They both jumped, clutched each other as their senses rushed back and the world returned.
Lightning forked down from the sky; a raking gust swept the terrace, hurling leaves stripped from nearby trees.
“Madeline? Gervase? Are you out there?” Lord Porthleven stood in the open French door, peering down the terrace.
Gervase drew a deep breath, felt his reeling head steady. The shadows hid them. “We’re here—watching the storm.”
“Ah.” Nodding, his lordship looked out at the sky. “Quite something, ain’t it? But you’d best come in—there’s rain on the way.”
Madeline had stepped back, out of his arms. Placing a hand under her elbow, Gervase turned and paced beside her as they strolled—nonchalantly—back along the terrace.
Other guests were pressed to the windows, staring out at nature’s show. Madeline paused before the French door.
Halting beside her, he glanced at the sky, then looked at her. “It’s…mesmerizing. Wild, exciting.”
She met his eyes. “And dangerous.”
Turning, she stepped through the door. He followed, fairly certain that, like him, she hadn’t been talking about the storm.
The following morning, Gervase sank into the leather chair behind the desk in his library-cum-study. Leaning back, raising his legs, he crossed his ankles, balancing one boot heel on the edge of the desk, and gave himself over to the latest reports his London agent had sent him.
Barely ten minutes had passed before the door opened.
“Miss Gascoigne, my lord.”
Surprised, Gervase looked up to see Sitwell step back from the open door, allowing Madeline to march into his library.
March, stalk, stride—definitely nothing so gentle as walk.
“Thank you, Sitwell.” With a crisp nod, she dismissed his butler.
Sitwell bowed, and glanced inquiringly at Gervase. At his nod, Sitwell slid from the room, closing the door.
Madeline halted midway across the room, tugging rather viciously at her gloves. She was wearing a carriage gown, not her riding dress; she must have driven over. She had to have set out—Gervase glanced at the clock on the mantel—immediately after breakfast.
Swinging his feet to the floor, he rose. “Perhaps the drawing room—”
“No.” She shot a frowning glance his way, her eyes the color of a storm-wracked sea. The recalcitrant button finally gave and she stripped off her gloves, then glanced around. “This is your lair, is it not?”
Bemused, he answered, “So to speak.”
“Good—so we’re unlikely to be disturbed. I do not wish to have to exchange polite conversation with Sybil and your sisters—that’s not the purpose of my visit.”
She stuffed her gloves in a pocket, then started to pace back and forth before his desk, all but kicking her skirts out of the way as she turned. From what he could see of her face, her expression was set in determined, uncompromising lines.
“Perhaps you should sit down and tell me the purpose of your visit.”
She halted, looked at him, then at the armchair he indicated. She shook her head. “I’d rather pace.”
Inwardly sighing, he remained standing behind the desk, and watched as she resumed doing just that.
She glanced his way, saw, and scowled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, sit down!” She pointed to his chair. “Just sit and listen. This time it’s I who have something to say to you in private. And I do mean say.”
He dropped back into his chair. “Discuss.” When she threw him a confused look, he elaborated, “Last night I said we had to discuss something in private—and we did.”
She blinked, then nodded. “Indeed. Which is precisely why I’m here.” She flung around and paced back past the desk. “What we discussed last night is not something we are ever going to discuss again.”
He’d wondered how she would react; now he knew.