to God it would stop.”

“I believe that is quite enough self-loathing one night, Geoffrey,” Merrick interjected. “I do not know what it is you stand accused of—”

“No, you do not!” said Madeleine with asperity.

“—but since I am now obliged to listen to its aftermath,” Merrick continued, “I feel duty bound to tell you, Geoff, that a man does not wallow in self-pity. If he has erred, or committed some social faux pas, then he writes a letter of apology to his hostess on the morrow.”

Madeleine’s eyes sparked with angry fire, but the boy looked pensive. “I—I could do that, I daresay,” he answered, his voice a little hopeful. “Do you think that it would help?”

“I cannot say,” answered Merrick. “But it scarcely matters. A man does his duty, regardless.”

“Does he indeed, Mr. MacLachlan?” Madeleine’s tone was subtly acerbic. “I have known a few men, regrettably, who failed in that regard. How
kind
of you to explain how things are supposed to work.”

“Bitterness does not become you, my dear,” he said in a low undertone.

But the truth was, it did. Even by the sputtering light of the carriage lamp, Madeleine’s eyes still blazed. Her posture was haughtily erect, and her shoulders were set stubbornly back.
There was the girl he remembered,
the thought. There was his Madeleine. The old Madeleine, not the new, ice-cold, heartless version.

God, there was no denying her beauty. There never had been—not then, and certainly not now. Madeleine had always turned heads. But sometime in the last decade or so, her wide-eyed innocence and long-legged, coltish beauty had become a woman’s splendor. She was utterly breathtaking, with her warm blond hair and vivid green eyes. The nose was thin, and a little blunted at the end, whilst her mouth was full, especially her lower lip. Her skin was still the shade of milk heavy with cream, and so flawless she bore not so much as a freckle. A Nordic princess, he had once thought her. It was still quite an apt description.

But as always, Madeleine behaved as if she were unaware of her beauty. He wondered why that was. Perhaps she was just especially clever. She looked across the carriage at him as they made the turn below Hyde Park, and he could see the rage still simmering in her eyes. Why on earth had he goaded her so tonight? He could easily have pretended a mere passing acquaintance with the woman. Instead, he had claimed to know her well and claimed perhaps a good deal more with his eyes.

The fact that his claims, both spoken and unspoken, were perfectly true did not excuse him. He had once known Madeleine as well as he had known himself—or so he had believed. Certainly he had known her body, every warm, creamy inch of it. Even now, the thought of her long, naked thighs was making his groin tighten and his stomach bottom out—and that, in turn, disgusted him.

Why was he even bothering to imagine it? Innocence no longer held any sexual attraction for him. The more hardened and practiced his women were, the better satisfied he was. What he needed to do was take a mistress. Someone older. More experienced. Someone not quite so depraved as Bess Bromley, perhaps, but similarly skilled. A dark-haired woman who was full-figured, and licentious enough to satisfy a man’s baser appetites without asking any questions. Mrs. Farnham knew his tastes; he would ask her to engage someone.