Braddon Chatwin woke up the next morning with a pleasurable sense of anticipation. For a moment he stared sleepily at the blue chintz hangings that adorned his bedstead. Black cloaks and false mustaches had tangled together in his dreams.
Then memory seeped back. Lady Sophie York wanted to elope, and she wanted him to wear a cloak and mustache, and she threatened not to marry him if he didn’t appear at midnight. Laboriously Braddon sorted out the mingled strains of Sophie’s demand.
In the cold light of morning it seemed as mad as Bedlam, that was the only thing one could call it. If they ran off to Gretna Green, people would undoubtedly assume that they had anticipated the wedding night. Except she didn’t think of that, Braddon thought complacently. Well-bred young ladies don’t know the first thing about sex, so of course Sophie didn’t know what people would say about a runaway marriage. But given that there was nothing to prevent Braddon and Sophie from sedately marrying in St. George’s some four months from now, people would naturally draw conclusions about why they tied the knot so hastily. It wasn’t as if it were a love match or anything.
As to the question of why Sophie wanted to elope, Braddon put it out of his mind. He had decided long ago that the ways of women were impossible to understand.
He rang the bell for hot chocolate and then put his arms behind his head. Now what he had to do was turn his talent for schemes to one which would fool his future wife. In other words, he needed a plan that would outscheme her scheme, because there was no way in heaven he was going to do anything as featherheaded as tearing off to Scotland to get married when he didn’t even have to.
And what’s more, the trip would take at least two or three days there and the same back. If it didn’t take longer—traveling to Scotland in December! Granted, not a speck of snow had fallen this year. But he’d be damned if he’d leave Madeleine even for a week. Not now, when the very thought of her fired his heart and made him want to jump from his bed and go down to her father’s stables to see if he could catch a glimpse of her.
Braddon’s eyes darkened with annoyance. It wasn’t as if Madeleine would leap up to greet him if he did go to the stables. She was proving to be annoyingly, persistently, chaste. In fact, she showed no sign of succumbing to his imploring letters, or his gifts (which she refused), or any of his efforts to turn her into a lifelong mistress. She just said stoutly that she didn’t care for the position, and that was that. He had explained in vain that the daughter of the man who ran Vincent’s Horse Emporium could not expect to make a good marriage, or perhaps any marriage at all. She didn’t seem to care.
Braddon thoughtfully chewed on his lip as Kesgrave handed him his morning chocolate. Perhaps Madeleine was worried about her future. After all, the position of courtesan was a risky one, and she might not believe that he intended to act in such an unusual fashion. Perhaps he should summon his man of business and have a contract drawn up, right and tight, that would settle a good sum on Madeleine. Then she would understand that the relationship was forever, not for just a brief time.
Braddon absentmindedly drank some of his chocolate. The real problem was how to make Lady Sophie dance to his piping, while making it seem as if he were dancing to her tune. If he sent Sophie a message, she’d cry off the engagement for sure, in his judgment. Braddon had seen a quantity of hysterical women in his day, what with having three older sisters, and Sophie looked ready to fly off the handle at any moment. No, the trick was to appear at mid-night—but not to end up in Gretna Green.
Braddon swung his feet out of bed. He shouldn’t have thought about Madeleine. Because now he knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything until he saw her and maybe even snatched a kiss, if her father wasn’t looking.
Lord but her father could be as surly as a butcher’s dog! You’d think his daughter was a lady, the way he carried on about Braddon compromising Madeleine’s reputation and other rubbish. Braddon couldn’t seem to make either one of them understand that women who live above horse stables don’t have reputations—they just make ‘em! Braddon chortled.
When his man Kesgrave came in to dress him, Braddon told him the joke about having versus making reputations, but Kesgrave just gave him his usual blank look and said, “Would you care to wear the blue cutaway today, my lord?”
Braddon sighed. It was a good thing he was an even-tempered type, what with all the slow-tops he was surrounded by.
“I’ll wear that dust-colored one, Kesgrave. You know the one.”
“Not dust, my lord.” Kesgrave’s tone was critical. “Dun-colored.”
“That’s the one. I’m going riding.”
“Before breakfast?” Kesgrave’s tone grew even more reproving.
Damned if he wasn’t getting sick of having servants around who’d ruled over his nursery, Braddon thought.
“I’m going out.” His tone was a bit defensive, despite himself. Dressed, Braddon trotted down the front steps as if he were a boy escaping to the park, swung up onto his horse, and clattered down the street heading for the Blackfriars, the location of Vincent’s Horse Emporium.
The long, low stables were quiet. It was far too early for the little groups who would congregate under large oaks in the front yard later in the day, watching in a desultory sort of way as boys led out prancing Arabians and barrel-chested quarter horses.
Braddon dropped rather heavily off his horse and tossed the reins to a lad who was lingering around the place, hoping to earn a shilling.
He strode toward the stables. Madeleine was almost never seen around the stables during the afternoon because of her father’s ridiculous sense of her “reputation,” although Braddon actually thanked him for that, because it meant that he didn’t have to compete with every shabby-genteel officer who strolled in looking for a broken-down mare.
Braddon walked quickly down the long corridor. The stables smelled dimly of a molasses-sticky poultice, and where there was a poultice, one could usually find Madeleine. It was she who was in charge of all minor ailments such as sprained hocks and forelegs.
Madeleine was in the very last stall on the right. She was kneeling on the ground with a horse’s bent leg poised before her. She must have heard Braddon’s boots clopping on the stone walkway, but she didn’t look up, just kept crooning to a sweet brown-eyed mare while she applied the poultice to its front leg.
Braddon waited for a moment, shifting uneasily from foot to foot.
“My lord,” Madeleine said without turning about, “if you are not too bored, you might help me by holding Gracie’s head.”
“How did you know it was me?” Braddon moved to the horse’s head, keeping Gracie from blowing warm kisses down Madeleine’s bent neck.
Madeleine threw him a glance over her shoulder. “You invariably appear around this hour every morning, my lord.”
“Hmm.” Braddon was a bit nonplussed by her matter-of-fact tone. Didn’t Madeleine want him to come? He dropped the horse’s bridle and crouched next to her, trying hard not to puff as he went down.
“What is the problem?”
“Strained right foreleg,” Madeleine replied shortly.
Braddon cast the horse’s leg a quick glance. Then he edged a little closer to Madeleine.
“My lord!”
She sounds cross, Braddon thought resignedly. No kisses today. Why, oh why, was he enamored of a French miss who was possessed of a demon temper and the morals of a nun? She wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Arabella, the mistress he had stolen from Patrick last year. In fact, an objective person might label her short and plump.
But just looking at Madeleine made Braddon’s heart beat faster. Bent over as she was, rubbing the foreleg hard and not meeting his eyes, he could just glimpse the ample curve of her bosom between her arms. His eyes kindled, and his hand itched to slip under her arm.
“Don’t!”
Startled, Braddon swung up his head to meet his beloved’s infuriated eyes.
“Why not?” he asked boldly.
Madeleine clambered to her feet, pulling her thick, stiff skirt out of the way. Her French accent thickened, as it always did when she was in a fret.
“Please do not try to balboozle me!”
“Balboozle?”
Braddon was confused and his lower lip opened a trifle. It was hard to keep his mind straight when Madeleine was standing right before him, her lovely chest heaving. She had such luscious hips….
“Bamboozle! That’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I said,” Madeleine retorted impatiently. What was she to do with this muffin-brained lord? How could she do an honest day’s work with him following her about the stables, gaping at her bosom and generally cutting up her peace?
Braddon’s muffin-brain worked perfectly well in some situations. He yanked Madeleine into his arms so fast that she didn’t have time to shout for her father before Braddon’s mouth descended. And he kissed her while backing out of Gracie’s stall, thereby proving that he could do two things at once, a skill which several of his friends might have disputed.
Despite herself, Madeleine relaxed. Life had been so hard the last years. It was heaven to stand in the circle of Braddon’s arms. When he held her, it felt as if nothing evil would ever happen again.
She shook herself briskly, pushing hard at Braddon’s chest. He was whispering something in her ear—one of his fancy promises, no doubt. She got the main idea. Her bacon-brained suitor wasn’t a real suitor at all. He was what her mama, back in France, would have called a libertin. He wanted to ruin her and not marry her.
Braddon’s arms went around her shoulders again.
“Don’t look so sad, Madeleine.” He whispered that, but she heard it loud and clear. “I hate it when you look so sad.”
Perplexed, Madeleine paused for a moment, looking into Braddon’s blue eyes.
“I am not sad,” she said. “I only thought of my mother for a moment.”
“You looked sad,” Braddon persisted.
“I miss her,” Madeleine said despite herself. She didn’t want to share any emotional confidences with her immoral suitor.
Braddon kissed her ear. “Someday you will be a mother, Madeleine. You will have your own children, and then you will forget.”
Madeleine took a deep breath.
“Not if you have your way,” she pointed out. “You want to turn me into a courtesan, and those women never have children. They cannot afford them, given their way of life.”
Braddon grinned. Trust Madeleine’s hardheaded French common sense to point out that unusual disadvantage in the life of a courtesan.
“We’re going to have children,” he said confidently. “I knew we would as soon as I saw you. I never wanted little brats around, until I met you.”
Madeleine’s heart melted. He was just what she would like, this English lord, if only things were different. A bit light on top, perhaps, but with a truly sweet heart. And he was safe, trustworthy, and large. To Madeleine’s mind, men should be large. She could keep him from making too much of a fool of himself, too…. But no. She was not going to be any man’s courtesan, even if she stayed unmarried her entire life.
She pushed him away. “Go away, do!”
Braddon looked at Madeleine doubtfully. Her face had gone fierce again.
“I may have to leave for a few days.” Did she look sorry? Braddon could not fool himself that she did.
“Good. I shall finally get some work done.”
No, she definitely didn’t look sorry. There was a little pause.
“Where will you be?”
“I have to elope,” Braddon said. “That is, Lady Sophie wants to elope, but I don’t, so I’m going to climb up a ladder and get her, but then I’m not actually going to take her to Gretna Green, because I don’t want to elope. And besides, no one elopes in the middle of winter.”
Madeleine’s heart was thudding painfully. “Does Lady Sophie truly wish to elope?”
“Yes.” Braddon’s voice was a little doubtful. “I’m not sure that she is as suitable as I told you before. She had hysterics last night and told me that unless I climb a ladder to her room at midnight and elope with her, she won’t marry me at all.”
Madeleine almost laughed at Braddon’s hangdog look, despite her own leaden unhappiness.
“I can’t start over, Madeleine—Maddie!” Somehow he had managed to get those long arms around her again and he was talking into her hair. “I’d have to start over, going to Almack’s and trying to find a girl who seems half reasonable. I’ve got to hold on to Lady Sophie. I simply have to figure out how to elope without eloping.”
At least he doesn’t seem genuinely attached to his future wife, Madeleine thought painfully.
“Why don’t you want to elope?” It seemed like a reasonable alternative.
Braddon pulled back, looking indignantly into Madeleine’s unsympathetic brown eyes.
“Won’t you miss me? It will take a week to get to Gretna Green and back, if we don’t get delayed. Why, I could be gone a whole fortnight!”
“I will not miss you,” she retorted. “And you will not be welcome in the stables after you are married.”
“Well, I would miss you,” Braddon said stoutly. “And I don’t believe you. I think you would miss me too. Anyway, I don’t want to get married so soon.” He gave Madeleine a little squeeze and then sank down on a pile of straw, pulling her onto his lap.
She gave a little pooh! of indignation, but relaxed. Braddon pulled her against his chest, enjoying the way Madeleine’s soft curves felt against his legs.
“You’re going to ruin your garments.”
“Practical Maddie,” Braddon whispered into her hair.
Practical Maddie’s heart felt as if it were being squeezed.
“Why don’t you pretend to break your leg?” The minute she said it, she cursed herself. What was she doing, showing interest in his marital plans?
“Break my leg? What d’you mean?”
“If you had a broken leg, you couldn’t climb up a ladder,” she explained brusquely.
Braddon slowly thought it through.
“Damned if you’re not right, Maddie m’girl! I’ll write Lady Sophie a note and tell her I broke my leg, and that will give her time to get over this odd start of hers.”
“Was she really hysterical?”
He frowned. “Close enough.”
“Well, then she probably won’t believe your note,” Madeleine said. “I wouldn’t. I would think that you were just trying to beg off, and that you were too stuffy to elope.”
Appalled, she listened to her own voice. Was there a note of rancor in her tone? She had no right even to think about marrying an Earl of the Realm! For goodness’ sake, it was clear enough that the idea of marrying her, Maddie, had never crossed Braddon’s mind.
“You think Lady Sophie won’t believe my note?”
“She might break off your engagement.”
Madeleine ignored the small voice in her heart that rejoiced at the idea of a broken engagement.
“Break off my engagement?” Braddon was clearly appalled. He clutched Maddie a little closer, thinking of his mother’s wrath. Then he sat up.
“I have it! I need to really break my leg! I’ll fall off a horse. Then all I have to do is get someone to fetch Sophie off that damned ladder and bring her over to my house, and she’ll see the plaster. She can’t blame me once she sees the evidence.”
Madeleine sighed. Truly, her English lord needed someone to take care of him.
“Don’t be such a bumble-brain! You can’t break your leg as easily as all that.”
“Yes, I can,” Braddon retorted. “I broke my left leg when I was a young nipper, and the doctor told me to go easy, because it would break again as easy as look at it. I reckon all I’d have to do is fall off a horse on the left, and keep that leg under me, and I’d be sure to break it again.”
Madeleine’s heart chilled. “It would probably not heal properly, and you’d be left with a permanent limp. Then Lady Sophie wouldn’t want you anyway.”
“You think so?”
“Ladies all like to dance,” Madeleine said with the certainty of someone who had no recollection of ever meeting a true lady. “No lady would ever marry a man who had a limp and couldn’t dance.”
“Oh.”
Madeleine found, to her disgust, that she couldn’t resist the disconsolate note in Braddon’s voice. “I could give you an adhesive plaster,” she stated baldly.
“What on earth do you mean?” Braddon had given up thinking about elopements and was nuzzling Madeleine’s delicate ear with his lips, for all the world like Gracie the horse.
“We have all the materials here … for when a horse needs an ankle splint. I could give you a plaster and everyone would believe that you had broken your leg.”
Braddon whooped and gave her an exuberant squeeze. “That’s my Maddie!”
When Madeleine turned her head to shush him into silence, Braddon captured her mouth, and it was quite a while before they got down to business. But forty minutes later Braddon had suffered the slicing of his best breeches up the side, protesting only a little about Kesgrave’s inevitable reaction, and Madeleine had wound a quite reasonable-looking plaster around his lower left leg.
There was an embarrassing bit, to Maddie’s mind, when Braddon refused to let her see his bare leg and insisted on winding the first layer himself. But then she got revenge by slapping on enough plaster of paris to brace the ankle of an elephant.
In fact, by the time Braddon hopped out of the stables, supporting himself on Madeleine’s shoulder, he felt as if he truly had injured his leg.
“Do you think you used a bit too much plaster?” Braddon looked dubiously at the monstrous bulge of white which covered his leg from knee to ankle.
“Oh no,” Madeleine assured him. “Your leg was very broken. If you were a horse, we’d have had to put you down.”
Braddon tossed two shillings to the boy watching his horse. “You’d better tie it up in the stables and then get me a hackney.”
The boy looked curious. “Got yourself an injury, milord?”
Braddon sighed and threw him another coin. “The hackney.”
“Right you are, milord.” The boy ran off toward the street, leaving the horse tied to a pole.
“I suppose he’ll remember my horse later,” Braddon said doubtfully. He started to hop toward the gate to Vincent’s Horse Emporium, delicately carrying his spare boot in his fingers. Kesgrave would kill him if he got greasy fingerprints on a boot, broken leg or no.
“Don’t worry,” Madeleine said. “I’ll rescue your horse.”
Braddon looked down affectionately at her soft rumpled hair.
“I love you, you know that?”
Madeleine stopped and clutched his arm. “Don’t talk like that! What if Papa heard you? You’re not even whispering.”
Braddon shrugged. “I’m a wounded man. What can he do? And it’s true. I love you, Maddie.”
“Pooh! You are a rake,” Madeleine said rudely. “You love me only because I have not given in to your demands.” They were at the edge of the street now, and the hackney was waiting, its door open.
Madeleine turned about and almost marched off without saying another word. Then suddenly she thought of something. “You’ll have to come back when you want that plaster removed. Unless you tell your man that it’s a fake.”
“No!” Braddon was revolted by the idea. “Kesgrave is a knaggy old gaffer. He’d have no sense of the fun of the thing. I shan’t tell anyone. Madeleine …”
She stopped and looked back at him, a rounded, curvy girl, her brown hair catching gold lights in the dusty sunlight of the horse yard.
“Thank you for helping me.”
Madeleine gave a sudden, sparkling grin. “It behooves a courtesan to ensure that her master doesn’t get married,” she observed. Then she laughed outright at the look of disgust that crossed Braddon’s face.
“You are not just a courtesan!” he protested.
“I’m not a courtesan at all,” Madeleine pointed out, and turned about again, walking quickly into the shadow of the stables.
From there she watched Braddon hop his way into the hackney, swearing fulsomely when the plaster caught and banged loudly against the hackney door. Good thing he hadn’t really broken his leg. That little maneuver would have hurt like the devil, in Madeleine’s opinion.
It was hard not to feel wistful, watching Braddon cram his large frame into the hackney. Life as his mistress would be blissful.
Madeleine shook herself. Poor Gracie! She had quite deserted her in the middle of bandaging her foreleg.
Poor Gracie indeed! Gracie had just licked up the last of the poultice intended for her leg, and when Madeleine’s father appeared he found his daughter scolding the greedy nag in bursts of irritable French.