room, well away from the ballroom. He reached for her.
Madeline blinked and glanced around; before she could do anything beyond register that they had somehow wandered down to Lady Moreston’s garden porch-a square room between two others, wall-less on one side and so open to the garden with a pair of slim ivory columns framing the view-she was in Gervase’s arms.
Recalling his fell purpose-and her opposition-she braced her hands on his chest and pushed back to glare at him. “You distracted me.”
The accusation made him smile. “I did. I admit it.” Holding her fast within one arm, he raised his hand, and brushed the pad of his thumb across her lower lip. Leaving it throbbing. Then his eyes, dark in the weak light, lifted to hers. “And now I propose”-his hand shifted; his long fingers framed her jaw and tipped it up as his lips lowered to hers-“to distract you even more.”
Chapter 6
Madeline intended to hold firm, to refuse to play his game, but her besetting sin had other ideas.
No matter how much she’d tried to dismiss it, to play down her interest, that more adventurous side of her that she so rarely let loose knew the truth.
Knew how deeply she longed to know more, to learn of desire, and the passion that, with his arms around her and his lips on hers, seemed to hover at the edge of her perception.
It was that need to explore that had her twining her arms about his neck and kissing him back, had her sinking against him in flagrant encouragement entirely deaf to the protests of her rational mind.
Rationality, caution, held little sway as their mouths melded, as the kiss deepened and time spun away.
Simple heat, simple hunger.
And a yearning that welled from her soul. That touched her in a way she’d never felt before, that swelled and grew and drove her.
Drove her to twine her fingers in his hair and clutch as his hand, drifting down from her jaw, feathered over her breast, then closed.
Through the taut satin, one artful finger circled her ruched nipple, and she mentally gasped.
Waited. Poised on a cliff edge of elusive tension, wanting to know yet more.
His lips left hers. From beneath her lashes, she watched him glance down, to where his hand cupped her firm flesh.
His fingers lightly closed, then he glanced at her. After an instant, he closed the distance and brushed his lips over hers again, then drew back.
“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 demonstrated 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
