She was the most acclaimed actress of the season, but Madeleine could not catch her breath. Lady Harcastle's words punched it out of her. And before Madeleine could think to leave the ballroom, someone asked her to dance.

She had to submit to a quadrille, two reels and a country dance before she could dance with Ferguson again - and while she waited, her body was in open rebellion. The endless dancing snatched away any remaining air in her lungs, leaving her winded and lightheaded, like she had just run a footrace in a too-tight corset. Her stays pressed against her ribs, her heart beat in her throat, and stars flickered at the edges of her vision. And she had never been more thankful for her gloves - she could feel her palms turning slick within the soft kid, but her latest partner, Mr. Frederick Scolfield, appeared unaware of her distress. The man was her least favorite of Augusta's cousins. He was likely accustomed to girls looking unhappy and nauseated in his arms.

She finally saw Ferguson again as she stood at the top waiting to go down to the end of the figure. He leaned against a wall, watching her - but where the move had left her weak-kneed with anticipation when he used to materialize out of the crowd for her alone, now it only worried her more. Had he heard the rumors?

She wished she felt as calm as he looked. The brilliant light of the chandeliers threw no shadows on his face, and his easy smile was bright, not deadly.

How could anyone think he was a killer?

The end of the dance cast her and her odious cousin Frederick out on the side of the ballroom nearest the stairs, far from where she had last seen Ferguson, and she longingly glanced at the exit. Surely Augusta had heard the rumors, but she wouldn't seek Madeleine out - taking her home early would only confirm that the Stauntons were concerned about Ferguson's sanity. She sucked in a breath, ignoring her cousin's conversational gambits as she focused on keeping her lungs filled. If she could lie as still as death on the floor of Legrand's Theatre during the climax of every play, she could surely feign boredom until she could escape.

Frederick's voice turned petulant. He had enough money and connections that people rarely ignored him outright, even if his partners were not always eager to talk to him. He was still young enough to be an eligible match, but with his weak chin and vapid conversation, a woman would have to be desperate for his funds to consider him. "If you are this cold with the duke, cousin, you won't have a hope of keeping him in your bed," he sneered.

Madeleine did not look at him, positioning herself to watch the crowd. "My marriage is no concern of yours," she said with a sneer of her own.

She heard his sharp inhale as he took a pinch of snuff. "I did wonder how you managed to snare a coronet, but 'tis no surprise now that the truth about his sanity is coming out."

She did turn on him then, the fast whip of her shawl as she came around brushing half the snuff out of his box. He started to protest, but he took a single look at her face and shut his mouth.

"Ferguson is the sanest man I know," she snapped, in a low voice with a hint of menace she had never known she possessed. "I will thank you for not spreading rumors that have no basis in fact."

He held up a hand in mocking surrender. "As you wish, cousin. But when he abandons you for another prize, do not look to me to dance with you."

Frederick flounced off then, all wounded vanity and pricked ego. Madeleine's thoughts were dark. If Frederick, who rarely knew any news beyond the latest fashion in waistcoats, had heard the rumors, then they were all over London.

She wanted to kill Caro. The rumors must have started with her - the woman was determined to keep Ferguson from finding happiness. But she couldn't seek the woman out in public - and imagine the scandal if she and Ferguson were tried for different murders at the same time?

Ferguson emerged from the crowd, his blue eyes sparking with temper. He had seemed calm from a distance, but perhaps it was the same façade she was trying to maintain. "Please tell me that when we are married, we may refrain from parties for at least a decade," Ferguson said, lifting her hand to kiss it as he greeted her. He didn't acknowledge the way he had left her earlier, and she didn't mention it; their problems were much bigger than she had thought.

On any other night she would have laughed, agreed with him even though his title and the responsibilities he should take up in the Lords would make parties a necessity. But she froze, her fingers wrapping around his.

If the rumors continued, there might not be any hostesses left who would receive them.

"What is it, Mad?" he asked. "Are you unwell?"

Another crest of nausea rose in her throat. Without the distraction of her argument with Frederick, all the nerves came rushing back. "Do you mind if we do not dance? I would far rather talk if it were only possible to be alone."

He took her hand and led her to an alcove, where a bay window overlooked Lady Andover's garden. They were still in sight of the ballroom, but no one would overhear them unless they approached - and from the way the path cleared before them, she guessed no one would dare to interrupt.

As he settled her on the alcove bench and leaned against the wall to protect them from intruders, she saw the shadows he had hidden while dancing - he didn't look like the devil-may-care rake he played for the masses. He looked like a great duke of old, one prepared to do battle to keep his claims.

She shivered, her thin silk dress no match for the chill stealing through her. The intensity in his eyes reminded her of the night he had saved her from Westbrook in the theatre. The warrior was back.

And she was the prize he would battle for.

He stripped off her gloves in an efficient gesture that said nothing of seduction, even if it was vastly improper. As he chafed her hands in his, he said, "What happened, Mad? If I had not been in the same room as you for the last hour, I would have guessed someone died at your feet."

"Why do you say that?"

"Your breath is ragged, your eyes are wide, your skin is chilled - you show every sign of having received a great shock."

He looked so concerned for her that she felt tears start to gather in her eyes. It was so absurd that anyone could think him a murderer - but now that the rumor had spread, she felt incapable of swaying opinion.

"Tell me," he commanded softly.

The panic rose again. She couldn't remember any other time in her life when things had been so unmanageable - perhaps when her parents died, but she was too young then to strive for control. She closed her eyes, unable to look at him as she said, "I heard the most awful rumor - people are saying that you killed Marguerite."

She swallowed convulsively, willing herself not to cry. He cursed under his breath and dropped her hands. She retrieved her gloves and slowly pulled them on again. His touch was all she wanted, but it was out of place in the ballroom. "I thought the old tabbies would have more discretion than to tell you directly," Ferguson said.

"You knew and didn't say anything?" she asked, annoyance clearing away just enough of her panic that her hands stopped shaking.

"I saw no reason to worry you yet." His voice was soft, with an underbelly of iron. "If the rumor had died on its own, you need never have heard it."

There was no apology in those words. She bristled as she said, "This affects both of us now. I realize you may not have shared such things with the scores of women who have come before, but I deserve more."

"Is that what this is about? How many women I've bedded? I thought you might throw it in my face eventually, but not now."

"There are bigger issues than that," Madeleine said, "although I can't help but wonder if this rumor would have gained legs if you hadn't made so many enemies in the ton. Lady Greville, for one, plans to make your life a misery."

"I cannot undo what happened, just as I couldn't stop Richard from killing my father and making my entire family seem murderous."

"Could you have done so if you had been here?" she asked, looking for blood after his comment about his mistresses.

He froze, the planes of his face hardening, and she instantly regretted her words. "So you think it was wrong of me to go to Scotland?"

She paused, wanting to be sure of her words - and the sentiments behind them. Finally, she said, "I do not think you were wrong. I did much the same, putting my desire to act above my family's needs. I won't say I was wrong either - but we still must live with the consequences."

He raked a hand through his hair, and the strands glowed like embers in the candlelight as they settled back into place. "I don't know if I could have saved Richard," Ferguson said quietly. "Just as I don't know if I can fix how the ton sees me."

It was her turn to comfort him. She didn't like that he hadn't told her, but they needed to move forward rather than dwell on rights and wrongs. "The ton will come around - rakes can be rehabilitated, after all."

He stared down at her, his eyes wide with the desire to believe her. The pause lengthened and turned almost painfully sweet after the heat of their argument. But his eyes finally narrowed, and his next words shattered the peace. "Rakes, yes, but not murderers."

She felt her face fall. He instinctively stepped toward her, caught himself, and returned to his proper stance against the wall. "It will all come out all right," he said soothingly. "I've procured a special license - we can marry and leave for Scotland as soon as you have packed."

"Scotland?" she asked, not understanding.

"Without a body, the rumors will die someday," he said, with a bright certainty she didn't believe. "And you really will love my estate there - beautiful, but not so remote that you cannot go to Edinburgh when it suits you."

"Is that why you were angry earlier about what I said to the twins about England? You've been planning this, haven't you?"

He clenched his jaw, and his hand made a fist against the wall. "What else would you have me do, Mad? I refuse to see the ton cut you. And if there is an investigation, I want you as far away as possible."

"But what of your sisters? My family? Everything I know is here!"

"You are my priority now, not them. Sophronia will bring out the twins alone - I'm sure she'll understand if she's heard the gossip. And you are welcome to have Josephine accompany you if you wish."

He had already decided. His face said even more clearly than his tone that he would not be swayed.

More, he seemed to think she should be comforted by his decisiveness - even though leaving London would mean abandoning her whole life.

Her hands made fists of her own. "You may be accustomed to running away," she said, and he flinched at the words. "But I do not wish to go until we have no other choice."

"Do not dare call me a coward," he bit out. "The ton can go hang, but I'm leaving to protect you, not myself."

"How is this protection?" she cried, before remembering where she was and dropping back into a whisper. "If we leave now, everyone will know you are guilty. If you won't consider what that does to your sisters' prospects, think of the children we may have. What marriages will they be able to make if people believe their father is criminally insane?"

It was a version of the argument Alex had used against her, but Ferguson's face softened at the mention of their possible babes. "If there were another way... but I cannot see it."

"There is another possibility," she said slowly. "If Marguerite appeared regularly..."

The softness disappeared. "Out of the question."

She met his unrelenting glare with a steely one of her own. "But it would put all the rumors to rest. We could live a normal life."

"And constantly worry about you being caught," he retorted. "Better for the ton to think I'm a murderer than to know what you've done."

"Why better? We could ensure that no one thinks you are criminally insane, and I've yet to be caught - it seems like better odds than your reputation faces without me. And if, Heaven forbid, there were to be a trial, how could I watch you hang for killing a woman who would not even exist if not for me?"

He grinned for the first time since they had entered the alcove. "They would take my head off with a sword - I am too wellborn for a commoner's noose. But it won't come to a trial. The House of Lords would have to set the trial, and they won't indict a duke for the death of an actress without any evidence that a crime was committed."

"You do have a lot of enemies," she pointed out. "It only takes a handful of peers wanting revenge for the wives you stole to press for a trial."

He looked out at the crowd. From Madeleine's vantage point, it felt like they were already in a cell. His peers circled, waiting to slam the door. But if he saw the same scene, it hardened his resolve. "I won't have you endanger yourself for me."

"And I won't have you run away for me!" she said, her temper reaching the breaking point. "You may not have intended this, but you are a duke now. From all I've seen, you will make an excellent one. But you cannot go to Scotland every time you wish to escape. And I cannot be your wife if I must always wonder when you will run away from me."

The words, quiet though they were, shattered between them, the shards cutting them both. He stiffened against the wall as though absorbing the blow. "I can't lose you, Mad," he said, his voice raw.

She bowed her head, heard his breath rasp in his throat. "We must stay and fight, Ferguson. I lost one family to the whims of the public - I cannot bear to lose you too."

Their situation in no way resembled the Revolution, but she saw him plant his feet before levering himself away from the wall. His eyes flashed. "You won't lose me if you come with me. But if you won't come to Scotland, then I will face the gossip alone. I would rather see you safe without me than ruined in my arms."

She gasped. Would he really leave her, break off their engagement, to protect her from something that was as much her fault as it was his?

"You can't do that, Ferguson. I'll reveal myself before I let you face a murder charge."

He glanced again at the ballroom, then held up a hand, cutting off her bravado. "Your aunt is bearing down on us. I'll call on you tomorrow morning, and we can settle this then. Until then, please do not do anything to endanger yourself."

Ferguson stalked off, his bearing sleek and predatory. She sighed. If anyone watched him now, he did look capable of murder. He walked directly across the dance floor to the exit, so furious that he didn't care which dancers he interrupted in his haste to leave.

She thanked heavens for her acting talent - when the people who watched Ferguson's progress across the dance floor swiveled toward her, she knew she looked perfectly serene. Disappointed, none stared for long; if she wouldn't give them a dramatic addition to Ferguson's disappearance, they quickly lost interest.

Aunt Augusta didn't ignore her, though. She stepped into the alcove only a few moments after Ferguson left, blocking Madeleine's view just as he reached the door. "Is something wrong, my dear?" she asked as she took a seat beside Madeleine.

Madeleine nearly laughed at the question. Everything was wrong - the rumors, Ferguson's threat to leave her, his belief that they could not stay in London. Where could she possibly begin?

Noting Madeleine's hesitation, Augusta squeezed her hand. "Lady Harcastle told me she spoke to you. I would have waited for morning, but what's done is done."

Her aunt looked at her with so much sympathy that Madeleine felt like crying. Augusta was usually faultless in her control at these events, never betraying a negative emotion. Seeing her concern for Madeleine trump her sense of propriety made Madeleine want to bury her head against her aunt's shoulder and sob like she was a little girl again.

Despite what had happened when they all discovered her acting, Aunt Augusta still loved her, had already forgiven her for the theatre now that she was safe. Like Alex, she had been upset with Madeleine's lies, but after the first flare of anger faded, she was ready to do whatever she could to assist her.

Wasn't that the support she had always wanted from a mother?

"Ferguson wants to take me to Scotland to avoid the rumors," she whispered.

Augusta's blue eyes turned bleak. "If you go to Scotland, it will be difficult to come back. The ton will see it as proof of his guilt."

"I told him that, but he would rather protect me than save himself."

"And what do you want?"

Madeleine paused, not sure how to tell the aunt who had always protected her that she was prepared to take yet another risk. Finally, she said, "I cannot see him punished when it would be easy to have Marguerite return."

Aunt Augusta looked away, glancing out across the crowds. No one could hear what they said, even though their conversation was circumspect enough to avoid betraying Madeleine's secret. "I would rather see you fight than run away, my dear. I've often wondered if your mother might have survived if she had stood up to her husband."

Augusta rarely surprised her, but this time, Madeleine was shocked. "I thought you believed that wives should obey their husbands."

Her aunt snorted. "In most things, it's easier to let them think you are obeying. But Arabella never once asked Loubressac to let her visit England after she married him - or if she did, she let him overrule her. I never saw her again after their wedding. The marquis was too patriotic for his own good, which is not Ferguson's shortcoming. Still, I couldn't bear to see you move so far away without so much as an attempt to make a life here."

"I thought you were willing to send me to Bermuda?" Madeleine asked, letting herself lapse into sarcasm because it was easier than considering what she had just heard about her mother.

Augusta silenced her with a look. "I didn't want to send you to Bermuda, and I still don't. Some scandals require drastic measures, though."

She looked at the crowd again, and Madeleine realized she was watching Amelia. Augusta frowned as she looked at her daughter. "One never knows what Amelia will get up to - so if she's the one I'll have to send away someday, I would just as soon keep you here."

"I won't go to Scotland without a fight," Madeleine said. "But I'm not sure I could give him up if that's the only choice."

Her aunt squeezed her hand. "Then he's the right man for you. If you lose the fight, we'll all survive it somehow. At least Scotland is within carriage range - I do hope that whatever estate he has up there is prepared to accommodate guests."

Madeleine smiled weakly. Augusta stood, reaching down to pull Madeleine up with her. "No more hiding in alcoves tonight. If you can pretend for the next hour that you are at the most amusing party you've ever attended, it will at least make the gossips wonder whether you know something they don't."

Her aunt smiled like the battle-hardened society matron she was, and Madeleine followed her out into the crowd. Their conversation gave Madeleine just enough strength to survive the evening.

But she was going to have to find her own strength if she had any hope of convincing Ferguson to listen to reason.