Hot, increasingly urgent, hungry, yet contained.

Not restrained yet limited, delimited; there was no sense of being swept away, but of meeting him, matching him, of sharing control.

The kiss drew her in, lured her deeper. Quite how it happened she didn’t know, yet when she managed to lift her head enough to draw in a shallow breath, she discovered he’d leaned back against the stone bench and she was leaning over him, his face clasped between her hands, her lips parted as she looked down into his eyes.

“Why?” She searched his eyes, glowing richly brown beneath the distracting fringe of his lashes. “You want so much from me, but why do you want me to decide?”

Beneath her, he stilled-a stillness that communicated the intent focus of his thoughts. Her question had caught him off balance; he was rapidly searching for an answer.

She resisted the urge to press, to reframe the question; it was clear enough and she knew he understood.

He moistened his lips. His gaze lowered to hers, then his hands firmed about her waist. He didn’t lift her from him, but simply held her, then he raised his gaze to her eyes. “I told you-I want all, everything that’s in you to give.”

“What do you mean by that, and why do you want it?”

“Because…that’s what desire is, between a man and a woman. A wanting.”

“You told me yourself, intimated at least, that what you wanted from me was more. More than the usual, the norm.” Whatever that might be. She waited. And sensed for the first time a degree of uncertainty, of, not confusion but wariness in him.

Why would he be wary of her?

When he said nothing, just ran his large, warm palms up and down her back, she arched her brows. “You’re being very mysterious.”

Something flared in his eyes. “There’s nothing mysterious about this.”

He must at some point have lifted her; she was half sitting on his lap. She could feel his erection riding against her hip. The growl that had edged his voice, the strength in his hands, only emphasized the aura of danger, of being in the arms of a sexual predator.

Yet she felt no fear, not the slightest lick of trepidation. She looked down into his darkening eyes, and knew that no matter how blatantly he hungered for her, no matter how frankly he displayed his ardor, harming her, hurting her, either physically or emotionally, wasn’t any part of his game.

Why she felt so safe, so secure, so sure when in his arms, she didn’t know, couldn’t explain.

She kept her eyes locked on his. “You haven’t answered my question.”

When his lips remained sealed, she reiterated, “Why do you want more from me? Why is it important I agree to that?”

He exhaled. His gaze dropped to her lips; his own remained set in a stubborn line.

She leaned closer, boldly skated her parted lips over his. “I’m seriously considering not making my decision until you answer my question.”

She’d breathed the words over his lips; she felt his chest swell, knew she’d succeeded in twisting the rack. Two could play at ultimatums. Pressing closer, she kissed him, held his face between her hands, covered his lips with hers and challenged him to take…

The rustle of leaves was soft. She heard, but didn’t react, too caught up in evoking his reaction, in the promise of his rapacious mouth.

A theatrical gasp had her jerking upright, turning to see-

One hand clamped over her lips, Eleanor stood at the edge of the clearing, eyes wide, locked on her.

Beside Eleanor stood Matthew Brisenden, an expression like a thundercloud darkening his face.

Jacqueline could happily have strangled them both.

Biting back an unladylike curse, she tensed to struggle from Gerrard’s arms, to slide from his lap, but his hands firmed, and she obeyed the instruction.

Smoothly, unhurriedly, he lifted her and set her on her feet. Retaining one hand, he rose and stood beside her.

With unshakable savoir faire, he nodded to Eleanor and Matthew. “Miss Fritham. Mr. Brisenden. Have you been down by the lake?”

Gerrard kept his tone polite, faintly bored, as if he was discussing a stroll in the park. A kiss did not qualify as a major indiscretion; he refused to allow them to treat it as such.

Matthew glowered at him. Gerrard quashed the impulse to smile in return. He’d never expected to be thankful to see Brisenden’s disapproving countenance, yet he was. Who knew what he might have revealed if Jacqueline had continued her persuasion?

A gong sounded, resonating through the trees.

“Ah-luncheon.” Setting Jacqueline’s hand on his sleeve, he raised his brows in polite query at Eleanor and Matthew, and waved to the path leading to the house. “Shall we?”

They had no option but to follow as he led Jacqueline up the path; Eleanor did so quite readily; Matthew would, Gerrard suspected, have preferred to call him out, but, still glowering darkly, tramped reluctantly behind them.

Eleanor, unsurprisingly, came up on his other side. Acknowledging her with the most distant of nods, he kept his attention on Jacqueline, instituting a conversation about the various trees they passed; there were times when his hobby was distinctly useful.

Jacqueline responded glibly; far from being embarrassed or trepidatious over being discovered indulging, he sensed she was irritated, sharply annoyed with her importunate friends.

The observation gave him heart; perhaps he’d achieved something today.

Something aside from having attracted Eleanor’s attention in a way he’d up to now avoided.

He’d known his share of predatory females; Eleanor was definitely one. Now that she’d seen evidence of his interest in Jacqueline, specifically the nature of that interest, her blood was up. She thought he was interested in dalliance, and was about to offer her charms.

He was defensively aware of the speculative glances Eleanor threw him as they walked back to the terrace. She didn’t attempt to join his and Jacqueline’s conversation, but eyed him as if she was measuring him to the last inch, and deciding just how to harness him.

She was destined for disappointment, but what intrigued him more was that Jacqueline was aware of Eleanor’s avid interest. He saw it, saw Jacqueline notice Eleanor’s assessing looks, saw comprehension and more in Jacqueline’s eyes.

But she didn’t look at him. Didn’t glance up to see if he’d noticed, or if he was responding. Not a hint of jealousy, or possessiveness, invested her demeanor, but she was watching, noting, nonetheless.

Was she so sure of him, of her hold on his senses?

Or did she truly not care?

The latter option bothered him more than he liked. Even more than her earlier question and her threat of waiting for him to answer before she declared herself his. That was definitely not part of his plan.

They were first to the terrace, but to his relief, the others came up in a laughing, chattering throng before they’d finished helping themselves to the cold meats and pastries set out on a table.

Barnaby was among those returning from the lake. Gerrard summoned him with a look; encouraging Jacqueline to draw the younger girls to their table, they endeavored to hold Eleanor at bay.

Temporarily defeated, she joined Jordan’s circle, but she paid scant attention to her brother’s discourse. Her eyes remained fixed on Gerrard, occasionally sliding to Barnaby, but returning, always, to Gerrard. Jordan’s gaze also frequently came his way.

Inwardly, Gerrard swore and remained on guard.

Just as well; as they all left, going down the front steps in a gay, noisy group, exchanging promises and challenges for when they met again that evening, Eleanor maneuvered to come up beside him. He led Jacqueline to his curricle. His grays stamped, unimpressed by the high-pitched voices; a groom held on to their bits, reverently crooning.

Barnaby had gone to the other side of the curricle; it was just roomy enough to accommodate three.

Alongside, Jordan’s curricle stood waiting with a pair of showy bays between the shafts.

“I wonder, Mr. Debbington…” Boldly, Eleanor gripped his arm, forcing him to halt and face her. She smiled. “I wonder if I might suggest Jacqueline and I swap places, at least until the turnoff to the manor.” She let her gaze sweep his horses, then turned her eyes on him. “I’ve a great penchant for powerful beasts. I find them quite fascinating.”

Gerrard resisted the urge to roll his eyes; even more smoothly than she, he replied, “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’ve arranged to take an alternative route.”

“Oh?” Eleanor’s gaze and tone sharpened. “To where?”

In a different direction to the one she was heading in; beyond that, Gerrard had no clue. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would so impertinently question him.

Before he could utter the annihilating setdown spontaneously forming on his tongue, Jacqueline’s fingers tightened on his sleeve; leaning forward, she spoke across him. “Mr. Debbington expressed an interest in viewing the church at Trewithian. With luck, we’ll just have time to head that way, then return to the Hall.”

Eleanor deflated. “Oh. I see.”

Jacqueline smiled lightly; reaching out, she lifted Eleanor’s hand from Gerrard’s other sleeve, squeezed it in farewell and released it. “We’ll see you tonight.”

Eleanor nodded, disappointed, but amiable enough. “Yes, of course.”

Gerrard blinked, and hurriedly added an abbreviated farewell; Barnaby, already in the curricle, waved. With not the slightest sign she understood that she’d just been put in her place, Eleanor inclined her head, and turned away.

For one instant, Gerrard stared. Then he inwardly shook himself, turned and helped Jacqueline into his curricle, followed, gathered the reins, sat, and set his horses trotting.