His expression hardened. But he eased his grip on her waist. “For now.”
The warning in the words was every bit as explicit as the kiss had been.
She glared, but it was a weak effort. With one hand, she groped behind her, found and grasped the latch. Stepping to the side, her eyes on his, she opened the door.
He stepped back and let her swing it wide.
Breathing a little more easily, head high, she flashed one last defiant glance at him, then turned and went through. Stepping onto the stairs, one hand on the stone wall, she started down.
It had been just a kiss, a part of his silly game. No matter what he’d said, he wasn’t—couldn’t be—seriously intent on seducing her.
If she repeated that statement often enough, she might again believe it.
“Fancy forming your own private gentlemen’s club in London, just so you have somewhere where society can’t bother you.” Edmond glanced up the breakfast table at Madeline. “Neat, don’t you think?”
“Better’n neat,” Ben opined around a mouthful of sausage, relieving her of the need to reply.
Just as well; in her present mood, any response she made regarding Gervase Tregarth and his doings was bound to be laced with frustrated ire.
She sipped her tea, and tried to shift her mind from that irritating gentleman, and his effect on her; unfortunately, in the present company that appeared a lost cause.
Bad enough that the interlude Gervase had engineered on the castle battlements, and all that had transpired there, had laid siege to her mind throughout the previous evening and disturbed her night, but his outing with her brothers and the exploits with which he’d regaled them had been the principal subjects of their conversation ever since.
Normally she could rely on her harebrained trio to distract her from any inner brooding. Instead, their speculation and comments about Gervase only reinforced his presence. Reinforced the reality that he was there, and she was going to have to deal with him.
“Do you really think what Joe and Sam said is right?” Ben turned to Harry, seated at the head of the table. “That there’ll soon be lots of men with no work and things will be bad around here?”
Madeline blinked to attention; she looked at Ben, then up the table at Harry.
Who was frowning. “I don’t know. It seems strange that if there’s such trouble brewing, so few people have heard of it.” Harry looked at Madeline. “Have you heard anything? Are the mines at Carn Brea really closing?”
What? was her instinctive reaction; she swallowed it, and frowned. “I haven’t heard any whisper of such a thing. Where did you hear that?”
“In Helford,” Edmond said. “We went there after we got back from fishing.”
“We went down to the docks to watch the boats come in,” Harry said. “Sam and Joe were there. Sam’s father keeps the tavern in Helford and Joe’s dad is the blacksmith. Both Sam and Joe said their fathers were worried about what would happen in the district when the money from the mines dries up.”
“Both Sam’s and Joe’s older brothers work at Carn Brea,” Edmond added.
When she stared, gaze distant, down the table, Harry shifted. “Could the mines be closing? It’ll be bad for the district if they are, won’t it?”
She mentally shook herself. “Yes to the latter question, but I know of no information that suggests the mines are even in difficulties, much less that they’re on the brink of closing.”
She’d done as she’d told Squire Ridley she would, and had written to her London contacts; she’d heard back only yesterday that all was as she’d thought. She looked at Harry. “I heard from London yesterday that the tin mines, including those locally, are doing very well—in fact, exceeding expectations—and the outlook is rosy.”
“Perhaps I could tell Sam and Joe that, so they can tell their fathers. It seemed they were truly worried.”
She nodded. “Do. In fact, unless you have something pressing to attend to, I think you should go back to Helford today.” She paused, then added, “You”—she tipped her head at Harry—“could drop by and speak with Sam’s and Joe’s fathers directly. That would be the neighborly thing to do. You may tell them I’ve checked very recently and everything’s as it should be. We don’t need rumors of that sort spreading and frightening people.”
Harry, his expression unusually serious—much more adult, she saw with a pang—nodded. “I’ll ride that way this morning.”
“We’ll come,” Edmond said.
Ben, still eating, merely nodded.
Madeline watched while Harry drained the cup of coffee he’d recently graduated to, Gervase’s words about including him more in estate business whispering in her head.
“One thing,” she said. Harry looked inquiringly at her as he set down his cup; Edmond and Ben did, too. “Keep your ears open on the subject of the mines. There might be someone deliberately spreading rumors. We know there’s some London gentleman interested in buying up mining leases, and it’s possible the rumors are in some way linked.”
It took Harry but a moment to see the connection; Edmond was only a heartbeat behind. Ben remained fully absorbed with his last slice of ham.
Harry and Edmond exchanged glances, their features assuming the same expression, one she’d never before seen on their faces.
“We’ll listen.” Harry nodded, quietly grim. “We’ll tell you anything we hear.”
Gervase had been right; they were growing up. Despite the pang she felt near her heart, she couldn’t help feeling satisfied that both boys—youths, young men in the making—clearly possessed real interest in the district, in the industry and people that were part of their patrimony.
Regardless of Harry’s evolving maturity, Madeline did not press him to attend Lady Moreston’s ball that evening.
Her ladyship’s event was one of the many held over summer through which the local gentry and aristocracy entertained themselves through the long, mild evenings. Gowned in mulberry satin, feeling suitably armored as the Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne, she greeted Lady Moreston with her customary assurance and followed Muriel into the ballroom.
The long room was bedecked with summer greenery, rather more to Madeline’s taste than ribbons, silks or gilded decorations. Halting at the top of the ballroom steps, she surveyed the room—searching for one curly dark head.
But Gervase wasn’t there, at least not yet.
Descending the steps in Muriel’s wake, Madeline inwardly frowned—then realized and banished the underlying emotion, whatever it was. She couldn’t possibly be disappointed; it was simply irritation at having to remain tense, on guard, until he appeared. Once he was there she would know what he was up to, and she wouldn’t feel so off-balance, trying to imagine what he might do.
Might take it into his devilish mind to do.
The man was plainly dangerous, but she wasn’t some silly witless girl to allow herself to grow too curious for her own good. She was her own person, in charge of her own life. What decisions she made would be her own.
With that determination ringing in her mind, she set herself to make use of the evening in her customary manner. She circulated through the guests, chatting with the gentlemen, listening for any confirmation of the rumors her brothers had heard; she hadn’t yet decided how to proceed on that front.
“I met Penterwell today,” Gerald Ridley told her. “He’d been approached by that agent, too. Not that he has any intention of selling, but like me, he’s wondering what’s behind this.”
“I’ve checked again since we spoke, and everything I hear suggests that all is going well and expected to improve even further. Perhaps this London gentleman simply thinks we’re naïve?”
Gerald snorted. “Well, it seems he’s had no takers, so he must by now realize he’ll need to think again.”
Madeline smiled and inclined her head in parting, but the squire’s words lingered. The gentry weren’t the only ones who held mining leases. She was idly circling the dance floor, pon
dering that, when Gervase suddenly appeared before her and trapped her hand in his.
He smiled, openly wolfishly—tigerishly—at her, then raised her fingers and kissed them. She tried to frown, difficult when her eyes had widened.
Shifting to stand beside her, he tucked her hand in his arm. “Sybil cried off and left me to make my own way.” He glanced around. “I forgot the country operates on earlier hours.”
His gaze returned to her face. “But now I’m here, we can dance.”
The musicians had just started up; Gervase drew her toward the floor. Madeline jerked back to reality. And pulled back. “No. I mean, I don’t dance.”
He raised his brows, but didn’t stop leading her forward. “Why not? You can’t expect me to believe you never learned.”
“Of course I learned. It’s just…” She blinked as he neatly twirled her, then smoothly drew her into his arms.
And she realized she had to look up a good few inches to meet his eyes. Realized that the hand at her waist and the arm behind it possessed uncommon strength, remembered how easily he’d lifted her off her feet the day before.
She didn’t dance—even though she was drawn to the exercise—because most men were shorter than she. Or at least not tall enough, or strong enough, to accomplish what was needed.
Two revolutions in Gervase’s arms and…when he raised his brows at her, she shook her head. “Never mind.”
He smiled, then looked forward, and whirled her through the turn. Literally whirled her; she’d never danced—been able to dance—with such unrestrained ease. Never had she been able to pace her partner as she could him—without having to shorten her stride, limit her movement, rein in her natural flair.
As they circled the room, effortlessly outpacing the other couples yet moving so smoothly there was no sense of speed, only a refreshing freedom, her heart lightened, took flight.
He looked into her eyes, and smiled. “There—you see. You enjoy it.”
She closed her lips on the too-revealing answer that had leapt to her tongue. Only with you was hardly a wise thing to say, not to him.
He needed no encouragement. Not to whirl her off her mental feet, something he proceeded to do with ludicrous ease. Being so confidently steered around the room was frankly exhilarating. He held her close—enough for her to feel truly secure at the pace they moved—closer than he perhaps should, yet it wasn’t so blatant an attack on her senses that she felt compelled to balk.
All she felt compelled to do was follow, to relax and let him lead as he would; her inner self sighed, and embraced the golden moments of unexpected pleasure.
His eyes were on her face, searching. Deeming it wise to distract him, she said, “You must have been waltzing quite a bit this year, what with all the balls in London.”
He raised his brows, his expression—mild resignation—for once clear. “Thanks to my sisters’ antics, I spent very little time at any balls. I’d reach town only to be called back within a few days.”
“So they were behind all those strange happenings?”
The line of his lips turned grim. “Indeed.” He met her eyes, hesitated.
She waited, eager to hear more but knowing better than to press him.
His lips quirked. “At least, having dealt with your brothers, you’ll understand. Those strange incidents, all of which were expressly designed to bring me hot-foot home, were my dear sisters’ reaction to the advent of the new Lady Hardesty.”
She blinked, tried to imagine, and couldn’t. “I don’t see the connection.”
“Thank you. I didn’t either. They, however, had convinced themselves that like poor Robert, I, too, might succumb to the lures of some femme fatale who would banish them to live with Great-Aunt Agatha in Yorkshire.”
She stared at him, confirmed that he was speaking the plain truth. She tried to keep her lips straight, failed entirely and laughed. “Oh, dear.”
He merely gave her a resigned look; his lips not curved but relaxed, he continued to whirl her as she struggled to master her mirth.
“I…” She paused to draw in a huge breath. “I truly can’t imagine you falling victim to any female.”
Gervase looked into her face, into her eyes, a shimmery peridot green in the chandeliers’ light. He’d thought the same, but was no longer so sure.
The music ended; he swung her to a flourishing halt—which, he noted, she enjoyed. Her unalloyed delight in the dance, something she’d permitted him to see, had to him been a subtle pleasure.
It was also a significant advance from where he had been when he’d first fixed his eye on her; then he hadn’t been able to see past her shield. Now…in moments like this, he glimpsed the woman behind it clearly.
With every fresh insight she grew more intriguing.
After one swift glance over the heads, he took her arm. “I believe it’s time for supper. Shall we?”
Her brows rose a little at his clear expectation of her agreement, but then she inclined her head. Her next words told him why. “The boys told me you’d formed some new gentlemen’s club in London. If they had it right, one with a rather unusual purpose.”
He smiled. And set about distracting her.
In that he was surprisingly successful; between her questions and his answers, ranging over the Bastion Club and its members, the true nature of his past service to the crown, Dalziel and his office, they progressed through supper in earnest conversation, sufficiently engrossed to discourage others from joining them. As they strolled back into the corridor leading to the ballroom, Gervase couldn’t recall a supper he’d enjoyed more.
Why he found her, of all females, so easy to talk to he didn’t know, yet her quick wits and the breadth of her understanding had allowed him to speak freely of topics he normally eschewed.
That had been another subtle pleasure, just being able to relax and speak without thought. Without censoring his words.
Perhaps it was dealing with her brothers that had left her so patently unshockable. So calm, so grounded.
Around her he felt anchored in a way he never had, not with any other, not at any time.
“This Dalziel,” she said. “You’re quite sure he’s right, and there is one last traitor somewhere in the government?”
Taking her arm, he turned her away from the ballroom. “Yes. If you met Dalziel you’d understand, but quite aside from the fact he’s the last person to invent things, we—the rest of us—have seen evidence that this last traitor exists. Jack Warnefleet got closest—he nearly caught the man’s henchman—but the traitor killed his man rather than allow him to fall into our, and Dalziel’s, hands.”
She walked beside him, looking ahead, puzzling over Dalziel’s nemesis and not really seeing. He knew that last was true; she made no demur when they reached a garden room and he opened the French doors giving on to it. Without comment, a faint frown on her face, she walked through.
“This traitor—what is known of him?”
“Another traitor suggested he had some connection with the War Office. Beyond that, the only physical description is of a tall, well-set-up, dark-haired gentleman of the ton.”
“Of the ton?” She whirled to face him as, having closed the door, he joined her.
He nodded. “He killed his henchman at a royal gala at Vauxhall. The only people who could obtain tickets were members of the ton, and the young lady who saw him was quite certain of his station.” He paused, looking into her eyes. “As Dalziel puts it, the last traitor is one of us.”
She looked stern—a severely disapproving Valkyrie. “No wonder he—Dalziel—is so determined to expose him.”
“Indeed. But enough of Dalziel.” His ex-commander had served his purpose. They stood alone in the garden room, well away from the ballroom. He reached for her.
Madeline blinked and glanced around; before she could do anything beyond register that they had somehow wandered down to Lady Moreston’s garden porch—a square room between two others, wall-less on one side and so open to
the garden with a pair of slim ivory columns framing the view—she was in Gervase’s arms.
Recalling his fell purpose—and her opposition—she braced her hands on his chest and pushed back to glare at him. “You distracted me.”
The accusation made him smile. “I did. I admit it.” Holding her fast within one arm, he raised his hand, and brushed the pad of his thumb across her lower lip. Leaving it throbbing. Then his eyes, dark in the weak light, lifted to hers. “And now I propose”—his hand shifted; his long fingers framed her jaw and tipped it up as his lips lowered to hers—“to distract you even more.”
Chapter 6
Madeline intended to hold firm, to refuse to play his game, but her besetting sin had other ideas.
No matter how much she’d tried to dismiss it, to play down her interest, that more adventurous side of her that she so rarely let loose knew the truth.
Knew how deeply she longed to know more, to learn of desire, and the passion that, with his arms around her and his lips on hers, seemed to hover at the edge of her perception.
It was that need to explore that had her twining her arms about his neck and kissing him back, had her sinking against him in flagrant encouragement entirely deaf to the protests of her rational mind.
Rationality, caution, held little sway as their mouths melded, as the kiss deepened and time spun away.
Simple heat, simple hunger.
And a yearning that welled from her soul. That touched her in a way she’d never felt before, that swelled and grew and drove her.
Drove her to twine her fingers in his hair and clutch as his hand, drifting down from her jaw, feathered over her breast, then closed.
Through the taut satin, one artful finger circled her ruched nipple, and she mentally gasped.
Waited. Poised on a cliff edge of elusive tension, wanting to know yet more.
His lips left hers. From beneath her lashes, she watched him glance down, to where his hand cupped her firm flesh.
His fingers lightly closed, then he glanced at her. After an instant, he closed the distance and brushed his lips over hers again, then drew back.