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.
She’d been jealous, and not just mildly so. When Lady Hardesty had moved to engage Gervase, her fingers had curled into claws. At least in her mind. But what had shocked her even more than her reaction-one she had no real right to feel-was the violence behind it.
Given her Gascoigne temperament, that didn’t bode well. While in the main her family were even-tempered, good-natured, that streak of recklessness that affected them all made indulging emotions such as real anger and violent jealousy a very bad idea. People who could, and would, in the heat of a moment risk just about anything had to be careful.
Which raised a question she’d never thought to ask: How on earth would she, could she, interact with the lady Gervase would ultimately make his wife?
She couldn’t imagine the answer. No matter how much she lectured herself, she’d always be that poor lady’s worst enemy.
She would have to…what? Go into a nunnery? How could she possibly live at Treleaver Park and not stumble constantly across the poor unsuspecting woman?
The thought, the possibilities, and the scenarios her imagination, now awakened to the notion, supplied were simply too horrendous to contemplate. When she reached the top of the path to Castle Cove, she had the beginnings of a headache, but no clue how best to proceed. She reined Artur in, then started him slowly down, letting him pick his way in the poor light.
She knew why she was there-because Gervase had asked her. Because he’d held out the prospect of another night in his arms-and if she was going to have him, be able to be with him and indulge her feelings-those it would have been wiser not to allow to bloom and grow, let alone blossom-only until he left to find his bride, then she would take all he offered, every last interlude.
She hadn’t asked for this, hadn’t been searching for it, but fate had sent him to her, and she, a Gascoigne to her soul, had recklessly fallen in love. So she’d embrace it, let the bud bloom for as long as possible before what had grown between them was forced to die.
Time enough to face that horror when it came.
Her emotions felt raw, too close to her surface, when she turned onto the ledge and saw Gervase waiting by the side of the boathouse. He caught Artur’s head; when she slid down from the high back he led the gelding behind the building and tied him alongside his big gray.
Returning to her side, he took her hand. She felt his fingers close, firm and strong, about hers, felt them shift, stroking, as he paused and through the shadows searched her face; his was, as usual, unreadable. Then he glanced at the sea. “Let’s walk on the beach.”
Surprised, she turned, let him lead her down the stone steps cut into the edge of the ledge and onto the soft sand. Her hand in his, he started toward the waves.
She pulled back. “Wait.”
He stopped, turned back as she drew her hand from his and sat on the steps. Rucking up her skirts, she pulled off her riding boots and stockings, and set them aside. Seeing, he followed suit, toeing off his shoes, pulling off his stockings, leaving them beside hers on the steps.
Retaking her hand, he set off; she kept pace beside him as they trudged down to where the retreating tide had left a section of compacted sand on which they could more easily walk. Reaching it, he turned east, away from the castle. They set out at a pace that quickly slowed to ambling. Neither spoke, but their thoughts-mutual, she had not a doubt-lay heavy between them.
They strolled a little way, slowing even more as they both watched the waves roll in, small and gentle, their edges laced with phosphorescence. When he said nothing, she drew in a tight breath. “About what I said this evening-”
“On the dance floor-”
They’d spoken over each other; both stopped, and faced the other.
Their eyes met. He nodded. “You first.”
“I wanted to say…to assure you that I understand.” When he searched her eyes, waited, she went on, “About your bride. I know that you’ll need to return to London, to choose a bride, then bring her back here. I wanted to say that when the time comes for you to do those things-” She broke off and gestured with her free hand. “I won’t make a fuss.”
She met his eyes, held his gaze. Drew in a breath and, lungs tight, lied. “I don’t want you to imagine I’ve changed my mind and expect more from you just because…” Again words failed her; a gesture had to suffice.
“Because we’ve become lovers?”
His voice sounded harsh, but that might have been the sea. She nodded, put up a hand to hold back her wafting hair. “Because we’ve drawn close.”
His eyes had remained locked on hers; his expression wasn’t as rigidly impassive as usual, but she couldn’t identify the emotion behind it.
Then he sighed through his teeth, a hiss of frustration. “You don’t understand.”
She blinked. He sounded exasperated.
Releasing her hand, he gripped her shoulders, drawing her closer, his eyes locked on her face. “You haven’t understood anything at all.”
She frowned. “I just told you I understand perfectly.”
“What you’ve just told me is that you’ve missed…” He broke off, his eyes narrowing on hers. “Or is it ignored?”
She narrowed her eyes back. “What? What in all this am I ignoring?”