For me. For my own. For one night out of time.
Chapter 14
“I cannot tell you, my lord, how pleased I am to see you back in the district, in your rightful place.” Lady Felgate fixed her protuberant eyes on Gervase as he made his bow to her. “Absentee earls—indeed, gallivanting senior noblemen of any sort—are to be deplored. It is not what the country needs.”
Straightening, Gervase knew better than to argue. “Indeed. I plan to remain at the castle for the foreseeable future.”
Lady Felgate brightened. “Excellent! We must see what we can do about finding you a local gel to take to wife.” Her ladyship waved at her ballroom. “Plenty here—go and look.”
Gervase promptly complied, at least as far as following Sybil into her ladyship’s ballroom. His looking, however, consisted of scanning the heads, searching for a bright one taller than most. Not finding her, he inwardly sighed and consigned himself to escorting Sybil to a nearby chaise, then attempting to cling to his own company until Madeline arrived.
Lady Felgate was a character, one of those ancient beldames whose eccentricities everyone put up with simply because doing so was easier than resisting. The ball she held every summer at Felgate Priory was a local institution, one everyone attended—again because it was easier than attempting to avoid it.
That did, however, mean that everyone—literally every lady and gentleman in the district older than eighteen—would appear in her ladyship’s ballroom that night.
“Thank you, dear.” Sybil drew her hand from his arm and sank onto a chaise by one wall. She glanced around. “I can’t see Muriel or Madeline, can you?”
“No, but they’ll be here soon, no doubt.”
“If you see them, do direct Muriel this way.”
With a nod, Gervase moved away, inclining his head to Mrs. Entwhistle as she bustled up to speak with Sybil.
In some respects, the crowd was a boon; there were sufficient tall gentlemen present to give him cover. Gervase kept moving, slowly tacking through the crowd, acknowledging greetings, exchanging the usual pleasantries, yet maintaining the fiction that he was on his way to join someone. That, he’d long ago learned, was the best way to wait for someone in an arena such as this; he always had a reason to move on.
Smiling, nodding, even chatting, required little mental effort to sustain, leaving the better part of his mind wrestling with a subject he rarely addressed—his feelings. On the one hand he felt buoyed and encouraged by Madeline’s bold actions of the previous night, even more by her admission that she’d wanted to make love with him as her most special birthday treat. Contrarily, an odd uneasiness rippled beneath his usual confidence, undermining it in a way he neither liked nor understood.
The source of that uneasiness was that unsettling power that had grown between them, that he’d sensed and known was there from the first, but that he’d tolerated, allowed to be, accepted on the grounds that anything that drew her to him, that held the promise of tying her to him, was in his best interests.
He still felt it was—knew it was—that it wasn’t something he wished to lose, at least in the sense of it linking them, and tying her to him.
What he wasn’t so sure about—what was making him increasingly edgy—was the way it now tied him to her.
“My lord!” Just ahead, Mrs. Juliard waved to him.
He paused by her side, greeting her—and a young lady he learned was her niece.
“Harriet’s come to spend some time with us. I was just telling her what a pity it was that she missed the festival at the castle. She was quite intrigued to hear about the cannons.”
Gervase smiled into Miss Juliard’s youthful countenance—and wondered how on earth any sane person could imagine, as Mrs. Juliard clearly hoped, that his interest might fix on such a young, naïve lady.
But he liked the Juliards, so he made the appropriate noises; he was preparing to part from them, to utter a polite lie, when he suddenly knew—simply knew—that Madeline had arrived. Lifting his head, he looked across the room—straight at her where she’d paused just inside the main doors.
She looked delicious in apple-green silk, with both her brothers’ gifts on display—and his gifts, too, in her hair, and dangling from her wrist.
Turning back to the Juliards, he smiled; he had no more need for lies. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, there’s someone I must speak with.”
They parted with smiles and nods; Mrs. Juliard hadn’t truly harbored any high hopes.
He had to cross the better part of the ballroom to reach Madeline; within a few feet he was reining in his impatience—he couldn’t actually push through the crowd. It took a good ten minutes to cover the distance without drawing attention to his fell intent…and when he neared her, he discovered someone else—several someone elses—had reached her before him.
Slowing, then halting, he inwardly swore.
She was surrounded by a coterie of Lady Hardesty’s guests. The sight made him pause—to reconnoiter before he rushed in. Courtland was there, by Madeline’s elbow, the cad, along with four other tonnish gentlemen. He wouldn’t have trusted any of them with his sisters.
He certainly didn’t trust them with Madeline but…even from ten feet away he sensed she was holding her own. Her Valkyrie shield was fully deployed. However, the fact that, despite there being five outwardly attractive ladies, friends of Lady Hardesty, in the party, all five gentlemen, including the handsome man on whose arm Lady Hardesty herself leaned, had their predatory gazes firmly fixed on Madeline told Gervase all he needed to know.
Lady Hardesty and her friends were no longer especially desirable prey, at least not to those five gentlemen. That was why all five were looking at Madeline as if she were a lamb. A frolicking, innocent, delectable lamb.
Resuming his stroll forward, he made for her side. He kept his gaze on her face. As he’d hoped, she sensed his presence before the others did, glanced his way, then stepped back, creating space for him by her side.
Space he smoothly filled. “Madeline, my dear.” With a confident smile, he took the hand she offered and bowed, inwardly gloating at the smile she’d turned on him; it still held a vestige of social veneer, but no one with the slightest experience could, on seeing it, doubt that he and she were lovers.
“Gervase.” She, too, used his given name, made it soft and private. “I wondered where you were.”
Straightening, he met her eyes, read in them that she’d reached much the same conclusion he had and was eager to make clear to the five other gentlemen that she had no interest whatever in them.
He squeezed her fingers, then laid her hand on his sleeve, covering it with his—and only then looked at the others, letting his gaze travel the circle of faces to come to rest on Lady Hardesty.
“Lord Crowhurst. How delightful!”
He very nearly blinked. Lady Hardesty had clearly missed his and Madeline’s blatant message.
With a smile that promised lascivious delight, Lady Hardesty offered her hand. “Well met, my lord.”
Reluctantly lifting his hand from Madeline’s, he grasped her ladyship’s fingers, half bowed, and released her. “Lady Hardesty. Ladies.” He nodded, distantly aloof, to the other females.
Smiling, Lady Hardesty introduced him to the two he hadn’t previously met.
One, a Mrs. Hardingale, a patently dashing matron, fixed him with an arch look. “Tell me, my lord—is this truly the most major ball in the area?” She glanced around, then brought her gaze, eyes laughing, back to his face, clearly inviting him to denigrate the company of his neighbors.
He regarded her impassively. “I believe it is one of the more major events, certainly a long-established one.” He paused, then added, “It’s usually a very pleasant affair.”
Madeline lightly gripped Gervase’s arm, whether in support or warning she wasn’t sure, but she needn’t have bothered; Mrs. Hardingale simply looked nonplussed, unsure whether the comment had been a jibe and if so, whether she should take umbrag
e.
Two of the other ladies tittered—actually tittered. Madeline managed not to stare.
Lady Hardesty moved forward; releasing the arm of the gentleman beside her, she crossed the circle to place a hand on Gervase’s other arm. “My lord.” She looked up into his face, ignoring Madeline entirely. “I’m especially glad to see you. I’ve been wanting to have a word with you.” Her voice was low, sultry; her brows arched lightly. “If I may?”
Say no. Madeline subdued her glare with an effort, held down the unexpected and alarmingly violent reaction that erupted from somewhere within her. Gervase shifted, drawing her if anything closer—a blatant attempt to make Lady Hardesty notice that she was on his arm.
Lady Hardesty did notice, but she merely glanced at Madeline, smiled lightly, then turned back to Gervase—as if Madeline had been an animated potted palm. A horse would have warranted more attention. Madeline’s temper, a force of nature rarely engaged, started to spiral. Upward.
“I was wondering, my lord”—Lady Hardesty edged closer, looking down, hoping to make Gervase lean toward her to hear her words—“whether I could prevail upon you to give me a few minutes of your time…in private?”
Lady Hardesty looked up—combined with her nearness, endeavoring to trap Gervase with her dark eyes.
Madeline could barely believe the woman’s hide. She glanced at Gervase—what she saw eased her temper, allowed her to press it back.
He was looking down his nose at her ladyship—from a very distant, exceedingly superior height. “I fear not. Miss Gascoigne has promised me the first waltz, which I believe will be commencing soon.”
As set-downs went, that was as direct as a gentleman could acceptably be.
But Lady Hardesty merely smiled—at Gervase, then, again with a mild, oblivious air, at Madeline. “I’m sure one of these gentlemen would be only too happy to take your place, my lord.” She brought her fine eyes to bear once again on Gervase’s face. “I greatly fear that my need for your company far exceeds Miss Gascoigne’s.”
No one could willingly be so obtuse, and Lady Hardesty was no fool, not socially. Madeline suddenly understood; for the first time in over a decade, she blushed. Lady Hardesty and her friends—as a quick glance at both the gentlemen and the other ladies confirmed—saw her as too tall, too countrified, too old, too much a spinster left on the shelf to ever have any real chance with Gervase.
They thought he was merely being polite to a neighbor, that his attentions to her were inspired by protective friendship, nothing more…for what more could a gentleman of his ilk feel for a lady like her?
The realization was a slap, one she absorbed, but…her temper roared to full life and snapped its leash.
But she—it—got no chance to act, to react.
Gervase spoke. Coldly, collectedly, his diction so precise each quiet word cut like a saber. “I fear I failed to make myself clear. Miss Gascoigne promised me the first waltz because I not just asked, but made a heartfelt plea for the honor.” Locked on Lady Hardesty’s face, his eyes had turned agate-hard, his gaze chilly. “And there is nothing—I repeat, nothing —on this earth that would persuade me to forgo that pleasure.”
He paused; despite the babel surrounding them, not a single sound seemed to penetrate the now-silent circle. No one shifted; Madeline suspected most were holding their breath.
“I trust,” Gervase finally said when the silence had grown taut, “that you now understand?”
Lady Hardesty had paled; frozen beside him, a tiger with teeth she’d presumed to tease, she didn’t know what to say.
Gervase shifted, removing his arm from under her hand, then he curtly nodded—a clear dismissal—and turned to Madeline. “Come, my dear.” As if he’d snapped his fingers, the opening bars of the first waltz floated over the heads. He smiled, intently. “I believe we have a waltz to enjoy.”
She returned his smile with perfect grace, nodded regally to the now-silent ladies and gentlemen, then allowed him to lead her away.
He took her straight to the dance floor, and swept her into the dance.
For long minutes, she let herself flow with the music, let the sweeping revolutions soothe her, let her temper—satisfied and all but purring—settle once more.
They were processing back up the long room when she sighed with pleasure, and focused on his face. “Thank you for rescuing me.” She knew that was why he’d joined Lady Hardesty’s circle. She studied his eyes, his still-stony expression. “I’m only sorry doing so forced you to make such an extravagant comment.”
He blinked; his features eased. Openly puzzled, he arched a brow at her.
She smiled. “About your heartfelt plea for the honor of waltzing with me, and of nothing on earth being enough to make you forgo the pleasure.”
He frowned at her. After a moment during which he searched her eyes, he asked, “What in all that did you find ‘extravagant’?”
She sent him a wry but smiling look. “You know perfectly well that you’re the only partner I’ll willingly waltz with. If you ask me to waltz, I’m not going to refuse—no ‘heartfelt plea’ likely ever to be required.”
“Good.” He drew her closer, spinning them effortlessly through a tight turn. “However,” he continued, as they fell into the long revolutions once more, “should you ever refuse, I would indeed plead, even go down on my knees, to secure your hand for a waltz.” He met her eyes. “I like waltzing with you.” After a moment, he added, “I appreciate waltzing with you. I adore waltzing with you—and not even that is stating it too highly.”
She looked into his eyes, and pleasure, warm and seductive, filled her. She smiled. “I like waltzing with you, too.”
“I know. And I like that, too.” He had to look up to steer them through the other whirling couples. When he looked down again he trapped her eyes. “So you see, there wasn’t anything the least extravagant in what I said. It was the truth as I know it.”
He was utterly serious; Madeline felt her heart stutter, felt the glow within spread. But…
“They’re from London, and rather maliciously inclined. You’ll be returning there in autumn to look for your bride—they could—”
“You needn’t concern yourself with that.” The sudden edge in his voice, almost a snap, was a reminder that that subject—his bride—was not one any gentleman would discuss with his…lover.
Despite the sudden lurch of her heart, she kept her expression mild and inclined her head. “Very well.”
She looked over his shoulder, and tried to recapture the magic of the waltz, but even though she was revolving in his arms, the soothing pleasure now eluded her.
Her mention of his bride had doused it. Had created a gulf between them, one that remained for the rest of the evening even though he stayed by her side throughout. They chatted with their neighbors and others from the district, outwardly so assured that no one would have guessed that inside, they were both mentally elsewhere, both thinking.
About the same thing.
They didn’t speak or even allude to it again, but when the ball was drawing to a close, and ahead of the rush Gervase escorted her and Muriel to their carriage, after helping Muriel up, he turned to her. Her hand in his, he studied her face, her shadowed eyes, then bent his head and whispered, “Come to the boathouse. Meet me there tonight.”
He straightened and looked at her—waited for her response.
She nodded. “Yes. All right.”
Relief seemed to wash through him, but it was so faint, so fleeting, she couldn’t convince herself she’d truly seen it.
He helped her into the carriage, then shut the door and stood back. He raised a hand as it rocked forward.
She stared out of the window—stared at him as long as she could—then, with a sigh, she sat back. Closed her eyes. And started to plan how she would get to the boathouse.
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 s
ocially 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 enunciated 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…”