Three Little Secrets (20 page)

Dimly, he tried to consider the principles of the thing. She was widowed. She must be lonely. She might never forgive him.

And if he did not have her now, he would never forgive himself.

His impatience, his utter lack of self-control with Maddie was what had landed them in Gretna Green in the first place. It was not a quick, hard fuck he wanted from her. But just now, it was what his body craved. It would have to do.

Her hand had somehow burrowed beneath his shirt, and her nails were digging into the muscles of his back, begging for it. Good sense failed him, and he began to inch her skirts slowly upward. With rough, urgent motions, he pushed her drawers down.

Madeleine shuddered in his embrace when his hand slid around to cup her bare buttock. Her eyes opened, afire with lust, but filled with questions. The heels of her hands came against his shoulders, but it was a halfhearted gesture. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “What are we doing?”

“What we were meant to do, I’m afraid,” he murmured, setting his mouth to the turn of her throat.

Madeleine knew she should refuse him, but she could no longer remember why. For so long, her body had ached for this. She wanted to surrender to the yearning. Wanted that slow, sweet ache to pool in her belly. His hands were hot and urgent, his body strong. She let her head fall against the solid weight of his shoulder, and set her mouth to the turn of his neck.

The scent of warm male and woodsy cologne drifted about in a tantalizing cloud. Her drawers were somewhere around her ankles now, all but forgotten. She heard fabric tear, and vaguely, she wondered what sort of mindless idiot took such a risk. But it was that very risk which seemed to exhilarate her. The risk of scandal. The risk of being caught. Perhaps the risk of losing her heart again.

She kissed the turn of his throat and worked her way along his jaw. Merrick’s breathing was rough in the gloom as his hand eased between them. His warm, nimble fingers slid down her belly and lower still, leaving her gasping. Two fingers teased at the joining of her thighs, sliding deeper into the heat with each gentle stroke. His breath was warm against her throat.
Good God, she had to have him.

Wantonly, Madeleine rode down on his hand. As if to draw out her pleasure, he lightened his strokes, and let his mouth return to her breast.

“Ohh,” she whispered. It was a plea. It was her surrender.

His mouth returned to hers with a new urgency, his hands caressing her body almost desperately as he plunged over and over into her mouth with hungry strokes. His mouth moved down her throat. Lightly, his teeth nipped at her, and Madeleine could hear herself pleading for something; something sweet and long remembered.

Merrick urged her from the wall. The edge of the table touched the backs of her legs. The flickering lamplight seemed to cast the room in a warm golden haze which drew them inescapably deeper. She let her hands slide beneath his coat again, then skimmed them up the solid slab of muscles which formed his back. The warmth of his body, along with his warm male scent, surrounded her.

You are making a fool of yourself again,
she thought dimly. His fingers stroked deep into her flesh now, brushing her most sensitive spot, and leaving her shuddering.
He wants only one thing
. But the thought did deter her, for she wanted that one thing, too.

Merrick’s nostrils were wide now, and both her breasts were bared to his touch. He molded them in his hands, lightly thumbing her taut, aching nipples. The light of the wall sconce was enough to reveal the intensity which burned in his eyes. “Madeleine,” he rasped. “Dear God, Maddie.”

He bent over her and slid a hand beneath her hips again. A little roughly, he pushed her down onto the table, lifting her slightly as he did so. He stood between her legs, one hand beneath her gathered skirts, as his eyes feasted on her face, her throat, her bared breasts. The surface of the table was hard and cool beneath her hips as he tormented her. The warm weight of his hand beneath her skirts, between her legs, caressed her intimately, driving her need to a fevered pitch.

“Oh, Merrick!” Her head went back against the firmness of the table, and her body arched hard against his hand. “Merrick, please.
Please
.”

“Please what, my love?” He choked out the words. “Tell me.”

She dragged herself up, and reached for him. Using his stronger leg, he followed her onto the table, mounting her. He took her mouth again, and bracing himself above her, kissed her deeply. “What?” he asked again. “What do you want, Maddie love?”

“You. Inside me.” Her hands went to his trousers, greedily caressing the thick bulge of flesh, the promise of earthly pleasures.
“Now.”

He groaned and let his body tremble against hers. Impatiently, she slid her hand down, found a button, and slipped it free. Another and another followed. The powerful weight of his erection jutted from the crumpled linen, and with one hand, she pushed it away until she could grasp the heated flesh in her hand.

He lifted his mouth from hers, and quietly cursed. “You won’t regret it?” he rasped. “You won’t blame me?”

She shook her head, her hair scrubbing the table. “No,” she whispered. “Please. Just this once.”

Bracing himself on one hand, Merrick rose up and shoved away his shirttails. She could see the swollen head of his shaft. Good Lord, she had not remembered quite how generously nature had made him. But she set one slipper against the table, curled the other leg around his waist, and pulled him to her.

She felt the hot weight of him probe at her entrance, then ease into the warm slickness of her desire. Greedily, Madeleine’s hips arched up to take him. Another heated inch, and he was well inside her. Oh, God. It felt so good to be impaled on his body. To be stretched almost beyond bearing. To refuse to give in to good sense.

Urgently, she pulled him down, pulled him deeper, and joined his body to hers. Merrick’s breathing ratcheted up another notch. Still, she ached. There was a cry, a little catch in her voice. Her hands were on him, hot and urgent. “More,” she pleaded. “Merrick, let me—”

He lifted his hips, and thrust deep on a triumphant grunt. Madeleine felt her whole body start at the sudden invasion, and then it was not an invasion at all, but a sweet torment. Eagerly, she pressed upward, urgently searching.

“Holy Christ, Maddie,” he whispered, bracing both hands on the table. Slowly, he began to ride her, but his heavy, stretching weight was like a spark to tinder. Oh, she was so close. Another two or three strokes, and she was writhing and whimpering beneath him. Merrick thrust himself inside her, his timing perfect, his angle exquisite as his body pulled at her hungry flesh.

Suddenly, his every muscle seemed to stiffen. His face a mask of strain, he withdrew, then sank himself deep on one last, sweet stroke. His throat worked soundlessly, the sinewy tendons of his neck drawing taut as his warmth flooded deep inside her. And then she splintered and came apart, the dim little room exploding with pleasure and light. He covered her mouth with his, and swallowed her scream of release.

When she returned to her senses, he was still bent over her, holding her tightly to him. He kissed her again, deeply and longingly, as if he could not bear to release her. For a long moment, they clung to one another silently. “Good Lord,” he said, when his breathing had calmed.

Dimly, Madeleine understood that when she came to her senses, she was going to regret this. But just now, the risk seemed worth it.

Merrick’s gaze was rueful as he finally shifted his weight away. “We are going to have a devil of a time, Maddie, pretending that
this
did not happen.”

She did not know what to say. It was slowly dawning on her the terrible risk they had just run. Her hand went to her sleeve and began to tug it back into place. “It was just this once, Merrick,” she reminded him. “That was what we said, was it not? I—I shall be gone soon enough, and…and then we can forget again. We can forget this ever happened, if that is our wish.”

Merrick shifted his weight, and stood. Gently, he helped her from the table and began to right her clothing. “I daresay it will be,” he quietly agreed, unwilling to hold her gaze. “I daresay we will both think better of this tomorrow, Maddie.”

She felt her face warm. “Will we have been missed, do you think?”

He shrugged. “Most likely,” he said. “I suppose…I suppose you’d best return to the ballroom. Without me.”

Somehow, Madeleine found the presence of mind to nod. She watched him methodically stuffing his shirttails back into his trousers. “Are we mad, Merrick?” she whispered. “Did we learn nothing all those years ago?”

Merrick dropped his hands, and stepped away. “Oh, I learnt a vast deal,” he said.

He bent down and picked up her gossamer shawl, which had slid off her elbows. “Here. Put this back on. Go on without me.”

Go on without me.

Good God, wasn’t that what she had been doing? And it had brought her no joy. But this—this quick, desperate coupling of their bodies and their souls had made her heart soar.

Madeleine slid the shawl back on to her shoulders, surprised to see that her hands were shaking. Merrick looked as if he were angry with himself, and perhaps with her, too. If this had been a mistake, yes, it had been worth it. And from the look on his face, it might have to warm her heart for a very long time to come.

With one last uncertain glance, she turned away, and left the little room.

Haste and anger hinders guid counsel.

H
e waited in the gloom for all of ten minutes. Long enough, he thought, for Madeleine to make her apologies and leave.
Just this once
. Good Lord, his heart could not take much more than that. He prayed he never saw her again. She was going to leave London, she had said. Thank God. It would be wise if he did nothing to deter that leaving.

But just now, he could not bear to think on it. What had just passed between them—dear God, it had been dangerous and foolish and soul-searing, and yet carnal on a level which he had not known with even the most skilled of prostitutes. It had been…his dream again. Or a glimpse of it.

Feeling thoroughly enervated, Merrick leaned back against the wall to take the weight from his hip. Absent the blinding desire, he could actually feel that the muscle spasm had returned, albeit milder this time. When he judged himself capable of walking evenly, he left the little room, closing the door tightly behind.

In the ballroom, the music was still going on. Lady Ariane was dancing with her uncle, the angry gentleman he had seen on the terrace earlier.

“
Bon soir,
Mr. MacLachlan,” said a soft voice at his elbow. “You are a man of many surprises.”

He looked down to see Lady Treyhern staring pointedly up at him. Her expression was candid, but there was a mistrust in her gaze which he did not miss.

“I rather doubt there is anything surprising about me, ma’am,” he countered. “I am just what you see before you.”

She tapped him lightly on the arm with her fan. “Ah, but your past!” she said quietly. “By the way, dear Madeleine has left, you may wish to know.”

“Her going or coming is no business of mine,” said Merrick.

“Is it not?” she answered. “Well, in any case, I should very much like to hear the details of this youthful dalliance between the two of you.”

Merrick lifted both brows, and shot her his darkest glower. “Then you will have to have them from Lady Bessett, ma’am.”

“Ah, a man of discretion.” Lady Treyhern snapped her fan shut, and looked at him appraisingly. “One can appreciate that. Come, Mr. MacLachlan, and take a turn about the room with me. There is something I should like to discuss with you.”

Merrick started to refuse her. His mind was decidedly elsewhere. But he was the lady’s guest, after all, and he was not rude by nature. Merrick reluctantly offered his arm and thanked God the spasm in his hip had subsided.

Lady Treyhern smiled up at him. “By the way,” she murmured. “I have been meaning to ask about your lovely signet ring. The sign of St. Thomas the Apostle, is it not?”

“Yes, the patron saint of builders.” The ornate ring winked in the candlelight as he extended his finger. “This one is a family heirloom, passed down by some long-dead Catholic ancestor.”

Lady Treyhern smiled. “Are you a papist, Mr. MacLachlan?”

He gave a muted smile. “No, though I would not be ashamed of it if I were.”

She looked at him approvingly. “My father was Catholic,” she remarked. “A pity he did not wear the symbol of some patron saint. It might have saved his neck from the guillotine.”

“My sympathies,” he murmured.

She inclined her head. “I trust St. Thomas has guarded you well?”

“Well enough,” he answered.

The countess then chattered on amiably until they reached the back of the room by the French windows. Then she turned to him and flashed him that strange, appraising look again.

“You must forgive my brother-in-law, Mr. MacLachlan,” she said out of nowhere. “Bentley often lets his temper override his good sense.”

Merrick looked down at her. “Mr. Rutledge seems all that is pleasant, ma’am. I have no quarrel with the gentleman.”

“But alas, Bentley sometimes talks when she should listen,” the lady continued, seemingly apropos of nothing. “Me, I say little and see a good deal more.”

He was not in the mood for games. “Precisely what are you getting at, Lady Treyhern?”

She had the good grace to blush, but not deeply. “I realized too late that you were on the balcony tonight,” she said. “Bentley took me unawares.”

It was Merrick’s turn to be embarrassed. A gentleman would have made his presence known at once. He gave a stiff bow of acknowledgment. “My apologies,” he said. “I confess, my mind was elsewhere.”

“And you hoped we would go away, and leave you to peace, I am sure,” she said breezily. “Nonetheless, we did not. And now I find myself in a most awkward position, Mr. MacLachlan.”

“And what position would that be?”

She lifted one shoulder, the gesture more nonchalant than her words. “I am beholden to you,” she answered. “You are now in possession of certain bits of information. Information which, if repeated, might wound someone very young, and very innocent.”

“Your stepdaughter, I collect.”

“Yes, my stepdaughter.” Lady Treyhern’s eyes were pleading now.

“Then you are in luck, madam,” said Merrick. “I am not in the habit of wishing children ill.”

“You must understand,” Lady Treyhern persisted. “She is a good girl. Indeed, I love her as I love my own three—and in some ways, more. Ariane had a tragic childhood. I had hoped that the tragedy was at an end. Now it is up to you.”

“Up to me?” Merrick drew back an inch. “That is one hell of a burden.”

Lady Treyhern pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, I mean only that her future happiness depends, to some extent, on your discretion.”

Merrick’s mouth curled a little bitterly. “Well, I am, as they say, the soul of discretion, ma’am,” he answered. “And frankly, I am not much given to gossip. I have enough troubles of my own.”

Lady Treyhern smiled faintly. “May I have your word, then, that you will hold what you heard in the utmost confidence?” she asked. “I am sorry. I know I have no right to ask it of you, but—”

“You need say no more,” said Merrick. “I beg you will put it from your mind. I certainly have.”

The lady’s smile warmed a degree, but she was still troubled. It seemed an opportune time to make his exit. With another bow, this time over her hand, he took his leave of her.

The hall clock was striking half past ten when Madeleine arrived home. Clara let her in, and took her things. Madeleine went into the parlor to pour herself a glass of wine and to consider the almost overwhelming emotions which had assailed her in the wake of Merrick’s lovemaking. But her solitude was not to be. Mr. Frost sat by the windows with a well-thumbed book in hand. He did not, however, look as though he had been reading it, for his gaze was bleary and a little dejected.

Upon seeing her, he came at once to his feet. “My lady. Good evening.”

“Good evening, Mr. Frost,” she said. “Pray sit down. Will you take a little wine?”

“Thank you,” he answered. “It would be most welcome. You are home early, are you not?”

“Yes, and glad to be so.” She took the glass to him and sat down nearby. “Tell me, how was Geoffrey tonight?”

Mr. Frost had laid aside his book. “Not himself,” he admitted. “I confess, ma’am, that the lad has me a little worried this time.”

Madeleine nodded sadly. “He is truly cast down,” she answered. “This is the worst spell ever, I believe.”

“I wonder if you aren’t right,” Frost agreed. “May I ask, my lady, about the man—the chap who shot himself—did Geoffrey know him?”

She lifted one hand impotently. “Not so far as I am aware. How could he?”

“I think he could not have,” said Mr. Frost pensively. “And yet—and yet he seems to feel the grief most strongly. He even went so far as to say he felt he should have
done
something. But what could he have done? I cannot think—and when I ask, he will not tell me.”

Madeleine sat silently for a time. Mr. Frost’s concerns were too similar to her own for comfort. Geoff’s worsening despair, along with the events of tonight, made her feel that an escape from London was imperative.

She set her glass down with a sharp
chink
. “I think, Mr. Frost, that my bringing Geoff to Town has hurt rather than helped,” she confessed. “There is just too much going on here.”

“Too much going on?” He sounded confused.

“I am not explaining myself well, am I?” Madeleine shook her head, as if to clear her thoughts. “It is just that…well, sometimes I feel that there are too many people here, too much activity. It is as if…as if it all affects Geoff somehow, if that makes any sense?”

“Nothing about Geoff’s fears makes much sense,” the young man admitted. “But regarding London, I think you may be right.”

“Perhaps a change of scenery is in order,” she said quietly. “Will you let us uproot you once more, Mr. Frost? I was thinking we might give up on London and remove to Cambridge instead.”

“Cambridge is my favorite place in all the world, ma’am,” he said. “I should be pleased to go. I only hope we do not find that Geoff’s problems follow us.”

With that, the young man laid aside his book, finished his wine, and excused himself for the evening.

Madeleine clutched her glass in both hands, and looked dejectedly around the room at the piles of papers and correspondence. It was going to be a long night. Already, she knew that sleep meant to elude her. Tonight she would spend a few hours going through the next crate of her father’s files.

She was more determined than ever to find something—anything—related to the dissolution of her first marriage. She
must
. The doubt was beginning to crush her. Her reactions to Merrick were obviously spiraling out of control. That was yet another reason she had no wish to go to bed tonight. Dreams of him—feverish, restless fantasies—had begun to torment her. In those dreams, she was seventeen again, and full of a wild, heedless passion. And Merrick—oh, God! He came to her lonely bed cloaked in shadow and mystery. Not the Merrick of her past, but the man he was now.

That was the most frightening thing of all. She could tell herself he was no longer the man she had fallen in love with, but she was no longer certain it was true. His touch tonight had inflamed her to madness, just as it always had done. In that narrow, humble room, she had acted the common tart, wanton and rash. She had allowed him intimacies which left her blushing with shame. Even now, her body ached for his rough, hungry touch.

Dear God! If she could just find those papers Papa had shown her! If she could just prove to herself that it was over, that it had, in fact, ended long ago, somehow it would make matters so much clearer to her now.

Regrettably, she was down to her father’s work-related materials. All else had been closely examined, and yielded nothing. But all might not be lost. Perhaps her father had considered her ill-thought marriage to be an issue related to his political aspirations, rather than a personal matter? Perhaps that was all she had ever been to him—just a pawn to be married off in order to build a political alliance. Cousin Imogene had once said as much.

With a heavy heart, Madeleine went upstairs to change into her nightgown and wrapper, and to send Eliza on to bed. There was no point in both of them suffering a sleepless night.

Merrick made his escape from Lord Treyhern’s house some four hours after his arrival, only to recall he had sent his coach away. With his mind in a turmoil over Madeleine, he had already hiked halfway down to the Blue Posts, praying Grimes and the footman were still sober, before he began to piece together just what it was which Lady Treyhern had been so worried about.

Thomas Lowe
. It was not a familiar name. But whoever the poor devil was, he was dead.

“If I could but shoot him again, I’d aim a good deal lower,”
her brother-in-law had said. Very interesting, that. And Mr. Rutledge had looked perfectly capable of shooting a man—in the back or otherwise. But what did the death of a man named Lowe have to do with the girl? Something was nagging at the recesses of his mind now, and driving him to distraction.

At the Blue Posts, he waded into the crowd which spilt from the yellow glare of the front door, and saw nothing of Grimes inside. He tossed a coin to a passing potboy, and enquired.

“Round back, gov’,” said the lad, tucking the coin away. “Asleep, too, from the sound of ’em.”

They were racked up inside the carriage, Merrick discovered, both sawing logs fit to be heard across the inn yard. At his solid thump on the door, they rousted up, climbed down, and shook the sleep off, both looking faintly mortified. At least they were sober.

“Home, Grimes,” he said, climbing up.

The trip across west London was uneventful. This time, no one tried to shoot him. Once inside the house, Merrick went upstairs to his office, yanked off his neckcloth, and poured himself a tot of Scotland’s crowning glory. Then, deciding it did not look quite glorious enough, he sloshed in another dram and fell into his favorite chair. He loosened his waistcoat, toed off his evening slippers, and propped his feet up on the tea table.

Now, what was that niggling thought in the back of his brain? And what had it to do with the Rutledge chit? Or Geoff? Or Madeleine, come to that? Something, damn it. Something. What was it Geoff had said to the girl to start this row in the first place?

That her father was dead.
On its face, it sounded like a macabre thing to say, especially when one blurted it out for no discernible reason. Madeleine had said, too hopefully, that perhaps it was simple teasing. Lady Treyhern had claimed that Geoff was known to have “strange notions.” Treyhern’s brother had shot a man named Thomas Lowe. Shot him dead, apparently. And now the Rutledge family was very worried about gossip.

Well. It seemed they had had more than a passing acquaintance with that particular trouble. And somewhere in all this mess was a thread of truth which was inexplicably teasing him.

Treyhern’s first marriage had been a mess, by all accounts. And his first wife had been, as Phipps had so discreetly put it,
“of questionable constancy.”
In other words, she had been unfaithful to her husband. Seen in that ugly light, Lady Treyhern’s apprehension began to make sense. It sounded as if the mysterious Mr. Lowe had got himself shot for a bloody good reason. And the simple fact was, Treyhern’s daughter might not be…well,
his
. Her ladyship knew it, too—as did the earl himself, his brother, and, quite possibly, some of his servants. Lady Ariane, however, apparently did not know it.