was an elegant woman, with a lively mind and a sympathetic heart. And an income so vastly superior to his that he refused to think about it, or about her.
He gave instructions that Ascot be saddled. A good ride on that untamed beast would shake any unwelcome thoughts from his head. If there was one thing Lady Jane most certainly was not, it was untamed. She was civilized to within an inch of her life. In the best possible way, of course, but civilized nonetheless.
Rossmere was attracted to a less-restrained type of woman. Every lady of quality whom he’d ever met had struck him as impossibly reserved or ludicrously puffed up with her own consequence. In either case, these women had very little sparkle and absolutely no resplendence. Rossmere had grown up well-heeled, and he had developed a taste for the extravagant—in women, particularly.
And no woman he’d known had been as flamboyant, beautiful, and amusing as Madeline Fulton. He had met her when he was twenty-five and despairing of ever discovering a woman who truly embodied his desires. It was at the theater that he first caught a glimpse of her in a box across the way, her flaming hair catching the candlelight and her delicious laughter almost seeming to reach him. There were two other attractive women in the box, but she easily outshone them. Even at a distance her vitality couldn’t be mistaken.
He had made a point of finding out who she was. Somewhat to his surprise, he learned that she was marginally accepted in society. This was occasioned by her being the widow of a war hero, rather than by her own birth. Her manner of living in London was suspect, but not reckless enough to be definitely censured. Rossmere never doubted for a moment that she was exactly the woman he wanted for his mistress.
Lord, the chase she had led him! He followed her to a succession of entertainments that were among the most interesting he’d ever attended, with their slight air of disreputability and their gay abandon. Madeline flirted outrageously with him at each of these balls, parties, breakfasts, routs, boating parties, but she refused to allow him to be alone with her. Her reputation was protected when he called on her by the presence of an elderly woman whom it took Rossmere several days to ascertain was stone-deaf. Later he had decided she didn’t see all that well, either.
Madeline was the perfect temptress. She always let him know that she was interested, and yet she wouldn’t allow him to come too close. Her dresses were low-cut and provocative, her smiles enticing and full of promise. When they waltzed together, Rossmere could hardly believe the satiny texture of her skin, the glowing warmth of her body. For these were not Almack’s waltzes, but those dangerous, intoxicating dances held at the homes of her friends, where no eyebrow rose at the sight of two bodies so close together that they touched in any number of places rather than a decorous hand at the waist.
Ascot was brought to Rossmere and he swung up on the horse with practiced ease. The groom stepped warily around the huge animal, backing out of Ascot’s way as soon as Rossmere indicated that he was settled. The viscount kept his horse on a tight rein until they were beyond the lawns. When he was given his head, Ascot surged into a gallop that had its usual effect of filling Rossmere with total abandon. Together they seemed to sail across the countryside at a remarkable pace, passing the fence posts and trees so quickly they almost blurred into one another.
It had been like that with Madeline. The thrill of the chase, the excitement of finally winning her as his mistress, the exotic nights in her bed—it had all blurred together into a time set apart from the rest of his life. She was everything he had ever looked for in a woman, and daily she delighted him with the proof of how perfectly she matched up with his dreams. What he imagined, she turned into reality.
Once he told her of a dream he’d had
He gave instructions that Ascot be saddled. A good ride on that untamed beast would shake any unwelcome thoughts from his head. If there was one thing Lady Jane most certainly was not, it was untamed. She was civilized to within an inch of her life. In the best possible way, of course, but civilized nonetheless.
Rossmere was attracted to a less-restrained type of woman. Every lady of quality whom he’d ever met had struck him as impossibly reserved or ludicrously puffed up with her own consequence. In either case, these women had very little sparkle and absolutely no resplendence. Rossmere had grown up well-heeled, and he had developed a taste for the extravagant—in women, particularly.
And no woman he’d known had been as flamboyant, beautiful, and amusing as Madeline Fulton. He had met her when he was twenty-five and despairing of ever discovering a woman who truly embodied his desires. It was at the theater that he first caught a glimpse of her in a box across the way, her flaming hair catching the candlelight and her delicious laughter almost seeming to reach him. There were two other attractive women in the box, but she easily outshone them. Even at a distance her vitality couldn’t be mistaken.
He had made a point of finding out who she was. Somewhat to his surprise, he learned that she was marginally accepted in society. This was occasioned by her being the widow of a war hero, rather than by her own birth. Her manner of living in London was suspect, but not reckless enough to be definitely censured. Rossmere never doubted for a moment that she was exactly the woman he wanted for his mistress.
Lord, the chase she had led him! He followed her to a succession of entertainments that were among the most interesting he’d ever attended, with their slight air of disreputability and their gay abandon. Madeline flirted outrageously with him at each of these balls, parties, breakfasts, routs, boating parties, but she refused to allow him to be alone with her. Her reputation was protected when he called on her by the presence of an elderly woman whom it took Rossmere several days to ascertain was stone-deaf. Later he had decided she didn’t see all that well, either.
Madeline was the perfect temptress. She always let him know that she was interested, and yet she wouldn’t allow him to come too close. Her dresses were low-cut and provocative, her smiles enticing and full of promise. When they waltzed together, Rossmere could hardly believe the satiny texture of her skin, the glowing warmth of her body. For these were not Almack’s waltzes, but those dangerous, intoxicating dances held at the homes of her friends, where no eyebrow rose at the sight of two bodies so close together that they touched in any number of places rather than a decorous hand at the waist.
Ascot was brought to Rossmere and he swung up on the horse with practiced ease. The groom stepped warily around the huge animal, backing out of Ascot’s way as soon as Rossmere indicated that he was settled. The viscount kept his horse on a tight rein until they were beyond the lawns. When he was given his head, Ascot surged into a gallop that had its usual effect of filling Rossmere with total abandon. Together they seemed to sail across the countryside at a remarkable pace, passing the fence posts and trees so quickly they almost blurred into one another.
It had been like that with Madeline. The thrill of the chase, the excitement of finally winning her as his mistress, the exotic nights in her bed—it had all blurred together into a time set apart from the rest of his life. She was everything he had ever looked for in a woman, and daily she delighted him with the proof of how perfectly she matched up with his dreams. What he imagined, she turned into reality.
Once he told her of a dream he’d had
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