On the terrace flanking Felgate Priory’s ballroom, Lady Hardesty strolled on the arm of her occasional lover—who had finally deigned to be seen socially with her. She’d noticed him in the crowd, chatting amiably with numerous locals, from which she’d deduced that his tale of an elderly relative might just be true. He had to be staying with some recognized family in the district to have received one of Lady Felgate’s summonses.
He’d stopped by her side earlier, cutting her out so they’d been alone amid the throng, but only to give her his latest instructions. Although she knew why she obeyed him, the necessity still irked. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the slightest bit susceptible to her wiles. Even more unfortunately, that was part of his allure.
“So what did you learn?” he demanded, the instant they were sufficiently distant from the other couples taking the air. The night was unusually hot; the suggestion of a storm hung in the air.
She sighed. “I had to send Gertrude to ask—she wasn’t with us earlier, when Crowhurst was so vicious. Whoever would have imagined he’d defend Miss Gascoigne so fiercely? Amazing though it seems, he must be bedding her—it’s the only possibility that makes sense.”
“I don’t care about Crowhurst or which woman he elects to tumble. I want to know about that brooch.”
Menace and violence ran beneath the precisely enunicated words. His fingers bit into her arm. She spoke quickly, “Indeed, and for that you have both me and Gertrude to thank. She had to hide the fact she was one of us and pretend she was some lady visiting the district—she did an excellent job following my directions.”
“And?”
“Miss Gascoigne said she received the brooch for her birthday.”
“From whom?”
“Her brothers. And yes, Gertrude asked—according to Miss Gascoigne they bought it from one of the traveling traders at the festival.” She paused, glanced at his face. “You must have missed it when you looked.”
His eyes had narrowed. “I didn’t miss it.”
He sounded beyond certain. She frowned. Eventually she ventured, “So the boys lied?”
“Oh, yes. They lied—a perfectly believable lie in the circumstances. And the only reason they would lie is…”
She waited. When his gaze remained distant, locked on the dark gardens, and he said nothing more, she prompted, “What? Why did they lie?”
His lips curled in a snarl. “Because the buggers have found my treasure, and they don’t want anyone else—even their sister—to know.”
Madeline left her room half an hour after returning to it. She’d let Ada help her remove her new hair ornament and gown, then had sent the sleepy maid to her bed.
Ignoring her own, she’d dressed in her riding skirt and drawers, opting in the circumstances to dispense with her trousers; who, after all, would see? Aside from all else, the night was unusually warm, heat lying like a blanket over the land, still and unmoving. Slipping through the dark house, silent as a ghost, she made her way to the side door, let herself out, then headed for the stables.
Artur was happy to see her, and even happier when she placed the saddle on his back. A ride, be it by moonlight or sunlight, was all the same to the big chestnut. Any opportunity to stretch his powerful legs was his idea of Heaven.
He carried her swiftly along the cliff path. The castle loomed on the horizon before her, the battlements and towers silhouetted against the starry sky. There was little moon but the sky was clear; the radiance of the stars washed silver over the fields, over the waves, and glowed brightly phosphorescent in the surf gently rolling in to bathe the sands below.
Madeline saw the beauty, absorbed it, but tonight it failed to distract her from her thoughts. The same thoughts that had haunted her since that moment on the Priory’s dance floor.
The unexpected, unprecedented clash with Lady Hardesty and her guests had forced to the forefront of her mind a number of facts she’d been ignoring. She wasn’t a glamorous London lady, the sort the ton would see as a suitable consort for Gervase; it had been easy to ignore that point and its ramifications while they’d had only locals around them.
Lady Hardesty and her friends had brought home the fact that she could never compete with them and their peers—their unmarried sisters from whom Gervase would choose his bride. But she’d always known that, had accepted it from the first.
What she’d allowed herself to forget—had willfully let slip from her mind—was that he would, indeed, at some point, return to London to choose his bride. Accepting that, acknowledging that, keeping it in mind made her own position crystal clear.
She was his temporary lover, nothing more. A lover for this summer; when autumn came, he would leave, and she would again be alone.
She’d thought she’d accepted that, understood it, but now…now she’d unwisely allowed her heart to become involved, it ached at the thought. It hurt to think their time would soon be over.
Bad enough. It ached even more to think of him with another.
Lying with another. Kissing another. Joining with another.
That was the other thing the clash had brought to light—not, as she’d first imagined, her Gascoigne temper, but something rather more explicit.
She’d been jealous, and not just mildly so. When Lady Hardesty had moved to engage Gervase, her fingers had curled into claws. At least in her mind. But what had shocked her even more than her reaction—one she had no real right to feel—was the violence behind it.
Given her Gascoigne temperament, that didn’t bode well. While in the main her family were even-tempered, good-natured, that streak of recklessness that affected them all made indulging emotions such as real anger and violent jealousy a very bad idea. People who could, and would, in the heat of a moment risk just about anything had to be careful.
Which raised a question she’d never thought to ask: How on earth would she, could she, interact with the lady Gervase would ultimately make his wife?
She couldn’t imagine the answer. No matter how much she lectured herself, she’d always be that poor lady’s worst enemy.
She would have to…what? Go into a nunnery? How could she possibly live at Treleaver Park and not stumble constantly across the poor unsuspecting woman?
The thought, the possibilities, and the scenarios her imagination, now awakened to the notion, supplied were simply too horrendous to contemplate. When she reached the top of the path to Castle Cove, she had the beginnings of a headache, but no clue how best to proceed. She reined Artur in, then started him slowly down, letting him pick his way in the poor light.
She knew why she was there—because Gervase had asked her. Because he’d held out the prospect of another night in his arms—and if she was going to have him, be able to be with him and indulge her feelings—those it would have been wiser not to allow to bloom and grow, let alone blossom—only until he left to find his bride, then she would take all he offered, every last interlude.
She hadn’t asked for this, hadn’t been searching for it, but fate had sent him to her, and she, a Gascoigne to her soul, had recklessly fallen in love. So she’d embrace it, let the bud bloom for as long as possible before what had grown between them was forced to die.
Time enough to face that horror when it came.
Her emotions felt raw, too close to her surface, when she turned onto the ledge and saw Gervase waiting by the side of the boathouse. He caught Artur’s head; when she slid down from the high back he led the gelding behind the building and tied him alongside his big gray.
Returning to her side, he took her hand. She felt his fingers close, firm and strong, about hers, felt them shift, stroking, as he paused and through the shadows searched her face; his was, as usual, unreadable. Then he glanced at the sea. “Let’s walk on the beach.”
Surprised, she turned, let him lead her down the stone steps cut into the edge of the ledge and onto the soft sand. Her hand in his, he started toward the waves.
She pulled back. “Wait.”
He stopped, turn
ed back as she drew her hand from his and sat on the steps. Rucking up her skirts, she pulled off her riding boots and stockings, and set them aside. Seeing, he followed suit, toeing off his shoes, pulling off his stockings, leaving them beside hers on the steps.
Retaking her hand, he set off; she kept pace beside him as they trudged down to where the retreating tide had left a section of compacted sand on which they could more easily walk. Reaching it, he turned east, away from the castle. They set out at a pace that quickly slowed to ambling. Neither spoke, but their thoughts—mutual, she had not a doubt—lay heavy between them.
They strolled a little way, slowing even more as they both watched the waves roll in, small and gentle, their edges laced with phosphorescence. When he said nothing, she drew in a tight breath. “About what I said this evening—”
“On the dance floor—”
They’d spoken over each other; both stopped, and faced the other.
Their eyes met. He nodded. “You first.”
“I wanted to say…to assure you that I understand.” When he searched her eyes, waited, she went on, “About your bride. I know that you’ll need to return to London, to choose a bride, then bring her back here. I wanted to say that when the time comes for you to do those things—” She broke off and gestured with her free hand. “I won’t make a fuss.”
She met his eyes, held his gaze. Drew in a breath and, lungs tight, lied. “I don’t want you to imagine I’ve changed my mind and expect more from you just because…” Again words failed her; a gesture had to suffice.
“Because we’ve become lovers?”
His voice sounded harsh, but that might have been the sea. She nodded, put up a hand to hold back her wafting hair. “Because we’ve drawn close.”
His eyes had remained locked on hers; his expression wasn’t as rigidly impassive as usual, but she couldn’t identify the emotion behind it.
Then he sighed through his teeth, a hiss of frustration. “You don’t understand.”
She blinked. He sounded exasperated.
Releasing her hand, he gripped her shoulders, drawing her closer, his eyes locked on her face. “You haven’t understood anything at all.”
She frowned. “I just told you I understand perfectly.”
“What you’ve just told me is that you’ve missed…” He broke off, his eyes narrowing on hers. “Or is it ignored?”
She narrowed her eyes back. “What? What in all this am I ignoring?”
His jaw set. “This.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her.
She had one moment of lucid thought: That she knew all about this. All about the heat, the yearning, the need. All about the passions that would flare, rage and swallow them.
A second later, the heat, the yearning, the need, the passion and the desire that swam in its wake, caught her, and ripped every scintilla of thought away. Replaced it with sensation.
And behind the sensation, as she was learning to expect, came emotion.
Stronger; every time she was with him it grew and swelled. More powerful; she couldn’t any longer deny it, let alone ignore it.
It drew her, captured her, drove her—to sink against him and yield, to surrender and take, to set aside all restraint and simply love him. Physically, yes—she now understood why the act was termed lovemaking—but the more precious, more costly gift she had to give dwelled in what powered the physical—her intention, her commitment, her devotion to him.
They’d come together too often for his kiss to be anything but incendiary; he’d meant it that way, so it was. His lips were hard, commanding, ruthlessly demanding, and she readily complied.
Readily surrendered her mouth, gasped when his hand closed over her breast. She barely registered him opening the front placket of her riding dress, then stripping it away—because by then the only thought in her head was to be naked in his arms.
Her dress fell to the sand, followed by his jacket, neckerchief and shirt, her chemise and his trousers…only when her drawers whispered down her legs and the sea air caressed skin rarely exposed did she realize…
She drew her lips from his, gasped, “We’re on the beach.”
“So?” His hands spread, he held her to him, her hips molded to his. “There’s no one else within miles. Just you and me, the stars and the sea.”
“Yes, but…” She blinked; pushing back her hair, she stared at him, then glanced at the beach, wet sand and dry sand, couldn’t imagine…
He laughed briefly. “In the surf. Come on.”
“What?” But he was already striding down the beach, towing her with him. She followed, still stunned. “In the waves?”
He glanced back at her. “Surely, as a Gascoigne, you’re not going to balk?”
“Being a Gascoigne has nothing to do with it,” she muttered under her breath. They reached the waves; she braced for their icy touch—and experienced an altogether different sensation. The summer had been warm, the days long and hot; the sea, at least in the shallows, had heated. The water purled around her feet and legs as he drew her relentlessly on; it felt cool against her already heated skin, but not cold.
The sensation was pleasant, a tempting, distracting sensual contrast.
It became even more so when he finally stopped, beyond the breaking waves where the water reached to his waist, planted his feet and pulled her around and to him, into his arms—and kissed her again.
Ravenously, voraciously—a kiss and a claiming deliberately calculated to set their fires raging again.
The resulting conflagration took less than a minute to reduce her once more to a state of heated, urgent, hungry and greedy, desperate need.
He knew—he lifted her, hoisted her against him; needing no direction, she locked her arms about his neck, wrapped her legs about his waist and kissed him back, all fire and determination, willing him, needing him, to take her.
The glide of his blunt fingertips over the slick, swollen flesh between her thighs had her gasping. She clung to their kiss, urged him on, demanded—then sighed, a near sob, as his fingers pressed in, thrust deep…but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
Gervase read her spiraling need through their kiss, through the desperation that reached him so clearly, that so powerfully joined with his own. He didn’t truly know what had possessed him, only that he had to have her now, here, had to make her see…
He savaged her mouth, driven by that pounding primal need to make her his—and have her acknowledge it. Have her know it, comprehend it, understand it.
The waves were retreating, their repetitive surge a caress in itself. His fingers buried in her sheath, he stroked, and felt her sob. But the water was level with his hand, the to and fro motion distracting, both water and air cooling what didn’t need to cool. Holding her against him, supporting her weight, he walked deeper into the sea.
She knew, clung, waited until he stopped again with the water at mid-back, below her shoulders, leaving the waves flirting with her breasts, with her tightly furled nipples.
The sensation evoked a strangled gasp, then she tightened her legs around him and shifted, restlessly seeking, wanting.
Inwardly smiling—his beast intent and slavering—he drew his fingers from her sheath, positioned his erection, then thrust up as he pulled her down.
They both lost their breaths.
Lips parted, they gasped; from under their lashes, mere inches apart, their eyes locked. Slowly he lifted her, then brought her down again, thrusting even deeper, filling her to the hilt.
She exhaled, her breath washing over his lips, breathing with him as he moved her upon him, her breasts rising and falling as his chest did the same.
Her gaze lowered to his lips; he shut his eyes, concentrated on all he could feel…. She closed the last inch between them and pressed her lips to his.
Gave him her mouth, welcomed his tongue, wrapped him in her arms and let their own tide take them.
Slow, forceful, repetitive; a drawn-out excruciatingly intense lovi
ng.
They’d learned not to rush, and the surge of the waves about them helped. The steady, measured, inexorable rise and fall gave them another rhythm to cling to when their own grew too fraught. The coolness of the water helped keep the heat from cindering their wills too soon, let them stretch the moments out, and out, and out…let them commune in the dark sea, in the depths of the night, with the wild cliffs behind them and the stars above, the surf a constant whisper in their ears, alone but for nature all around them.
He gave himself up to it, completely, utterly, and prayed she would know, that she would see. That she might, tonight, finally understand.
The end was spectacular, even for them. It came upon them in a rush and caught them, shattered them. Wrung every last iota of passion from them, then flung them high, beyond the world, where every sense vaporized and glory filled the void—and filled them, glowing in their veins as they slowly spiraled back to earth, to the sea, the waves and the darkness of the night, to the comfort and inexpressible joy they found in each other’s arms.
Chapter 15
When at last she lifted her head from his shoulder, Madeline stared into Gervase’s face, and tried to fathom what the last moments had meant, what they’d revealed.
The power between them—fueled on her part by what she recognized as love—had only grown stronger, but…did he feel it, too?
If he did…what was it he felt?
A suddenly very vital question, but one his expression, more stoic than impassive, did little to answer.
“Can you stand?” He sounded resigned.
Realizing her legs were still locked around him, she straightened them and tried; she was stable enough.
She drew her arms from his shoulders; he took her hand.
“Let’s get back to the boathouse.”
She let him steady her through the waves. In the boathouse she would be able to see his eyes, and perhaps get some idea of what was going on, what it was that seemed to be shifting and resettling in the landscape between them. She’d thought she’d got it right, but he seemed to want to tell her she’d got something important wrong.