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.
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 nearly 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 l
ine 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?
She pondered that for several minutes, swaying in the comfortable dark, then a more pertinent question flared in her mind: Why was she letting herself get drawn into this?
It was nonsense, futile, a waste of time, energy and effort, none of which she had to waste, yet…given who and what he was, did she have any choice?
As the trees of Treleaver Park closed about them, welcoming them home, she inwardly sighed, set aside that question and faced what lay beneath. Acknowledged what it was that had had her spending the entire journey home focused solely on the machinations of Gervase Tregarth.
Underneath all lay her besetting sin—the one element in her makeup capable of tempting her into the reckless acts characteristic of her family. Curiosity.
Aside from all else, Gervase Tregarth had succeeded in stirring that sleeping beast to life. And that, she knew, could be exceedingly dangerous.
Chapter 3
The following afternoon, Gervase welcomed the festival committee—Mr. and Mrs. Juliard, Mrs. Caterham, Squire Ridley, Mrs. Entwhistle, and Madeline—into the drawing room at the castle. Sybil was there, too, patently pleased that he’d acted to involve himself in local affairs.
Whether Sybil had realized his motives he couldn’t say, but he felt certain Madeline had; the last to arrive, she greeted him with a distant civility that was a warning in itself. When, ushering her into the drawing room, he paused beside her, a fraction too close, she threw him a narrow-eyed glance, then swept regally forward to the vacant straightbacked chairs facing the chaise. She chose the one beside Clement Juliard; as she settled Gervase took the chair beside her, exchanging an easy smile with the Squire as Ridley stumped up to claim the chair beside his.
“Now, then!” Mrs. Entwhistle cleared her throat. “We really must discuss the details of our Summer Festival. First, to confirm the date. I assume we’re sticking with tradition and the Saturday two weeks away. Does anyone see any difficulty with that?”
Numerous comments were made, but no one spoke against the motion.
“Right, then.” Mrs. Entwhistle ticked off that point on her list. “That Saturday it is.”
Gervase sat back and listened as under Mrs. Entwhistle’s leadership the group moved on to considering the various aspects of the festival itself—the booths, the entertainments, the competitions for local produce and wares.
The exercise revealed a side of the rotund little matron he hadn’t before seen; she was surprisingly competent. He was well aware that the lady beside him was even more competent—and so was everyone else. On any point of contention, it was to Madeline Mrs. Entwhistle appealed, and her verdicts were accepted by all; while Mrs. Entwhistle ran the show, Madeline was the ultimate authority.
Beside Gervase, Madeline gave mute thanks that she’d delegated the mantle of festival organizer to Mrs. Entwhistle some years before; she wasn’t sure she could have focused sufficiently to adequately play the role—not with Gervase alongside her.
Especially not when, as he occasionally did, he leaned nearer—too near—and in his low, deep—too intimate—voice quietly questioned her on this or that.
Despite her adamant determination not to allow him to ruffle her feathers, he distracted her in a manner against which, it seemed, she had no real defense.
He—and his distraction—were a nuisance.
Unfortunately, both were unhelpfully intriguing.
Her curiosity had lifted its head and was sniffing the wind—not a comforting development.
On the ride to the castle, she’d attempted to ease her mind by telling herself she’d imagined the entire previous evening’s interaction. When that didn’t work, she’d tried to convince herself that he’d merely been joking, that his attention would have already wandered, as gentlemen’s attention so frequently did.
But the instant she’d met him in the castle front hall, the look in his eyes had banished such delusions. His focus on her had, if anything, grown more marked, even though, given the company, he screened it. His manner easy and assured, he was taking care that no one other than she glimpsed his true intent.
That realization sent a subtle shiver through her; that he was being careful suggested that whatever he had in mind, he was taking this game of his seriously.
Gervase Tregarth seriously intent on her—on learning about her, not the lady but the woman—wasn’t a thought designed to calm.
Much less sedate her rising curiosity.
He leaned closer again and quietly asked, “Are there any contests like archery and…oh, bobbing for apples—the sort of entertainments that appeal to youths?”
His eyes met hers; at such close quarters, the green-flecked amber exerted a dangerous fascination. She blinked and shifted her gaze to Mrs. Entwhistle. “No, there haven’t been…but you’re right. We should have some contests to keep the older lads amused.”
Raising her voice, she made the suggestion, crediting him with th
e idea.
Mrs. Entwhistle quickly added archery and apple-bobbing to her list of amusements; when she looked inquiringly at Gervase, he agreed to organize the events.
Squire Ridley volunteered to ask his stable lads what other contests they would like to see, then have them arrange the events.
The talk turned to the craft, produce and art contests; Madeline let the chatter wash over her as a potential danger took shape in her mind. She waited until all Mrs. Entwhistle’s points had been discussed to say, “One item we haven’t considered—the venue.”
Everyone looked at her, the surprise on their faces quickly replaced by faint embarrassment as they all realized they’d taken it for granted that she would host the festival at Treleaver Park as she had for the past four years.
Glancing around the circle, she smiled reassuringly. “As you know, the Park has hosted the festival since the late earl was taken ill, but the home of the festival is here, at the castle. Its roots—which are ancient and sunk in our collective pasts—lie at the castle, not at the Park.” She turned her gaze on Gervase. “Now the castle once again has an earl in residence, then perhaps it’s time for the festival to return to its true home.”
Most were nodding; all looked expectantly at Gervase.
His slow, easy smile curved his lips. He inclined his head to them all, his gaze coming to rest on her. “Thank you—I’m sure I speak for Sybil and my sisters, as well as our staff, in saying we’d be delighted to welcome the festival back within the castle grounds.”
Murmurs of approval and appreciation rose around them. Holding the festival at the castle would ensure an even better turnout than holding it at the Park, as many in the district were still curious about the castle’s most recent acquisition—the earl.
Madeline smiled. Had the festival been held at the Park, organizing various entertainments would have given Gervase an excellent excuse to be forever visiting and getting under her feet. And under her skin.