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 à 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.”
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.