Sybil greeted him with her customary easy and gentle smile-underscoring the unusual way she’d interacted with Madeline, suggestive of something, but as to what Madeline had no clue.
Madeline knew Gervase’s father’s second wife distantly for many years, but over the past three years since Gervase had inherited the title and, Sybil and his sisters taken up residence at the castle, while Gervase himself had remained largely absent overseas, Sybil had held the fort, and thus had met Madeline regularly, at the very least every week. As the other senior lady of the small community and moreover one born to her rank, it was to Madeline Sybil had most often turned. They got on well, so Madeline wasn’t surprised to be greeted warmly. What she hadn’t expected was that peculiarly meaningful welcome.
Walking into the drawing room with Harry by her side, she told herself she’d over interpreted. Either that, or there was something going on with Gervase and his family that she didn’t know.
They’d barely crossed the threshold into the long, elegant drawing room when Belinda appeared at her elbow.
“There you are!” Belinda beamed, transparently delighted. “We’re so glad you could come.”
Madeline studied her curiously. “So your mother said.”
“Well, yes! I daresay she did.” Belinda’s exuberance dimmed not one jot. “Perhaps I can take Harry around to meet the others. Gervase is over there.”
Finding herself all but pushed in that direction, Madeline consented to step further into the room. Presumably Belinda had been instructed to ease Harry’s way; considering, justifiably she was sure, that from the superiority of her sixteen years Belinda would be able to manage him, she left her to it.
She herself needed no assistance, not in this company; with a smiling nod to Lady Porthleven, holding court on the chaise, and to Mrs. Entwhistle beside her, she strolled into the room.
And saw Gervase.
Standing before the marble mantelpiece, he was chatting with Mrs. Juliard. As if sensing an arrival, he glanced across the room. His eyes met hers; he stopped speaking.
And she stopped breathing.
It wasn’t his appearance that snatched her breath away-she’d seen him in settings such as this before, where his height and the width of his shoulders, tonight clad in a superbly cut walnut-brown coat, made him a cynosure for female eyes.
The subtle arrogance and less subtle command that cloaked his every movement, from the idle gesture of a hand to the way he turned his head, the strength and power implicit in the characteristic stillness of his stance- none of these things were responsible for her lungs seizing.
Nor was it his face, the features whose lines even in this company were startling in their lean, chiseled hardness, with aggressive clarity branding him a descendent of warrior-lords.
She’d encountered all these facets of him before, and they’d never affected her, impinged on her. They didn’t now, not of themselves.
It was the look in his eyes, the way he looked at her, that jerked her nerves tight, then left them taut and quivering.
Before she could draw breath, before she could even think, he turned back to Mrs. Juliard, excused himself, then strolled across the room to greet her.
Or, as her senses reported it, he prowled over to demand her hand; halting before her, his eyes on hers, he held out his hand, calmly waiting until, frantically shaking her wits into order, she remembered to surrender hers.
His fingers closed strongly around hers, and more of her nerves quaked. For the first time in her life she understood what being tongue-tied felt like. She managed a nod. “Gervase.”
His lips lightly curved. He inclined his head. “Madeline.”
She made the mistake of looking into his eyes, searching for some clue as to why he was watching her like a hawk watched prey, like a cat watched a bird-and found herself trapped, unexpectedly caught in the mesmerizing, agatey, green-flecked amber depths.
Gentle heat spread beneath her skin. All sorts of crazed notions flitted through her mind. It took an effort of will to banish them, to sternly reassert control over her wayward wits-and drag them back to reality. “I-” She broke off and glanced around, noting the others present. She cleared her throat. “It seems you’ve gathered the local elite.”
“Indeed. After our encounter with Squire Ridley this morning, I thought it might be wise to make it more widely and definitely known that I intend remaining at the castle for the summer.”
Releasing her hand, Gervase turned slightly, so that the group of gentlemen by the windows was in their line of sight. “I haven’t yet had a chance to ask if anyone else has been approached about their mining leases.”
She leapt on the topic, as he’d known she would. “This seems the perfect time to ask.”
Smiling lightly, he strolled by her side as they joined the other gentlemen. In planning the evening, he’d searched his memory, and recalled this as her habit; before dinner she chatted with the gentlemen, who, as now, welcomed her into their midst without a blink, shifting to make space for her, as well as for Gervase.
After the usual brisk greetings, she asked, “Have any of you been approached about your mining leases?”
He stood beside her, his interest implied, but let her do the interrogatory honors; as it transpired, Lord Moreston and Lord Porthleven had both heard of the young man making inquiries, but hadn’t yet been approached.
The talk quickly turned to fields and crops, with Mr. Caterham asking Madeline for her predictions on tonnage per acre likely to be achieved this year. While she answered, Gervase watched and learned-not about crops but about her.
She’d detected, all but instantly, his focus on her, but…for some reason he didn’t yet understand, she hadn’t reacted as ladies normally did. He wasn’t all that delighted that she’d sensed his interest so immediately, especially as it was likely to prove no more than that-she intrigued him enough for him to want to learn more of her, but once he had…Yet her response to his interest had only intrigued him all the more.
She’d seen it, identified it correctly, then dismissed it. As if she’d decided it couldn’t possibly be so, that the very idea was simply nonsense.
Confusing though she was, he’d seen enough of her stunned surprise to know that, despite it not being precisely his intention, he had reached her-had penetrated her shield enough for her to notice, at least, that he as a male had some interest in her. But then she’d breathed in, and apparently shaken aside the notion.
As she recounted to the gathered gentlemen-all older than either he or she-the latest prophecies of Old Edam, an ancient whose prognostications on the weather were treated as gospel on the peninsula, he let his gaze, very carefully, trail down from her face.
Perhaps her dismissal of his interest was based on the idea that no gentleman of his ilk could possibly be attracted by a lady in a gown at least three seasons old. He was hardly a fashion maven, but he knew enough of feminine fashions to know her gown wasn’t a la mode. However, while women might consider such issues important, men rarely did. The body in the gown was far more relevant, and in Madeline’s case, there was nothing wrong with that.
Indeed, now her figure was no longer swathed in yards of twill but sleekly sheathed in plum silk, he felt pleasantly vindicated; he’d been right-she was alluring.
Curvaceous but, given her height, not enough to be buxom. Her breasts, the upper swells decorously veiled by a fine silk fichu, were the definition of tempting, lush but not overripe, the lines of her shoulders, nape and arms were regally graceful, her hips nicely rounded, while the length of leg concealed beneath her silk skirts would fire any male’s imagination.
Except, of course, that no man in the vicinity viewed her as female.
Except, now, for him.
He’d distracted her with the mining leases because that was part of his plan. Tonight he intended to watch and learn-and, if he could, discover any weakness in her shield. Until he could undermine it, break through it, or in some way get past it, he wouldn’t be able to declare her incompatible. He needed a reason, one he could put his hand on his heart and swear was real, and for that he needed to know her-the woman concealed.
When Sitwell announced that dinner was served, he smiled and offered her his arm. “I believe we’re partnered tonight.”
She glanced up at him, then inclined her head and placed her hand on his sleeve. “Lead on.”
