Beyond Seduction

by Stephanie Laurens

  “You’re curious.” His tone made it a discovery.

  She blinked, breathed back, “How can you tell?”

  “I can taste it.”

  Did curiosity have a taste, a texture?

  “You want to know about this.” His fingers shifted again.

  Her nerves leapt, and she shivered.

  “I’ve a confession to make.” His voice was low, a gravelly rumble. “I want to know, too. Want to see where this…”—his fingers drew another shuddering response from her—“leads. Yesterday, at the castle, when you insisted on leaving, when you turned and gave me your hand I very nearly seized you, tossed you over my shoulder and carried you off to my bed.”

  “Oh?” Some totally wanton part of her wished he had.

  “Yes.” Gervase paused, hand caressing, fingers stroking, then went on, “Just so you know you’re not the only one affected, not the only one involved here.” Caught. Trapped.

  By what, he didn’t know.

  He drew her back into his arms, back into the kiss, steeped them both in the moment, in the spiraling sensation and welling need—as far as he dared. With her and him, and where they were, there was only so far they could go.

  With real reluctance, he lifted his head, drew breath—felt the pounding in his veins, compulsive, insistent, demanding. Sensed the same in her.

  Her lashes fluttered, then she focused on his face.

  “Have you changed your mind yet?”

  She blinked at him, not once, but twice, before comprehension swam into her gaze. Then she snapped out of the spell—theirs, not his alone—and eased back out of his arms. “No.”

  He hadn’t expected any other answer, not yet, but despite the words her less-than-certain, faintly puzzled tone sent his spirits soaring. She was wavering, yes!, but experience warned the time to press was not yet. She had to come to him of her own accord, for her own reasons; she was that sort of woman. An independent lady.

  Letting his face set, he coolly stated, “If that’s the case, then we’d better get back to the ballroom.”

  She hadn’t wanted to return to the ballroom, a fact that demonstated just how completely her besetting sin had overwhelmed her good sense. Climbing the castle steps the next morning, Madeline sternly lectured herself—yet again—that under no circumstances should she allow Gervase to embrace her again.

  The instant his arms settled around her, her besetting sin came to the fore…and turned her into some wanton creature who simply had to know more. Far more, she was convinced, than would be good for her.

  Striding into the front hall, she saw Gervase’s butler gliding from the nether regions to greet her. “Good morning, Sitwell.” Halting, she tugged off her gloves, acknowledging Sitwell’s bow with a nod. “I’m here to see his lordship. Where may I find him?”

  “I’m here.” Gervase stepped from the mouth of a corridor. He nodded to Sitwell. “Thank you, Sitwell. I’ll ring if I need you.”

  As the butler bowed and withdrew, Gervase turned to her. He met her gaze, read the determined, businesslike expression she’d plastered on her face. His lips curved, too knowing for her liking. “I was on my way to the library. If you’d care to join me?”

  She nodded. “Indeed.” She kept her tones brisk. “I have some information you need to know.”

  His brows rose, but he said nothing more as he strolled beside her down the corridor and ushered her into his library.

  She walked to the armchair angled before the desk. Pausing beside it, she glanced back—and discovered him by her shoulder. Felt one hard hand grasp her waist while with his other he tipped up her chin.

  So he could kiss her.

  A swift, not undemanding yet unforceful kiss, a reminder, a promise.

  A complete and utter distraction. When he lifted his head, she blinked at him, dazed, mentally lost.

  He smiled and nudged her into the armchair. “Sit. And tell me what brought you here.”

  She sank down, struggling to marshal her wits. She’d lost them in the instant his lips had touched hers—no, before, when she’d realized he was close.

  He rounded the desk and sat in the admiral’s chair behind it; the smugness he tried to hide as he looked inquiringly at her broke the spell. She dragged in a breath. “This business of the mining leases.”

  Once she’d started, it wasn’t so hard. Briefly she explained what her brothers had heard, then outlined the information she’d received from London. “Then yesterday when Harry returned to Helford and spoke with Sam’s father, he thought to ask who had spread the rumor. It was a peddler in the tap—Sam’s father thought the man was most likely heading for the festival. So the boys decided to follow him and see what they could learn—they caught up with the peddler in the tavern at St. Keverne.”

  She glanced at Gervase. All hint of private emotion had vanished from his demeanor; he was as intent on her tale as she might wish. “The peddler said he’d picked up the rumor in a tavern in Falmouth. He said it was general, a tale doing the rounds. He didn’t know of any specific source.”

  Gervase grimaced. “Falmouth, and the fleet’s in. If one wanted to start an anonymous rumor, a few whispers in drunken sailors’ ears would do it.”

  “So I thought. Assuming, of course, that these rumors have no basis in fact but are being spread by this London gentleman or his agent to encourage locals to sell their leases.”

  He tapped a pile of letters stacked to one side of the blotter. “Like yours, my London contacts confirmed no suggestion of any diminution in the tin trade, but rather an expectation of improved returns. They were puzzled that I should have heard anything to the contrary. Beyond that, I also wrote to St. Austell, the Earl of Lostwithiel, and Viscount Torrington—his estates are near Bideford.” He glanced at Madeline. “Both hold tin mining leases and are members of the Bastion Club.”

  “Your private club?”

  He nodded and lifted two letters. “Both replied in much the same vein as all else we’ve heard. No hint of any problem with tin mining, but rather an expectation of increased profits.” His lips curved ruefully. “They, of course, now want to know why I asked.” He dropped the letters back on the pile.

  Glancing up, he found Madeline’s gaze fixed on a point beyond his shoulder.

  “It occurred to me,” she murmured, “that while most of us—the gentry and aristocracy—are unlikely to sell on the basis of rumor, not without checking if not with London then at least with each other, there are many others who hold leases who are not as well connected, not as well informed.”

  She met his gaze. “Should this rumor become widespread, if an offer is made to them, small farmers will likely sell.”

  He nodded.

  Looking down, chin firming, she started pulling on her gloves. “I’m going to ride to Helston and see if I can locate this agent, and ask him to explain these rumors. If I can’t find him, I intend putting it about that I would like to speak with him concerning selling some leases.” She looked up and smiled—icily. “That should bring him to my door.” Gloves on, she rose.

  Forcibly reminded of his Valkyrie analogy, Gervase rose, too. “I’ll ride with you.”

  She might be her brother’s surrogate, but he was the local earl, the senior nobleman in the district. A fact she acknowledged with an inclination of her head, and no argument.

  Ten minutes later, they were galloping side by side—riding hard, wild, unrestrained. She had her chestnut again, and he was on Crusader; they pounded north across the golden-grassed downs, an exhilarating run, shared and carefree, before, in wordless concert, they mentally sighed, remembered who they were, and eased back and swung northwest for Helston.

  They approached the town from the south, trotting along a newly macadamized stretch of road. “Let’s start our search in the northwest quadrant.” He glanced at Madeline. “More taverns there.”

  She nodded. Entering the town, they walked their mounts on.

  The next hour saw them, side by side, talk to seven ta
vern and inn keepers. All recognized the man Squire Ridley had described; all had seen him about town, or in their taps, but none knew who he was or where he was staying.

  “Nope.” John Quiller shook his head in answer to Madeline’s final query. “Ain’t seen him with no one else either. Keeps to himself but polite with it. He talks readily enough, will join in a discussion if asked, but o’ course no one’s been so bold as to ask him outright what he’s here for.”

  Inwardly sighing, Madeline nodded.

  “If you see him again, John, tell him I’d like a word.” Gervase took her arm. “Tell him it might be worth his while. Send him to the castle.”

  “Aye.” John nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  Steered out of the Cow & Whistle, Madeline considered protesting Gervase’s usurpation of her idea, but then dismissed the notion. All the better if he was willing to pursue this troublesome subject; she had enough on her plate with her brother’s estate, and her brothers.

  And he was the senior nobleman; it was only right and proper that in this she cede to him.

  They paused on the pavement; she glanced down the street. They’d tried most of the likely places and had circled back to the center of the town. Sensing Gervase studying her, she glanced at him, then arched a brow. “What?”

  He shook his head and retook her arm. “I was waiting for your protest. I expected some snide comment at least.”

  She sniffed and elevated her chin as they proceeded down the street. “I decided against it.”

  “Ah.”

  The gentle humor in his tone robbed the syllable of any offense; indeed, she was rather impressed that he’d realized he’d come close to stepping on her toes.

  They turned into Coinagehall Street, the town’s main thoroughfare; Gervase glanced around as they walked. “It’s lunchtime. Why don’t we stop for a bite at the inn?”

  He waved at the Scales & Anchor, the main inn in the town, just ahead of them; they’d left their horses in the stable there.

  Hungry herself after their busy morning, Madeline nodded. “Alice Tregonning keeps an excellent table.”

  “Good. I’m famished.” Ushering her up the inn’s steps, he reached past her and opened the door.

  An hour and more later, after a meal as excellent as she had prophesied enlivened by relaxed conversation that neither had had to work to achieve, they left the inn in companionable good humor. Pausing on the pavement, eyes adjusting to the bright sunshine after the dimness of the parlor inside, they looked around, then Gervase touched her arm.

  “Let’s go down to the river.” Coinagehall Street dipped steeply to the banks of the Helford. “If I recall aright, there are two boardinghouses facing the old docks. Perhaps our man is staying at one.”

  One hand smoothing back her wayward hair, she nodded. “Let’s go and see.”

  Unfortunately, no one at the boardinghouses had sighted their quarry. They were toiling slowly back up Coinagehall Street, heading to the inn to fetch their horses, when carriage wheels rattled on the cobbles behind them.

  Glancing back, Gervase saw an open landau with a collection of fashionably garbed ladies and gentlemen—escapees from London, if their studied airs of sophisticated boredom were any indication.

  The dark-haired lady in the middle of the rear seat, a frilled parasol shading her fair skin, saw him; she studied him for an instant, then leaned forward and spoke to the coachman.

  The carriage slowed, then drew in and halted alongside Gervase and Madeline.

  They both paused, turned. Madeline was wearing a dark blue riding dress; unlike a conventional habit it didn’t possess a train, but the skirts were still long enough that she’d needed both hands to lift them as they’d climbed the steep street. Consequently, he hadn’t taken her arm, but had been walking beside her as if they were mere acquaintances.

  Furling her parasol, the lady leaned forward. Her gaze lingered on him, then shifted to Madeline. The lady smiled. “Good afternoon. I’m Lady Hardesty. And you must be Miss Gascoigne.” Lady Hardesty held out her gloved hand. “I’ve been wanting to make your acquaintance, Miss Gascoigne—sadly I missed doing so at the vicarage tea.”

  “Lady Hardesty.” Stepping to the carriage’s side, Madeline touched her gloved fingers to her ladyship’s. Unsurprised to see Lady Hardesty’s gaze flick to Gervase’s face, she gestured his way. “I believe you’ve yet to meet Lord Crowhurst.”

  “My lord.” Lady Hardesty’s eyes locked on Gervase’s, held as he took her hand.

  “Lady Hardesty.” His expression coolly distant, he half bowed, then released her.

  She immediately gestured to the others in the carriage. “If you’ll permit me to introduce…”

  Madeline exchanged nods and greetings with the other ladies and the two gentlemen, one of whom was Mr. Courtland. The ladies, following their hostess’s lead, fixed their attention avidly on Gervase, leaving Madeline to Mr. Courtland and Mr. Fleming, neither of whom were backward in trying to engage her.

  Or, as she cynically suspected, attach her.

  “Perhaps,” Mr. Courtland suggested, “I could call on you?”

  She smiled the distant smile she’d relied on for years to quell the aspirations of overly enthusiastic males. “My aunt is elderly. She rarely entertains.”

  Courtland’s smile developed an edge. “It’s not your aunt I’d be coming to see, m’dear.”

  Madeline held his gaze, and slowly, pointedly, raised her brows.

  Under her steady regard, Courtland shifted, then an unbecoming shade of florid pink rose from beneath his neck-cloth and spread upward.

  Releasing him, she turned to see how Gervase was faring.

  He was, she discovered, giving an excellent imitation of a stone wall. Certainly Lady Hardesty’s entreaties and enticements had made no impression whatever; he looked arrogantly, superiorly, unmoved.

  Good manners forbade him from cutting her ladyship, but now that Madeline had ended her conversation, he glanced her way, then turned back to Lady Hardesty and with cool civility informed her, “I fear we must get on. We have quite a ride before us.” He reached for Madeline.

  As his fingers closed about her elbow, Madeline saw the flash of annoyance that passed through Lady Hardesty’s dark eyes. She wasn’t used to being denied.

  But she was too wise to press.

  With an inclination of her head that she endeavored to make gracious, her ladyship sat back. Her gaze shifted to Madeline; somewhat to her surprise Madeline detected nothing more than residual annoyance in that look.

  It was transparently clear her ladyship saw her as no threat, no rival; she’d dismissed her as a woman—or rather as too inconsequential a female to have any chance of attaching Gervase.

  That look was so unmaliciously dismissive, so purely a statement of her ladyship’s experienced evaluation and nothing more, Madeline was taken aback. But habit stood her in good stead; she parroted the right phrases as she and Gervase took their leave of the party, then he drew her back from the pavement’s edge.

  Lady Hardesty leaned forward to speak to her coachman, then looked back at Gervase. “Until later, my lord.”

  Her dark eyes holding his, she sat back, then the carriage jerked forward; raising and unfurling her parasol, she looked ahead.

  They stood and watched the carriage clatter away.

  Madeline glanced at Gervase and found his eyes narrowed on the retreating parasol. She hesitated, then unable to help herself asked, “What’s your verdict?”

  He glanced briefly at her, then back at the carriage disappearing up the street. “My sisters,” he said, urging her on, “were right. Robert Hardesty has made a very big mistake.”

  Gervase insisted on escorting her all the way back to Treleaver Park. The afternoon was waning by the time they clattered into the stable yard. Grooms came running. Madeline dismounted, gracefully sliding to the ground; she turned—only to discover Gervase beside her.

  “Come.” He waved ahead. “I’ll walk you to the
house before I ride home.”

  She acquiesced with a nod. Side by side, they strode out of the yard, then by mutual accord slowed to a stroll. The path to the house cut through the gardens, a pleasant, wending walk in the golden light of the fading day.

  From the cliffs, out of sight to their right, the surf boomed like distant cannon fire dulled by the thick canopies of the intervening trees. The tang of the sea didn’t reach this far; as they followed the path, the scents of lavender, roses and freshly clipped grass mingled and swirled around them.

  They walked in silence; they’d exchanged few words, all purely commonplace, since parting from Lady Hardesty. But there was little to discuss; while trawling through the taverns searching for their quarry, they’d grasped the opportunity to spread their view of the current prospects for the local tin mines. Beyond that, until they located the elusive agent or he presented himself to Gervase, there was nothing more they could do.

  As for Lady Hardesty…

  Madeline halted beneath the arbor giving on to the formal rose garden. Beyond the roses lay the house, its red brick walls washed by the westering sun, the leaded windows glinting.

  The gardeners had finished for the day, their tools tidied away; there was no one about, not a soul in sight. She stood silent beneath the arbor, supremely conscious of the large male who’d prowled the long path in her wake to come to a halt behind her.

  Was Lady Hardesty right, or wrong?

  Until recently the question wouldn’t have bothered her, would have occurred to her only to be derisively dismissed.

  Until recently she’d had no interest in attracting any man—and, if truth be known, no real belief in her ability to do so, not once they got to know her.

  She was who she was—nearly six feet of twenty-nine-year-old spinster with an uncompromising attitude and a purpose in life that to her mind precluded any dalliance.

  She hadn’t, until today, felt any less of a woman for that.

  Her senses flickered as Gervase stepped closer, and she felt the heat of him against her back. Her lungs tightened; her breathing grew shallow as he shifted, raising one hand to gently, evocatively caress the side of her throat.