"I still don't like it," Ferguson muttered as their coach waited in the line of equipages slowly approaching Westbrook's mansion.

Madeleine drew her cloak more firmly around her shoulders, soaking in the last few moments of warmth before she would have to surrender the garment at the door. Her costume was designed for admiration, not comfort. "Would you rather be branded a murderer?"

"I may commit murder if anyone ogles you - and they will, I assure you. I would worship that dress if I could have you to myself in it."

"Don't say a hardened rake like you has never seen such a display," Madeleine retorted, her cheeks flushing at the thought of what was to come.

"I haven't," he said flatly. "Seeing you in the foyer when I retrieved you from our house was enough to make me want to drag you upstairs and strip you out of that dress. In the atmosphere of Westbrook's ball... I must warn you that I'm not sure how long I will be able to keep my hands off you."

His eyes were as heated as his words, and she felt a small throb of pleasure deep in her belly. They had said little to each other on the drive out from London to Westbrook's Richmond estate, but that was probably for the best - if he could arouse her just with a few words, they might not have ever reached the masquerade.

The carriage rolled to its final stop and a footman opened the door. Ferguson stepped smoothly to the pavement before reaching up to assist her. Rather than taking her hand, he grasped her around the waist, lifting her out of the coach and into his arms. He released her slowly, so close to him that she slid down his body, feeling every muscle - and his growing erection - through the single filmy layer of her gown. She gasped as she landed, pressed fully against him, wishing just as much as he did that they could abandon the party and go back to their secret house.

"I may not last long either," she whispered, looking up into his eyes and seeing him fight the desire to toss her back into the carriage.

He ran his hands down her arms, grazed against her bottom, and then set her firmly on her feet. "If we see enough people in the first hour, we can escape early and have some time alone."

Alex supported the plan, true to his word despite the impropriety, but he would be watching the clock for her return - which meant the less time they spent at the masquerade, the more time they would have to themselves. "Oui, monsieur le duc," she said, slipping into Marguerite's French accent.

He took her arm and escorted her up the stairs to the grand entrance. A footman took her cloak and Ferguson's greatcoat and she heard rustling whispers rise up around them. If they already drew this much notice, they might not need even an hour to cement Marguerite's return.

"How do I look, monsieur?" she asked, twirling in a slow circle in front of him. It was a vixen's move, one she would never make anywhere else - but here, in this dress, it felt right. She guessed how she must look - the fabric clinging to her breasts and hips, almost translucent in the light, her nipples hardened points as they strained against the gown. Her hair was powdered to disguise its true color and Lizzie had threaded a chain of garnets through her tresses, mimicking the blood-red pomegranate seeds Persephone was known for. She had abandoned the sheaf of wheat as impractical, but a cluster of poppies wrapped around her wrist, and high-heeled Grecian sandals added the inches that Marguerite always displayed on stage. The lace of her drawers peeked out at the hem of the dress. She had never worn them before, and they might shock others more than if she had worn nothing at all - but it was the one concession she demanded for her modesty, so that at least one extra layer concealed her sex under her scandalous gown.

She turned back to Ferguson just in time to see him swallow hard. He looked like someone had bashed him in the head. Finally, he said, "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

There was none of the polite flattery she was used to from the ton - he sounded absolutely serious, as though he faced a guillotine and wanted those to be his last words. She knew he desired her, but she never tired of hearing it.

She curtsied low for him, feeling wicked as the bodice slid dangerously across her breasts. "And you are the most perfect consort for the evening, monsieur."

"Just the evening?" he asked, arching a brow.

She brushed up against him to whisper in his ear, "Perhaps longer, if fate and mon Dieu agree."

He laughed, low and sinful, and tilted her chin up. "Careful, love. You'll have me taking you home before we've even danced."

She fluttered her lashes at him, a smile playing on her lips. He smiled in return, looking hungry, but utterly in command with the heavy gold circlet on his head and his dark cloak swirled around him. She had thought their masquerade would require acting, but this wasn't an act - this was dark, sensuous joy, giving in to the scandalous behavior his wicked eyes encouraged. In the ton, she could never be so brazen.

But tonight, even though it was an effort to clear his name, belonged to them.

When she looked beyond him, she saw their plan was already working. People whispered behind their fans as they glanced furtively at Madeleine and Ferguson. "Shall we dance?" she asked, pretending the scrutiny did not matter at all. "Unless you do wish to retire..."

Ferguson took her arm again. "Dancing it is, but only so no one thinks I'm a monster for denying you."

This he said more loudly, and it drew titters from the clusters around them. She pretended not to notice. They had agreed that she would feign ignorance of the rumors about Marguerite's disappearance. As much as she loved engaging in behavior that she would never be able to repeat in real life, they were there to salvage his reputation, not destroy hers. She would play the role she needed to play, but she would have to be careful - it would be all too easy to lose herself in the desire that already threatened to overwhelm her.

"Onward, monsieur le duc," she said.

* * *

An hour later, Ferguson wasn't sure how much longer he could survive their ruse. The advantage of a salacious event such as Westbrook's masquerade was that the normal rules did not apply - he could dance with Madeleine as many times as he pleased.

The disadvantage was that he couldn't hold her in his arms, brushing against him with every step, without wanting to find the nearest bed. Not that anyone would raise an eyebrow, of course. The ballroom was looking distinctly thin as the evening wore on, and Ferguson suspected that the extensive pathways and grottoes of Westbrook's garden were being put to good use for any number of liaisons. The house, in the serene beauty of Richmond, seemed purpose-built for these entertainments - which was probably true, since Westbrook's father and grandfather had been notorious rakes themselves.

Still, they were there to prove to everyone that Marguerite was still alive - not to make love in the nearest dark corner. And he would stay true to their plan, as much as it killed him to stay in the ballroom.

Madeleine had never looked lovelier, which was part of his problem. Her gown should have been a disgrace, would have been her immediate downfall if she were there as a chaperone, but it was designed to tempt a man's desires. He had never adored the overblown courtesans who littered the demimonde, but even though the dress was revealing, Madeleine was perfect in it - all the grace of a lady, with the finest pair of breasts just barely swathed in muslin and practically begging for his touch.

He dragged his eyes back to her face. She was smiling mischievously - she may have been a spinster, but she wasn't a fool. "I suggest we retire, monsieur, so that you may examine my... bodice more properly."

Her desire for him struck him like a spur. He hadn't thought he could be any harder for her, but the teasing lilt in her voice proved him wrong. She would never see him as a duty she had to suffer - she wanted him, all of him, just as he was, and as often as possible.

The rest of his life might be an endless series of duties - but with her, it would all be pleasure.

"I do think we've been here long enough," he said, hearing the gravel in his voice. Madeleine had been seen by everyone in attendance, greeted by Westbrook - who made no reference to the night at the theatre, but did not appear to doubt her identity - and exchanged pleasantries with those who were able to reach her in the pauses between dances. Caro skirted the edges of the ballroom, and he had watched warily as she danced with Westbrook, but she had not accosted them tonight. If they could make it to their carriage, Madeleine would be safe and his reputation would be secure.

He pulled her out of the dancers, narrowly avoiding a collision with one of the liveried footmen who passed champagne to the people sitting out the current dance. Ferguson almost regretted that he and Madeleine would never attend another of these parties as husband and wife. There were always masquerades to attend, but they could not behave as blatantly as they had here - brushing against each other, flirting outrageously, as if there was no one in the world but them.

Still, he was glad to be done with it. With his reputation restored, he and Madeleine could marry, the twins could debut, and life might return to some semblance of normal.

But before they reached the staircase, a woman stepped in front of them, interrupting their progress. "How charming," Caro said, her eyes narrowing as she looked them both up and down. "The king of the underworld suits you, Ferguson."

He almost didn't recognize her at first, so sure that they had escaped unscathed, until he heard the bitter note in her otherwise lovely voice. She wore a dress similar to Madeleine's, the cool white linen of the Greeks, but she wore a brilliant diamond tiara and had a dagger strapped to her waist in an allusion that he couldn't interpret.

"Lady Greville," he said coolly.

"We should have consulted each other before the event," Caro said, staring up at him and ignoring Madeleine. "If you were the Aeneas to my Dido, think what a stir we could have caused."

Dido - the Carthaginian queen who stabbed herself in the heart after being abandoned by her Trojan lover. "You look very well, of course, but I have chosen a different consort."

Caro cast a flickering glance at Madeleine, just enough to make it clear that the actress was socially beneath her. "I have little love for Salford's ward, but it does seem callous of you to parade this actress chit in front of the ton when you'd have everyone believe that your engagement to Lady Madeleine is a love match."

"You know how these things play," he said, trying to sound bored. "Lady Madeleine could never attend an event such as this, and I've no intention of giving up all my entertainments."

"Just the same as always, aren't you?" Caro said. "You hold all the power, and it's all directed to your own ends. If I thought you were capable of change, I could forgive you - but you are just as selfish as you were ten years ago."

He didn't respond. Any true defense risked betraying Madeleine's secret. And he could see how his situation looked - most people would politely ignore that he had both a mistress and a fiancée, but not all of them would think highly of him for it.

"I truly am sorry for the manner in which I left England," he said, settling for an apology over an attack. "But I cannot change what I did, nor can I change the consequences for either of us. Now if you would be so good as to excuse us, I must take Madame Guerrier home."

Madeleine had stood silent beside him, maintaining the distant air of a courtesan who knows she is not welcome in the conversation but is too proud to look abashed. He snuck a glance at her profile, wondering what she thought, and was surprised to see some combination of pity and impatience. She didn't think Ferguson was the villain Caro portrayed him as - but she also vaguely sympathized with the other woman, despite the difficulties Caro had caused them.

Caro glanced fleetingly in Madeleine's direction again - then looked harder as she interpreted the emotions on Madeleine's face. "Don't you dare think to pity me, you little trollop," Caro hissed. "He'll turn you out onto the streets soon enough, and you'll be spreading your legs for the closest protector you can find before the week is out."

"Is that what you did when he left you, my lady?" Madeleine said. Her French accent suddenly became a lash. As Madeleine, she would never say such a thing - but here, Ferguson knew she would say whatever she pleased.

Ferguson cursed as Caro's face turned red. "Ladies, this is neither the time nor the place for this discussion." The ballroom was barely half full, but enough people still lingered to notice their argument. The last thing he wanted was for anyone's attention to be drawn to Madeleine long enough to see beyond her costume.

"Since I've no intention of ever talking to your whore again, I should tell her now that she's in for a disappointment if she thinks she's going to stay in your affections."

Madeleine tossed her head in a very Gallic gesture of annoyance. "Can we leave now, monsieur? The company is very dull tonight."

Westbrook strode up to them, and his grey eyes were grim as he looked at Caro. "My dear, would you like for the duke to leave now? I thought he had more sense than to approach you."

She looked uncomfortable, and some of her militant anger deflated. "It was the other way around, I'm afraid."

"You swore to me you would not seek him out," Westbrook said, his measured voice an odd contrast to the sudden look of fury on his face.

She shrugged, a small, helpless gesture that uncovered the vulnerability lurking beneath her hardened shell. "I'm sorry, Westbrook. But he cannot just walk through his charmed life as though he was entirely unscathed, when I almost lost everything! And to see him now, seducing not just one, but two French girls..."

She trailed off, looking at Madeleine again. Ferguson saw what she was thinking an instant before she realized it herself, and his arm was already reaching for Madeleine, pulling her into his embrace as though he could shelter her. "Oh, my God," Caro breathed, really looking at Madeleine for the first time that evening. "You can't possibly be..."

Her brown eyes were filled with shock. Ferguson felt the floor sink out from under him. Caro hated him and would not care to protect Madeleine - she was the very last person he would have chosen to uncover their secret. Madeleine went very still under his arm. She could see their doom too, and she froze beneath Caro's gaze like a mouse before a hawk.

Ferguson thought briefly, instinctively, of escape, wondering if they could reach their carriage before the rumors spread outside and engulfed them. But he had promised Madeleine that they would do everything possible to stay in England. He didn't see how they could, unless Caro could be bought off - but she was rich enough on her own, and too bitter to let such a secret go untold.

"Whatever you are thinking, you're mistaken," Ferguson said to Caro, hoping to draw her attention away from Madeleine before she fully determined what she was seeing.

Caro's shock had turned to confusion, and then amazement. She turned to Westbrook as though seeking an ally. "Doesn't the chit look remarkably like Lady M...?"

"Shh," Westbrook hissed, grabbing Caro in a protective gesture of his own. "Do not say another word."

They couldn't leave, not without making a last attempt to salvage the situation. Ferguson checked his protective instincts, knowing he had to take Madeleine into the lion's den.

"Shall we adjourn to your study, Westbrook?" Ferguson suggested, his voice as calm as if he was inviting them to a picnic.

The earl nodded, pulling Caro with him as he turned to lead the way. Ferguson felt Madeleine tremble under this arm, and he bent to whisper in her ear. "We aren't running, Mad."

He had to keep his promise - and the only way for them to stay in London was to settle the score with Caro once and for all.