to think.
What do I want? What do I need? What would be the right thing to do?
Jack Ransome was asleep in the midst of her garden when Madelyn returned, and she indulged herself for a moment, watching him relaxed in the sunlight. Long dark lashes lay on those high cheekbones, the deep blue eyes were shuttered, that expressive mouth relaxed. He appeared about as safe as a sleeping cat must look to a sparrow, she thought, gesturing to the maid to put down the tray on the turf seat a few feet away from him.
When she put one finger to her lips the girl flashed a smile in response and tiptoed away. Madelyn sat on the fountain rim and looked, not at Jack Ransome, but at her own reflection in the edge of the pool. Occasional water drops broke the image into fragments, but she knew what she was looking at well enough.
She was not attractive by the fashionable standards of the day—she understood that perfectly from the journals and newspapers and books she’d had brought to her in the months since her father’s death. She was too tall, far too blonde—brunettes were most admired, she gathered—and far, far, too pale. Pale skin was a sign of breeding, of course, but pink cheeks and rosebud mouths were admired. Her hair was straight, her bosom too lush, she had realised as she studied the portraits of fashionable beauties and scanned the fashion plates. She had no idea how to dress, what to do with her hair, how to behave. She had no conversation. The very thought of a crowd of people made her feel a little ill.
Fish began to rise at the sight of her, but she had brought nothing for them, so she trailed her fingers through the water, breaking up her reflection, sending them flickering away with a flash of sunlight on fin and scale.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Jack Ransome said from behind her. He had woken silently and picked up the conversation almost where they had left off.
Madelyn nodded without looking round. What else was she going to do? She was fitted for nothing but to live in a time long past and she knew she was not going to fall in love—that chance had gone two years ago. She might as well marry this handsome man who, by all accounts, was intelligent enough to keep her interested and who looked virile enough to give her children. He seemed chivalrous and thoughtful. At any rate he had not snatched at what she was offering without probing her own feelings first. And he appeared able to control his temper. She could cope with many things simply by enduring them, but blazing male anger terrified her.
Not that she was prepared to reveal her thoughts to him. It had not occurred to her before this meeting that an emotionless match might be easier than one where real passions were engaged, but now it seemed so much safer.
‘Yes, I am sure. I would not have sent for you otherwise.’ She turned and found him right beside her.
A poor choice of words, perhaps. His eyes narrowed. ‘If you marry me, you enter my world, you start living entirely in the year 1816. Do you understand? Clothes, style, home, manners.’
‘But this—’ Madelyn gestured around her ‘—I must tell you, it has been left in trust to my children. My husband would not be able to sell it, or to use the income for any other purpose than its maintenance or to control its management.’
Jack Ransome shrugged. ‘It is the Dersington lands that I want. All that I want. This would be maintained, of course, according to the provisions of the trust. But if it is to be one of our homes, then it must function as such and not as some medieval fantasy. I will not live in a museum. If I marry you and reclaim all my estates, then they will have priority for my time and attention until I am certain they are restored as I would wish. Do you understand?’
It was hard to control her reaction to that harsh demand, to the flat statement. But what mattered was fulfilling her father’s wish, of continuing the line. She had failed him by being a girl, she understood that. She looked at the man surrounded by her flowers, thought of the children they would have and nodded. ‘Yes, I understand.’
Some of the tension left the lean body so close to hers. Jack Ransome held out his hands, and she put hers, cool and wet, into his grasp and let herself be drawn to her feet.
‘A kiss to seal our bargain?’ he asked as her gaze locked with his.
He is still angry, she thought, momentarily daunted. He is not showing it, not shouting, but he hates the position I have put him in, he loathes being indebted to someone. The fact that he could control those feelings, still behave in a civilised manner, was almost more frightening than a display of temper would have been. Will he hate me also?
When Madelyn closed her eyes and leaned in towards him, he gathered her closer and then his lips brushed over hers, pressed, and she gave a little gasp as his tongue licked across, tasting. Then he lifted his head and she opened her eyes and found herself lost in the darkness and a heat that was more than anger.
Desire? For me? And then whatever it was had gone and he was smiling and stepping back, releasing her hands. It was her imagination, obviously. Imagination and inexperience. Or wishful thinking. Wishing for something she had not realised that she wanted any more.
‘I imagine the next step is for my lawyers to talk to yours. And you have trustees, I assume?’
‘Trustees, three of them. But they are bound closely by the conditions of my father’s will and cannot oppose this marriage. I will give you their various addresses before you leave, Mr Ransome.’
‘Thank you.’ He made no move to go. ‘Did your mother create this garden?’
‘Yes. When my brother died and she was… When she knew she would not get better, she asked me to continue looking after it. There are three gardeners. It takes a lot of maintenance.’
He glanced around. ‘I have seen very few servants.’
‘My father preferred them to stay out of sight as much as possible. One needs a large number to manage a castle and it proved impossible to keep them if he insisted on the correct period costume. He felt it spoiled the appearance of the castle to have them walking around in modern clothing.’
Jack Ransome did not try to hide his reaction to that. ‘Your father was obsessed, was he not?’
It was hard to deny it. ‘Perhaps. It was everything to him and he was a perfectionist. I suppose all true artists are.’
‘That must have been difficult for you if he expected the same standards from you at all times. Or are you as devoted to this as he was?’
‘This was how I was raised. I love this place and I would like to see it become a home, even if it has to change for that to happen.’ As soon as she said it she realised how revealing that choice of words was. Home. A house, an ordinary house, imperfect, comfortable. She loved this place, it was all she knew, but it was not a home, it was a statement. Jack Ransome gave her a fleeting look that might have held sympathy or perhaps pity. Or even exasperation at her sentimentality. Madelyn tipped up her chin and stared back.
‘How long ago did your mother die?’
‘A month after the baby.’ Yes, he was definitely feeling sorry for her. ‘I imagine you will want to be on your way, Mr Ransome. If you come with me, I will find you the addresses you will need.’
‘Will you not call me Jack now? We are betrothed, after all.’ He sounded more amused than seductive, although his voice was low and the tone intimate. He had suppressed his anger, it seemed, and now he was bent on humouring her, she supposed. That was better than she had feared: a man who simply snatched at what she was offering, took it—and her—and then disregarded her.
‘Very well. And you may call me Madelyn.’ Not that he would wait for permission.
It seemed to take a