Winter Garden by Adele Ashworth Page B

lady’s cheeks and nose reddened; her thin mouth curled. She refused to look at Madeleine. “The good Baron Rothebury would naturally find hercharming, Thomas. Just to look at her is to see what she is.”
    Madeleine stilled as the first wave of outrage pulsed through her. She supposed for a moment that such an incredible statement uttered in total disrespect bothered her so much, as it never would have before, because she was in some small regard afraid that Thomas would believe it. But he played his part perfectly.
    â€œLady Claire,” he said easily, “I’m sure Mrs. DuMais is of good family—”
    â€œI’m sure she is not. And she is not for you, Thomas.”
    That was enough. Her embarrassment was thorough; the rudeness overwhelming. “You are right, Lady Claire,” she affirmed brazenly, tilting her chin and staring into the woman’s vicious eyes. “My mother was an actress.”
    The instant satisfaction beaming on the Englishwoman’s face was at first laughable, then suddenly unimportant because at that moment Thomas reached out, under the table, and placed his palm high on her thigh.
    Her first coherent thought was that it was a large palm, warm even through the layers of her skirt and petticoats, with long fingers that reached into the gentle crease between her legs.
    She didn’t move, and he didn’t look at her. With his left hand he reached for his wine, took a large, slow swallow, then lowered it back to the table.
    Ignorant to the rising heat in the room, Lady Claire lifted her wineglass and did the same. “Was your father also an actor, Mrs. DuMais?” she asked with harsh sarcasm, seconds later.
    Thomas squeezed her slightly. Whether it was awarning or just a show of understanding, she couldn’t guess, but right at that moment she didn’t care, for he still hadn’t made a move to release her from his grasp.
    She tried to speak with confidence. “I didn’t know my father, Lady Claire.” An outright lie, and one that would only solidify the lady’s delight, but she refused to degrade the memory of the only bright part of her life by revealing it to a woman who would no doubt ridicule it.
    â€œI see,” Lady Claire replied with exaggerated concern. “Then they were never married?”
    Madeleine felt his fingers move. He didn’t say a word, but she took the action as warning this time. Even now she felt his large body so close beside her, the warmth of it radiating through his brown woolen suit, his palm scorching her leg as his fingers pushed very close to the center between her thighs. Then her heart began to pound, because it occurred to her that although he could feel nothing directly, he was quite aware of exactly where he touched her.
    Her cheeks flushed, and perspiration broke out between her breasts, but she knew he wanted to witness her continued composure. That had to be his point. She thanked God that he hadn’t yet looked at her because she was certain if he did she would fail.
    With arms as heavy as thick tree branches, she pulled her hands from her lap. One she raised to rest on the arm of her chair, the other she placed lengthwise across her thighs, under the table, closing her palm over his knuckles.
    He didn’t move.
    â€œNaturally my parents were married,” she murmured, her tongue thick and dry as she tried to balance herthoughts. “He was English, Lady Claire, and a sea captain. He died in the West Indies before I was born.”
    Their hostess visibly cringed from the revelation and lifted her wineglass for a final time to gulp the remaining contents. “Were you aware of this when you hired the woman, Thomas?”
    He drew in a very long breath before he shared his concern. “Yes, but in choosing a translator, I felt education to be more important than a background one can never change.”
    Lady Claire put her glass down hard and gaped at him,