"Good." She wanted nothing more than to keep amazing him, to hold him beyond tonight. She wanted this. With him. Forever.
Then tears stung her eyes. A rakehell viscount marry a scandal-tainted schoolteacher? Never. So she would take what she could of him now, store up every bit against the famine when he was no longer hers.
His eyes slid shut, and he drove into her with quickening strokes that sent more bubbles rising inside her, taking her with them, edging toward light and air and the sun, until he gave one mighty thrust that sent her boiling free of the surface to burst into the air.
With his choked cry of pleasure echoing in her ears, joining with hers, she strained up against him, feeling weightless and for once, free.
Wrapping her arms about him, she clung to the feeling, not allowing herself anything but this joy.
But as the minutes marched by, and she floated down from her lofty heaven, dragged down as much by the warm weight of him atop her as by the waning of her pleasure, reality began to intrude.
Now was the time to point out that she was an innocent. That he'd taken her virginity. That he owed her something in return.
And she couldn't. She just couldn't.
"Ah, sweetheart," he murmured against her ear, "I'll be happy to take you out of yourself at any time. I am at your command."
The words were so sweet that she clutched him to her, cursing herself for her weakness. "I'll remember that," she choked out, letting the moment of confrontation pass.
Now she had another secret to keep. She could never let him know he'd deflowered her, or she'd have to explain why she'd allowed it, and the thought of tainting this wonderful night by revealing her sordid plan was too appalling to bear.
But neither could she stay here and risk his plaguing her for answers again. He refused to help her unless she told him everything, but doing that meant risking his warning Sir Humphry off, so she couldn't.
Neither could she have him find out where she lived and plague Papa for answers, too. Time to return to her original plan and sneak away in a hackney. She wasn't sure how to manage that, but the late hour might work in her favor. Yes, she would let nature take its course and wait until he dozed.
Then what would she do about meeting Sir Humphry?
She would take a chance on Anthony's good heart. Now that she knew he had one, she knew she could trust him. Monday, she would urge Mrs. Harris to enroll Anthony's niece. Once he learned of it, he might be willing to introduce her to Sir Humphry, no questions asked.
But if he wouldn't help her, she'd find another way. Because telling him the truth meant possibly alienating Sir Humphry entirely, and she dared not risk that.
Chapter Nineteen
Dear Charlotte,
I bow to your greater knowledge of the young Miss Prescott. Forgive me for being so presumptuous as to question your judgment in the matter, but it was only my concern about Lord Norcourt being at the school with you that made me even broach the subject.
Your ever-anxious relation,
Michael
S
ometime later, Anthony lay on his side with Madeline tucked neatly against his sated body, her back to his chest. He ought to renew his questioning of her. He ought to use the intimacy of the moment to find out what she was hiding. But after what they'd shared, he couldn't bear to, not yet.
Perhaps he was indeed the smitten fool Stoneville took him for. At the moment, he didn't care. Gazing down at her tumbled golden hair, he felt a tenderness for her as sweet as it was alarming. Did she realize how profoundly she affected him? Or how amazing their joining had been? It had been everything he'd imagined and more…a progression of wonders so glorious, his head still reeled. He'd never felt like this with any other woman— as if he'd met his match.
Certainly, no other woman had dared laugh at him when he'd donned a French letter. He chuckled. Leave it to Madeline to see cundums for what they were— necessary perhaps, but very odd indeed.
"What do you find so amusing, sir?" she turned her head to ask. "Not what we just did together, I hope."
Her teasing tone held a thread of uncertainty that he was eager to banish. "No, indeed." He nuzzled her shoulder, drinking in her unique scent of almonds and citrus. "You bewitched me entirely, as I'm sure you know."
With a hesitant smile, she shifted to lie on her back. While her hand stroked up and down his arm, she stared at him from beneath shyly lowered lashes. "Then what struck you as funny?"
"Your reaction to my cundums."
"Oh, I forgot about those!" Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. "I meant to ask— what are they made of?"
He shook his head helplessly. "Only
you
would want to know such a thing."
Her smile faded and her gaze dropped to where her hand still caressed his arm. "And does that bother you?"
"No." He brushed a curl from her brow. "It's what I like best about you. And to answer your question, they're made of lamb intestines turned inside out, macerated, scraped, washed, cured, blown up, and dried, then cut to a nice, convenient length on one end."
"And fitted with ribbands," she teased. "But what chemical do they use to macerate it? How do they cure it? How long does it take to dry?"
A laugh erupted from him. "I should have known you'd want the entire process described in excruciating detail. You're as bad as I am, with your insatiable curiosity about how things work." He feathered a kiss over her nose. "Let me just go remove the thing, and you can examine it to your heart's content."
"No, that's all right." A strange alarm filled her face. Pulling his arm about her waist, she returned to her former position, curled up against him. "Don't go anywhere yet. Stay here with me a while longer."
"If you wish." Tucking her head beneath his chin, he held her close, relishing the moment.
She took his hand in hers, then stared at his wrist. "You have a nasty scar here. How did you get it?"
His enjoyment of their cozy moment instantly fled. Should he tell her the whole mortifying tale? No, he couldn't. He cringed even to think of how she might react to such evidence of his wicked character. But he could tell her the bald facts of the incident, just not why and how it had occurred.
"When I was a boy, I…got caught in something and tried to cut myself free with my penknife. Instead I cut myself."
"It looks like a very serious cut," she said softly. "You were lucky you didn't die."
Thank God she didn't ask what he'd been trying to cut himself free of. "So said the doctor who sewed me up. Right before he abandoned me."
A strange stillness came over her. "Abandoned you? What do you mean?"
He shouldn't have revealed even that. "Nothing. It was a long time ago."
But she wouldn't let it go. "Was this in Chertsey?"
Ah, so that's why she wanted to know. "No, in Telford, while I lived with my aunt and uncle." He smoothed his cheek over her shoulder. "So it wasn't your father who sewed me up, if that's what you're afraid of."
"Of course it wasn't," she said hastily. "So…er…how did this doctor abandon you?"
"It's nothing, not worth mentioning. Forget I said it." The very thought of her knowing about that mortified him. She would surely see it as evidence of his inherently bad character, and he didn't want to add to that impression.
Why he cared so much what she thought, he chose not to examine too closely.
"All right." She surprised him by pressing a kiss to his wrist before holding it against her breast. "I'm just very glad you didn't die."
"So am I," he said with a flippancy he didn't feel. Her tender remark resonated through him to the depths of his hollow heart.
He held her close although he knew they ought to be thinking about returning her to Richmond. She hadn't said what she'd told her father about where she was going and why.
A sigh escaped him. Instead of revealing his darkest secrets, he ought to be questioning her about hers. But he was none too eager to do so. Lying entwined with her was the most sublime experience of his life. He couldn't bear for it to end.
So he savored it as long as he dared, while the fire crackled behind them, and the ormolu clock atop a nearby writing table ticked away the moments. After a while, when he caught himself starting to doze off, he glanced at the time. "Sweetheart," he murmured, "it's past midnight. Won't your father worry?"
No answer. And her deep, even breathing told him she'd fallen asleep. Not surprising. Between the nitrous, their exertions, and the late hour, he was amazed she'd stayed awake as long as she had.
He should rouse her, but he hated to. Why not let her rest a while longer before he took her home? Once they were in the carriage, there'd be plenty of time to get answers to the rest of his questions about her father's situation.
You're making excuses to put off an uncomfortable discussion.
Perhaps so. But who could blame him for being loath to leave her bed? It had taken him long enough to get here, after all.
Still, it surprised him how fiercely he wished to lie all night with her. That had never happened with any other woman. He buried his face in her hair. Mmm. Such soft hair. So pleasantly scented. He breathed deeply.
He wondered what she did to…make her hair…smell so good…
It seemed only moments later that he opened his eyes again, but it had clearly been longer. The fire had burned out, as had the candles. Black as pitch. All around him darkness.
For a second, the familiar panic swelled in him. Alone. In the dark. Trapped.
No, he was
not
alone, was he? He felt for Madeline next to him but found nothing. God save him, he
was
alone.
But not trapped— not that, at least. He could move his arms and legs with perfect ease, and did so, just to be sure. His fingers brushed something wet and cold, which made him start violently…until he realized it was just his French letter, which had slipped off while he'd slept.
While
they'd
slept. "Sweetheart," he said, fighting the ancient feeling of helplessness that stole over him. "Where are you?"
She'd left the bed, that's all. She was probably searching for a flint box at this very moment so she could light a candle. He waited a second, then said more sharply, "Madeline, damn it, answer me!"
The echo of silence chilled him.
Light. He needed light to see. At home, this was rarely a problem. He went to bed so late that the fire never had a chance to burn out. But it had been early when he'd dozed off, early enough that the fire hadn't outlasted the night. So he would have to manage this in the dark.
Trying not to think about the darkness, Anthony left the bed to inch carefully toward the fireplace, nearly tripping over the chair in front of it. That gave him his bearings enough to find the mantel so he could feel for a flint box. When he found it, his anxiety receded a little, but his hands still shook so badly that it took him a few moments to get a spark. Once he got that, he was able to have a fire blazing high fairly quickly.
Dropping into the chair, he fought to regain his equilibrium. Good God, he hated this. After twenty years, he ought to be able to handle being alone in the dark without feeling such waves of helpless anger and confusion. He wasn't a child anymore, damn it. And where the bloody devil was Madeline?
Taking in a great gulp of breath, he steadied his nerves, then rose and lit all the candles. A glance at the clock revealed that it was after 5:00 A.M. He'd slept all this time? No wonder the fire had burned out. Why hadn't she awakened him?
Quickly, he searched the room. Her clothes and shoes were gone. Either she'd headed downstairs, which he found unlikely, given her reaction to Stoneville, or she'd left the place entirely.
Rage coursed through him. She'd sneaked away like some thief? After they'd shared the most glorious night of his life? How could she, damn it!
Calm yourself,
he chided.
She might still be here. You won't know until you talk to the servants.
And if she
had
left, there might still be time to catch up to her. She might not have been gone that long. He might even discover where she lived if she'd had the footman give a direction to the coachman.
After drawing on his drawers, he went to sit on the bed to pull on his stockings. He couldn't find his garters, and as he tossed the bedclothes aside looking for them, he froze.
Something dark and unmistakably red stained the center of the sheet. Blood. There was blood on the sheets.
For a moment, he could only stare at it in confusion. Had he hurt her? Was that why she had fled, because he'd been too rough with her somehow? No, that made no sense given how she'd reacted after they'd—
Oh, God. The truth hit him with brutal force. Madeline was a virgin.