Chapter 25
FOUR DAYS LATER
The christening was tomorrow. Madeline’s beautiful green-gold gown hung in her room, freshly pressed and arranged, ready to wear.
She had not seen Tristan since Vauxhall.
No, that was not quite true. She had seen him here and there in passing. Only yesterday, he had been leaving the drawing room as she entered it, and of course they nodded and murmured greetings, for all the world as if they were a pair of barely acquainted strangers at a ball.
He was avoiding her; she was sure of it, and that was absolutely fine because she was avoiding him too. Any intimacy between them was indeed at an end. And that was a relief, was it not? At last, some clarity about their relationship.
It had not stopped Madeline from thinking about the wretched fellow all through the day and for half of the night. She wished, not for the first time, that she could erase all memory of Tristan from her mind.
Some women did that, she knew. Some women trapped in bad marriages distanced themselves from their husbands and generally forgot about the men’s existence altogether. How calming that sounded.
It did not seem likely that Madeline would manage this. Tristan lingered in her mind at all times. She heard his voice in her head when it was quiet, and when she closed her eyes, she saw his face behind her lids.
It was appallingly irritating.
After the christening, I will ask to go back to Papa’s house.
I can always tell people that Papa’s ill health makes it necessary for me to care for him.
I could pretend that he does not want to live here.
We’ll go back to the country, and I’ll take Adam.
He can come back to London to visit Tristan now and then, if Tristan wants. That is fair, I think.
She was currently sitting in her private parlor, with the full intention of catching up on her correspondence. There was a stack of letters that required replies—invitations, letters from distant relatives, and even some letters from the few friends she had made as a child.
She had not yet written any replies at all.
She sat staring into space, her pen clutched loosely in her hand.
When she glanced down at the empty sheet of paper before her, she saw to her chagrin that ink had leaked from the pen, forming a fast-drying blot that had ruined the paper.
She put the ruined sheet aside with a tut and a sigh.
A knock on the door made her jump.
“If you please, Your Grace,” a maid called through the door, “The Dowager Duchess requests your presence in the library. It’s regarding little Master Adam, I think. She said to be sure to tell you that it’s nothing to be worried about, and that his health is fine, but you should hurry.”
Madeline frowned, getting to her feet. “Tell her I’m coming at once.”
She trotted down the hall toward the library door, which stood half open. She could tell that the fire had been lit, with light and warmth spilling out into the hall. Nudging open the door, she stepped inside.
At first glance, the library seemed empty. Was Dorothea not here yet?
“Dorothea?” Madeline called.
A figure stepped out from behind a bookshelf, frowning. Madeline flinched.
“Tristan! What are you doing in here?”
He lifted an eyebrow, setting aside the book he’d picked up. “That is a sharp request, considering that I am in my own library. If you must know, I am meeting my mother here. She wants to talk about Adam.”
Madeline frowned. “She told me that she wanted to talk about Adam.”
There was a brief moment of silence. Fighting a sudden feeling of foreboding, Madeline turned back to the door.
She had left it ajar, but at some point, it had been softly closed. She hurried toward it, but already knew the truth. Sure enough, despite jiggling the doorknob, the door would not open.
“We’re locked in,” she announced flatly.
Tristan crossed the space between them in a couple of strides and angrily tried to wrench the door open.
“Why, how on earth has this happened?” he cried.
“I suspect that your mother has arranged it,” Madeline muttered, flopping down onto one of the sofas facing the fire. “She keeps asking me if we have had a disagreement, and why we are avoiding each other. I imagine she intends for us to spend some time together to work it all out.”
“Well, that is unacceptable. It is entirely inappropriate, and I shall have sharp words with my mother once we escape,” Tristan snapped, stamping over to the bellpull in the corner, yanking on it.
“I have a feeling that nobody is going to answer that summons,” Madeline sighed.
“Not going to answer? I am the duke! This is my house! These are my servants!”
“Yes, but it was Dorothea’s house, and they were all Dorothea’s servants first. Unless you plan to break down the door or climb out of the window, I believe that we are trapped. We’ll have to wait until Dorothea chooses to release us.”
She sat still, staring at the jumping flames. The room was comfortably warm, and she noticed for the first time that a tea tray had been set on a low table, the teapot warm and full. There was cake and a generous plate of biscuits.
“This won’t do,” Tristan growled. “I have to go out. I have an appointment.”
A flush of anger shot through Madeline. “Why, is your opera singer waiting for you?”
There was a moment of silence, then Tristan came storming toward her, standing between her and the fire so that she was obliged to look up at him.
“I told you, did I not, that I was not seeing Juliana Bolt anymore,” he snapped. “You did not believe me?”
“She seems determined to see you.”
“Yes, I daresay she is, but she will lose interest. If this is to be a battle of wills, my dear, then mine is stronger.”
Madeline closed her eyes. “I am not angry at you, Tristan. I was, but I understand that I have no right to prevent you from enjoying intimacy with somebody else. I just… Perhaps an annulment would be best. For both of us.”
The silence hung in the air between them. She kept her gaze lowered, fixed upon the midpoint of Tristan’s waistcoat. It was easier than looking him in the eye.
She had not expected him to drop into a crouch before her, forcing her to meet his gaze. His jaw was tight, and there was a frown between his brows.
“I did not think that you were so easily defeated, Madeline,” he murmured.
“I suspect the war was already lost.”
His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “Who has put thoughts of annulment into your mind?”
Madeline hesitated. Perhaps if she told him of what James had said, he would turn his anger onto his cousin, and that was not fair. James was, after all, only trying to help. Nobody else had talked of annulments.
“It was just something I was thinking of,” she murmured. “It hardly matters.”
“You think not? Let me tell you something, Madeline. Look at me. Look at me!”
She fixed her eyes on his face and felt as though her breath got stuck in her throat. He was staring at her, eyes dark and angry and a little hungry in a way that made desire flutter in her stomach once more.
“You are mine,” Tristan said quietly, never even seeming to blink. “I will not let you go without a great fight. You are mine, and that will not change.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing clever came to mind. Perhaps there wasn’t anything to say.
There was no time for words in any case, because at that moment Tristan surged forward, curling his fingers around the side of her neck to cup her nape, and kissed her full on the mouth.
It was a hard kiss, almost angry, teeth knocking against lips and his stubble scraping her cheeks.
Madeline gave a little squeak of surprise, nearly forgetting to close her eyes.
The tip of his tongue danced along the seam of her lips, and Madeline opened for him almost without thinking twice.
His tongue delved inside, hot and velvety in a way that sent a surge of desire curling in her stomach like an ache.
She recognized the feeling now and was a little horrified to realize that she was almost helpless in the face of it.
Her arms went around his shoulders almost before she could think twice, tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer to her.
That was what she wanted—closeness. Although he was already kneeling in front of her, his body pressing hers into the low sofa, and yet it was somehow still not close enough.
They broke apart, with Madeline drawing in a rasping, almost panicked breath.
She barely had time for a glimpse of his face—eyes dark and ravenous, his lips reddened from their kiss—before he leaned forward once more, this time fitting his lips to the spot just beneath her ear.
There seemed to be a direct line from that spot to the join of her legs, and Madeline was shocked to hear herself moan aloud, sensation rushing through her.
He chuckled, lips flush against her skin, and the rumble of his voice echoed through her body. She shifted, trying to gain the upper hand in the situation—if there was an upper hand—but he moved in response, curling a hand over her knee and pushing her thighs apart.
Madeline obeyed with a shiver. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the sensations.
As before, he slipped his hand underneath her skirts, the material crumpling between them.
His weight pushed her down into the sofa cushions, not in a way that would knock the breath out of her, but in a curiously arousing way.
I like his weight on me. Is that strange?
Tristan did not bother with teasing this time. He slid two fingers against the join of her legs, a practiced move, and familiar heat flared. Madeline let out a shuddering keen, keeping her eyes closed.
He touched her as he had before, and she felt the climax building again, quite predictably.
Then he slipped one finger inside her, and the sensation changed. Madeline’s eyes opened, searching for his face.
He had pulled back a little and was watching her carefully.