Beyond Seduction

Chapter 2

Madeline was cantering westward along the bridle path that followed the clifftops around the bay when she saw Gervase Tregarth riding toward her. Drawing her mind from her mental list of all she hoped to accomplish that day, she smiled and thanked fate; she really didn’t have the time to spare had she been forced to search for him.

He was still some distance away, but the vivid green cliffs were devoid of trees or other cover. The instant he’d come into sight she’d recognized him; there were few other males in the area with quite his build, the broad shoulders and long rangy frame that seemed so at home in a saddle, especially with the sky wide above and the sea crashing on the shore below. His hair, a dark mousy brown, was, as always, uncovered, his fashionably cropped curls rippling in the breeze.

As he neared, she pondered the oddity of hair that appeared so soft yet did nothing to gentle the austere, aristocratic planes of his face. Well-set eyes beneath a wide brow, a strongly patrician nose and squared chin all contributed to the aura of strength, solidity and power that habitually clung to him.

They met midway between the Park and the castle. Slowing, they drew rein; their horses pranced, danced. Subduing her big chestnut, Artur, Madeline nodded a smiling greeting. “Gervase-the very man I was seeking.”

His brows rose; his sharp hazel eyes-a pale hazel more amber than green-passed over her face. For an instant she sensed he was studying her, but then he asked, “Is there some problem?”

She laughed. “Not of my brothers’ doing, thank Heaven, but I received a note from Squire Ridley asking me to call. He wants to pick my brains on the subject of the local mines, but I confess I’m not aware of any recent developments. I thought perhaps you might have heard something to account for his query.”

Gervase’s face was always difficult to read; expressions rarely rippled his surface, leaving one to guess at his thoughts. Yet in this instance, his blankness suggested he knew no more than she.

He confirmed that. “I’ve heard nothing recently-indeed, for some time. All goes well as far as I know.”

She nodded. “That’s my understanding, too.” She picked up her reins. “Nevertheless, I’ll ride to the manor and see what’s troubling Gerald.”

“I’ll come with you.”

As Gervase circled her, turning his huge gray, she glanced at him. “By all means-but weren’t you on your way somewhere?”

His head came up and he met her eyes-and again she sensed that he was looking at her more intently than usual. “I was just riding-no specific destination in mind.”

“In that case…” With a grin, she tapped her heels to Artur’s sides and the big gelding surged.

Within ten strides, the gray drew alongside. She flicked Gervase a laughing glance; he smiled back, then gave his attention, as did she, to the clifftop path.

She didn’t often get the chance to ride freely in company; when she rode with her brothers or their aged steward, one part of her mind was always on guard to identify any potentially lethal rabbit hole or hidden ditch. It was an unexpected pleasure to ride before the wind-or into it, as was the situation that day-without any such care clouding the simple pleasure of the fresh air on her face, the regular tattoo of Artur’s hooves, the exhilaration of their speed, and the strangely shared moment.

A sidelong glance at Gervase confirmed that he was enjoying the ride as much as she. Neither of them held back, but let their hacks-both seventeen hands plus, powerful and strong-run freely, using the reins only to guide them when they angled off the clifftop path and struck inland, over the windswept downs, going north of Kuggar Village with the hamlet of Gwendreath to their right, then over a section of the Goonhilly Downs to the village of Cury.

As they rode under the cloudless summer sky, with larks dipping and swooping high overhead, the only occurrence to ruffle her serenity was the occasional piercing, penetrating glance Gervase directed her way. Not that she saw them; whenever she glanced at him he was looking ahead, transparently at ease, no sign in his inscrutable face that he’d been looking at her.

But she felt those glances, lancing sharp and…examining. She’d been right; he was looking more closely at her, studying her.

She couldn’t for the life of her imagine why. She’d glanced into the hall mirror on her way out; there was nothing odd about her appearance. Her hair, of course, would be doing its best to escape its confinement, but that was nothing new.

Ridley Manor lay just beyond Cury; they slowed and clattered into the cobbled yard before the old stone house. Hearing the racket, Gerald, Squire Ridley, came out to greet them, leaning heavily on his cane. He was over sixty, with a thick shock of white hair; he’d started to develop a stoop, but his blue eyes were still shrewd and there was nothing whatever amiss with his mind.

A smile wreathing his lined face, he stumped forward as they dismounted. “Madeline, my dear-I knew I could count on you.” He shook her hand, then turned to Gervase. “And I see you’ve brought the prodigal with you.”

Gervase grinned; handing his reins to the groom who’d come running, he clasped Gerald’s proffered hand. “Madeline mentioned your query-I was curious, as is she, to learn what occasioned it.”

“Aye, well.” Gerald beckoned them to follow him inside. He led the way into his front parlor. Waving them to armchairs, he sank into his own, angled beside the hearth. “I would have sent to you as well, but I thought you were off to London again.”

Gervase’s smile was perfunctory. “I was, but this latest business with the mill brought me back. I expect to remain here over the summer.”

Madeline saw that it was on the tip of Gerald’s tongue to ask about the mill and Gervase’s sisters’ antics, but then the older man thought better of it and turned to the business that had brought them there.

“Well, as to why I asked whether you’ve had any recent news about the mining, there’s a London gentleman making offers for mining leases hereabouts.”

Gervase frowned. “A London gentleman?” Puzzling if true; the tin mining leases in the area were, by and large, held by locals. Estates such as Crowhurst and Treleaver Park, as well as local landowners like Squire Ridley, had made it a tradition to absorb any leases that might be offered for sale. They were a small community and had seen the wisdom of keeping control of the extensive tin mining in the locality in local hands. In addition, the royalties from the mining provided a welcome cushion against the vissicitudes of fortune to which farming enterprises were so vulnerable.

Gerald nodded. “Supposedly, but it’s his agent doing the rounds. Polite young man, not quality but neat, knows his place. He called here day before yesterday. I’m not sure where he-the agent-is staying, and he didn’t give me his master’s name. Just asked very nicely whether I was interested in parting with any of the leases I hold. I told him no, but then I got to thinking.” Gerald fixed his faded eyes on Gervase’s face. “Perhaps this London gentleman knows more than I do, and thinks there’s some reason why I might want to sell?” Gerald glanced at Madeline. “That’s why I sent to ask whether you’d heard any whisper-of a downturn, or a glut, or…?”

Madeline shook her head. She looked at Gervase; in her eyes, he saw the same puzzlement he felt. “I’ve heard nothing at all-indeed, what little I have heard recently is entirely in the vein of all going on as before, with, if anything, the outlook being brighter.”

Gervase nodded. “That’s my understanding, too-and I’ve spoken in the last month with my London agents and they said nothing about any change in the wind.”

Gerald frowned. “Wonder what’s behind this, then? Not often that we have interest from outside the area.”

“No, indeed.” Gervase caught Madeline’s eye. “But now you’ve alerted us, we can keep our ears to the ground and pass on anything we learn.”

Madeline nodded and rose. “Indeed.” Gervase and Gerald rose, too. Pulling on her gloves, she headed for the door. “I have to get on, Gerald, but rest assured I’ll let you know if I hear anything at all relevant.”

At the front door, Gervase and Gerald shook hands. Already outside, Madeline waved. Gerald raised his hand in salute, waiting by the door as his groom ran to fetch their horses.

Gervase strolled to where Madeline was waiting. One glance confirmed there was a frown in her eyes.

Without looking at him, she said, “I think I’ll send to Crupper in London and ask what he knows, and there are a few others locally who might have news.”

The groom approached leading their horses. Gervase caught her chestnut’s bridle. “I’ll send a query to my London agent, and I have a few friends in other tin mining areas who hold leases. It’s possible they might have heard something we haven’t.”

Mounting, Madeline picked up her reins; he swung up to Crusader’s back while she rearranged her skirts. Then she looked at him. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything to the point.”

He met her gaze. “I’ll do the same.”

She smiled then, a gesture that lit up her face, transforming it from serenely madonnalike to glorious. She didn’t see him blink as she wheeled her horse. “I’ll race you back to the cliffs.”

An hour later, Gervase returned home-sometime over the past three years Crowhurst Castle had become “home”-and sought refuge in his library-cum-study.

Sinking into his favorite armchair, he let his gaze travel the room. It was a comforting masculine precinct devoid of flowery touches, all solid, highly polished dark woods, leather in deep browns and greens, dark patterned rugs and mahogany paneling that seemed to enfold any occupant in welcoming shadows. It was a soothing place in which to ruminate on his progress-or, in this instance, the lack of same.

He’d thought getting to know Madeline would be a simple matter of spending a little time in her company. Unfortunately, the three hours he’d spent with her riding the downs had demonstrated that the reason he and all the other men in the locality, like Gerald Ridley, didn’t see her as a female was because she constantly kept a mask-no, more a shield-deployed between her and them. Although he’d looked, and damn carefully, he hadn’t been able to discern the female behind the shield at all.

All he’d seen was a lady focused on business-on her brothers’ business, to be precise.

Admittedly, the speed at which they’d ridden had rendered conversation impossible, yet he was accustomed to being able to read people more or less at will. Even those who employed social masks and veils; he could usually see past them, through them. But not with Madeline; it seemed a cynical twist of fate that the one female he actually wanted to get to know was the one not even he could readily read.

Naturally, he viewed that as a challenge; he knew himself well enough to understand his response. Yet as he did need to get to know her, his instinctive reaction happened to coincide with his rational plan-so he would, definitely, press harder, and find some way past her shield.

He’d also been somewhat disconcerted to discover that her appearance, which he’d categorized as handsome and striking, was-now he’d actually looked -more along the lines of alluring. Although it was difficult to judge a woman’s figure when it was disguised in a loose, mannishly cut riding dress, especially with trousers adding padding to her hips, he’d seen enough to have developed a definite curiosity; he was looking forward to examining Madeline’s attributes more closely when he caught her in more conventional attire.

He was curious-and just a little intrigued. He rather liked tall women, but more than that, Madeline possessed a certain vitality-an open, honest and straightforward appreciation of life-that he found attractive in a surprisingly visceral way.

She’d enjoyed their ride, and he’d felt drawn to her in that, as if the fleeting moment had been a shared illicit joy.

The memory held him for some minutes; when his mind circled back to the present, he realized a smile was curving his lips. He banished it and refocused on his goal: how to get to know the Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne, the woman, rather than her brothers’ keeper.

It had been a very long time-more than a decade-since he’d actively pursued a lady, but he presumed the facility would return to him easily, somewhat akin to riding a horse. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked and tocked as he evaluated various strategies.

Then a knock on the door heralded Sitwell.

“Luncheon is ready, my lord. Will you be joining the ladies in the dining room, or would you prefer a tray brought to you here?”

Perfect timing. “Thank you, Sitwell. I’ll join the ladies.” Rising, Gervase strolled to the door. “I believe it’s time we did some entertaining.”

If his sisters and Sybil were so keen for him to cast his eye over Madeline Gascoigne, they could do their part and be useful.

Later that afternoon, Madeline was ensconced in her office at Treleaver Park, steadily working through the most recent accounts from the home farm, when Milsom, their butler, appeared in the open doorway carrying his silver salver.

“A letter from Lady Sybil, miss.”

With a smile, Madeline waved him in. Milsom was one of the few who persisted in calling her “miss,” rather than “ma’am.” Presumably because he’d known her since birth, her advanced age of twenty-eight didn’t yet qualify her for the appellation normally accorded older spinsters in charge of a house. Her brothers had wagered with each other on how old she would be before Milsom changed his tune. She privately agreed with the youngest, Benjamin: Never-Milsom would die rather than be absolutely correct in the deference he accorded her.

He offered his salver and she picked up Sybil’s letter. Her brows rose as she realized it contained a card; breaking the seal, she unfolded the sheet and read the neatly inscribed lines, first on the sheet, then on the enclosed card.

Lowering the invitation, she hesitated, then asked, “Have my brothers returned yet?”

“I noticed them riding around to the stable, miss. I daresay they’ll be in the kitchen by now.”

“I daresay.” Her lips softened into a smile she shared with Milsom. “They’re no doubt fortifying themselves as we speak. Ask them to attend me here, please-they can bring their biscuits and scones if they wish.”

“Indeed, miss. Immediately.” Milsom bowed and withdrew.

Madeline read the card again, then laid it aside and returned to her figures.

She was shutting the ledger when a commotion in the corridor warned that her brothers were approaching.

Harry led the way into the office, his brightly burnished brown hair windblown, his rogue’s smile lighting his face. At fifteen, he was on the cusp of adulthood, poised between the carefree delights of boyhood and the responsibilities that awaited him as Viscount Gascoigne.

Edmond followed at his heels. A bare year younger, he was Harry’s shadow in all things. A trifle quieter, more serious perhaps, but the Gascoigne temperament-indomitable will and courageous if sometimes reckless heart-showed in his stride, his confidence as, alongside Harry, he grinned at Madeline and obeyed her waved command to settle in the chairs facing her big desk.

The last into the room was Benjamin, Ben, the youngest of the family and a favorite of all. Madeline held Ben especially close to her heart-not because she loved him any better than the other two but because he’d been a babe of mere weeks when Abigail, their mother, Madeline’s stepmother, had died, taken from them all by childbed fever.

With a tight grin for Madeline-his mouth was full of buttered scone-Ben, ten years old and with much of his growing yet to come, hiked himself onto a straightbacked chair and wriggled back, feet swinging.

Smiling-trying not to appear too obviously fond and doting-Madeline waited while they finished the last of their snack; she knew better than to try to compete with food for the attention of growing boys.

Her gaze rested on them, on the three faces alight with undimmed happiness, with the simple joy of living, and as she always did, she felt an overwhelming sense of rightness. Of conviction, of vindication. Of satisfaction that she’d done what she’d needed to do and had succeeded.

This-they-were her life’s work. She’d been barely nineteen when Abigail had died, leaving Ben to her care, with Harry a lost little boy of five and Edmond a confused four-year-old. Harry and Edmond had at least had each other, and their father. For virtually all of his life, Ben had known only her as a parent.

She and her father had been close; she’d been the older son he’d never had. Knowing he was ill, with Harry, his heir, so very young, her father had trained her to be the intermediary, a de facto regent-he’d taught her all she’d needed to know to run the estate, and left her to pass that knowledge on to Harry.

Struck down only months after Abigail’s death, her father hadn’t, as many people described it, lingered; he’d fought and clung desperately to life for nearly two years-long enough for Madeline to attain the age of twenty-one, and the legal status, backed by his will and their family solicitor, to become the boys’ co guardian.

It was no coincidence that her father had died a week after her twenty-first birthday.

Their solicitor, old Mr. Worthington, indeed a worthy man, was the boys’ other guardian. He’d honored his late client’s wishes to the letter and dutifully been nothing more than a cipher, approving any request or instruction Madeline made. She had nothing but fondness for Worthington. Then again, he’d been dealing with the Gascoigne temperament for long enough to acknowledge that the only person capable of dealing with her three brothers was another Gascoigne, namely herself.

She understood her brothers and they understood her. The bond linking them ran much deeper than mere affection, carried in blood and bone. They would all be, like her and their father, tall, strong and vital. Confident, too, masters of their lives, with a streak of open honesty that, on occasion, set others back on their heels.

She’d devoted the last ten years of her life to ensuring they were as they were, that nothing would dim their potential, that they would have every opportunity to be the men they might be, the best men they could be.

What she saw before her pleased and reassured. She’d never consciously questioned the decision she’d taken long ago, foisted upon her by fate perhaps, yet she’d never doubted that being the boys’ guardian was the right path for her. And if sometimes, in the quiet of the night when she was alone in her room, she wondered what might otherwise have been, the question was irrelevant, the thought behind it fleeting.

She’d made a decision, and she’d been right. The proof sat before her, licking crumbs from their fingers.

“The Crowhurst bull.” Her words brought all three boys instantly alert; her expression impassive, she watched them quell the impulse to glance at each other. Instead, they fixed their gazes, limpidly inquirying, on her.

“I spoke with his lordship yesterday,” she continued, “and smoothed things over. However, he said to inform you that he wasn’t amused.”

She made the last words sound ominous. Harry opened his mouth, but she held up a hand, staying his comments. “Be that as it may, you’ll have an opportunity to make your apologies in person. Or at least Harry will.”

“I will?” Harry looked taken aback.

She held up Sybil’s white card. “This is an invitation to dine at Crowhurst Castle this evening. For Aunt Muriel, me”-she looked at Harry-“and you.”

Their father’s older sister, Muriel, a widow, had come to live with them on their father’s death. Built on the same generous lines as all Gascoignes, although now elderly, she was still spry. While she used her age as an excuse to avoid any social gathering she did not choose to attend, Madeline didn’t need to ask to know that Muriel would be dressing tonight; while she was fond of her nephews, she doted on girls, and looked on Sybil’s daughters as de facto nieces. As Muriel had often told Madeline, albeit with amused understanding in her eyes, as Madeline had refused to give her a wedding to think about, she had to find her pleasures where she could.

Harry frowned. “Do I have to-”

“I suspect from what Lady Sybil has written-that she’s holding an impromptu dinner to spread the word that his lordship is home from London and expecting to remain at the castle through summer-that the other local landowners will also be present.” She met Harry’s gaze. “So, yes, as Viscount Gascoigne you should attend.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, then heaved a put-upon sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to start attending such events.”

Madeline felt a whisper of relief. “You may be only fifteen, but it’s better to start to learn the ropes now, little by little, and while your elders will be ready to excuse any blunders you might make.”

Harry shot her a twisted grin. “True enough.”

“I expect Belinda will be there, too, so you’ll have someone your own age to talk to.”

She fully expected Edmond and Ben-if not Harry himself-to make some sneering comment about girls; instead the boys exchanged swift looks.

Edmond nudged Harry. “You can ask how they broke the mill.”

“And about the lights on the headland.” Ben leaned forward. “If that was them.”

“Did his lordship manage to fix the mill?” Edmond asked.

Inwardly frowning, Madeline nodded. “Apparently. I heard from John Miller that all was well.” She’d assumed that any interaction between her brothers and Gervase’s sisters would result in his sisters exerting a civilizing influence on her often barbarian-brained brothers, but of that she was no longer so sure.

Until the incident of the mill, and the implied suggestion that Belinda, Annabel and Jane had been behind the other odd occurrences, too, she’d always thought Gervase’s sisters were eminently sane and sensible young women.

She wondered again what had given rise to their recent strange behavior.

“Is that all you wanted us for?” Harry asked. When Madeline nodded, he rose. “Because if so, we’re off to the library.”

Knowing she was supposed to, she looked her shock; it wasn’t hard to fabricate. “The library?”

Both Edmond and Ben had leapt to their feet; flashing farewell grins, they headed for the door. Harry played superior elder brother and let them jostle their way through, then looked back at Madeline and grinned. “You needn’t worry-we won’t do anything as childish as moving his lordship’s bull again. We’ve found far better sport.”

Before she could ask what, he was gone; she heard their voices echoing in the corridor as their footsteps faded, then the library door closed and silence descended.

What “better sport”? She could ask and demand to be told, but…if she wanted Harry to learn to exercise responsibility, that might be counterproductive.

Gervase’s observation that Harry would stop his boy’s tricks soon enough rang in her mind. All in all, raising Harry to his present age hadn’t tried her ingenuity overmuch, yet she knew-could sense-that the years to come were going to be more difficult.

Despite her best efforts to fill her father’s shoes, she wasn’t a man. A male. She might be a Gascoigne, but she was unsettlingly aware that there were certain interests men of their class developed that ladies neither indulged in nor necessarily understood.

Whether she could steer Harry through the next five years of his life was a question that sat uneasily, unresolved in the back of her mind. What she could do, what she vowed to do, was to do all she could to encourage him to take up the burdens of adulthood, and his title, and to accept the restrictions that entailed of his own free will. Perhaps to see his position as a challenge.

In that, his reaction to Sybil’s invitation was encouraging. Madeline made a mental note to thank Sybil accordingly.

Meanwhile, why the library? She inwardly snorted, and made another mental note to whisper in a few select ears that she would appreciate a warning should said ears’ owners suspect that her brothers were up to anything outrageous.

There was no point expecting them to transform into angels overnight.

The dinner that evening at Crowhurst Castle was a relaxed and relatively easygoing affair. Or rather, it should have been, and seemed destined to be so for everyone else, even Harry, yet for Madeline, from the moment she climbed the castle steps and followed Muriel into the front hall, she found herself subtly, curiously, and largely inexplicably off-balance.

The sensation-as if her world had fractionally tilted, as if its axis had suddenly canted-bloomed in the instant she reached Sybil, waiting to greet them beside the double doors leading into the drawing room.

“Muriel! Welcome.” Sybil and Muriel clasped hands, touched cheeks; although much younger, Sybil was very fond of the older lady. “Do go in.”

Turning from Muriel, Sybil’s eyes lit. “Madeline-I’m delighted you could come at such short notice.” Taking her hand, Sybil clasped it between hers. “Just our usual circle, my dear, to spread the word that Gervase is home for the summer, so to speak.” Sybil held her hand for a moment longer, her eyes searching Madeline’s, then she pressed her fingers. “Naturally, the girls and I are very glad he’s home.”

The emphasis suggested that Madeline should read something more than the obvious into the remark. Nonplussed, she smiled and retrieved her hand. “Of course. His presence must be a comfort.” She omitted any mention of Gervase needing to deal with strange difficulties like the mill, and stepped back to let Harry make his bow.

Sybil greeted him with her customary easy and gentle smile-underscoring the unusual way she’d interacted with Madeline, suggestive of something, but as to what Madeline had no clue.

Madeline knew Gervase’s father’s second wife distantly for many years, but over the past three years since Gervase had inherited the title and, Sybil and his sisters taken up residence at the castle, while Gervase himself had remained largely absent overseas, Sybil had held the fort, and thus had met Madeline regularly, at the very least every week. As the other senior lady of the small community and moreover one born to her rank, it was to Madeline Sybil had most often turned. They got on well, so Madeline wasn’t surprised to be greeted warmly. What she hadn’t expected was that peculiarly meaningful welcome.

Walking into the drawing room with Harry by her side, she told herself she’d over interpreted. Either that, or there was something going on with Gervase and his family that she didn’t know.

They’d barely crossed the threshold into the long, elegant drawing room when Belinda appeared at her elbow.

“There you are!” Belinda beamed, transparently delighted. “We’re so glad you could come.”

Madeline studied her curiously. “So your mother said.”

“Well, yes! I daresay she did.” Belinda’s exuberance dimmed not one jot. “Perhaps I can take Harry around to meet the others. Gervase is over there.”

Finding herself all but pushed in that direction, Madeline consented to step further into the room. Presumably Belinda had been instructed to ease Harry’s way; considering, justifiably she was sure, that from the superiority of her sixteen years Belinda would be able to manage him, she left her to it.

She herself needed no assistance, not in this company; with a smiling nod to Lady Porthleven, holding court on the chaise, and to Mrs. Entwhistle beside her, she strolled into the room.

And saw Gervase.

Standing before the marble mantelpiece, he was chatting with Mrs. Juliard. As if sensing an arrival, he glanced across the room. His eyes met hers; he stopped speaking.

And she stopped breathing.

It wasn’t his appearance that snatched her breath away-she’d seen him in settings such as this before, where his height and the width of his shoulders, tonight clad in a superbly cut walnut-brown coat, made him a cynosure for female eyes.

The subtle arrogance and less subtle command that cloaked his every movement, from the idle gesture of a hand to the way he turned his head, the strength and power implicit in the characteristic stillness of his stance-none of these things were responsible for her lungs seizing.

Nor was it his face, the features whose lines even in this company were startling in their lean, chiseled hardness, with aggressive clarity branding him a descendent of warrior-lords.

She’d encountered all these facets of him before, and they’d never affected her, impinged on her. They didn’t now, not of themselves.

It was the look in his eyes, the way he looked at her, that jerked her nerves tight, then left them taut and quivering.

Before she could draw breath, before she could even think, he turned back to Mrs. Juliard, excused himself, then strolled across the room to greet her.

Or, as her senses reported it, he prowled over to demand her hand; halting before her, his eyes on hers, he held out his hand, calmly waiting until, frantically shaking her wits into order, she remembered to surrender hers.

His fingers closed strongly around hers, and more of her nerves quaked. For the first time in her life she understood what being tongue-tied felt like. She managed a nod. “Gervase.”

His lips lightly curved. He inclined his head. “Madeline.”

She made the mistake of looking into his eyes, searching for some clue as to why he was watching her like a hawk watched prey, like a cat watched a bird-and found herself trapped, unexpectedly caught in the mesmerizing, agatey, green-flecked amber depths.

Gentle heat spread beneath her skin. All sorts of crazed notions flitted through her mind. It took an effort of will to banish them, to sternly reassert control over her wayward wits-and drag them back to reality. “I-” She broke off and glanced around, noting the others present. She cleared her throat. “It seems you’ve gathered the local elite.”

“Indeed. After our encounter with Squire Ridley this morning, I thought it might be wise to make it more widely and definitely known that I intend remaining at the castle for the summer.”

Releasing her hand, Gervase turned slightly, so that the group of gentlemen by the windows was in their line of sight. “I haven’t yet had a chance to ask if anyone else has been approached about their mining leases.”

She leapt on the topic, as he’d known she would. “This seems the perfect time to ask.”

Smiling lightly, he strolled by her side as they joined the other gentlemen. In planning the evening, he’d searched his memory, and recalled this as her habit; before dinner she chatted with the gentlemen, who, as now, welcomed her into their midst without a blink, shifting to make space for her, as well as for Gervase.

After the usual brisk greetings, she asked, “Have any of you been approached about your mining leases?”

He stood beside her, his interest implied, but let her do the interrogatory honors; as it transpired, Lord Moreston and Lord Porthleven had both heard of the young man making inquiries, but hadn’t yet been approached.

The talk quickly turned to fields and crops, with Mr. Caterham asking Madeline for her predictions on tonnage per acre likely to be achieved this year. While she answered, Gervase watched and learned-not about crops but about her.

She’d detected, all but instantly, his focus on her, but…for some reason he didn’t yet understand, she hadn’t reacted as ladies normally did. He wasn’t all that delighted that she’d sensed his interest so immediately, especially as it was likely to prove no more than that-she intrigued him enough for him to want to learn more of her, but once he had…Yet her response to his interest had only intrigued him all the more.

She’d seen it, identified it correctly, then dismissed it. As if she’d decided it couldn’t possibly be so, that the very idea was simply nonsense.

Confusing though she was, he’d seen enough of her stunned surprise to know that, despite it not being precisely his intention, he had reached her-had penetrated her shield enough for her to notice, at least, that he as a male had some interest in her. But then she’d breathed in, and apparently shaken aside the notion.

As she recounted to the gathered gentlemen-all older than either he or she-the latest prophecies of Old Edam, an ancient whose prognostications on the weather were treated as gospel on the peninsula, he let his gaze, very carefully, trail down from her face.

Perhaps her dismissal of his interest was based on the idea that no gentleman of his ilk could possibly be attracted by a lady in a gown at least three seasons old. He was hardly a fashion maven, but he knew enough of feminine fashions to know her gown wasn’t à la mode. However, while women might consider such issues important, men rarely did. The body in the gown was far more relevant, and in Madeline’s case, there was nothing wrong with that.

Indeed, now her figure was no longer swathed in yards of twill but sleekly sheathed in plum silk, he felt pleasantly vindicated; he’d been right-she was alluring.

Curvaceous but, given her height, not enough to be buxom. Her breasts, the upper swells decorously veiled by a fine silk fichu, were the definition of tempting, lush but not overripe, the lines of her shoulders, nape and arms were regally graceful, her hips nicely rounded, while the length of leg concealed beneath her silk skirts would fire any male’s imagination.

Except, of course, that no man in the vicinity viewed her as female.

Except, now, for him.

He’d distracted her with the mining leases because that was part of his plan. Tonight he intended to watch and learn-and, if he could, discover any weakness in her shield. Until he could undermine it, break through it, or in some way get past it, he wouldn’t be able to declare her incompatible. He needed a reason, one he could put his hand on his heart and swear was real, and for that he needed to know her-the woman concealed.

When Sitwell announced that dinner was served, he smiled and offered her his arm. “I believe we’re partnered tonight.”

She glanced up at him, then inclined her head and placed her hand on his sleeve. “Lead on.”

Hiding a wolfish smile, he did.

The dinner table conversation was general and lively. Lady Porthleven was seated on his left, with Mr. Caterham beyond her, opposite Mr. Juliard, who was on Madeline’s other side. The five of them swapped stories; Gervase contributed a commentary on the latest London scandal.

Otherwise he listened and watched.

Yet all he learned from the exchanges was that, just as Madeline enjoyed a unique status among the male half of the local gentry, she also held a special position in the eyes of the ladies. Spinsters were not normally accorded such respect, let alone status, in female circles, nor were they so transparently free, and acknowledged to be free, of the customary social constraints. No matter how he steered the conversation, he detected no disapprobation whatever from Lady Porthleven-an old stickler if ever there was one-nor from the other ladies toward Madeline.

Dinner’s end saw the ladies retreat, leaving him to pass the decanters with the men. Resigned, he set himself to play the genial host while waiting to rejoin Madeline and continue his campaign.

Unfortunately, when the gentlemen strolled back into the drawing room, he discovered she’d taken steps-deliberately or unwittingly he couldn’t be sure-that effectively thwarted him. She’d planted herself on the chaise between Mrs. Juliard and Mrs. Caterham and appeared to have put down roots.

Short of some too-revealing, too-masterful gesture, he couldn’t budge her.

From the corner of her eye, Madeline watched Gervase prowl-and tried, yet again, to tell herself she was imagining it. Imagining his focus on her; certainly no one else seemed to have remarked it. But no matter how logically she lectured herself, at some instinctual level, she knew what she knew.

What was the damn man about?

He reminded her of a tiger circling his prey; there was an element in his long-legged, soft-footed stride that reminded her forcibly of a large hunting cat. He hovered, again and again appearing on the periphery of her little circle, but he didn’t attempt to intrude on the essentially female discussions while Sybil poured and the teacups were passed.

No. He was biding his time; she knew he was. And she had no clue what he was planning, let alone how best to deflect it.

She was accustomed to being able to command all in her life; be that as it may, she didn’t imagine-not in her wildest dreams-that she could command him. There were some beings beyond even her control, not many but he was one.

One she clearly needed to guard against, although what peculiar notion had wormed its way into his brain she couldn’t imagine.

It had been a very, very long time since any man had thought to, or dared to, look at her in that considering, assessing, quintessentially male way. As if he were considering…but he couldn’t be, so why the devil was he doing it?

Just to get on her nerves?

Smiling at Mrs. Juliard’s tale of her youngest son Robert’s exploits, Madeline inwardly admitted that if she could make herself believe that Gervase was behaving as he was purely to rattle her-perhaps because she wasn’t easily rattled-she’d feel considerably better, but she knew that idle male whim, the sort that had no real purpose, was unlikely to move him to any action at all. He wasn’t that sort of man.

Which was precisely what was tightening her nerves to the point where they were twanging.

He had some goal in mind-and that goal involved her.

Not her as the Madeline Gascoigne she’d over the years created, but the real her-the nearly twenty-nine-year-old spinster underneath.

She drained her teacup, and told herself-yet again-that her imagination was running away with her.

“Well!” Mrs. Juliard set aside her cup. “It’s been a lovely evening, catching up with everyone, but now it’s time we started for home.” With a smile, she stood.

Madeline and Mrs. Caterham did the same, just as Mrs. Entwhistle, middle-aged, plump, sweet-natured but rather fluttery, fluttered up. “Madeline, dear, we really need to call a meeting of the festival committee. Time has got away from us, and we need to make decisions somewhat urgently.”

Madeline smiled reassuringly. “Yes, of course.” She lifted her gaze to Gervase’s face as he halted beside Mrs. Entwhistle; he’d been chatting with that good lady for the last several minutes.

His amber eyes met hers. “I suggested that, as this will be the first Summer Festival for which I’ve been in residence as earl, the committee could meet here.” He glanced at Mrs. Caterham and Mrs. Juliard, also members of the committee, a light smile inviting them-beguiling them-to back his plan. “I’d like to attend, to learn more about the festival and what’s entailed. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon?”

The ladies delightedly agreed; few of their menfolk willingly attended such organizational sessions. There was nothing Madeline could do other than smile her acquiescence, and in truth if he were to attend, she wasn’t averse to holding the meeting there, rather than at the Park, the most likely alternative.

Mrs. Entwhistle, the festival’s general, fluttered off to inform the other committee members as everyone rose and prepared to depart.

Gervase didn’t move away; there was no reason he should, yet…he trailed close behind Madeline as she smiled and exchanged farewells as the company filed out into the front hall. For the first time in her life-certainly that she could recall-she was aware of a man; her skin seemed to flicker, her nerves to twitch, reacting almost nervously to his nearness.

But it was the shockingly intense shiver that slithered down her spine when his palm brushed the back of her waist as he ushered her through the drawing room doorway that snapped her patience. The gesture was purely social, a gentlemanly courtesy, yet she knew he’d done it deliberately.

Halting beside the hall’s central table, she let the other guests press ahead, then turned and narrowed her eyes on his. “What are you doing?”

From her tone, her brothers would have understood she was seriously displeased. Gervase studied her eyes, then his impassive expression eased in some way she couldn’t define. The hard line of his lips certainly softened, but it wasn’t in a smile. “I intend to get to know you better-much better than I do.”

His voice had lowered, deepened; combined with the look in his amber eyes it was impossible to mistake his meaning-what he intended “get to know you better” to convey.

Her lungs slowly tightened; she ignored the sensation and narrowed her eyes even more. “Why?”

His brows rose. “Why?” She sensed-saw in his eyes-a glib response, something along the lines of amusing himself, but then his lids lowered, long brown lashes fleetingly screening his eyes, then they rose and he again met her gaze. “Because I want to.”

And that, she decided, was a far more worrying response than any lighthearted quip. She briefly searched his eyes, confirmed the agatey hazel remained as hard-as determined-as ever, then she looked toward the door, saw that most of the other guests were out on the porch and that Harry was waiting by the door with Belinda, with Muriel nearby.

She glanced at Gervase and met his eyes. “I fear you’re destined for disappointment. I have no interest in dalliance.”

His brows rose again, but this time more slowly. “Is that so? In that case…I’ll have to see if I can change your mind.”

Her eyes couldn’t get any narrower. She closed her lips tightly over the words that leapt to her tongue; she knew males far too well to utter what he would inevitably interpret as a challenge. Falling back on chilly dignity, she inclined her head, then started for the door-but she couldn’t resist having the last word. “You’ll tire of beating your head against that brick wall soon enough.”

Sweeping on, she collected Harry and Muriel, took her leave of Sybil on the porch, inwardly relieved that Gervase remained beside Sybil, letting Harry escort Muriel down the steps and into their carriage. She followed.

Once the door was shut, the coachman flicked the reins; she relaxed back against the squabs-and drew what she only then realized was her first entirely free breath in hours.

As the carriage slowly negotiated the local lanes, Harry recounted his conversations; he’d clearly enjoyed the evening more than he’d expected. His chatter and Muriel’s answering comments rolling over her, Madeline let her mind drift back over the evening, focusing on Gervase and what she now suspected had been his machinations.

Why? Because I want to.

There’d been truth beneath his words; she’d heard it clearly. Rather than answer with some flippant remark, he’d deliberately given her that kernel of truth to shake her. To shake a response, some reaction, from her. To prod her into reacting.

Into playing his game. But playing that particular game with him, with the sort of male he was, would be…like a sensual game of chess. He moving here, then there, maneuvering to trap her, she defending-for how could she go on the offensive without giving him precisely what she wished to deny him?

A conundrum, especially as her nature predisposed her to action rather than stoic defense.

Yet the larger question remained unanswered: What was his ultimate goal-the prize, the queen he sought?

She pondered that for several minutes, swaying in the comfortable dark, then a more pertinent question flared in her mind: Why was she letting herself get drawn into this?

It was nonsense, futile, a waste of time, energy and effort, none of which she had to waste, yet…given who and what he was, did she have any choice?

As the trees of Treleaver Park closed about them, welcoming them home, she inwardly sighed, set aside that question and faced what lay beneath. Acknowledged what it was that had had her spending the entire journey home focused solely on the machinations of Gervase Tregarth.

Underneath all lay her besetting sin-the one element in her makeup capable of tempting her into the reckless acts characteristic of her family. Curiosity.

Aside from all else, Gervase Tregarth had succeeded in stirring that sleeping beast to life. And that, she knew, could be exceedingly dangerous.