Say no. Madeline subdued her glare with an effort, held down the unexpected and alarmingly violent reaction that erupted from somewhere within her. Gervase shifted, drawing her if anything closer-a blatant attempt to make Lady Hardesty notice that she was on his arm.

Lady Hardesty did notice, but she merely glanced at Madeline, smiled lightly, then turned back to Gervase-as if Madeline had been an animated potted palm. A horse would have warranted more attention. Madeline’s temper, a force of nature rarely engaged, started to spiral. Upward.

“I was wondering, my lord”-Lady Hardesty edged closer, looking down, hoping to make Gervase lean toward her to hear her words-“whether I could prevail upon you to give me a few minutes of your time…in private?”

Lady Hardesty looked up-combined with her nearness, endeavoring to trap Gervase with her dark eyes.

Madeline could barely believe the woman’s hide. She glanced at Gervase-what she saw eased her temper, allowed her to press it back.

He was looking down his nose at her ladyship-from a very distant, exceedingly superior height. “I fear not. Miss Gascoigne has promised me the first waltz, which I believe will be commencing soon.”

As set-downs went, that was as direct as a gentleman could acceptably be.

But Lady Hardesty merely smiled-at Gervase, then, again with a mild, oblivious air, at Madeline. “I’m sure one of these gentlemen would be only too happy to take your place, my lord.” She brought her fine eyes to bear once again on Gervase’s face. “I greatly fear that my need for your company far exceeds Miss Gascoigne’s.”

No one could willingly be so obtuse, and Lady Hardesty was no fool, not socially. Madeline suddenly understood; for the first time in over a decade, she blushed. Lady Hardesty and her friends-as a quick glance at both the gentlemen and the other ladies confirmed-saw her as too tall, too countrified, too old, too much a spinster left on the shelf to ever have any real chance with Gervase.

They thought he was merely being polite to a neighbor, that his attentions to her were inspired by protective friendship, nothing more…for what more could a gentleman of his ilk feel for a lady like her?

The realization was a slap, one she absorbed, but…her temper roared to full life and snapped its leash.

But she-it-got no chance to act, to react.

Gervase spoke. Coldly, collectedly, his diction so precise each quiet word cut like a saber. “I fear I failed to make myself clear. Miss Gascoigne promised me the first waltz because I not just asked, but made a heartfelt plea for the honor.” Locked on Lady Hardesty’s face, his eyes had turned agate-hard, his gaze chilly. “And there is nothing-I repeat, nothing -on this earth that would persuade me to forgo that pleasure.”

He paused; despite the babel surrounding them, not a single sound seemed to penetrate the now-silent circle. No one shifted; Madeline suspected most were holding their breath.

“I trust,” Gervase finally said when the silence had grown taut, “that you now understand?”

Lady Hardesty had paled; frozen beside him, a tiger with teeth she’d presumed to tease, she didn’t know what to say.

Gervase shifted, removing his arm from under her hand, then he curtly nodded-a clear dismissal-and turned to Madeline. “Come, my dear.” As if he’d snapped his fingers, the opening bars of the first waltz floated over the heads. He smiled, intently. “I believe we have a waltz to enjoy.”

She returned his smile with perfect grace, nodded regally to the now-silent ladies and gentlemen, then allowed him to lead her away.

He took her straight to the dance floor, and swept her into the dance.

For long minutes, she let herself flow with the music, let the sweeping revolutions soothe her, let her temper-satisfied and all but purring-settle once more.

They were processing back up the long room when she sighed with pleasure, and focused on his face. “Thank you for rescuing me.” She knew that was why he’d joined Lady Hardesty’s circle. She studied his eyes, his still-stony expression. “I’m only sorry doing so forced you to make such an extravagant comment.”

He blinked; his features eased. Openly puzzled, he arched a brow at her.

She smiled. “About your heartfelt plea for the honor of waltzing with me, and of nothing on earth being enough to make you forgo the pleasure.”

He frowned at her. After a moment during which he searched her eyes, he asked, “What in all that did you find ‘extravagant’?”

She sent him a wry but smiling look. “You know perfectly well that you’re the only partner I’ll willingly waltz with. If you ask me to waltz, I’m not going to refuse-no ‘heartfelt plea’ likely ever to be required.”

“Good.” He drew her closer, spinning them effortlessly through a tight turn. “However,” he continued, as they fell into the long revolutions once more, “should you ever refuse, I would indeed plead, even go down on my knees, to secure your hand for a waltz.” He met her eyes. “I like waltzing with you.” After a moment, he added, “I appreciate waltzing with you. I adore waltzing with you-and not even that is stating it too highly.”

She looked into his eyes, and pleasure, warm and seductive, filled her. She smiled. “I like waltzing with you, too.”

“I know. And I like that, too.” He had to look up to steer them through the other whirling couples. When he looked down again he trapped her eyes. “So you see, there wasn’t anything the least extravagant in what I said. It was the truth as I know it.”

He was utterly serious; Madeline felt her heart stutter, felt the glow within spread. But…

“They’re from London, and rather maliciously inclined. You’ll be returning there in autumn to look for your bride-they could-”

“You needn’t concern yourself with that.” The sudden edge in his voice, almost a snap, was a reminder that that subject-his bride-was not one any gentleman would discuss with his…lover.

Despite the sudden lurch of her heart, she kept her expression mild and inclined her head. “Very well.”

She looked over his shoulder, and tried to recapture the magic of the waltz, but even though she was revolving in his arms, the soothing pleasure now eluded her.

Her mention of his bride had doused it. Had created a gulf between them, one that remained for the rest of the evening even though he stayed by her side throughout. They chatted with their neighbors and others from the district, outwardly so assured that no one would have guessed that inside, they were both mentally elsewhere, both thinking.

About the same thing.

They didn’t speak or even allude to it again, but when the ball was drawing to a close, and ahead of the rush Gervase escorted her and Muriel to their carriage, after helping Muriel up, he turned to her. Her hand in his, he studied her face, her shadowed eyes, then bent his head and whispered, “Come to the boathouse. Meet me there tonight.”

He straightened and looked at her-waited for her response.

She nodded. “Yes. All right.”

Relief seemed to wash through him, but it was so faint, so fleeting, she couldn’t convince herself she’d truly seen it.

He helped her into the carriage, then shut the door and stood back. He raised a hand as it rocked forward.

She stared out of the window-stared at him as long as she could-then, with a sigh, she sat back. Closed her eyes. And started to plan how she would get to the boathouse.


On the terrace flanking Felgate Priory’s ballroom, Lady Hardesty strolled on the arm of her occasional lover-who had finally deigned to be seen socially with her. She’d noticed him in the crowd, chatting amiably with numerous locals, from which she’d deduced that his tale of an elderly relative might just be true. He had to be staying with some recognized family in the district to have received one of Lady Felgate’s summonses.

He’d stopped by her side earlier, cutting her out so they’d been alone amid the throng, but only to give her his latest instructions. Although she knew why she obeyed him, the necessity still irked. Unfortunately, he wasn’t the slightest bit susceptible to her wiles. Even more unfortunately, that was part of his allure.

“So what did you learn?” he demanded, the instant they were sufficiently distant from the other couples taking the air. The night was unusually hot; the suggestion of a storm hung in the air.

She sighed. “I had to send Gertrude to ask-she wasn’t with us earlier, when Crowhurst was so vicious. Whoever would have imagined he’d defend Miss Gascoigne so fiercely? Amazing though it seems, he must be bedding her-it’s the only possibility that makes sense.”

“I don’t care about Crowhurst or which woman he elects to tumble. I want to know about that brooch.”

Menace and violence ran beneath the precisely enunciated words. His fingers bit into her arm. She spoke quickly, “Indeed, and for that you have both me and Gertrude to thank. She had to hide the fact she was one of us and pretend she was some lady visiting the district-she did an excellent job following my directions.”

“And?”

“Miss Gascoigne said she received the brooch for her birthday.”

“From whom?”

“Her brothers. And yes, Gertrude asked-according to Miss Gascoigne they bought it from one of the traveling traders at the festival.” She paused, glanced at his face. “You must have missed it when you looked.”

His eyes had narrowed. “I didn’t miss it.”

He sounded beyond certain. She frowned. Eventually she ventured, “So the boys lied?”

“Oh, yes. They lied-a perfectly believable lie in the circumstances. And the only reason they would lie is…”

She waited. When his gaze remained distant, locked on the dark gardens, and he said nothing more, she prompted, “What? Why did they lie?”

His lips curled in a snarl. “Because the buggers have found my treasure, and they don’t want anyone else-even their sister-to know.”


Madeline left her room half an hour after returning to it. She’d let Ada help her remove her new hair ornament and gown, then had sent the sleepy maid to her bed.

Ignoring her own, she’d dressed in her riding skirt and drawers, opting in the circumstances to dispense with her trousers; who, after all, would see? Aside from all else, the night was unusually warm, heat lying like a blanket over the land, still and unmoving. Slipping through the dark house, silent as a ghost, she made her way to the side door, let herself out, then headed for the stables.

Artur was happy to see her, and even happier when she placed the saddle on his back. A ride, be it by moonlight or sunlight, was all the same to the big chestnut. Any opportunity to stretch his powerful legs was his idea of Heaven.

He carried her swiftly along the cliff path. The castle loomed on the horizon before her, the battlements and towers silhouetted against the starry sky. There was little moon but the sky was clear; the radiance of the stars washed silver over the fields, over the waves, and glowed brightly phosphorescent in the surf gently rolling in to bathe the sands below.

Madeline saw the beauty, absorbed it, but tonight it failed to distract her from her thoughts. The same thoughts that had haunted her since that moment on the Priory’s dance floor.

The unexpected, unprecedented clash with Lady Hardesty and her guests had forced to the forefront of her mind a number of facts she’d been ignoring. She wasn’t a glamorous London lady, the sort the ton would see as a suitable consort for Gervase; it had been easy to ignore that point and its ramifications while they’d had only locals around them.

Lady Hardesty and her friends had brought home the fact that she could never compete with them and their peers-their unmarried sisters from whom Gervase would choose his bride. But she’d always known that, had accepted it from the first.

What she’d allowed herself to forget-had willfully let slip from her mind-was that he would, indeed, at some point, return to London to choose his bride. Accepting that, acknowledging that, keeping it in mind made her own position crystal clear.

She was his temporary lover, nothing more. A lover for this summer; when autumn came, he would leave, and she would again be alone.

She’d thought she’d accepted that, understood it, but now…now she’d unwisely allowed her heart to become involved, it ached at the thought. It hurt to think their time would soon be over.

Bad enough. It ached even more to think of him with another.

Lying with another. Kissing another. Joining with another.

That was the other thing the clash had brought to light-not, as she’d first imagined, her Gascoigne temper, but something rather more explicit.