Chapter Three

It was over an hour later, as Fitz and Maddy were making conversation with the Fleets, that Maddy felt a stir in her blood as she glanced up.

Jameson was walking in through the archway, ducking slightly to camouflage his height, a weary smile on his lips as mothers began flocking to his side, eager to present their daughters, hoping for an audience with him.
As the Earl of Wyrestone, Jameson Carrington was a prize catch. His family had amassed great wealth over the years, and his title alone made him attractive to all the eligible women.

Not to mention his dashing looks and strong figure, Maddy mused.

But along with his wealth and title, there was a dash of danger that most women couldn’t deny – Jameson had been in France for the last several years, acting on the side of the British in the campaigns. Though what he actually did in France was heavily veiled, he seemed wrapped in danger, secrets and strength.

What mother could resist that for her daughter?

With a suppressed sigh, Maddy knew she would never get to know his secrets – he was so far out of her league, they may as well as been on different continents.

Instead, she would have to be grateful for his friendship with Fitz, and with her. At least then that would afford her the opportunity to get to know him again. She recalled him as an intense youth, frighteningly intelligent and shockingly funny, but with a vein of kindness running though it all.

She wondered if the war had changed him overmuch, or if he was still the Jamie of her youth.

Madeline felt her face light up when she finally spotted Jamie – Lord Carrington, she reminded herself sternly – moving towards them with purpose, disentangling himself from the roiling group of women that had surrounded him.

“Quite an event, isn’t it?” he said by way of greeting to Fitz with a slight roll of his eyes. “Lady Madeline,” he said, his voice husky as he kissed her hand. “You look… lovely.”

Madeline felt herself blush, glad she had taken extra time and attention in getting ready for the night, picking out a silken gown in blue that brought out her eyes and, dare she think it, accentuated her figure to her best advantage.  “Thank you, Lord Carrington,” she said demurely, feeling the heat of his hand on hers. She studied him as Carrington and her brother fell into easy conversation about the attendees around them.

His hair was a touch longer than she remembered, but still that silky, touchable blond. His piercing blue eyes seemed to twinkle with secrets, his dimpled chin rough with stubble, drawing her eye as she examined the fine cut of his coat, the high polish of his Hessian boots. She gazed up at him, surprised again at how tall he was – he stood several heads taller than she, and dwarfed almost all the men in the room.

She felt like a sprite next to him.

He moved with a grace that belied his height however, and spoke of the strength hidden beneath his finely cut clothes. He was indeed a fine specimen of a man, she thought with a secret smile. If only…

“What of your father, Stafford? How is he?” Carrington asked easily, and both the faces of Madeline and Fitz fell.

“He died, Carrington. Going on two years now,” Stafford said quietly. “I’m the Viscount now.”

Carrington visibly blanched at the news. “God, I’m so sorry. He was… he was the very best of men.”
Stafford nodded his agreement, but remained silent. Carrington seemed to sympathize, having lost his father at a young age, and being elevated to the gentry as only a teenage boy.

“And what of your husband, Lady Madeline?” he asked, turning to her. “Is he in attendance this evening?”

Madeline cleared her throat slightly. “He… he died, also, Lord Carrington. He was an officer in the army under Wellington. He died in the Battle of Nivelle three years ago. Winchester, his name was.”

Carrington processed this, his eyes not leaving hers. “I’m so sorry,” he said sincerely, his voice softer now. “To be a widow, at such a young age…”

Madeline nodded at his words, her own mind spinning. Her marriage to Henry had been arranged primarily by her father, and though she was fond enough of Henry, it was certainly not the romance of the century. But his dying and leaving her a widow certainly reduced her standing in society, and virtually decimated any chances at making a profitable match again. Though she was well provided for by her brother, she wanted, no, she yearned for love again.

But that possibility seemed too distant to even consider anymore.

“Would it be…” Carrington cleared his throat. “Would it be presumptuous of me to ask you for a dance? It’s been too long since we all saw each other, and I long for the comfort of old friends.”

Madeline placed her hand on his proffered sleeve. “I would like that, Lord Carrington.”

“Jameson,” he murmured as he led her through the crowd. “I’m just Jameson.”

Though she barely heard him, she could hear the yearning in his voice to drop the pretense, the peerage, the decorum.

But she daren’t obey.

They took their places on the floor opposite each other, waiting for the music to begin again. Madeline gambling a look at Lord Carrington, watched his eyes rove from her curls to the tips of her toes, slowly, as though his eyes were caressing her, taking the measure of her.

She felt her breath quicken even as she dropped her startled gaze to the floor at his indecorous look, felt her bodice tighten as she imagined his fingers stroking her, tracing the length of her, instead of his eyes.

His features smoothed then, and she wondered if she had imagined the whole thing.

The Barley Mow started, and she was a beat slow, so engrossed in imagining them together…

She hurried to match his steps, then drew in a breath as his hand slid over hers, then a feather touch of his hand at her waist, his breath at her ear as they passed each other, and as Madeline followed the steps by rote, she tried not to revisit the picture of him in her mind, of them entangled together…

Though his steps were correct, his hands correct, she felt flames shoot through her at every touch of his hands on her.

If they were to dance again, it was going to be a very long night indeed, Madeline thought as she concentrated on the music, instead of the man parrying beside her.

God help her.

###

Jameson knew the minute he walked in, it was going to be a very long night.

He’d only made it two steps in the door before he was beset by women, eager to display their daughters as though they were bonnets in a window, rather than young ladies with feelings of their own.

But, he struggled to be polite and engaging with them all, even as his eyes scanned the room, looking for a shock of pale blond hair, despite his earlier admonition to himself not to seek out Madeline.

But since seeing her at the Abbey, Madeline had been much on his mind.

And not wholesome thoughts, either, he mused, struggling to follow the conversations around him. With a start, he spotted Fitzwilliam and Madeline on the other side of the room, deep in conversation with a red haired beauty, several men he recalled from other events, and the Fleet husband and wife.

But he only had eyes for Madeline, watching her smile at something someone had said, her fingers dancing in the air as she gesticulated to make her point to the group surrounding her.

Though it had been years, he felt he knew her as intimately as he did when they were younger.

Perhaps not intimately, he thought with a hidden smile – that was just what he wished for since seeing her again.

To know the curves beneath her gown, the sound of her breath in his ear, the feel of her soft skin…

They had barely spoken, but seeing her again had reminded him what he had fought for in France – to keep safe the ladies of English society, to protect them from the horrors of war, and to secure a feeling of worth in a society that he had always felt outside of, since inheriting his title.

Shaking himself from these thoughts, he realized Madeline Stafford – he didn’t even know her current surname – was never going to be in his bed.

He wouldn’t allow it. Someone as damaged as him could never trust himself with a lady such as her between the sheets.

But perhaps a dance would be permissible…

As he crossed the room as though pulled by her very presence, he cautioned himself to keep his distance from Lady Madeline – emotionally, if not physically, as they danced.

The last thing he wanted was to frighten her with the darkness that had overtaken him since his time in France, or to fall too deeply under her spell with those eyes like blue pools, her translucent skin beneath her gown…

He simply couldn’t allow that.

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