Energy poured from her in great waves with every stride. Her fingers, now free of her gloves, linked, twisted, gripping convulsively. Combined with her forceful strides, the signs were impossible to mistake. She was agitated, not angry.
A telling point. One that enabled him to consider her statement with something approaching mild detachment.
“Why?” He kept his tone even, purely curious.
Not that he needed to ask; that was what she’d come there to tell him.
“Let’s consider how we came to this point—the events that led to what occurred last night on Lady Porthleven’s terrace.”
“I kissed you, and you kissed me. And we both enjoyed it.”
“Indeed.” She paused as if debating whether to modify that acknowledgment, but then she drew in a huge breath and continued pacing, addressing the stretch of carpet before her feet. “But regardless, looking back—correct me if I err, but this started with you taking some nonsensical notion into your head that you needed to get to know me better. Subsequently, when I informed you I had no interest in dalliance, you decided convincing me otherwise would be a good idea—and one way and another, that led to last night.” She shot him a glance that was close to a glare. “Is that correct?”
He debated telling her of the initiating action, the point she didn’t know—the reason he’d needed to get to know her better—for all of one second. “That succession of events is materially accurate.”
“Exactly.” She grew more agitated, but she hid it well; it was only by her hands that he could tell. “So there is absolutely no reason behind what occurred on her ladyship’s terrace beyond your whim.”
He opened his mouth.
She silenced him with an upraised finger, even though she wasn’t looking at him. “No—hear me out. That’s all you need to do. Against the worth of your whim stand these facts. One”—she ticked off the point on her finger as she paced—“I am Harry’s regent, his surrogate, and will be for six more years. Two, you are Crowhurst, and as such you and I need to do business with each other on numerous issues, on at least a weekly basis. Three, we are, you and I, the principal landowners in the district, and as such hold positions as effective community leaders.”
She paused at the end of the track she was wearing in his rug, then swung to face him, eyes narrow, her chin set. “I have absolutely no interest in jeopardizing any of those functions in order to accommodate any more of your whims.”
Madeline paused only to draw breath before continuing, “And before you say anything, permit me to remind you I am considerably more than seven. Before you think to even obliquely suggest that dalliance between us might lead to something more, allow me to inform you I am well aware that you couldn’t, wouldn’t, not in this world or the next, imagine me as your wife.”
She cast him a sharp glance—and saw that his expression, until then impassive, had at last changed. Now it was hard—no, stony. His eyes had narrowed; his lips parted—she rode over him again. “For instance, I know perfectly well that your whim to get to know me better was assuredly not driven by any sincere interest in me as a woman—you’ve known me for years, so why now? Because there are no other ladies in the vicinity at present, at least none to your taste, and you are therefore suffering from boredom, if not ennui.
“But I was about, hence your whim. But as we both know, I’m far too old to be considered eligible for the position of your countess. I have none of the airs, gr
aces and aspirations that would be considered right and proper for the position—and am unlikely to develop them, as everyone in the district—even you—knows!”
She barely paused for breath. “Beyond that, my temper and attitudes are entirely incompatible with being your wife.” She wagged a finger at him as she swept past his desk. “We are far too alike to deal well on a daily, household basis, not that you ever actually intended of that, of course.”
At the end of her track, she swung to face him. “Which brings me to my peroration. Given you’re not thinking of marriage, and have no true interest in me—and you needn’t pretend you’ve suddenly been visited by some overpowering urge to make me your mistress—then”—she met his gaze—“as you have no motive whatever beyond satisfying a passing whim, you should cease and desist from this nonsensical pursuit of me.”
Gervase stared at her. His initial impulse was to argue—although deciding which ludicrous point to attack first would take some time. However…as he held her gaze, looked into the stormy seas of her swirling emotions, heard again her voice as she’d catalogued her virtues—missing most—it occurred to him that arguing would almost certainly get him nowhere.
She believed what she’d said. Absolutely, beyond question.
Her words had been rehearsed, yet had rung with conviction.
She honestly didn’t believe he would ever consider, let alone want, her as his wife. And as for desire—she didn’t believe she could inspire that either, at least not in him.
Of course, she’d nicely pricked his ego in numerous places, at least one of which he was disinclined to forgive. She’d all but accused him of trifling with her affections, preying on her finer feelings for idle sport. He didn’t like that, not at all, yet how the hell was he to deal with her now?
Without completely sinking himself in the process.
She met his stare with one of her own, then uttered a small humph and folded her arms. Tightly. Beneath her very ample breasts. Making it even more difficult for him to keep his eyes locked on hers, let alone think.
Her lips pursed. For half a minute, she actually tapped her toe.
Finally she uttered a frustrated sound, and demanded, “Well?”
“Well what?” She hadn’t asked any question, and he certainly had no answers. Not yet.
Her eyes stated she knew he was being willfully obtuse. “Will you agree to cease pursuing me and instead treat me as you previously have?”
He held her gaze for a moment, then sat back. “No.”