Chapter 18
Eighteen
At low tide on the Sussex coast there were patches of mud and sinking sand that could swallow a man whole. A few unwary steps, and the ground would suddenly turn liquid beneath your feet. Every effort to get free would only show you how terrifyingly fast you were held, how weak, how helpless…
Madelaine had wandered into a dangerous patch. She was lucky to escape.
It was madness to be alone with the man. She would not do it again.
It was impossible to avoid him entirely, of course. There was the grubby, irritating mess of the wager. And there was Tom.
Madelaine and her aunt had decided to teach the boy his letters. Therefore, they must, by necessity, go every day to Lord Cotereigh’s house to read to the boy—and also to ensure he was being well-treated. They both agreed on that.
Of course, flood or thunder or doomsday itself couldn’t have kept her aunt from checking on the boy the very morning after his altercation with Major Tait. And so Madelaine went too, pulse ticking rapidly in the carriage ride over. Was she well? her aunt asked. She was ever so pale.
Quite well, Madelaine assured her. Mad, and foolish, but quite well. It was only a mild infection. Only a short fever. She’d soon get over it—common sense was the remedy.
Or maybe the poison was the cure. Because of course he was entirely unaffected by her improper, impulsive, irrational late-night visit.
He only watched her walk into the room with a knowing glint in his eyes.
There was nothing of gratitude or thanks or even self-consciousness there, only a sort of victory.
He was that sort of man. Kindness was weakness and he’d always put the grossest interpretation onto anything of the sort.
She would never feel sorry for him again.
He greeted her aunt graciously enough, assuring her all was well. “See for yourself,” he said with a smile, gesturing to where Tom sat stiff and cautious on a sofa. Her aunt hurried over, a bag of books bumping her broad hip. Tom eyed the approach of both with suspicion.
Lord Cotereigh stayed where he was. So did she.
“I’m going to see Mrs Fishbourne tomorrow,” he told her, leaning a casual elbow on the mantlepiece behind him as he spoke.
Last night, he’d stood before his library fire and the glow behind him in the dark room had made his silhouette black. Except for the white expanse of his shirt. That had been a pale, unholy flag.
There were muscles, she knew now, as though her eyes hadn’t already told her. His chest was firm muscle. She fixed her eyes upon his face, even if that meant confronting his smirk head-on.
“Is the duchess on side?” he asked.
She gave a nod. “I met with her yesterday. She even offered to host the fundraising ball, which is beyond generous. My aunt had recently added her to her list of possible supporters, but she is so new in town, her character and politics unknown, that we weren’t sure…
Thank you. Again. For the introduction.”
The shadows at his mouth moved. A smile. “Oh, it was hardly that.”
“Even so,” she said, stiff with politeness. “I’m grateful.”
“The duchess is a boon. But, like you say, she’s new in town and still establishing her own reputation.
You need the old guard on your side for true success.
I’ll arrange for Mrs Fishbourne to invite you to tea.
Speak for fifteen minutes of trivial nonsense and therefore prove yourself a sensible person. ”
She was forced to laugh, despite herself. “And Mrs Fishbourne does as you ask, I suppose?”
“She was fond of my mother.” His humble way of saying, Yes, of course she does.
Her aunt was busy across the room, sitting by Tom on the sofa, a book on her lap and their heads bent together over it. Madelaine looked back at Lord Cotereigh. “What did you say to Lady Frances, to get her to take me to the ball?”
“Only that failure is unfashionable. She’s known to take my side in this wager.”
“The wager. Of course.”
There was a gleam of humour in his eyes as he stepped toward her from the fireplace. “It’s a most engrossing matter.” She tensed as he came nearer, but he only smiled down at her. “I haven’t been bored in days.”
“I’m glad my cause has been of some use.”
His smile deepened at that, and his voice was pitched low. “Oh…I’m always happy to be the beneficiary of your kind attentions, Mrs Ardingly.”
She flushed, heart stopping as he walked closer—then past her, his shoulder just skimming hers. “Lady Pemberthy,” he called, all amiable politeness now as he crossed the room. “Do tell me…do you happen to have any old clocks among your donated goods? I’m starting a collection.”
Yes. She was right. It was foolish to be alone with the man. She would not do it again.
And she didn’t. Every day, for weeks and weeks, she stayed always with her aunt.
It was easy enough to arrange—her aunt doted on Tom and would never miss a visit.
Her aunt was also enthusiastic when it came to arranging the fundraising ball—far more so than Madelaine—and that entire task soon became her domain, together with Mrs Littleton, the Duchess of Cumbria’s sister-in-law, who was an enthusiastic volunteer.
Now, thank goodness, there was only a week to go. A week until the wager was done.
The ball itself was the deadline. Lord Cotereigh was supposed to have provided his ten committee members by then. And if the ball was a success too, then he would have won and proved whatever it was that he was determined to prove.
That his popularity could overcome even her own lack of it, she supposed. That he was king of the ton, public opinion shifting at the click of his fingers. All of society could genuflect before his greatness and he would know himself every bit as wonderful as he’d always believed himself to be.
If only the weather wasn’t so irritatingly hot.
It was now May, and a few days of showers had done nothing to lift the thundery fug that stifled all London.
Her skirts clung and suffocated, elegant and light as they might be—yet again, she wore one of his gifts.
There seemed to be an oven under her stays as she hurried along the pavement.
And she had to hurry—she was meant to be at Lord Cotereigh’s by now.
Her aunt had been at the duchess’s house all morning, visiting the ballroom, working on her planning, but by now she’d be at Lord Cotereigh’s to visit Tom for his daily lesson.
There would be more talk of the ball. Lord Cotereigh would probably weigh in, knowing everything, knowing exactly what was modish and right. What a nuisance it all was.
She wasn’t nervous. It wasn’t that. She didn’t fear for the ball’s success—she trusted to the machinery of the duchess, her aunt, Mrs Littleton, and Lord Cotereigh himself. He wouldn’t allow the ball to be anything other than a success.
It was eagerness that kept her chest constantly tight. Anticipation. To be finally done…
To have no reason for Lord Cotereigh to call. To have no reason for him to assess her every outfit with his slow stare. To have no reason to be invited to place after place and know he observed her, judging.
To not have to plan every moment so that she was never alone with him.
The memories would fade then. The warm solidity of his knuckles under her lips, his arm hooking her waist as though it was the thousandth time…
It was fighting those irritating, insinuating memories which left her feeling cross and worn thin. It was the absurd loneliness it had ignited.
She’d thought she remembered what it was like to be held by a man. She’d grieved that part of her life and buried it. But now it dragged itself back, haunting her…
She grieved the touch of a man itself. It was a living thing that hurt her; it was life itself, passing by…life on the other side of the veil…
She’d delayed too long at the hospital this morning, had spent too long letting the nursing chief persuade her to see another room and another patient, because anything, even death and disease, was easier than being there, with him.
Now she was late, and hot, and heading straight back to the furnace.
Lord Cotereigh would probably laugh at her for all of it.
It is worth it, she told herself, teeth gritted as she stepped around another dawdler on the pavement. None of this is about you. Or even him. The cause is bigger and more important than either of you.
The committee was taking shape. As well as Captain Littleton and the Marquess of Pembroke, they had Reverend Moore, two more clergymen he’d found for them, a Mr Siddons, who was an old friend of her aunt, and Lord Cotereigh’s family doctor, Doctor Phillips.
Seven men. But only three of whom could reasonably be attributed to Lord Cotereigh’s required total of ten. Which was a fact she found herself unable to resist pointing out to him when she was finally composed and in command of herself on his sofa.
“But let us think about quality over quantity,” he replied, looking up from his letter.
They sat in the drawing room, Tom next to her, scowling over a book.
Black locks fell over his brow as he wrinkled his face at the page, mumbling letter sounds.
She was glad she’d made the effort to avoid shearing his hair.
As she’d expected, under the grime he was a striking boy, despite—or perhaps because of—the fierce sharpness of his face.
Lord Cotereigh sat at a writing table nearby, attending to some correspondence. Her aunt knitted stockings—they were for Tom—the steady clack, clack of needles a familiar underpinning to many such previous visits.
“I’ve brought you a marquess—”
“Who you told me is unlikely to venture a word at any meeting.”
“But who will look wonderful on letters among all your clergymen and mere misters.”
“It’s MPs we need. Do you have any of those?”
“I keep a dozen in my pocket.”
She met his smile. It was mostly in his eyes. Like the darkest part of the night, they held an infinity of things, both wonderful and awful.