She let that breath out with an explosive, “Lord Crowhurst—”
He rolled his eyes, which made her glare.
“Oh, very well!” She flung up her arms, relieving the pressure on his control considerably. “Gervase, then! But you must see that this nonsense—your ridiculous pursuit of me—isn’t going to get anyone anywhere. All you’ll achieve is to make me lose my temper, and as my brothers will tell you, you don’t want to do that.”
He wasn’t so sure; in her Valkyrie guise she was undeniably arousing. Of course, she didn’t believe she was attractive at all, so telling her so would get him precisely nowhere. He studied her—agitatedly pacing again. If she’d been insulted by his tilt at her, she would have been angry. If she’d been truly uninterested—something he wouldn’t have believed after last night’s kiss, but if she’d been honestly unaffected—her usual calm confidence wouldn’t have been disturbed.
Instead, here she was, wearing a track in his rug, trying to persuade him to stop pursuing her…. Why?
Inwardly, he smiled. The right question. The most pertinent question.
He took a moment to assess, then evenly asked, “What if I succeed?”
She halted, stared at him; although he could see her eyes clearly, he couldn’t for the life of him decipher her thoughts. Then she swallowed, and said, “That’s not the point.” Her tone was low. She lifted her chin, and continued more strongly, “The point is why you would want to, and we already know the answer to that.”
He held her gaze. “By your estimation, for a whim. Which, by definition, effectively translates to, ‘Why not?’ So let’s consider. Here I am, as you so rightly note deprived of feminine company. And here you are, twenty-nine years old, unmarried and unattached—and expecting to remain so for the next six years at least. We hail from the same circles. We both know there’s no social impediment to any liaison in which we might indulge.”
He paused, then went on, “I say I want you in my bed—the only hurdle to achieving that is your agreement. The only person I have to convince to say yes is you. And I intend to.”
“But you won’t!”
“Why?”
She made an exasperated sound. Her hands rose as if she were going to run them through her hair; she stopped at the last moment and waved them instead. “Because you don’t truly want me—you’re not truly attracted to me!”
He blinked. “And that kiss last night?”
“Was an aberration!”
“And if I say it wasn’t?”
When she looked at him, all he could see, all he could sense, was suspicion; she didn’t understand why he was doing this. It was time to close in. “Our situation, correct me if I err, can be reduced to this. I say I want you in my bed—and you don’t believe I truly do. Is that correct?”
Madeline compressed her lips. She wished she could read what was going on in his oh-so-male mind, but she couldn’t, so she nodded; his statement was true enough.
“If you’re correct, then nothing will actually eventuate.” He was still sitting back in his chair, the epitome of a gentleman at his ease, except for his eyes, his piercing gaze. “If I’m not serious, I won’t actively pursue you—I’ll lose interest and turn my attention to something, or someone, else. If you’re correct, then I will, indeed, cease and desist, more or less as a matter of course.”
Having him put it like that, so simply and succinctly, made her wonder why she’d driven there in such a frenzy—why she’d spent the entire night talking herself into a panic.
She shifted to face him squarely; she could feel the tension that had driven her to that point draining from her.
Then his lips curved—and all that tension came flooding back.
“If, however, I’m correct, and I am sincerely attracted to you and truly do want you in my bed, then, to my mind, given our current situation, at the very least you should allow me the opportunity to prove that to you.”
She stared. How the devil had they got to this point?
“Do consider”—his voice took on a steely edge—“you have, in essence, questioned my word, certainly my honor. It would only be fair and reasonable for you to allow me to clarify the matter—to set you straight.”
No, no, no, no, no…but…she put a hand to her temple. Rubbed. Frowned. “Why—”
“Why should be obvious. All you need to answer is yes or no.”
She frowned harder. “Yes or no to what?”
He sighed as if she were a widgeon. “To whether you’ll allow—meaning you won’t throw unnecessary hurdles across my path—me to prove to you that my attraction to you is entirely real.”
She narrowed her eyes on his handsome—and as ever uninformative—face. He continued to speak of his outrageous suggestions as if they were commonplace matters. “What, specifically, do you mean by ‘prove’?”
His eyes widened; he paused as if considering the answer, then said, “I suppose I mean that you’ll allow me to seduce you.”
She refused, of course. At length, in various ways. But he wouldn’t budge. He continued to talk her around in circles, bringing her back again and again to his simple, straightforward, transparently reasonable points.
Until, driven to the limit of her endurance, with a headache pounding in her temples, she threw up her hands in defeat. “All right! I agree !” Whipping her gloves from her pocket, she started pulling them on, ignoring his measuring gaze.
“Just to be specific…?”
She gritted her teeth; she couldn’t clench her jaw more than it already was. “Specifically—I will permit you to try to seduce me. However”—gloves buttoned, she pinned him with a glance every bit as steely as any of his—“I do not guarantee to succumb.”
The damned man had the gall to smile, entirely genuinely. He rose. “Indeed. That wouldn’t be any fun.”
Fun? She nearly choked. Deciding words were not a weapon to use with him, she swung to the door. “I’m leaving.”
“So I see.”
Although she moved quickly, he was beside her when she reached the door. She paused to let him open it.
“Do give my regards to your brothers.”
He opened the door. She stepped forward, then hesitated.
As if he could hear the question in her mind, he said from behind her, “I haven’t heard anything more about their interest in the smugglers, or the wreckers—if I do, I’ll tell you.”
It was the assurance she wanted. She dipped her head in acknowledgment, then stalked down the corridor—away from his lair.
Gervase accompanied her to the forecourt, saw her into her gig, then watched her drive away. When he turned back into the castle, he realized he was smiling; he took a moment to savor the feelings behind the smile.
Life in Cornwall had suddenly become very much more interesting.
Madeline was such a complicated, confusing jumble of female types, just learning them all, every fascinating facet of each of her personas, would keep him occupied for years.
He headed back to the library, replaying the last hour in his mind; it was heartening to know he hadn’t lost his knack for successful negotiations. So now, at last, he had a defined goal, a clear target. Dealing with his intended was very like maneuvering on a battlefield; at least now he knew which hill on the field he next had to take.
Chapter 5
The manor house outside Breage was located two miles west of Helston and the Lizard Peninsula, and a mile north of the harbor at Porthleven—not too close yet not too far from the valuable lands between Godolphin Cross and Redruth beneath which ran the rich veins of ore heavily laced with tin from which much of the district’s wealth derived.
The afternoon sun struck through the leaded panes of the small parlor as the door opened and the gentleman who had recently acquired the small property walked in, followed by his agent.
Malcolm Sinclair waved Jennings to one of the pair of armchairs angled before the empty hearth, then elegantly subsided into its mate.
Jenning
s, his fresh round face drawn in a frown, perched rather nervously on the edge of the seat. “None of the rest want to sell.” He grimaced. “Those first two must have been just luck. Every other place I’ve asked, the gents just smile and say no. I don’t know what to say to persuade them.” He glanced at Malcolm. “Not that I tried—you said just to ask and see.”
Malcolm nodded. “Yes—I wanted to get the lie of the land, as it were. Now we know….” He fell silent. After a moment, he steepled his fingers; he continued to stare unfocused across the room.
Jennings waited with not a hint of impatience. Sinclair was a master who suited him—cool to the point of cold, unemotional yet decisive—and their past association had led him to believe any future in Sinclair’s service would reward him well.
Eventually Malcolm stirred. “I think we should concentrate on the smaller leaseholders—the farmers, the villagers—rather than the gentry. And as for persuasion, direct arguments won’t work. Hard to convince someone it’s time to sell an asset when you’re there, hot to buy.”
“Exactly.” Jennings nodded. “Even farmers and villagers have sense enough to be suspicious of that.”
“Indeed. Which is why I think it might serve us better to consider what news might convince such people, relatively ignorant and uninformed, that selling their leases to anyone silly enough to offer—not knowing said news—would be the act of a prudent man.”
Jennings’s frown returned, this time more pensive.
Malcolm eyed it, and waited, watching as Jennings worked through the possibilities himself.
“Rumors,” Jennings murmured. “But we can’t spread them—not ourselves.”
“No, for who would believe that those bearing the very tidings suggesting their leases will soon be worthless would then want to buy those same leases?”
“Aye.” Jennings glanced at Malcolm. “But it’s rumors we want, isn’t it?”
Malcolm nodded. “Rumors—for instance that the local ores are declining in grade, or that the market for tin itself is declining, or better yet, news of a massive oversupply from another region driving down the price for the foreseeable future. Any rumor that suggests that poorer returns are in the wind will do the trick—and ‘persuade’ those small leaseholders that selling to ignorant and ill-informed Londoners is the clever thing to do.”
Jennings nodded. “But it can’t be us spreading the rumors.”
“No—it’ll be necessary for you to find some ears whose owners don’t know you, and are unlikely later to see and recognize you. I’ve heard there’s a festival in the offing—itinerant peddlers, troupers and the like gathering for that should be perfect for our purpose. Wait here.”
Rising, Malcolm went out into the hall. In its center, he paused, head cocked, listening, but no sound reached his ears. Reassured, he continued to the library at the front of the house.
He’d sent the Gattings, the couple he’d hired to look after him and the house, to spend the day at the markets in Porthleven, a necessary precaution given the Gattings knew him as Thomas Glendower, rather than Malcolm Sinclair. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d decided to buy the manor as Glendower, but as the money for the purchase had come from Thomas Glendower’s accounts it had seemed simpler at the time. He’d kept his alter ego separate, free of any taint from Malcolm Sinclair’s unfortunate past with his late guardian. That scheme had ended badly; he’d always known it would.
Keeping Thomas Glendower and his steadily accumulating investment accounts unconnected with Malcolm Sinclair simply seemed wise.
Entering the library, Malcolm crossed to the desk set before the windows. Finding the right key on his chain, he unlocked and opened the central drawer, and lifted out a heavy pouch. He’d already counted the coins. Hefting the pouch, he relocked the drawer.
Tucking his chain back into his waistcoat pocket, he paused, his gaze drawn to the view beyond the windows. A pleasant prospect of gently rolling lawn undulated southward, then dropped away; beyond, in the distance, he could see the sea.
To either side, the lawn was bordered by well-established trees; the manor stood on ten lightly wooded acres, with stables at the back. There were no formal gardens, but until now a Londoner, Malcolm felt no lack.
He glanced around the room, comfortable yet gracious with its oak half-paneling, then, lips quirking, headed for the door.
He hadn’t come to Cornwall expecting to buy a house but the manor had been there—just the right size, in just the right place, not far from a village and close enough to the sea, with a view from all the front rooms, including his bedroom on the first floor, that allowed him to appreciate the storms and drama of the weather that swirled past this stretch of coast.
Entirely unexpectedly he’d fallen in love with the place. He hadn’t had a real home, not since he’d been orphaned at age six. Until he’d seen the manor, he hadn’t known he wanted one, but the simple house with its quiet grace had reached out and snared him.
As yet he hadn’t changed anything; the furniture was an eclectic mix of styles that somehow suited both the rooms and him. He’d wait for a few months and see if anything grated.
The pouch in his hand, he headed back to the parlor and Jennings. The man had worked for him in London until, a month or so ago, Malcolm had suggested a sojourn in the country might be wise. Jennings had taken the hint and gone to visit his aunt in Exeter. On leaving London, Malcolm had decided to investigate Cornwall, not least because of the mines; he’d found Jennings in Exeter and had beckoned, and his erstwhile henchman had followed.
He’d left London not just to escape the heat but to leave behind the cloying stench of his guardian’s suicide and the slavery scheme Lowther, a law lord, had run. Malcolm, through Jennings, had been instrumental in arranging the details, but he hadn’t been sorry to see the scheme undone. He’d never understood the rationale of acting illegally in order to amass wealth, not when there were so many ways to accumulate funds while remaining entirely on the right side of the law.
Tin mining being one.
Opening the parlor door, he crossed to Jennings and dropped the pouch into his hand. “Try the alehouses and taverns in Falmouth. Any itinerant heading for the Lizard Peninsula is most likely to come through there.”
She was never going to try reasoning with Gervase Tregarth again.
The day after she’d been goaded into allowing him to try to seduce her, Madeline climbed the castle steps, sternly quelling an unsettling notion that she was walking into a tiger’s hunting ground.
The front doors stood wide; she continued into the hall beyond. Gervase was standing by the central table speaking with Mrs. Entwhistle; lit by slanting rays from the afternoon sun, he turned his head and watched as she approached.
She refused to look away, refused to allow any of her very real consciousness to show.
“Claudia.” Halting beside Gervase, Madeline nodded to Mrs. Entwhistle, then gave him her hand. “My lord.”
His fingers closed about hers; his eyes touched hers, then his lips curved. “Madeline. You’re in good time.”
He looked past her to where other members of the festival committee were entering.
“I believe that’s all of us,” Mrs. Entwhistle said, peering myopically toward the door.
Neither she nor the latest arrivals saw Gervase’s fingers slide over Madeline’s before he released them. Ignoring him and her cartwheeling senses, she turned to accompany Mrs. Juliard into the drawing room where Sybil and Lady Porthleven were waiting.
She’d had every intention of sitting between two other ladies; instead, somehow—and that she didn’t know quite how did not auger well—she found herself sitting beside Gervase on one of the small sofas set to form a semicircle before the hearth.
“Now, after the festival is formally opened—Reverend Maple and Lord Crowhurst will do the honors from the front porch—the first display to be judged will be the knitted works. Mrs. Juliard will be in charge there. We’ll leave twenty minutes for that, t
hen…”
Madeline struggled to keep her attention on Mrs. Entwhistle’s tortuously detailed schedule of events, hideously aware of the large male body filling the sofa beside her.
She could feel the heat emanating from him, could sense the hardness of his long limbs, another subtle temptation…her mind slid back to those moments on Lady Porthleven’s terrace….
That kiss had been…something quite out of the ordinary, at least in her limited experience. Perhaps that was the reason her resistance to the notion of allowing him to try to seduce her wasn’t as strong as she felt it should be. Trying meant more kisses, but surely there couldn’t be any great harm in indulging her curiosity that far, if nothing else in the interests of her education and ultimate self-preservation; assessing just what, in him, she faced, what temptation he might bring to bear….
“Madeline?”
She blinked. Everyone was looking at her.
“Sorry.” She shook her head. “Woolgathering. What did you say?”
Mrs. Entwhistle blinked; several other pairs of eyes widened. Madeline inwardly cursed. Since when did she drift off in meetings? She was usually the one keeping everyone else focused and up to the mark, ensuring all went smoothly and swiftly so she could get on with whatever was next on her schedule.
“The carthorse contest,” Mrs. Entwhistle said. “How may entrants do we usually have?”
She dredged the answer from her brain. “Eight, sometimes as many as ten. But over the last four years, there’ve been at least eight.”
“I’ll get Robinson to lend a hand with the judging,” Squire Ridley put in. “Truth be told, he’d be insulted if he weren’t asked.”
Robinson was the farrier for the district. Madeline nodded, then looked attentively at Mrs. Entwhistle—and willed her senses away from the distraction beside her.
That took significant effort, but she prevailed well enough that she wasn’t caught out again. She avoided meeting Gervase’s eye; whether he’d guessed the source of her abstraction was a point she didn’t need to know.