He rose, too, drawing back her chair.
Facing the door, her back to him, she stepped out from the table.
Into the hard palm he’d raised, ostensibly to steady her.
In reality to shake her.
He succeeded, his touch searing through layers of fine silk to set fires flickering on her skin.
She froze, her breath tangled in her throat.
He leaned close, his murmured words falling by her ear. “I believe you’ll discover you’re mistaken.”
She sucked in a breath, decided against any attempt to have the last word. Head rising, she plastered a smile on her face and walked forward, joining the exodus as the ladies left the room.
The gentlemen didn’t hurry back to the drawing room, for which Madeline gave fervent thanks. She spent the time ensuring she was adequately protected from whatever machinations or maneuverings her nemesis might employ.
Returning to the drawing room to find her wedged between Mrs. Juliard and Mrs. Entwhistle on one of the sofas, Gervase spent no more than an instant in appreciation of her strategy.
He was running out of time.
Not only had the gentlemen lingered over their port, reminiscing and swapping anecdotes, but a storm was blowing in. He’d felt the elemental change in the air long before he’d glimpsed the thickening clouds beyond the windows.
Until then he’d been content to let Madeline play her hand, but there was only one place at Porthleven Abbey where, during a dinner party, he could speak with her alone.
He needed to get her to himself before the storm hit.
Hanging back by the door, he waited until the other gentlemen had been absorbed into the various groups around the room, then strolled across the floor to halt before Madeline.
With an easy smile for Mrs. Juliard and Mrs. Entwhistle, leaning down he reached for Madeline’s hand—trapped it before she, lips parted in surprise, had a chance to pull back. “If you’ll excuse us, ladies, there’s an important matter I must lay before Madeline.”
Straightening, he drew smoothly on her hand; his smile changed tenor as he met her eyes. “It’s that matter I mentioned before.”
She all but gaped, but then her wide eyes searched his, confirming his determination—confirmed that he wasn’t in any way bluffing. “Ah…” She allowed him to draw her to her feet. “I…perhaps…”
He wound her arm in his, nodded politely to the other ladies, then steered her across the room.
She went with him, but…“This is ridiculous!” He stopped before a pair of French doors. She faced him as he released her arm. “We are not having any discussion—and certainly not here!”
His fingers locking about her hand, he met her gaze as he reached for the doorknob. “Half right.” Opening one door, he whisked her through, ignoring the squeak of surprise that escaped her.
Leaving the door open, he put a hand to her back and with barely any pressure kept her moving down the terrace.
They were nearly at the end—out of sight of anyone in the drawing room—when he halted and dropped his hand.
She swung to face him, every inch the Valkyrie, sparks lighting her darkened eyes. “What, precisely, are we doing here?”
Madeline used the tone guaranteed to quell every male she’d ever met. She pinned her tormentor with a fulminating glare—only to discover that neither tone nor glare seemed to have any effect whatever on him.
Worse, he was looking at her hair. The bane of her life, doubtless it had already started escaping from the knot at the back of her head.
But then his eyes shifted; there was just enough cloud-drenched moonlight for her to watch as his gaze slowly swept her face, lowered to linger on her lips, then, at last, returned to meet her eyes.
“We’re here”—his voice had lowered, deepened—“to face what must be faced.”
His amber gaze remained steady; his tone wasn’t forceful, yet neither did it carry any indication of softness. Of uncertainty.
She was reminded, yet again, that he was one of those rare males she couldn’t rule. Which left her with far fewer weapons to fall back on; anger and stubbornness seemed her best hope. She lifted her chin, held to her stony glare. “I have no idea what particular worm has infested your brain, but let me make one thing perfectly clear. I am not looking—”
“Precisely.” There was nothing—not the tiniest hint—of softness in the line of his lips, either. “That’s my point.”
She blinked. He continued, “I haven’t been looking, and neither have you.” He took a step closer. “And you still aren’t.”
Her entire vision was now filled with him.
But this was a side of him she hadn’t before seen, only sensed. She’d locked her curiosity safely away—or so she’d thought—but now it stirred, stretched, pressed forward to look.
She narrowed her eyes on his. “What am I supposed to be looking at?” She lifted her hands, palms up, to the sides. “What is there to see?”
His amber gaze didn’t waver. “Not to see.” Slowly, his gaze lowered to her lips. “To discover.”
His voice had dropped again, to an even deeper, more resonant note. Her lips throbbed; she could feel her own breath passing over them. And knew she had to ask. “What? What is there to find?”
She’d wanted, expected, the words to sound dismissive, derisory; instead, confusion and her damning curiosity colored them.
The heavens answered her. A deep rumble growled through the night, followed by a sharp crack as lightning split the sky. The first flare was followed by others, flashing behind the screen of the roiling clouds, a display of elemental energy.
The light lit his face, every chiseled angle, each rock-hard plane. Gave her fair warning when he moved closer yet, when he raised his large hands and framed her face.
Tipped it to his.
“This.” The word feathered through her mind, dark and tempting.
He bent his head; she was so tall he didn’t have to bend very far before his lips hovered over hers.
She drew in a breath, held it, every muscle tensed and quivering.
His lids lifted; his eyes trapped hers. “Don’t fight.” It was a warning. “Don’t try to break away.”
His lashes lowered as he closed the last inch. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t want to know.”
The last word was a seduction, a whisper staining her lips, a promise—one he instantly fulfilled.
His lips closed over hers, no light caress but a proper kiss—one she’d been waiting for all her life.
Or so it seemed. One part of her seized, grabbed, gloried.
The rest felt stunned, shaken out of her world and into some other.
She was kissing him back before she’d thought. Moving into him in the same instant his hands fell from her face and he reached for her.
Then she was in his arms, locked to him. His lips were hard, demanding; she parted hers, not to appease but to know. To discover. To see.
What she hadn’t imagined might be.
There was heat and sensation, from him, of him—and within her. Not fire, not true flame, but a warmth that was every bit as elemental, as potentially powerful, as tangible as the heavy muscles of his chest beneath her hands.
She sank against him, not because she was boneless, helpless, but because she wanted to.
And the heat merged, his and hers, and flowed about them.
His tongue swept her lower lip, then slid into her mouth, touched hers, and she shivered. Sank closer still, her hands fisting in his coat as she welcomed him in and he drank.
Strength surrounded her, to her more potent than any drug, one so few could give her. She counted the world well lost as he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her as if she were not just a drug but the breath of life to him.
He angled his head, deepened the kiss—and hunger burst through. Elemental, powerful, pure. His, hers—one fed the other, quickly escalating, with every heartbeat spiraling higher, spreading, out of control.
Until it roared throu
gh them, ravenous, greedy—insatiable.
Gervase had stopped thinking. In the instant she’d moved into his embrace, when his arms had closed about her and she’d offered her mouth, he’d stepped over some edge—into a world ruled by desire.
But not any simple desire he recognized. The heat was familiar, but every touch was heightened, every glow brighter, every aspect keener, deeper, broader, tighter—infinitely more compelling.
Infinitely more addictive.
He had to have more—and whatever he asked for she gave. Surrendered.
Her lips were his, her mouth, her body supple and curvaceous filling his arms.
Craccccckk!
They both jumped, clutched each other as their senses rushed back and the world returned.
Lightning forked down from the sky; a raking gust swept the terrace, hurling leaves stripped from nearby trees.
“Madeline? Gervase? Are you out there?” Lord Porthleven stood in the open French door, peering down the terrace.
Gervase drew a deep breath, felt his reeling head steady. The shadows hid them. “We’re here—watching the storm.”
“Ah.” Nodding, his lordship looked out at the sky. “Quite something, ain’t it? But you’d best come in—there’s rain on the way.”
Madeline had stepped back, out of his arms. Placing a hand under her elbow, Gervase turned and paced beside her as they strolled—nonchalantly—back along the terrace.
Other guests were pressed to the windows, staring out at nature’s show. Madeline paused before the French door.
Halting beside her, he glanced at the sky, then looked at her. “It’s…mesmerizing. Wild, exciting.”
She met his eyes. “And dangerous.”
Turning, she stepped through the door. He followed, fairly certain that, like him, she hadn’t been talking about the storm.
The following morning, Gervase sank into the leather chair behind the desk in his library-cum-study. Leaning back, raising his legs, he crossed his ankles, balancing one boot heel on the edge of the desk, and gave himself over to the latest reports his London agent had sent him.
Barely ten minutes had passed before the door opened.
“Miss Gascoigne, my lord.”
Surprised, Gervase looked up to see Sitwell step back from the open door, allowing Madeline to march into his library.
March, stalk, stride—definitely nothing so gentle as walk.
“Thank you, Sitwell.” With a crisp nod, she dismissed his butler.
Sitwell bowed, and glanced inquiringly at Gervase. At his nod, Sitwell slid from the room, closing the door.
Madeline halted midway across the room, tugging rather viciously at her gloves. She was wearing a carriage gown, not her riding dress; she must have driven over. She had to have set out—Gervase glanced at the clock on the mantel—immediately after breakfast.
Swinging his feet to the floor, he rose. “Perhaps the drawing room—”
“No.” She shot a frowning glance his way, her eyes the color of a storm-wracked sea. The recalcitrant button finally gave and she stripped off her gloves, then glanced around. “This is your lair, is it not?”
Bemused, he answered, “So to speak.”
“Good—so we’re unlikely to be disturbed. I do not wish to have to exchange polite conversation with Sybil and your sisters—that’s not the purpose of my visit.”
She stuffed her gloves in a pocket, then started to pace back and forth before his desk, all but kicking her skirts out of the way as she turned. From what he could see of her face, her expression was set in determined, uncompromising lines.
“Perhaps you should sit down and tell me the purpose of your visit.”
She halted, looked at him, then at the armchair he indicated. She shook her head. “I’d rather pace.”
Inwardly sighing, he remained standing behind the desk, and watched as she resumed doing just that.
She glanced his way, saw, and scowled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, sit down!” She pointed to his chair. “Just sit and listen. This time it’s I who have something to say to you in private. And I do mean say.”
He dropped back into his chair. “Discuss.” When she threw him a confused look, he elaborated, “Last night I said we had to discuss something in private—and we did.”
She blinked, then nodded. “Indeed. Which is precisely why I’m here.” She flung around and paced back past the desk. “What we discussed last night is not something we are ever going to discuss again.”
He’d wondered how she would react; now he knew.
Energy poured from her in great waves with every stride. Her fingers, now free of her gloves, linked, twisted, gripping convulsively. Combined with her forceful strides, the signs were impossible to mistake. She was agitated, not angry.
A telling point. One that enabled him to consider her statement with something approaching mild detachment.
“Why?” He kept his tone even, purely curious.
Not that he needed to ask; that was what she’d come there to tell him.
“Let’s consider how we came to this point—the events that led to what occurred last night on Lady Porthleven’s terrace.”
“I kissed you, and you kissed me. And we both enjoyed it.”
“Indeed.” She paused as if debating whether to modify that acknowledgment, but then she drew in a huge breath and continued pacing, addressing the stretch of carpet before her feet. “But regardless, looking back—correct me if I err, but this started with you taking some nonsensical notion into your head that you needed to get to know me better. Subsequently, when I informed you I had no interest in dalliance, you decided convincing me otherwise would be a good idea—and one way and another, that led to last night.” She shot him a glance that was close to a glare. “Is that correct?”
He debated telling her of the initiating action, the point she didn’t know—the reason he’d needed to get to know her better—for all of one second. “That succession of events is materially accurate.”
“Exactly.” She grew more agitated, but she hid it well; it was only by her hands that he could tell. “So there is absolutely no reason behind what occurred on her ladyship’s terrace beyond your whim.”
He opened his mouth.
She silenced him with an upraised finger, even though she wasn’t looking at him. “No—hear me out. That’s all you need to do. Against the worth of your whim stand these facts. One”—she ticked off the point on her finger as she paced—“I am Harry’s regent, his surrogate, and will be for six more years. Two, you are Crowhurst, and as such you and I need to do business with each other on numerous issues, on at least a weekly basis. Three, we are, you and I, the principal landowners in the district, and as such hold positions as effective community leaders.”
She paused at the end of the track she was wearing in his rug, then swung to face him, eyes narrow, her chin set. “I have absolutely no interest in jeopardizing any of those functions in order to accommodate any more of your whims.”
Madeline paused only to draw breath before continuing, “And before you say anything, permit me to remind you I am considerably more than seven. Before you think to even obliquely suggest that dalliance between us might lead to something more, allow me to inform you I am well aware that you couldn’t, wouldn’t, not in this world or the next, imagine me as your wife.”
She cast him a sharp glance—and saw that his expression, until then impassive, had at last changed. Now it was hard—no, stony. His eyes had narrowed; his lips parted—she rode over him again. “For instance, I know perfectly well that your whim to get to know me better was assuredly not driven by any sincere interest in me as a woman—you’ve known me for years, so why now? Because there are no other ladies in the vicinity at present, at least none to your taste, and you are therefore suffering from boredom, if not ennui.
“But I was about, hence your whim. But as we both know, I’m far too old to be considered eligible for the position of your countess. I have none of the airs, gr
aces and aspirations that would be considered right and proper for the position—and am unlikely to develop them, as everyone in the district—even you—knows!”
She barely paused for breath. “Beyond that, my temper and attitudes are entirely incompatible with being your wife.” She wagged a finger at him as she swept past his desk. “We are far too alike to deal well on a daily, household basis, not that you ever actually intended of that, of course.”
At the end of her track, she swung to face him. “Which brings me to my peroration. Given you’re not thinking of marriage, and have no true interest in me—and you needn’t pretend you’ve suddenly been visited by some overpowering urge to make me your mistress—then”—she met his gaze—“as you have no motive whatever beyond satisfying a passing whim, you should cease and desist from this nonsensical pursuit of me.”
Gervase stared at her. His initial impulse was to argue—although deciding which ludicrous point to attack first would take some time. However…as he held her gaze, looked into the stormy seas of her swirling emotions, heard again her voice as she’d catalogued her virtues—missing most—it occurred to him that arguing would almost certainly get him nowhere.
She believed what she’d said. Absolutely, beyond question.
Her words had been rehearsed, yet had rung with conviction.
She honestly didn’t believe he would ever consider, let alone want, her as his wife. And as for desire—she didn’t believe she could inspire that either, at least not in him.
Of course, she’d nicely pricked his ego in numerous places, at least one of which he was disinclined to forgive. She’d all but accused him of trifling with her affections, preying on her finer feelings for idle sport. He didn’t like that, not at all, yet how the hell was he to deal with her now?
Without completely sinking himself in the process.
She met his stare with one of her own, then uttered a small humph and folded her arms. Tightly. Beneath her very ample breasts. Making it even more difficult for him to keep his eyes locked on hers, let alone think.
Her lips pursed. For half a minute, she actually tapped her toe.
Finally she uttered a frustrated sound, and demanded, “Well?”