The Redemption of Madeline Munrove
Table of Contents
The Redemption of Madeline Munrove
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Excerpt from The Seduction of Sophie Seacrest
Chapter 1
Copyright
About the Author
Other Books by Mary Campisi:
Love and Betrayal…Regency Style
Madeline Munrove’s mother instilled three truths in her daughter. These truths were as follows: First, men were basically useless creatures driven by decisions calculated below the waist. Second, women were far superior in intelligence and fortitude. And third, women must pretend the first and second were untrue if they hoped to navigate in a society ruled by such worthless creatures.
Enter Douglas Fontaine, a man whose life is ruled by logic and analysis. Such behavior is the reason he has created a ‘test’ which prospective brides must pass in order to gain consideration for the position of ‘wife’. When a chance game of cards with a scoundrel wins him a country estate, Douglas has no idea Madeline resides at the estate or that his very ordered existence is about to be upended.
As Madeline and Douglas attempt to determine the true nature and secrets of the other, they will soon learn that no amount of calculation will account for the moment when logic collides with passion…
The Model Wife series:
Book One: The Redemption of Madeline Munrove
Book Two: TBA
BONUS MATERIAL: Included with this ebook is the first chapter The Seduction of Sophie Seacrest, Book One in Mary Campisi’s regency historical series An Unlikely Husband.
The Redemption of Madeline Munrove
The Model Wife Series: Book One
by
Mary Campisi
Dedication
To my husband—thank you for bringing logic and order into my life
Chapter 1
Madeline Munrove hoisted the shovel above her head and inched closer to the figure sprawled in the stall. It was a man, much bigger than Papa or Weston. He stretched the length of the stall, consuming it with his broad chest and long legs — legs wrapped in quite indecent breeches. Madeline squinted, followed the fabric of said breeches until it joined right at the ... she jerked her gaze to his feet. They were very big. She could not make out his hands what with the way he had buried them under a makeshift pillow, a lawn shirt judging from the billowing whiteness of it. She inched closer, weighed down by her brother’s work boots, not that Weston ever wore them to perform actual labor. But appearances were important.
She gripped the shovel tighter and attempted to ignore the discomfort spreading through her shoulders. She must protect the others. There was no one else, what with Mama joining Papa two summers ago at St. Timothy’s cemetery and Weston off on another of the grand adventures he enjoyed too often. Not that her brother would be of any help, but at the very least he could have stood behind her with his own shovel.
The man moaned. Was he injured? Another moan. If only she could lift the mop of chestnut curls hiding his face she could discern his temperament. Murderer? Pillager? Robber? She considered herself quite astute in such matters. With a wandering father and an errant brother, her mother had taught her at a young age the skills necessary to determine temperament and character. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on one’s viewpoint, Jessica Munrove also bestowed three often concealed truths upon her daughter, truths which led to Madeline’s eventual ruin. First, men were basically useless creatures driven by decisions calculated below the waist. Second, women were far superior in intelligence and fortitude. And third, women must pretend the first and second were untrue if they were to prove they were not.
This man would be nothing more than another bundle of muscle and dull gray matter, like all the rest, save Gregory, who at fourteen was surrounded by females and still salvageable. Madeline squinted in an attempt to glean even a strip of chin, or cheek, or nose.
Oh, but her shoulders ached. Surely, she could rest a moment. She lowered the shovel to her booted feet and stared at the heap of male stretched out in the straw. There was so much of him it made her all jittery and unsettled. She bit back a laugh, wondering if his mother had stuck him in a pile of manure as a child, thus insuring his excessive size, as one did a tomato plant. Madeline pictured him steeped in manure when a moan escaped from the man’s hidden lips and eased to a slow, methodical ... snore?
What to do now? She could bolt the stall but judging by the length of the intruder’s legs, he would lope over the top without effort. There was always the lock on the barn, but then what? Perhaps she should run inside and grab her brother’s pistol?
She pondered this last possibility. The man needn’t know the thing terrified her. She could bluff him. Yes, she would retrieve Weston’s pistol, remove the bullets, of course, and scare the devil out of the intruder. That’s what she would do…and then—
The heap of man rolled over and leapt at her, toppling her onto the straw and landing square on her midsection with an oomph! His body squeezed her into the straw flatter than one of Mrs. Fowler’s pie crusts. Madeline struggled to suck in a few wisps of air which proved a futile effort.
She would die at the hands of the giant who glared down at her with ferocious silver eyes. Seething. Dangerous. Filled with fire. Her last breaths inched past her throat as she fought the truth. He would take her life and then he would find the others and murder them, too. Buckets of blood would splatter the walls, the rugs, the stairways… The very thought pumped renewed strength through her and she thrashed about, swinging arms and legs at him while the last bits of life eased from her body. No! Don’t hurt them… don’t hurt them…
“Blast it, I’m not going to hurt anyone!” The beast roared and rolled off her. “Now stop that infernal yelling.”
Madeline sucked in fresh breath, not certain she’d heard him correctly. Lack of breathing capacity affected one’s ability to process information and the man had certainly affected her breathing capacity. More likely he’d half-flattened the life out of her and now she couldn’t process a thing. She pulled to a sitting position and snagged a piece of hair from her face. “What did you say?”
The man narrowed his gaze on her and frowned. “I said stop the infernal yelling before you render me deaf.”
“No, the part about the others.” He appeared so much bigger when viewed close up, as though she were peering at him from beneath the lens of Gregory’s magnifying glass. There was too much of him, large chunks of minute details she did not care to see…the jagged scar on his chin hidden beneath dark stubble, the long fringe of eyelashes, the errant silver streaks in his chestnut hair.
“I am not going to hurt the others whoever the others may be,” he repeated in an obvious attempt to control his temper.
It did not bode well the man had a temper. Men with tempers could not be reasoned with. Or manipulated. The men in the Munrove family did not possess tempers, which made them malleable, even jovial. She would wager this man did not possess a jovial bone in his overlarge body.
How to proceed? Madel
ine blew out a tiny breath. Very tiny. As long as they were safe. And then the other thought stormed her brain. “And me?” She stared straight into those silver eyes, fighting the twirling in her stomach. “Do you plan to murder me?”
He rubbed his jaw.
She held her breath.
“No.”
She let out a swoosh of relief. Unfortunately, another possibility tickled her brain. “Have your way with me then?”
He cocked a brow. “Is that an invitation?”
Brute. “Of course not, but if forcing yourself on me is your intent, then I must warn you, I will not lie here meekly.”
He cleared his throat. “I should hope not.”
“I will kick and scream, and thrash about.”
His lips twitched. “Do tell.”
“And claw my nails down your back until I make you scream.”
Those silver eyes widened. “You would make me scream?”
She would teach him. “I would. And when I was through, on my word you would not be able to move even your little finger.”
The man nodded slowly, his gaze traveling the length of her and settling on the third button of her blouse, the one she only now realized she had neglected to button this morning in her haste to reach the barn.
“You seem a worthy opponent.”
“The worthiest,” she spat out. She jerked a hand over her chest. Take that, Mr. Intruder.
His eyes glittered like raindrops splattering against a darkened windowpane. “And would you leave me in pain, thrashing about as you say, or would you put me out of my misery?”
Madeline smiled and lifted her chin. “I most certainly would put you out of your misery.” There, best me now.
Silence. And then, “Though a tempting offer, I must decline.”
The nerve. “I made you no—”
“Not that your words have not flattered me. They most assuredly have.” His lips tugged at the corners. “You are quite comely with your black curls and blue eyes. Your skin glistens like satin—” he paused “—though a bit dark for my tastes.”
Madeline covered her neck with both hands. “‘Tis the sun.”
“Ah. The sun. Are there no bonnets in the country?”
Had the beast just insulted her? Good heavens, he had. Men had written sonnets in honor of her beauty. There had been so many suitors she devised a numbering system to keep them straight. But that was long ago. Before the scandal. “Of course there are bonnets. I even subscribe to them on occasion.” She eyed his stained lawn shirt. “As I’m certain you subscribe to what is commonly known as a bath. On occasion of course.”
“The woman possesses wit.”
“And a brain,” she countered. “Unlike many wilting, fair flowers who shun sunlight and whose very existence depend upon the attentions of a man.”
“Ah.” His voice held the tiniest hint of amusement. “There are those fair flowers who are nurtured by such attentions, or the avoidance of such as it were. Take the sun for example. Why would a woman transform her skin to the likeness of a prune when it could easily be avoided? As for the attentions of a man, many a fair lady has transformed from wilting to blossoming with a mere smile from her counterpart.” He gestured to her and added, “But alas, it is more than obvious fair maiden, you require no ministrations from any man.”
Indeed not. Scandals had a way of wiping out a man’s interest. Thank you, oh wonderful scandal. “That is quite precise.”
“I thought so.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw, a very determined stubbled jaw, and mused, “Why such prickliness? I understand you might have some difficulty attracting the proper mate, but still—”
“I have no difficulty attracting a mate.” She should have clanged the shovel over his head when she had the chance.
He had the audacity to smile. “Your hair is black, is it not?”
Unless he could not make out colors, he knew her hair was black as pitch. Odious creature, he was preparing another insult. If she could stretch her fingers toward the handle…
“Blond is more fashionable in London. Of course, you are a bit far from London. But that nest—” he gestured to her hair “—most unbecoming.” He leaned in closer. “What color are your eyes?”
“Blue.”
“Ah.”
“What?” She buried her right hand in the straw and inched it toward the shovel.
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
He shrugged a shoulder in half apology. “Blue is passé this season. Brown is all the rage.”
“Then how fortunate an unfashionable woman such as myself is not interested in attending the season.” She’d had fourteen suitors, thank you very much. Earls and viscounts. Even a duke. She’d wanted none of them.
“Fortunate indeed. Disappointment is such an unwelcome friend to a young woman.”
Blast him! “You speak as if you have knowledge of this. In order to disappoint, one would require the opportunity to do so. Forgive me, sir, I highly doubt you were ever in such a position.”
The beast actually laughed.
“You boost my ego with such compliments. Implying I have never disappointed a woman is heady stuff indeed.”
“That was not my intent and well you know it.” If she lunged for the shovel, she might be able to throw it and hit him square on the nose. Or not. If she were not successful, well then, he might surely squeeze the life from her with one monstrous hand. Who was this man, dressed as a pauper yet expounding the airs of the ton as though he were privy to their every secret?
The intruder opened his mouth and spewed more insults. “Fair lady, we both know you are years past your coming out, though I must say, you carry your age well.”
That was it. Madeline lunged for the shovel, grabbed it between both hands, and whacked the man’s left shoulder.
“Damn you, crazy woman!” He yanked the shovel from her hands and thrust it against the stall. “What the devil is wrong with you?” He snared Madeline’s ankle and she flopped to the ground.
“What is wrong with me?” She scooped a hunk of hair from her face and said, “I ventured into my barn this morning, with the express intent of feeding my animals, when I discover you on the floor of one of my stalls.” She jabbed her finger at her chest and continued, “And you proceed to insult me at every turn which even for a man of your obvious lacking is exceedingly common.” Her voice grew louder but she made no effort to quiet her words or the anger seeping into them. “I have but one question of my own. Who in bloody hell are you?”
Chapter 2
Douglas Fontaine stared at the spitfire spattered in straw and enough anger to combust the entire barn. He could not tell her the truth.
She gritted her teeth and repeated, “Who are you?”
What to do? A partial truth, perhaps. Women never wanted the full truth anyway. “I’m an American, traveling through England.”
She laughed at that. “You sound no more American than I.”
Only because his father forbade Douglas to develop the lazy language of the Virginian’s and had used a switch behind his knees each time he forgot. “My parents are both English.” That much was true. His father was the second son of a baron and his mother had been the third daughter of a viscount.
The woman raised a brow as if she believed this tale about as much as the one about the girl living among cinders. Did she have to be so blasted beautiful? He hadn’t planned on that, hadn’t planned on anyone else in residence either, but apparently there was judging from her near hysterical pleas to not harm them. He had no intention of harming anyone. All he wanted was what was his. Douglas thought of the paper in his satchel outlining those rights. He would get everything he was entitled to.
Soon.
“I would like you to leave,” she said with the air of a noblewoman at court and not one covered in bits of straw. “Leave before my husband returns.”
He tried not to smile. It proved a difficult task. He hadn’t lived one and thirty years in the presence of come
ly females to not glance at a woman’s ring finger seconds after spotting her. All women loved jewelry, flaunted it at every turn, even country bumpkins like this beauty. There were no rings, there was no husband. He would wager there had never been a husband.
“My husband is a very big man with a fierce right jab and an even fiercer disposition.”
“You don’t say?”
She nodded, seeming to warm to the invention of a husband. “Yes. Most fierce.”
Douglas feigned concern. “Has he ever injured anyone?”
“Oh, yes.” She smiled and he spotted a charming dimple on her right cheek. “More times than I care to recall.”
“You don’t say?” He liked the way her voice turned breathy when she grew excited.
“Hmmm. Three fractured noses, six wrists, seventeen fingers.”
“Seventeen?”
She nodded and her dark hair spilled forward.
He’d always been partial to brunettes and curls.
“And twelve shoulder dislocations.”
“Hmmm.” There was the tiniest scar above her right eye, a silver slash of past injury that created a spurt of compassion in Douglas. He pushed it aside and said, “What is your name?”
“Madeline. Lady Madeline,” she corrected with a tiny blush.
Lady indeed. “Lady Madeline.” The vowels rolled off his tongue in smooth, easy syllables. He should end the ruse now. What was the point of baiting her like a wounded horse whose final outcome would still be a bullet to the head? Douglas leaned forward and said, “We both know you have no husband. And I have not mysteriously appeared because I heard your barn held the sweetest smelling hay in which to repose.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I’ve come because a mutual acquaintance sent me here.”
Those magnificent eyes widened.
He nodded and murmured, “Yes.” Now he’d tell her. And then he’d reach in his satchel and pull out the formal document which supported those words. She would not be able to refute what she read. Damn, why did the innocent always have to pay for the sins of the guilty?
“I can’t believe it.” She fell back on her knees and studied him as though he were an unidentifiable, suspicious looking bug. Seconds from now, she would lunge and attempt to gouge out his eyes. There was no delaying the inevitable or the lunging and gouging.