The truth was she admired him, both as a man and for what he’d done with his life. As far as she was concerned, he could distract her brothers with tales of his past, and her only response would be gratitude.
They rejoined the guests; some had departed, but others had arrived. Gervase remained by her side; reluctantly, grudgingly, she had to admit she was comfortable with him being there. Their occasional private comments, colored by their similar views of their neighbors, enlivened the moments; the predictable conversations no longer seemed quite so dull.
“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
