One of the best things about Rosalie Corbin was her innate sense of timing. She knew how to read a room, and she knew the benefit of waiting to get what she wanted. In this case, Madeline knew her friend was nearly fit to burst with queries. And yet, the duchess patiently helped Madeline up the stairs to the guest wing on the second floor, asking no questions. She moved with quiet dignity, directing the housekeeper and the maids, who all flurried about.
“Lady Madeline is here?” they murmured, eyes darting to each other with excitement.
“Where did she come from?”
“How did she get here?”
“But…where are her things?”
She did her best to ignore the pointed looks of the maids, sitting quietly on a chair near the crackling fire in the corner of the Blue Room. It was a simple room, almost utilitarian. A four-poster bed sat along one wall, the fireplace along the other. The room was decorated with a pretty, floral patterned wallpaper dotted with yellow songbirds and creeping vines. A bay window stacked with pillows for reading was now concealed behind heavy, blue velvet curtains, giving the room its name. Aside from a little dressing table by the door, the room was empty.
Within thirty minutes of stepping foot inside Alcott Hall, Madeline went from being freezing and disheveled, wrapped in a pair of pilfered men’s coats, to soaking in the deep expanse of a copper bathing tub. Steam spiraled off the top of the rose oil scented water. She let out a little groan of delight as the heat of the water coiled deep under her skin, thawing her frozen bones.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyelids heavy with fatigue and relief at being warm again.
“Say nothing of it,” Rosalie replied. She sat in the chair next to the tub, her hands folded over her rounded stomach. She looked just as beautiful as always—rich, walnut curls framing her heart-shaped face, pouty pink lips, and dark eyes framed with thick lashes. By anyone’s standards she was stunning. But she also looked tired tonight.
“Ahh,” Rosalie let out a little hiss, shifting one of her hands to rub at a spot on her side.
Madeline sat forward in the tub, eyes wide. “Are you unwell?”
“M’fine,” she muttered. “This little devil is just part mule. She kicks like anything.” After a moment she resumed her relaxed pose.
Madeline never knew quite what to do or say around pregnant women, even a friend. The condition was shrouded in such an air of mystery…and fear…and tragedy. Madeline shoved that last emotion deep down. She refused to dwell on that reality, not when Rosalie had given her no cause for concern. She already had one healthy baby; a lovely little girl named Georgina.
“When are you due?” she asked.
“A few weeks yet,” Rosalie replied. “Perhaps sometime early in the new year.”
Madeline played with the bar of lavender-scented soap. “And…is His Grace happy that an heir may yet be forthcoming?”
Rosalie smiled. “He was convinced Little G would be a boy and was proved wrong. I think now he’s content to sit back and wait. Whatever comes will come. We shall love it either way…but I have a feeling it’s another girl.”
“What kind of feeling?”
Rosalie shrugged. “Just a feeling. It’s hard to explain.”
The only maid left in the room set out a towel, a clean chemise, and dressing gown. “Anything else, Your Grace?”
“No, thank you, Hannah. It’s late. You may go to bed.”
The pretty little maid blinked, glancing from Rosalie to Madeline. “But—”
“I’m perfectly capable of helping Lady Madeline out of the tub,” the duchess replied with a kind smile. “I’ll call if you’re needed again, but I think we can manage. Right, dear?”
Madeline just nodded, grateful to be alone with Rosalie at last. As soon as the maid closed the door, Madeline knew her period of grace was over. She didn’t meet Rosalie’s eye, instead running the bar of soap up and down her bare arm. Not for the first time tonight, her mind wandered back outside to that stable yard, to that kiss.
Oh heavens, she was kissed tonight. She could hardly believe it. She was sure, if someone spoke the words aloud, she’d roundly deny it.
Madeline. Lady Madeline Blaire. Mu-mu-muttering Madeline. Kissed by a man. A beautiful, virile, bear of a scoundrel that manhandled her and laughed at her and took liberties that would see him shot if her father ever found out.
Why did he do it? And why on earth did she kiss him back?
She should have slapped him. She should have screamed. Instead, she—oh gracious! She bit her bottom lip, remembering the queer feeling of his lips moving against hers. It was different from what she expected. Softer…and wet. She never expected a kiss to be wet, but when he stepped back his lips were glistening and so were hers.
She remembered too that flare of heat, blooming in her chest and then sinking deeper, deeper, so deep inside her, until it lit something up, some fire she could still feel. He teased her when he said her lips were warm. Her entire body was a living flame. She’d never felt so alive.
“Madeline…”
She sucked in a breath, dropping the bar of soap. It thunked to the bottom of the copper tub. Ducking down, she hid her blushing face against the water’s surface, reaching for the soap. Hopefully any redness in her cheeks could be excused by the heat of the water.
“There’s only so much longer we can delay this, my dear,” Rosalie added. “I have questions.”
“I know,” she murmured.
“I need to know—”
“I know,” she repeated, daring to glance over the edge of the tub towards her friend.
“What happened?” Rosalie asked, leaning forward with interest.
“Much,” she murmured, her gaze falling to the tips of her toes peeking out from the water at the opposite end of the tub.
Rosalie let out a heavy sigh. “You know, if you were speaking to James in this moment, that answer may suffice. But most unfortunately, you are speaking to his duchess, and I will require a proper explanation. Madeline, did you run away from home?”
“No,” Madeline said quickly. She sat up, making some of the water slosh over the sides of the tub. “I didn’t.”
Rosalie narrowed her dark eye at her, lips pursed. “Madeline?”
“I didn’t,” she pressed. “I…not exactly. That is to say, I suppose I did run away, but not with the intention to…be away,” she finished lamely. She knew she wasn’t making any sense. This was so impetuous. She was going to murder Patrick for suggesting it.
“Heaven help me,” Rosalie groaned. “Start at the beginning.”
So, Madeline did. Sitting in the tub, the hot water warming her from the outside in, Madeline told her friend everything about the last Earl of Leary and the fortune he entailed on his daughter. She told Rosalie about the three generations of Leary women who inherited it and kept it safe, ending with Aunt Maude. She told Rosalie all about the will and the conditions set upon Madeline for receiving her new inheritance.
She cried as she told the duchess about her father’s duplicity, keeping the knowledge of the will from her, hoping she’d fail. She railed as she spoke of her mother’s scheming, setting her up with the likes of Lord Everton, knowing Madeline would never accept him as a suitable match.
The duchess listened intently to every word. It was easy to talk to Rosalie; it always had been. When Rosalie looked at her, she didn’t see the viscount’s daughter or the lady worth twenty thousand pounds. She just saw Madeline. She never cared about her awkwardness or her silences. She was patient. She treated Madeline as an equal.
So does Mr. Warren.
The thought came unbidden, but it was true. It seemed she couldn’t keep her thoughts from the man. She kept picturing him, feeling the strength of his hands around her. Mr. Warren saw her too. All of her. She felt unmade when he looked at her, burrowing under her shell to the heart of her, making her laugh, teasing her, protecting her from the pompous footman. And she’d been so natural with him. She hardly noticed it in the moment. No muttering, no awkward pauses.
Warren. John Warren. She liked his name. It suited him. How was it that she felt more herself in the company of a hay man and a gamekeeper than she did her own family?
“So, what happens now?” said Rosalie, ready to dive right to the heart of the matter.
Madeline sighed. “So now, I have a little less than three weeks remaining before I will have to prove to the solicitors that I am married if I want to claim my inheritance,” she said. “And if I don’t marry by the end of the year, they will claim it for themselves.”
“Heavens,” Rosalie murmured, leaning back in her chair. She was quiet for a moment, considering all Madeline had to say. “Where does Alcott fit in?” she asked. “Why have you come?”
“Because I couldn’t think what else to do. If I stayed in town, I’d be trapped in Blaire House. My parents want me to fail, Rosalie. They have no faith in me. They lost all faith when I couldn’t bag a husband my first season out.”
“Well, that was hardly your fault,” Rosalie replied, crossing her arms over top her stomach. “They forced you on George, after all. Could they truly expect any less?”
Madeline didn’t miss the humor in the duchess’s tone. She knew Rosalie harbored a fondness for her brother-in-law. The former duke was a mercurial figure, to say the least. He was one of the oddest people in Madeline’s acquaintance, if she could really claim to have an acquaintance with the man.
Three years ago, he renounced his titles and took off for the continent, making James the duke and Rosalie a duchess. He returned occasionally, usually at Rosalie’s insistence. The last time Madeline saw him was at the christening for little Georgina, his namesake. He doted on the baby, gifting her a beautiful crystal mobile for her nursery.
Rosalie shifted on her chair, rubbing a spot on her side again, breathing through some sudden pain. “And your family doesn’t know you’re here, right? You took off after the disastrous tea at your aunt’s?”
Madeline nodded. “Mama thinks I’m staying at Blaire Lodge for a few days. I wrote her a note to that effect just before I left.”
Rosalie pursed her lips. “Well, she’ll quickly see through that ruse, and then what? How soon will they come to drag you off again? Does anyone in your family know you’ve come here to me?”
“My cousin, Patrick,” she replied. “It was his idea. He thinks you can help me. Please, Rosalie, I do. I need your help.”
Rosalie raised a dark brow. “What can I possibly do to help? Do you want James to look at the will? Perhaps try to break the marriage condition—”
“No.” Madeline shook her head. “No, it’s quite unbreakable. Trust me, half the Blaire’s are solicitors. We know our way around a legal document.”
“Then what?”
“Rosalie, I need you to help me find a husband…in less than three weeks.”
