Hiding a wolfish smile, he did.
The dinner table conversation was general and lively. Lady Porthleven was seated on his left, with Mr. Caterham beyond her, opposite Mr. Juliard, who was on Madeline’s other side. The five of them swapped stories; Gervase contributed a commentary on the latest London scandal.
Otherwise he listened and watched.
Yet all he learned from the exchanges was that, just as Madeline enjoyed a unique status among the male half of the local gentry, she also held a special position in the eyes of the ladies. Spinsters were not normally accorded such respect, let alone status, in female circles, nor were they so transparently free, and acknowledged to be free, of the customary social constraints. No matter how he steered the conversation, he detected no disapprobation whatever from Lady Porthleven-an old stickler if ever there was one-nor from the other ladies toward Madeline.
Dinner’s end saw the ladies retreat, leaving him to pass the decanters with the men. Resigned, he set himself to play the genial host while waiting to rejoin Madeline and continue his campaign.
Unfortunately, when the gentlemen strolled back into the drawing room, he discovered she’d taken steps- deliberately or unwittingly he couldn’t be sure-that effectively thwarted him. She’d planted herself on the chaise between Mrs. Juliard and Mrs. Caterham and appeared to have put down roots.
Short of some too-revealing, too-masterful gesture, he couldn’t budge her.
From the corner of her eye, Madeline watched Gervase prowl-and tried, yet again, to tell herself she was imagining it. Imagining his focus on her; certainly no one else seemed to have remarked it. But no matter how logically she lectured herself, at some instinctual level, she knew what she knew.
What was the damn man about?
He reminded her of a tiger circling his prey; there was an element in his long-legged, soft-footed stride that reminded her forcibly of a large hunting cat. He hovered, again and again appearing on the periphery of her little circle, but he didn’t attempt to intrude on the essentially female discussions while Sybil poured and the teacups were passed.
No. He was biding his time; she knew he was. And she had no clue what he was planning, let alone how best to deflect it.
She was accustomed to being able to command all in her life; be that as it may, she didn’t imagine-not in her wildest dreams-that she could command him. There were some beings beyond even her control, not many but he was one.
One she clearly needed to guard against, although what peculiar notion had wormed its way into his brain she couldn’t imagine.
It had been a very, very long time since any man had thought to, or dared to, look at her in that considering, assessing, quintessentially male way. As if he were considering…but he couldn’t be, so why the devil was he doing it?
Just to get on her nerves?
Smiling at Mrs. Juliard’s tale of her youngest son Robert’s exploits, Madeline inwardly admitted that if she could make herself believe that Gervase was behaving as he was purely to rattle her-perhaps because she wasn’t easily rattled-she’d feel considerably better, but she knew that idle male whim, the sort that had no real purpose, was unlikely to move him to any action at all. He wasn’t that sort of man.
Which was precisely what was tightening her nerves to the point where they were twanging.
He had some goal in mind-and that goal involved her.
Not her as the Madeline Gascoigne she’d over the years created, but the real her-the nearly twenty-nine-year- old spinster underneath.
She drained her teacup, and told herself-yet again-that her imagination was running away with her.
“Well!” Mrs. Juliard set aside her cup. “It’s been a lovely evening, catching up with everyone, but now it’s time we started for home.” With a smile, she stood.
Madeline and Mrs. Caterham did the same, just as Mrs. Entwhistle, middle-aged, plump, sweet-natured but rather fluttery, fluttered up. “Madeline, dear, we really need to call a meeting of the festival committee. Time has got away from us, and we need to make decisions somewhat urgently.”
Madeline smiled reassuringly. “Yes, of course.” She lifted her gaze to Gervase’s face as he halted beside Mrs. Entwhistle; he’d been chatting with that good lady for the last several minutes.
His amber eyes met hers. “I suggested that, as this will be the first Summer Festival for which I’ve been in residence as earl, the committee could meet here.” He glanced at Mrs. Caterham and Mrs. Juliard, also members of the committee, a light smile inviting them-beguiling them-to back his plan. “I’d like to attend, to learn more about the festival and what’s entailed. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon?”
The ladies delightedly agreed; few of their menfolk willingly attended such organizational sessions. There was nothing Madeline could do other than smile her acquiescence, and in truth if he were to attend, she wasn’t averse to holding the meeting there, rather than at the Park, the most likely alternative.
Mrs. Entwhistle, the festival’s general, fluttered off to inform the other committee members as everyone rose and prepared to depart.
Gervase didn’t move away; there was no reason he should, yet…he trailed close behind Madeline as she smiled and exchanged farewells as the company filed out into the front hall. For the first time in her life-certainly that she could recall-she was aware of a man; her skin seemed to flicker, her nerves to twitch, reacting almost nervously to his nearness.
But it was the shockingly intense shiver that slithered down her spine when his palm brushed the back of her waist as he ushered her through the drawing room doorway that snapped her patience. The gesture was purely social, a gentlemanly courtesy, yet she knew he’d done it deliberately.
Halting beside the hall’s central table, she let the other guests press ahead, then turned and narrowed her eyes on his. “What are you doing?”
From her tone, her brothers would have understood she was seriously displeased. Gervase studied her eyes, then his impassive expression eased in some way she couldn’t define. The hard line of his lips certainly softened, but it wasn’t in a smile. “I intend to get to know you better-much better than I do.”
His voice had lowered, deepened; combined with the look in his amber eyes it was impossible to mistake his meaning-what he intended “get to know you better” to convey.
Her lungs slowly tightened; she ignored the sensation and narrowed her eyes even more. “Why?”
His brows rose. “Why?” She sensed-saw in his eyes-a glib response, something along the lines of amusing himself, but then his lids lowered, long brown lashes fleetingly screening his eyes, then they rose and he again met her gaze. “Because I want to.”
And that, she decided, was a far more worrying response than any lighthearted quip. She briefly searched his eyes, confirmed the agatey hazel remained as hard-as determined-as ever, then she looked toward the door, saw that most of the other guests were out on the porch and that Harry was waiting by the door with Belinda, with Muriel nearby.
She glanced at Gervase and met his eyes. “I fear you’re destined for disappointment. I have no interest in dalliance.”
His brows rose again, but this time more slowly. “Is that so? In that case…I’ll have to see if I can change your mind.”
Her eyes couldn’t get any narrower. She closed her lips tightly over the words that leapt to her tongue; she knew males far too well to utter what he would inevitably interpret as a challenge. Falling back on chilly dignity, she inclined her head, then started for the door-but she couldn’t resist having the last word. “You’ll tire of beating your head against that brick wall soon enough.”
Sweeping on, she collected Harry and Muriel, took her leave of Sybil on the porch, inwardly relieved that Gervase remained beside Sybil, letting Harry escort Muriel down the steps and into their carriage. She followed.
Once the door was shut, the coachman flicked the reins; she relaxed back against the squabs-and drew what she only then realized was her first entirely free breath in hours.
As the carriage slowly negotiated the local lanes, Harry recounted his conversations; he’d clearly enjoyed the evening more than he’d expected. His chatter and Muriel’s answering comments rolling over her, Madeline let her mind drift back over the evening, focusing on Gervase and what she now suspected had been his
