Yet every point he made, his sisters attacked. From three sides. At once. He knew where he stood, knew the rational ground beneath his feet was solid, yet no matter how hard he fought, he couldn’t seem to defend his position.
He was driven back, step by step. Onto a slippery slope that he suddenly realized led straight to abject surrender.
“Enough!” Running a hand through his hair, only just suppressing the urge to clutch the close curls, he ignored their pressing, leading questions designed to send him sliding down that slope and forced them to return to the single central point. “Regardless of anything and everything, as there is no lady anywhere near who might be suitable, I have to go to London to make my choice.”
“No,” Belinda said.
“Not without us,” Annabel belligerently declared.
“If you try to return to London alone,” Jane warned, “you’ll force us to do something terrible to bring you back.”
Gervase looked into all three pairs of eyes, each brimming with a determination equal to his own. They weren’t going to budge.
But this was his life. His wife.
And he was so tired of the mounting frustration of not being able to even start his search for her.
All, it now seemed, because of his sisters.
His temper, already tried beyond bearing, quietly slipped its leash.
“Very well,” he said.
All three girls straightened. They’d never, ever, seen him lose his temper, but knew him well enough to sense the change.
His tone cold, even and uninflected, he stated, “As you’re so convinced a suitable lady exists hereabouts, and that any such local lady will pose no real threat to you, I’ll make a bargain with you. I won’t return to London for the next three months, not until the Little Season commences. And I swear on all that’s holy that, from this moment on, I’ll marry the first suitable lady I meet—suitable on the basis of age, birth and station, temperament, compatibility and beauty. In return, you three will accept that lady without question .” He held their gazes, his own as hard as stone. “And you will not, again, indulge in any behavior designed to influence my decisions, or my life, in any way whatever.”
He paused, then said, “That’s the bargain. Do you accept it?”
They didn’t immediately answer.
All three studied him, then Belinda asked, “What if you don’t meet a suitable lady over the next three months?”
He smiled, a chilly gesture. “Then when the Little Season starts and I return to London, I’ll have to look there.”
They didn’t want to take the risk; the wariness in their eyes said so.
He pressed his advantage. “If you’re so sure that a suitable lady lies waiting in the neighborhood, then you should be prepared to let fate take her course and arrange for her to cross my path. You should be prepared to accept my bargain.”
The three looked at each other, wordlessly communing, then faced him once more. Belinda spoke. “If you promise on your honor to seriously look for, and then actively pursue, any suitable lady, then…” She hesitated, glanced one last time at the others, then looked back at him and nodded. “Yes—we accept your bargain.”
“Good.” He didn’t want to say more, much less hear any further words from them on his inability to choose his own wife. He glanced at Sybil, a silent observer throughout, and curtly nodded. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Another rhetorical question. With a last, raking glance over his sisters’ faces, he turned and strode to the door.
He had to get out—somewhere he could stride so he could let the coiled tension, the inevitable outcome of suppressing his fury, free.
By the time he reached the drawing room door, manifesting temper had infected his movements. Jerking the door open, he swung into the corridor—and nearly ran down Sitwell, his butler.
A paragon of his calling, Sitwell stepped back quickly to avoid a collision. Gervase inwardly sighed. Closing the door, he arched a brow in query.
“Miss Gascoigne has arrived and is asking to see you, my lord.”
The Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne. He was going to have to swallow his ire. “Where is she?”
“In the front hall, my lord. She intimated the matter wouldn’t take long and she did not wish to disturb Lady Sybil.”
Thanking Heaven for small mercies, Gervase nodded. “I’ll go to her.”
He strode down the corridor, leaving Sitwell in his wake.
His bargain with his sisters didn’t worry him; he knew beyond doubt that there simply wasn’t any suitable lady anywhere in the vicinity. He’d looked about the locality first before accepting the need to look in London. The notion that he’d choose to run the gauntlet of the London marriage mart was absurd; London was simply his only field of choice.
Which meant that for him finding a wife was postponed until the ton returned to the capital in late September. Given he’d had no intention of putting himself through the excruciating ordeal of countless house parties—the summer hunting grounds of the matchmaking mamas—that would have been the case regardless.
So his bargain with his sisters had cost him nothing he hadn’t already surrendered, namely the next three months. The point that seriously exercised his temper was that he’d had to make such a bargain at all.
Indeed, the entire subject of his wife—or more specifically his lack of same—had become a sore point, a mental bruise that throbbed every time he thought of it. Let alone spoke of it.
Turning a corner, he looked ahead, and saw a tall figure waiting by the round table in the center of the castle’s great front hall. He inwardly grimaced. No doubt Madeline had come to ask about the mill.
The daughter of the previous Viscount Gascoigne, only child of his first marriage, she was the older half sister of the current viscount, Harold, known to all as Harry, still very much a minor at fifteen. The Gascoignes held the estate of Treleaver Park, situated above Black Head, the eastern headland of the same wide bay on which the castle stood overlooking the western cove. Gascoignes had been at the Park for very nearly as long as Tregarths had been at the castle.
The two families were the principal landowners in the area. As, under the terms of her late father’s will, Madeline was the primary guardian of her three brothers, including Harry, it was she who was the de facto Gascoigne. She ran the estate and made all necessary decisions. As she’d been groomed by her father for that duty, and had performed in the role since before his lingering death eight years ago, the neighborhood had long grown accustomed to treating her as her brother’s surrogate.
Indeed, for the exemplary way she conducted her brother’s business and for her devotion to the difficult role of her brothers’ keeper, she had earned the respect of every person on the peninsula, and far beyond.
Gervase approached; hearing his bootsteps, Madeline turned, an easy smile lighting her face. Courtesy of his years abroad, he didn’t know her well, but as he’d been born at Tregarth Manor outside Falmouth, not that far away, and had spent many months throughout his childhood visiting his uncle and cousins at the castle, he’d known of her existence for most of her life.
Since his unexpected ascension to the earldom three years ago, and even more since he’d sold out the previous year and personally taken up the reins of the estate, he’d dealt with Madeline frequently, although busy as they both were, they most often communicated by letter.
She was considerably taller than the average, only a few inches shorter than Gervase. As usual when riding about the county, she was gowned in dark colors; today’s gown was a sensible rich brown. A wide-brimmed hat dangled from one hand, worn to protect her fair skin from the sun, but even more to help confine the mass of her hair. Fine and plentiful, no matter how tightly she restrained it in a knot on the top of her head, strands escaped, forming a halo of spun copper filaments about her face, rather like a Russian madonna. Her hair, however, was the only element of her appearance beyond her control; all the rest was deliberately and severe
ly restrained, strictly business.
As Gervase neared, she held out a gloved hand.
He grasped it, shook it. “Madeline.”
Retrieving her hand, she returned his easy nod. “Gervase.” Her expression turned rueful. “Before you say anything, I’m here to beg your pardon.”
He blinked, frowned. “I thought you’d come about the mill.”
Her smile widened. “No, although I did hear of your problem. It seems quite bizarre that your sisters were involved. Have you discovered why they did it? Or, as is the case with my brothers, was it simply a matter of ‘it seemed a good idea at the time’?”
He managed a rueful smile. “Something like that. But what’s your apology for?”
“In light of the mill, you’ll understand. I’m afraid my hellborn three’s latest interesting idea was to put your bull in among your dairy herd. Don’t, pray, ask me why—their logic escapes me. I’ve already had them out to see your herdsman to apologize, and I supervised them in recapturing the bull and putting him back in his field. He didn’t seem any the worse for his adventure, although I’m afraid your milk production might suffer a trifle due to the excitement.”
She paused, a frown in her gray-green eyes. “I should, I suppose, have expected something. They’re home for the summer, of course, but I had hoped they would have outgrown such schoolboy exploits.”
Gervase raised his brows, falling into step beside her as she walked slowly back to the front door. “Harry’s fifteen, isn’t he? He’ll stop his schoolboy tricks soon enough, but when he does, you might well wish he hadn’t. In this season a slight disruption to our milk production won’t even be noticed, and if that’s the worst he and your other two get up to this year, we’ll all think ourselves lucky.”
“Hmm…be careful what you wish for?” Madeline wrinkled her straight, no-nonsense nose. “In that you might be right.”
They paused in the shadow of the front porch. She glanced at him. “When do you expect the mill to be fixed?”
They chatted for several minutes, about the mill and the coming harvest, about the local tin mining in which both estates had an interest, about the latest local business news. Like all the neighborhood gentlemen, Gervase had learned to respect and rely on Madeline’s views, drawn as they were from a much wider pool of information than any of them could tap.
There wasn’t a local merchant, miner, laborer or farmer who wouldn’t readily talk to Miss Gascoigne about his enterprise. Likewise his wife. Madeline had a much deeper understanding of anything and everything that went on on the Lizard Peninsula and in surrounding districts, one no mere man could hope to match.
She glanced up at the sun. “I really must be going.” She met his eyes. “Thank you for understanding about the bull.”
“If it helps, you can tell your brothers that I was not amused. I’ll be going out to the mill shortly.”
With a smile, she held out her hand. Gervase shook it, then went with her down the steps to the forecourt, where her horse, a tall, powerful chestnut few other women could hope to control, waited, alert and ready to run.
Lifting her hat, she settled it on her head, then reached for the front of her saddle. Gervase held the horse’s bridle, watching without a blink as Madeline planted her boot in the stirrup and swung up to the horse’s broad back.
She always rode astride, wearing trousers beneath her skirts for the purpose. Given the miles she covered every day watching over her brother’s interests, not even the most censorious dowager considered the fact worth mentioning.
Madeline lifted her reins. With a smile and a brisk salute, she backed the chestnut, then wheeled and trotted neatly out of the walled forecourt.
Gervase watched her go, idly aware that her peers in the district were the other male landowners; in their councils, she was never treated as a female—as someone of different status from the men. While no one would actually treat her as a man—thump her on the back or offer her brandy—she occupied a unique position.
Because, in many ways, she was unique.
Thinking of his sisters, Gervase considered that a little of Madeline’s uniqueness could, with benefit, rub off on them. Turning back to the castle, he remounted the front steps. And turned his mind back to his temper…only to discover that it was no longer straining at the leash.
He no longer had anything to suppress. He felt calm, in control once more, confident and able to deal with whatever might come his way.
His conversation with Madeline—sane, sensible and rational—had regrounded him. Why couldn’t his sisters be more like her?
Or was that one of those things he should be wary of wishing for?
He was still pondering that point when he reached the drawing room. Opening the door, he walked in.
Belinda, Annabel and Jane turned from the window overlooking the forecourt, through which they’d obviously been observing him and Madeline. Sybil, swiveled on the chaise, had been watching her daughters, no doubt listening to their report.
Before he could frown at them, all four looked at him, their expressions identical, eager and expectant.
He stared at them. “What?”
As one, they stared back.
“We thought perhaps you might invite her in,” Belinda said.
“Madeline? Why?”
The look they bent on him suggested they were wondering where he’d left his wits.
When he didn’t spontaneously find them, Belinda deigned to help. “Madeline. Isn’t she a suitable lady?”
He stared at them, and couldn’t think of an answer. Not any answer he wanted to give. Oaths, he suspected, wouldn’t shock them.
He let his face harden, let his most impenetrable mask settle into place. “I have to go and unjam the mill. I’ll speak with you later.”
Without another word, he swung around and stalked out.
That evening, Gervase entered his library-cum-study and headed directly for the tantalus. As he poured himself a brandy, the latter events of the day scrolled through his mind.
Reaching the mill, he’d discovered the frustrated miller about to commence the laborious task of dismantling the grinding mechanism to see why “the damned thing won’t budge.” Asking him to wait, Gervase had gone outside to where the huge waterwheel sat unmoving in the narrow stream. His sisters knew nothing about gears and axles; there was no evidence they’d even entered the mill. Whatever they’d done to cripple the mechanism had been simple and ingenious—and something three schoolgirls, two of decent height and strength, could physically achieve.
The stream had been bubbling and gurgling along, covering the lower third of the wheel. After squinting into the rippling water, Gervase had called the miller and his sons to lend a hand; they’d managed to turn the wheel—enough to expose the gaps where three paddle blades ought to have been, and the anchor, doubtless purloined from the castle boathouse, that had held the wheel so that the jostling of the stream hadn’t shifted it. With the three blades missing, the water rushed freely through the gap, providing no force to turn the big wheel.
John Miller had stared at the gaps, at the anchor, and had sworn.
They’d found the blades, which for ease of replacement simply slotted into grooves in the wheel’s inner sides, tucked out of sight among some bushes. A matter of minutes had seen the anchor removed and the blades replaced—and the millstone grinding once more.
His sisters’ latest misdeed righted, he’d returned to the castle and had closeted himself in the library until dinnertime.
He’d contributed little to the dinner table conversation; the few exchanges had been of a general nature, of local affairs and local people. No one, however, had mentioned Madeline Gascoigne.
When, with Sybil, his sisters had risen and retreated to the drawing room, he’d watched them go, and then come here. Lifting his glass, he carried it to a well-padded armchair, sank down into the cushioning leather, and sighed.
He sipped, then put his head back and closed his eyes.
r /> Despite their careful silence, his sisters were watching him like hawks. Demanding creatures. He’d made a promise, and they expected him to keep it.
And, of course, he would.
Opening his eyes, he raised his glass again, and refocused on the issue never far from his mind, his principal and continuing problem—his lack of a wife.
When he’d resigned his commission late last year, he’d had a vague notion that now peace was established and he was free to become the Earl of Crowhurst in more than name, then getting himself a wife ought to be his next step.
When a group of close comrades—six others who like him had spent the last ten and more years working behind enemy lines under the orders of the secretive individual they knew only as Dalziel—had proposed banding together and creating a private club to guard against the marauding mamas of the ton, he’d thought it an excellent idea. The Bastion Club had indeed proved useful in facilitating the search for suitable wives—for most of the others.
So much so that as of a day ago, there were only two of the original seven club members still unwed. Christian Allardyce, Marquess of Dearne, and Gervase himself.
Christian, he’d realized, had some secret that was holding him back. Some reason why, despite, of them all, having spent the most time in the ballrooms and being the most comfortable in that milieu, he seemed unable to summon any interest in any lady, not even in passing.
There was some story there, some excuse for Christian remaining detached and consequently unwed.
He, however, had no excuse. He wanted to wed, to find the right lady and establish her as his countess. As his sisters had so bluntly enumerated, there were multiple reasons he should, not least among those being them and their futures. He’d set out to find his bride in February. Nearly six months had passed and he’d achieved precisely nothing.
The failure nagged. His was a nature that thrived on achievement. He was constitutionally incapable of accepting failure.
News of the trouble with the mill had reached him just after he’d arrived at Paignton Hall in Devon to witness the nuptials of one of their small band, Deverell, and his Phoebe. So afterward, rather than returning to spend a last week or so in London in the hope that among the few tonnish families lingering in the capital he might discover his future wife, he’d had to hie back home instead. The continuing frustration, even if it had been entirely outside his control, had only exacerbated his already abraded patience—and an irrational sense of time running out and him still not having found his bride.