With a smile that promised lascivious delight, Lady Hardesty offered her hand. “Well met, my lord.”
Reluctantly lifting his hand from Madeline’s, he grasped her ladyship’s fingers, half bowed, and released her. “Lady Hardesty. Ladies.” He nodded, distantly aloof, to the other females.
Smiling, Lady Hardesty introduced him to the two he hadn’t previously met.
One, a Mrs. Hardingale, a patently dashing matron, fixed him with an arch look. “Tell me, my lord—is this truly the most major ball in the area?” She glanced around, then brought her gaze, eyes laughing, back to his face, clearly inviting him to denigrate the company of his neighbors.
He regarded her impassively. “I believe it is one of the more major events, certainly a long-established one.” He paused, then added, “It’s usually a very pleasant affair.”
Madeline lightly gripped Gervase’s arm, whether in support or warning she wasn’t sure, but she needn’t have bothered; Mrs. Hardingale simply looked nonplussed, unsure whether the comment had been a jibe and if so, whether she should take umbrage.
Two of the other ladies tittered—actually tittered. Madeline managed not to stare.
Lady Hardesty moved forward; releasing the arm of the gentleman beside her, she crossed the circle to place a hand on Gervase’s other arm. “My lord.” She looked up into his face, ignoring Madeline entirely. “I’m especially glad to see you. I’ve been wanting to have a word with you.” Her voice was low, sultry; her brows arched lightly. “If I may?”
Say no. Madeline subdued her glare with an effort, held down the unexpected and alarmingly violent reaction that erupted from somewhere within her. Gervase shifted, drawing her if anything closer—a blatant attempt to make Lady Hardesty notice that she was on his arm.
Lady Hardesty did notice, but she merely glanced at Madeline, smiled lightly, then turned back to Gervase—as if Madeline had been an animated potted palm. A horse would have warranted more attention. Madeline’s temper, a force of nature rarely engaged, started to spiral. Upward.
“I was wondering, my lord”—Lady Hardesty edged closer, looking down, hoping to make Gervase lean toward her to hear her words—“whether I could prevail upon you to give me a few minutes of your time…in private?”
Lady Hardesty looked up—combined with her nearness, endeavoring to trap Gervase with her dark eyes.
Madeline could barely believe the woman’s hide. She glanced at Gervase—what she saw eased her temper, allowed her to press it back.
He was looking down his nose at her ladyship—from a very distant, exceedingly superior height. “I fear not. Miss Gascoigne has promised me the first waltz, which I believe will be commencing soon.”
As set-downs went, that was as direct as a gentleman could acceptably be.
But Lady Hardesty merely smiled—at Gervase, then, again with a mild, oblivious air, at Madeline. “I’m sure one of these gentlemen would be only too happy to take your place, my lord.” She brought her fine eyes to bear once again on Gervase’s face. “I greatly fear that my need for your company far exceeds Miss Gascoigne’s.”
No one could willingly be so obtuse, and Lady Hardesty was no fool, not socially. Madeline suddenly understood; for the first time in over a decade, she blushed. Lady Hardesty and her friends—as a quick glance at both the gentlemen and the other ladies confirmed—saw her as too tall, too countrified, too old, too much a spinster left on the shelf to ever have any real chance with Gervase.
They thought he was merely being polite to a neighbor, that his attentions to her were inspired by protective friendship, nothing more…for what more could a gentleman of his ilk feel for a lady like her?
The realization was a slap, one she absorbed, but…her temper roared to full life and snapped its leash.
But she—it—got no chance to act, to react.
Gervase spoke. Coldly, collectedly, his diction so precise each quiet word cut like a saber. “I fear I failed to make myself clear. Miss Gascoigne promised me the first waltz because I not just asked, but made a heartfelt plea for the honor.” Locked on Lady Hardesty’s face, his eyes had turned agate-hard, his gaze chilly. “And there is nothing—I repeat, nothing—on this earth that would persuade me to forgo that pleasure.”
He paused; despite the babel surrounding them, not a single sound seemed to penetrate the now-silent circle. No one shifted; Madeline suspected most were holding their breath.
“I trust,” Gervase finally said when the silence had grown taut, “that you now understand?”
Lady Hardesty had paled; frozen beside him, a tiger with teeth she’d presumed to tease, she didn’t know what to say.
Gervase shifted, removing his arm from under her hand, then he curtly nodded—a clear dismissal—and turned to Madeline. “Come, my dear.” As if he’d snapped his fingers, the opening bars of the first waltz floated over the heads. He smiled, intently. “I believe we have a waltz to enjoy.”
She returned his smile with perfect grace, nodded regally to the now-silent ladies and gentlemen, then allowed him to lead her away.
He took her straight to the dance floor, and swept her into the dance.
For long minutes, she let herself flow with the music, let the sweeping revolutions soothe her, let her temper—satisfied and all but purring—settle once more.
They were precessing back up the long room when she sighed with pleasure, and focused on his face. “Thank you for rescuing me.” She knew that was why he’d joined Lady Hardesty’s circle. She studied his eyes, his still-stony expression. “I’m only sorry doing so forced you to make such an extravagant comment.”
He blinked; his features eased. Openly puzzled, he arched a brow at her.