Beyond Seduction Read online

  “Miss Gascoigne, I believe?”

  She turned to find a gentleman beside her, one she’d never set eyes on before. He was dressed well—too well to be a local—in a blue coat of Bath superfine and a nattily striped waistcoat; she thought it the ensignia of the Four-in-Hand Club. With his air of urbane polish, he almost certainly hailed from town. Still, if he was at the vicarage afternoon tea…She raised her brows, inviting him to continue.

  He smiled. “Mr. Courtland, Miss Gascoigne.” He bowed. “We haven’t been introduced, but in this setting I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence in approaching you.”

  He was a personable man; she smiled in reply, still unsure why he was there.

  “I came with Lady Hardesty’s party.” With a nod, he directed her gaze to a group of similarly garbed gentlemen and dashingly gowned ladies across the lawn. “We were starved of entertainment, so thought to come here, to see who else lived in the locality.”

  There was an underlying tenor to the comment Madeline didn’t entirely like—as if having identified her as being a local, he was imagining she might entertain him.

  Still smiling, she offered her hand. “I am Miss Gascoigne.” She omitted the customary “of Treleaver Park.” “And this”—shifting to the side, with her other hand she indicated the looming presence beside her; she’d been aware of Gervase’s sharpened attention from the moment Courtland had spoken—“is Lord Crowhurst, of Crowhurst Castle.”

  Still smiling amiably but with an assessing, even challenging glint in his eye, Courtland offered his hand. “My lord.”

  Grasping it, Gervase nodded. “Courtland.”

  Madeline glanced swiftly at him; his lips were relaxed, his expression unthreatening, but the look in his amber eyes was not encouraging.

  She looked at Courtland; his expression suggested he was developing reservations about the wisdom of approaching her. As he retrieved his hand, he glanced again at her—with Gervase by her side, yet she no longer had her hand on his arm—then he looked at Gervase and raised his brows. “Do you spend much time in Cornwall, my lord?”

  Gervase’s reply was cool. “I haven’t in recent years, but that looks set to change.”

  “Indeed?” Courtland glanced around. “I wouldn’t have thought there’d be much to hold one’s interest hereabouts.”

  “You’d be surprised.” Gervase glanced at Madeline. “Those of us who’ve grown up in the area naturally have a deeper appreciation of its features.”

  Madeline caught his gaze. Was he implying she was a local feature, moreover one of sufficient attraction to induce him to remain in Cornwall? Her eyes started to narrow.

  Gervase turned to Courtland. “You’ll have to excuse us. Miss Gascoigne was about to leave.” He offered her his arm. “Come. I’ll ride with you to the lane.”

  Madeline struggled not to glare. But here was a conundrum: She didn’t wish to encourage Gervase—to in any way let him believe she approved of such arrogantly protective behavior—yet her instincts had already decided she didn’t wish to dally with Courtland.

  She compromised, letting her eyes speakingly flare at Gervase as she put her hand on his arm, then she turned to Courtland with a dismissive smile. “I hope you enjoy your time in the district, sir.”

  Courtland bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Gascoigne.” Straightening, he smiled into her eyes. “No doubt we’ll meet again.”

  She made no reply, just waited while he and Gervase exchanged curt farewells, then allowed Gervase to steer her toward the house.

  They paused on the way to thank their hostess, the vicar’s sister Miss Maple, then continued on. Madeline glanced at the group of London ladies and gentlemen as they passed. Laughing and joking rather too loudly, they didn’t quite fit the tenor of the afternoon.

  “I’m curious about Lady Hardesty,” she murmured, “but not curious enough to bother tangling with them all.”

  “Do you know which one she is?” Gervase asked.

  Madeline shook her head. “Dark-haired, that’s all I’ve heard.” There were three dark-haired ladies in the group.

  Once they were away from the milling guests, she glanced at Gervase, intending to make her disapproval of his too-protective stance clear, only to see him eyeing—narrowly—something. She followed his gaze to three raffish gentlemen clearly hailing from Lady Hardesty’s party. The trio were standing to one side, openly eyeing anything in skirts. Their eyes turned her way; their gazes met Gervase’s.

  A second passed as over her head some elemental male exchange took place, then the trio shifted almost nervously and all three looked away.

  Looking ahead, Madeline canvassed her options. She knew how pigheaded her father used to get, and even Harry occasionally showed signs of that particular male affliction. Of course, both her father and Harry held some claim to the right to protect her, something Gervase didn’t.

  Regardless, she knew how fruitless it was to argue with a male in the grip of protective delusion; that Gervase didn’t have any right to behave so was unlikely to make him more receptive to her protest.

  Indeed, quite possibly less, for he’d know himself in the wrong and would therefore argue all the harder.

  From her point of view, little would be gained by airing the issue if all that happened was that he dug in his heels and growled; it might serve her better to pretend she found his irritating behavior so ludicrous as to be beneath her notice.

  She liked that idea. She was smiling to herself when they reached the narrow path that ran through the shrubbery to the stable courtyard. The passage was narrow; Gervase stood back to let her go ahead.

  Defiantly lifting her chin, she stepped forward.

  His hand fleetingly brushed the back of her waist.

  She swallowed a gasp as sensation flooded her, searing skin, tightening nerves. She stumbled—

  Hard hands grasped her waist, steadying her.

  Against a large, hard, hot male body.

  Her lungs seized; her knees felt weak. She felt flushed and skittish. At her back, she could feel the muscled solidity of his body all down the length of hers. Her breath strangled in her throat.

  Eyes wide, she glanced over her shoulder—and met his amber eyes.

  Close, so close, those eyes saw too much; they searched hers, then passed slowly over her face…lingered on her lips.

  Time stopped.

  Stretched.

  Her lips throbbed.

  The sounds of others approaching reached them.

  Gervase glanced back; his hands briefly gripped, enough for her to sense their steely strength, then he urged her on.

  Her feet moved, one in front of the other; his hands fell from her.

  By the time she reached the end of the passageway and stepped out into the open, she’d managed to subdue her traitorous senses enough to haul in a breath.

  There wasn’t anything she could say, any comment she wanted to make. His initial action had been nothing more than gentlemanly courtesy—an escort’s steadying touch. It was her reaction that had precipitated the rest.

  Just the thought of being so susceptible to a man’s touch made her mind reel.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Gervase was scanning the area around the horses and carriages, his expression the same as when he’d looked at the importuning trio. Forbidding, protective…possessive.

  She blinked, looked for one last instant, then faced forward.

  Protesting that he didn’t have the right to behave so over her was, she suspected, no longer even an option.

  She was, absolutely and definitely, in much deeper trouble than she’d thought.

  Chapter 4

  Two evenings later, Madeline followed Muriel into Lady Porthleven’s drawing room. By an exercise of will she kept her gaze on her ladyship’s face, waiting while Muriel greeted their hostess.

  She’d had two days to recover her equilibrium. On leaving the vicarage, Gervase had ridden alongside her gig until she’d reached the lane; she�
�d deftly turned into it, flourished her whip in farewell and escaped at a good clip, leaving him to ride on to the castle. She hadn’t looked back.

  In the intervening hours, knowing she’d come face-to-face with him tonight, she’d endeavored to recall what their previous relationship had been—how they’d interacted, addressed each other; as far as she could remember she’d always treated him just as she did the other local gentlemen.

  She’d come here tonight girded for battle, determined to get their interaction back on its previous tack, well away from the increasingly personal, increasingly intimate level they’d been broaching.

  “Madeline.” Turning from Muriel, Lady Porthleven clasped her hand warmly. Her ladyship’s protuberant eyes widened as she took in Madeline’s gown. “That’s a delightful shade, my dear.” Raising her quizzing glass, she examined the rich, bronzed silk. “It matches your hair wonderfully, and does very nice things for your skin. You should wear it more often.”

  Madeline smiled. “Thank you, ma’am.” With a nod, she started to move on to make way for the Entwhistles.

  Mrs. Entwhistle reached forward and tapped her arm. “Lovely gown, Madeline, dear.”

  Acknowledging the compliment with a confident smile, head high, she swept into the room. The compliments were welcome; she rarely paid much attention to her gowns—where was the point?—but it appeared she hadn’t forgotten how to shine when she wished.

  Still smiling, still confident, she made for the circle of older gentlemen she customarily joined before dinner; as usual they stood before the French doors, tonight open to the terrace and the balmy night beyond. At no point did she glance around. She was not going to look to see if Gervase was present; he was just another gentleman to her.

  Stationed inside the door chatting with Mrs. Juliard, Gervase saw Madeline sweep by. He blinked, looked again, then had to stop himself from staring, from turning to track her progress as she swept across the room.

  With her back to the door, Mrs. Juliard hadn’t noticed the Valkyrielike vision. “We’ll definitely need a tent for the embroidery displays.”

  “I’ll make a note of it the instant I reach home.” Gervase clung to his politely interested expression, although the urge to follow Madeline was a tangible thing. “If you’ll excuse me, I must have a word with Ridley about the contests he’s organizing.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Juliard patted his arm. “It’s so wonderful that the festival will be back at the castle this year. There’s a great deal of excitement brewing, I assure you.”

  Gervase smiled, bowed and moved away. He hadn’t liked the glint in Mrs. Juliard’s eyes. Making a mental note to ask Sybil if there was a daughter or niece he should know about, so he could avoid same, he slowly made his way around the room toward Squire Ridley.

  Madeline was standing by Ridley’s side.

  Taking his time, Gervase pondered the blatantly apparent. She had gone on the offensive. He’d expected something—some reaction—but had had no real idea what tack she might take. Even now, with the evidence before him—stunning his senses—he was far too wise to take the message at face value.

  She’d clearly made some decision, although he had no clue as to what. Regardless, he had his own agenda for the evening. After those revealing moments in the vicarage shrubbery, learning what made them incompatible was no longer the dominant thought in his mind.

  “Madeline.” He halted beside her as the other men shifted to give him room.

  She’d been speaking animatedly to Ridley; as she turned his way, Gervase captured her hand without waiting for her to offer it. He held the slim digits securely as he nodded a genial greeting around the circle, both felt and sensed the tension that gripped her as she waited, wondering if he would dare….

  Bringing his gaze back to her eyes, he smiled. For one instant he considered doing what she feared and raising her hand to his lips; instead, he lightly squeezed her fingers and released them.

  Her eyes on his, she drew breath, then smiled a fraction tightly and inclined her head. “Gervase. Gerald was just saying his lads have suggested a horseshoe competition.”

  “Is that so?” Gervase looked at Ridley.

  “We’ll need an area marked, and a peg of course, but it should be easy enough to manage.”

  “There’s an area near the stable arch that should do,” Gervase replied. “I’ll have my grooms mark it out.”

  He turned to Madeline.

  She looked across the circle. “Mr. Juliard wanted to ask about the treasure hunt.”

  Juliard cleared his throat. “I did hear some talk about a hunt for the younger children. I could help with that.”

  “I believe Sybil and my sisters have that in hand—I’m sure they’ll be delighted to have your aid.”

  And so it went. Every time he so much as glanced at Madeline, she directed the conversation—and his attention—in some other direction. They covered a host of topics, from aspects of the festival to crops and mining, even touching on the weather.

  Initially amused, as the minutes ticked by, he felt frustration bloom.

  Madeline sensed it—how, she didn’t know—but she knew he was getting her message. Buoyed, she stuck to her plan.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Lady Porthleven swept up. “Dinner is served. Crowhurst, if you would take Madeline in? And Gerald, come with me. Mr. Juliard, if you take Mrs. Canterbury? And…”

  Madeline didn’t take in the other table assignments; the first had made her mind seize. What had possessed her ladyship…?

  She shot a sharp glance at Gervase.

  He met her gaze and smiled—intently. “No, I didn’t arrange it, but it seems fate is on my side.”

  He’d spoken quietly, just for her; the low purr of his voice slid along her skin; she fought to quell a shiver.

  “Shall we?” Eyes still on hers, he offered his arm.

  She reminded herself of her aim, her determined course—and smiled, equally intently, back. “Thank you, my lord.” Placing her hand on his arm, she let him lead her to join the procession to the dining room.

  “I meant to ask.” Gervase caught her eye. “Have you any particular interest at the festival—embroidery, knitting…saddlery, perhaps?”

  The last surprised a laugh from her. “No. I’m usually so involved in the organization of the day I barely have time to think of the activities.”

  “A pity. At least, this year, you’ll have time to wander and enjoy.”

  She raised her brows. “I suppose I will.”

  The thought distracted her; he guided her down the table to her place, then took the chair beside hers.

  Conversation was general as the dinner commenced, but gradually became more specific as partners turned to each other and applied themselves to being entertaining. Madeline should have felt relieved when Gervase divided his time equally between her and Lady Moreston on his other side; instead, she viewed his amiability with suspicion.

  The tiger’s stripes were there, concealed beneath his elegantly cut black coat, disguised by the precisely tied cravat and ivory linen perhaps, but he hadn’t lost them.

  Yet every time he turned to her, he seemed perfectly content to toe the line she’d drawn, and interact with her purely on their previous social plane.

  Perhaps he’d realized the unwisdom of his enterprise—his tilt at changing her mind about indulging in dalliance with him?

  The thought gave her pause. When next she turned from Mr. Hennessy, Gervase was turning from Lady Moreston.

  “I meant to thank you,” she said, voice low. “For taking the boys sailing yesterday.”

  His lips curved; she saw the smile echoed in his eyes. “I can honestly say it was my pleasure. I haven’t had a boat out in years, and the truth is I can no longer so easily call on my grooms to join me. Having your brothers to crew was the perfect answer.”

  She smiled. “They thought the day beyond perfect, too. Of course, now they’re pestering me for a boat of their own.”

 
“No need. Once Harry and Edmond are a trifle older and stronger, they can borrow one of the castle boats. One of the smaller ones, so they won’t be tempted to go out too far.” He met her gaze and shrugged. “Otherwise the boats are just sitting in the boathouse. The girls will never sail.”

  She raised her brows, hesitated, then inclined her head. “The promise of that will hold them for now.”

  He sat back, lifted his wine glass, and sipped.

  She glanced at him—and found herself trapped in his eyes.

  For one long heartbeat, she stared into those tigerish orbs, then she hauled in a breath, wrenched her gaze away and looked across the table. “I—”

  “We have to talk.” Beneath the table he closed his hand over hers where it lay in her lap, lifted it when she jumped, long fingers tensing, gripping when she would have twisted free.

  Lungs tightening, she again met his eyes. “We are talking.” She clung to her mask, her social persona.

  His lips curved, the light in his eyes one she’d never expected to encounter, certainly not about a crowded dinner table. Out of sight, his fingers stroked hers, a soothing touch that didn’t soothe her at all.

  “Not about what I need to discuss with you.”

  She arched a brow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

  His smile widened. “I seriously doubt you want me to answer—not here, not now. Not in public.” He let a moment pass, then added, “Of course, if you insist…far be it from me to disoblige a lady.”

  She jettisoned all notion of pretending disbelief; the threat in his words was proof enough of his fell intent.

  Rescue came from an unexpected source. Lady Porthleven rose to her feet. “Come, ladies—let’s leave the gentlemen to their musings.”

  Chairs scraped. Madeline seized the moment to lean nearer and murmur, “We don’t have anything to discuss, my lord—nothing that can’t be aired in a public forum.” She twisted her fingers and he let them go. She met his amber eyes. “There is nothing of a private nature between us.”

  She turned from him and rose.