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 nearl
y 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 machinations.
Why? Because I want to.
There’d been truth beneath his words; she’d heard it clearly. Rather than answer with some flippant remark, he’d deliberately given her that kernel of truth to shake her. To shake a response, some reaction, from her. To prod her into reacting.
Into playing his game. But playing that particular game with him, with the sort of male he was, would be…like a sensual game of chess. He moving here, then there, maneuvering to trap her, she defending—for how could she go on the offensive without giving him precisely what she wished to deny him?
A conundrum, especially as her nature predisposed her to action rather than stoic defense.
Yet the larger question remained unanswered: What was his ultimate goal—the prize, the queen he sought?