Madeline took it and let him lead her out to his curricle.

Within minutes they were bowling through the castle gates, then east on the lane along the cliffs. The light was poor, but Madeline felt completely relaxed, completely confident of Gervase’s ability to manage the powerful blacks he had harnessed between the shafts.

The moon shone fitfully, weak and waning, screened by high clouds, yet there remained sufficient light for her, leaning back against the curricle’s seat, to study his profile. To consider what she saw there, cast like a Roman coin against the dark backdrop of the sea.

The events of the day scrolled through her mind. He needed a wife, a fact no one could question. But what sort of wife? Until today, she hadn’t dwelled on the point; no cogitations had been required to know that whatever the specifications she wouldn’t fit. But after today, especially after viewing Lady Hardesty with poor Robert in tow, the question had grown more important, more insistent.

Like Sybil, she wished Gervase nothing but happiness. More than most she knew what he’d sacrificed during the war; to her mind society owed him some reward, specifically a contented life. It would be a travesty of justice and fairness if he didn’t have that.

Which meant he needed the right wife.

But what, in that context, constituted “right?”

Before seeing the evidence of Lady Hardesty, she would have suggested a London beauty, a daughter of some peer of suitable rank with a solid background in the glittering world of the capital.

But of what use was knowing the order of diplomatic precedence, or the most fashionable type of tea to serve a duchess in the afternoon, if one’s husband’s most urgent question was whom among numerous local functionaries gathered together it was politic to recognize first?

She’d answered that question, in one form or another, on several occasions that day, and while any lady might learn the answer, learning presupposed an interest in doing so, and that-as not just Lady Hardesty but also her female guests had demonstrated-was not a quality London ladies necessarily possessed.

The curricle’s wheels rhythmically rattled along the well-beaten track.

She’d stood in Gervase’s countess’s shoes for the day; she shouldn’t find it impossible to imagine the lady capable of filling the position, yet her mind remained blank, unhelpfully vacant, no matter how she tried to focus, to conjure…no more could she think of any local lady of the right age, the right background, let alone one capable of holding his interest.

He checked the blacks, jerking her attention back to the moment. Slowing to a crawl, he turned his pair; she glanced around and realized he was taking the track to the boathouse.

It took a second to question her own impulses, then to inwardly shrug.

With the horses at the top of the steep path, he drew them to a halt, then climbed down and handed the reins to her. “Stay there and mind the brake.”

She’d started to swing her legs out, but stopped, considered, then swung them back. He went to the leader’s head; grasping the harness close by the bit, he started leading the pair down.

Having someone on the brake was necessary in case the horses tried to go too fast or the curricle’s wheels slipped; the path was too steep, his horses too valuable to risk. Keeping the reins loose in one hand, her other hand on the brake, she let him guide them down.

The curricle fitted neatly into the space behind the boathouse. It felt normal to let him take her hand and help her down, then steer her inside and up the stairs. It was the third time she’d been there with him, in his private place; she was a little surprised by how comfortable and confident she felt-serene and assured-as he led her to the daybed, then turned her into his arms.

He kissed her, the exchange long and sweet, drawn out as she returned the pleasure. When he drew back, her fingers were tangled in his hair, his already busy with her laces. He looked down at her face, his own a medley of sharply delineated planes and shadows. “I wanted to thank you.”

She smiled. “Everyone already has. Multiple times. But what I didn’t tell Sybil, I’ll tell you-I need no thanks. I enjoyed my day thoroughly.”

His lips curved, she thought rather wickedly, but in the poor light she couldn’t be sure. “But I wanted to thank you in my own way.”

Her gown slithered to the floor; she struggled to quell a too-hungry shiver invoked by the sensation of his hands, hard and knowing, and their heat, closing about her waist.

She licked her lips, stretched up to murmur against his, “Your way?”

“Mmm.” His gaze had lowered to her breasts. His hands rose, then reverently closed. “You said you thoroughly enjoyed your day. In return for your help, it seems only right that I ensure you also…thoroughly enjoy your night.”

His fingers flexed; she caught her breath. They played and her lids fell, lips parting on a soft, impossibly evocative-undeniably erotic-gasp.

He dipped his head, covered her lips, and with consummate mastery swept her into the dance.

The one he’d taught her.

One where their bodies spoke more clearly than words ever could, where each touch carried meaning as well as pleasure. Where lips and tongues and hands orchestrated and communicated with a degree of eloquence unimagined, where bodies, minds and even souls could speak with a directness unfettered by any of the intrinsic limitations of verbal speech.

As, all hot naked skin and long tangling limbs, they tumbled onto the daybed, she realized she could say so much more this way. As he drew her beneath him and with one powerful thrust joined them, as she embraced and clung, then encouraged and exhorted, then unshackled her wilder self, letting it free to ride with his, as the heat and the passion rose and consumed them, here, like this, she could open her heart and let the truth come tumbling out…and no one would hear.

Only she knew as she crested and clung, as throwing her head back, she let the glory claim her, just how deep, how strong, how irrevocable and powerful that glory now was. What depths of her heart and soul it had plumbed.

Just how irretrievably and ineradicably it had become a part of her.

Only she knew.

The storm washed past, the frenzy died, subsiding into blissful aftermath. Lying on her back with him slumped, boneless and heavy, over her, eyes closed, her fingers idly stroking through his hair, she smiled, and told herself it didn’t matter. That no matter the cost, only she would know, and no matter what the cost, she would readily meet it-just to know she could feel like this.

To know what it was like to be all she as a woman could be.

He’d given her that, and for that gift, she’d be forever grateful.

Lifting her head, she pressed a gentle kiss to his temple, then lay back, relaxed, and let satiation claim her.


An hour later, Gervase lay propped against the daybed’s raised back, watching while Madeline delicately sipped a glass of amontillado, then bit into a ripe plum. The dark purple juice stained her lips, threatened to overflow at one corner, but then her tongue darted out and lapped.

He forced himself to look away. Reaching for the hand that held the glass, he raised it so he could brush a kiss across her knuckles. “Thank you for staying by my side today-your insights were invaluable.”

Still chewing, she smiled.

Before he could think too much he went on, “No one else could have done it. Having you there, by my side, felt right. The others thought the same.”

She swallowed, then lightly shrugged. “Your role used to be mine, so I suppose in a way it was a trial run for you.” She looked down, inspecting her fingers. “Next year, you’ll have your new countess to assist you.”

He managed to keep the frown from his face; she hadn’t made the connection he’d intended.

Before he could think of something to jog her mind in the right direction, she looked up and met his eyes, searched them. “You needn’t worry anyone will read too much into my being by your side today. Everyone will realize I was merely helping you find your feet.”

Setting aside the glass, plum finished, she slid around onto her belly, her bare rump distracting him, and proceeded to lick her fingers clean-further distracting him.

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” Disgruntled irritation colored his tone. “I’m perfectly sure everyone else read the situation correctly.”

She glanced at him, tried to read his mood; expression quizzical, she tilted her head. “So what is bothering you?”

You. He wondered what it was going to take to open her eyes-to make her see that no one else viewed her as in any way ineligible to be his wife. More, that everyone else was starting to assume that she would fill the position. Looking into her eyes, he felt frustration well. He wanted their engagement settled, wanted her hand acknowledged as his-by her most of all. His sisters’ artful manipulation and Harry’s direct question had only exacerbated his natural irritation at having to play such a roundabout game.

His natural inclination was to take the Valkyrie by the horns and insist on submission, on total surrender, but with this particular Valkyrie…

He’d kept his expression impassive; he knew she wouldn’t read anything in his eyes. Reaching out, he set one hand in the indentation of her waist, then stroked slowly down, over the lush curve of her hip and derriere. “I’m in two minds over whether I’ve thanked you enough.”

Her eyes had widened slightly at the caress; now they widened even more. With undisguised interest.

“Hmm.” On that sultry murmur she shifted, turning to him as he turned to her. “Perhaps…maybe…I deserve a second helping?”