She could have pulled back then, Lady Hardesty’s view rebutted and dismissed, yet the thought never entered her head. Now she was in his arms, kissing and being kissed, she had other questions, much more burning ones, to address.
Such as whether there was any limit to the heat that rose between them, that like a flame seemed to ignite, flare, then rush through her, and him, through his touch, over her skin, down her veins. How hot could she—they—get? Enough to melt her bones along with her reservations? Enough to cinder all wisdom and cauterize all doubts?
More importantly, more tantalizingly, whether the sharp edge of desire now coloring their exchange, harder, more definite, more real, was his, hers, or theirs.
Regardless, it possessed power enough to drive them, to leave them both gasping when they broke from the kiss. To have her senses reeling when he closed his hand over her breast, and kneaded. To have her breathlessly willing him on when his fingers found the buttons closing her bodice and deftly, expertly, flicked them free.
To have her closing her eyes, head falling back, trapped in a web of expectation when he pressed the halves of her bodice wide and slid one hard hand beneath, with a quick jerk and a tug stripped away her chemise…and touched.
Her senses seized. Her lungs locked.
On a strangled gasp, she drew his lips back to hers. She had to kiss him, deeply, passionately; she couldn’t breathe but through him and she was desperate. Desperate to know, to feel, to experience…the pleasure in his touch. The reverence, near worshipfulness with which his fingers traced, tested, learned. Until at the last he cupped her breast in his palm, hot skin to hot skin, and gave her all she wanted.
All she suddenly needed.
Gervase inwardly shuddered. He wanted nothing more than to taste the firm flesh beneath his fingers, but that couldn’t happen, not now, not here. He ached, and knew matters were only going to get worse. Much worse. She was so responsive, so uninhibitedly ardent, so free of all guile in her wanting that all he could think of was appeasing her. Of slaking her sensual thirst, even at the cost of his own.
But he couldn’t let matters go any further. Even though they were both on fire, bodies heated and urgent for far more than just a touch—although he knew exactly what they needed to sate the intense hunger that gripped them both, he knew far too well that it couldn’t be.
Especially not with her, given what he wanted of her.
Drawing back, reining both of them in and turning aside from the sensual brink they’d been galloping toward far too fast, was a battle beyond any he’d previously waged. He managed it, just, by the skin of his sensual teeth, and only by gripping her shoulders and physically setting her, holding her, back from him, breaking all contact between his body and hers.
She blinked at him, dazed; he was growing accustomed to seeing that sensually stunned look in her eyes, a balm of sorts to his scoriated libido, slashed, wounded, denied what it saw as its rightful prey.
He’d never been more aware of the beast within, of the strength of his own passions. That she awoke something no other had ever touched was both a marvel and a trial.
They were both breathing too fast; he could hear the dull thunder of his pulse in his ears.
She blinked, and confusion and uncertainty swam into her sea-green eyes.
He drew in a breath, and forced his hands from her shoulders. Held her gaze. “This is neither the time, nor the place.”
His voice was deep, gravelly, but she made out his words.
She nodded, drew a huge breath, then realized and glanced down, and quickly did up her bodice. She glanced at him again; she tried for cool censure, but her gaze was still hot. She must have realized; she blinked, then, straightening, she inclined her head and without a word turned and walked on toward the house.
He watched her go. With every step she took, he found it harder not to smile; eventually he gave in and did.
She hadn’t said anything, because what could she say?
She went into the house. Turning, he headed back to the stable, still smiling, inwardly imagining all her possible ripostes, which only made him smile all the more.
In the darkest hour of the night, Helen, Lady Hardesty, her senses still reeling, her breathing yet to slow, pushed up from the low gardener’s bench over which her lover had bent her.
Squinting in the poor light, she brushed her fingers over the pearly skin of her ample breasts, nipples still erect, a darker pink after he’d rolled and squeezed them. Drawing the gaping halves of her evening gown closed, she quickly refastened them. Reaching behind her, she tugged loose the back of her skirts and petticoats from where he’d tucked them above her waist, and shook them down.
She could hear him behind her, cloaked in darkness, righting his clothing. Whenever they met in restricted locations—in this case a rarely used gardener’s shed concealed in the thick trees that grew along the riverbank—while he insisted on baring her breasts as well as her legs and bottom, he invariably did no more than open the flap of his trousers to service her.
However, as he did that exceedingly thoroughly, and equally invariably, she wasn’t about to complain. Lovers like him did not grow on trees, a fact to which from long experience she could attest.
He drew nearer; she felt him at her back. One long-fingered hand circled her throat, gently stroking, then his lips brushed her temple.
“Meet me here tomorrow night.” His voice was deep, dark, edged with that hint of danger that tempted so many ladies to spread their legs for him. She knew she wasn’t his only lover, just, at present, the most convenient.
Of course, he wasn’t her only lover either, just the most exciting.
She stifled a sigh. “I can’t see why you won’t join the party. My suite is at the end of the west wing—you could share my bed. I assure you Robert won’t be a problem.”
Glancing up and back, she saw his lips curve.
“You have to admit he was an excellent choice.”
“Indeed.” Then, knowing what hint was buried in the words, she added, “I’ll always be grateful to you for pointing him out.”
“And telling you how to land him.”
She nodded. He’d been inspired in that, too. An impoverished gentlewoman, at twenty-eight finding herself the still-youthful relict of an impecunious lord who had gambled away her portion as well as his estates, she’d had little choice but to look for a wealthy protector.
And she’d found one. But in him she’d found a gentleman with a deep comprehension of their world. He’d understood her need for security and position, and had shown her how, in the person of young Robert Hardesty, she might achieve her goals.
For one of her talents, further tutored by him, seducing Robert Hardesty had been child’s play, roping him into marriage even easier. The boy doted on her.
As the gentleman who stood behind her could have informed Robert, that was not the way to win her devotion.
Behind her his hand drifted down, passing over her hip to stroke one globe of her silk-clad bottom, idly fondling. Her gaze on the dingy window before her, she caught her lower lip between her teeth; he never did anything idly.
“There are too many guests at Helston Grange.”
“You asked me to invite them.” He valued his privacy, yet still…“You know them all—you chose them.”
“Indeed. They’re the excuse for me to join you socially, if and when I choose. What more natural than that, while paying a duty visit to an aging relative in the neighborhood, I should join your party for a day or an evening?” He paused, then continued, “No. The arrangements are perfect as they are.”
His arrangements. She didn’t even know where he was staying, couldn’t even guess whether there truly was an aging relative or not.
“If only the rest were going as well.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“The ship I’m waiting for. It hasn’t come in.”
His fingers continued to play, palpating her firm flesh; although his t
ouch had grown harder, edged with suppressed anger, it was his tone, flat, cold, that set her nerves skittering.
“I expected it two or three nights ago, but it hasn’t been sighted.”
His accents had grown more clipped, quite different to the drawl he usually affected.
He had a temper. She’d only seen glimpses, fleeting at most, yet she knew it was there, formidable and frightening. He was ruthless, entirely devoid of softer feelings, and sometimes his intensity, his obsession with his plans, with having them succeed, made her more than uneasy.
She swallowed, kept her gaze on the darkness beyond the window. “Perhaps I could ask around, see if anyone has heard anything?”
He was silent, considering, then replied, “Not yet. But I want what that ship is carrying of mine.”
His thirty pieces of silver. His payment—his ultimate reward, also his ultimate triumph. His ultimate revenge.
He wanted it, thirsted for it, could almost taste it. So close, but it wasn’t his—in his hands, his to gloat over—yet.
“I want that cargo.” He glanced down at her perfect profile, flexed his fingers more powerfully. “But I don’t want to risk any undue attention. Not yet.”
The fact that although he’d won the war—his private war waged against a powerful enemy who knew him not, and not for want of trying—that although he’d triumphed, he still had to skulk, plot and scheme to lay his hands on what was rightfully his because, despite all, he was still too fearful to face that enemy, and knew he never could, irked him to his soul.
Face setting, he gripped hard, heard her breath catch, strangle. “Do you understand?”
She nodded. Her “Yes” was breathless.
He held her there, poised between pleasure and pain, let the moment stretch. He could all but hear her pulse thundering, could easily sense her spiraling arousal.
Then he smiled into the dark, eased his grip, and patted her abused flesh. “Meet me here tomorrow night, and then…we’ll see.”
Chapter 7
The following afternoon, Gervase strode into the front hall of Treleaver Park. He nodded to Milsom, who appeared to greet him. “Miss Gascoigne?”
“In the office, my lord. Shall I announce you?”
“No need. I know the way.” With a nod, he headed down the corridor toward the estate office. As he walked, he polished the elements of his plan.
He knew better than to expect Madeline to invite him to further seduce her, especially not after that interlude in the arbor. With any conventional lady, their transparent compatibility would have resulted in encouragement, but Madeline would react by strengthening her defenses, rather than lowering her drawbridge.
Yet she was weakening, and now he had her measure. Her curiosity was a tangible force, powerful enough to override her reticence; once engaged, it became a potent weapon, all the more effective because it worked from within.
Her independence—her very unconventionality—was the other ace in his hand. Once she was compelled by her curiosity to experience something new, her independence ensured that considerations of “what was proper” or “how things were done” held little power to deflect her.
Her curiosity and her independence combined had led to that encounter in the arbor; now was the time to press her further, to storm the breach in her defenses.
The office door stood open; he paused in the doorway, lips curving as he took in the sight of her, seated behind the desk, head bent, open ledgers spread before her. Sunlight slanted through the windows behind her, lighting the corona of her hair, as always escaping its restraints to form a gilded fretwork about her face.
He was naturally soft-footed; she hadn’t heard his approach. What he could see of her expression said she was absorbed in her accounts. Swiftly rejigging his plan, he stepped into the room and shut the door.
She looked up, blinked, then rose. Behind his back, he turned the key; the click of the bolt fell into the silence.
He smiled, and started toward her.
Eyes widening, she put down her pen. “Ah…Gervase. Is there something….”
She turned to face him as he rounded the desk, eyes widening even more when he didn’t slow. With his knee, he nudged her chair aside, and finally halted, effectively trapping her between him and the desk.
“What…?” She swayed back, then straightened, stiffened, the instinct to lean away from him countered by her will.
He met her eyes, endeavored to keep his expression mild. “You told me that if I had any further questions, you’d happily answer them.” He’d let his gaze slide to her lips. Leaning closer, he brushed them with his. Not a kiss—a tantalizing touch.
Enough to distract her, but when he drew back an inch, she shook off the effect. Frowned. “About the festival—questions about the festival .”
“Oh.” He infused the word with boyish disappointment. “I’d hoped…” Again he touched his lips to hers, for longer this time, until he sensed her instinctive response; one hand rising, fingers lightly cradling her cheek, one side of her jaw, he held her—barely—and sent his lips cruising, tracing her jaw, feathering up over her cheekbone, over her ear, dipping down until he breathed in the scent of her, and closing his eyes breathed softly out, lips hovering above the sensitive hollow below her ear.
His other hand had risen to lightly grip her waist; he felt her reaction, the swift indrawn breath, the quiver of fascinated expectation.
Of curiosity awakening, stretching.
Inwardly smiling, he murmured, “I’d hoped…”—he drew back just enough to meet her eyes—“to learn the answer to a question that’s been plaguing me since last we parted.”
Her eyes, peridot-bright, searched his; her lips, lush and ripe, were parted—she moistened them before whispering, “What…?”
Feeling his hands move between them, Madeline glanced down. Her lungs seized, her head spun as she watched his quick fingers unfasten the tiny buttons closing the bodice of her day gown.
They stood in her office with the afternoon sun streaming over them and he was baring her breasts, and intended God knew what. She should stop him—could stop him.
But she made no move to.
Unable to take her eyes off his fingers, off the swell of her breasts he was so rapidly exposing, she swallowed. “What was your question?”
“I need to know, I’m burning to know…” Her bodice open, her breasts laid bare, he cupped one swelling mound. Ran his thumb gently, tantalizingly, over the peak. Watched it harden.
Her gaze rose to his face; she couldn’t breathe. His features had never looked harder, more rigid. More clearly etched with passion reined.
“What these taste like.”
The intent words penetrated her mind only slowly; when they finally impinged, she blinked, went to look down, but he looked up at that moment and kissed her.
Not as he had in the past, so that her wits evaporated and her ability to think dissolved, but lightly, soothingly, enticingly.
Entreatingly, in patent supplication.
So that even while his lips supped at hers, she could feel his hand at her breast, could fully appreciate each evocative caress, feel each touch sink to her bones.
“Will you let me learn the answer?”
His words drifted over her lips, through her brain. There wasn’t any answer she could make—other than to let him take what he wished. To, when his lips feathered over her jaw and his head dipped, close her eyes and let it happen. His lips traced down the column of her throat, and she shivered. He paused as if to note it—all the answer, all the permission he needed. Then his head lowered.
Eyes tightly closed, she gasped; with one hand at her waist, he bent her back. Then his lips pressed hotly to the upper swell of her breast and she shuddered. Lost all touch with the world as with lips, tongue and teeth, with the hot wetness of his mouth, he tasted and learned.
And taught her. The sensations he evoked, that he sent whirling through her, that speared her, that wracked her, were more, f
ar more intense than she’d imagined they might be. With his mouth on her breasts, he waltzed her into a new landscape of heat, hovering passion, and a deeper, sharper, more powerful yearning.
Not good, she knew, but oh so addictive. Her senses unfurled; parched, denied for so long, they gloried and wallowed in the bounty of delight he pressed on her.
He gripped, lifted her, then she was on the desk, lying back amid her ledgers and accounts, her knees and thighs spread with his hips between. And he was leaning over her; one of her hands had risen to his head, holding him to her as he devoured.
As he unhurriedly pursued the answer to his question, and flooded her mind with pleasure.
Pleasure that swelled, grew, built, until she was squirming, arching lightly as the heat rose, as passion took hold, and that nameless yearning grew ever more insistent.
He paused; she felt his breath, as ragged and shallow as hers, wash over her swollen flesh, over her sensitized skin. Then his hand closed over her breast, his touch harder, more driven; his head rose and he found her lips—and whirled her into a more heated kiss.
This she knew, this she recognized; she opened her senses and embraced the moment—gathered to her all the sensations he offered—and felt her world quake.
He growled something through the increasingly ravenous kiss, then his hand left her breast, but to her relief not her body, moving lower, possessively claiming midriff and waist, hip and belly and upper thigh. He gripped briefly, then released the taut muscle and moved his hand to the juncture of her thighs.
He touched her through the thin material of her gown, sliding the silk of her chemise against her most sensitive flesh. She shuddered, held him more tightly to the kiss, tempted and challenged with her tongue—sensually reeled when he responded with a devastating invasion that left her trapped, caught, driven to some indefinable peak.
Then she realized it was his fingers, cleverly, expertly caressing between her thighs that were making her feel so. Making her feel as if her world—the one he’d swept her into—was about to end.
To erupt, to shatter.