Or, as her senses reported it, he prowled over to demand her hand; halting before her, his eyes on hers, he held out his hand, calmly waiting until, frantically shaking her wits into order, she remembered to surrender hers.

His fingers closed strongly around hers, and more of her nerves quaked. For the first time in her life she understood what being tongue-tied felt like. She managed a nod. “Gervase.”

His lips lightly curved. He inclined his head. “Madeline.”

She made the mistake of looking into his eyes, searching for some clue as to why he was watching her like a hawk watched prey, like a cat watched a bird-and found herself trapped, unexpectedly caught in the mesmerizing, agatey, green-flecked amber depths.

Gentle heat spread beneath her skin. All sorts of crazed notions flitted through her mind. It took an effort of will to banish them, to sternly reassert control over her wayward wits-and drag them back to reality. “I-” She broke off and glanced around, noting the others present. She cleared her throat. “It seems you’ve gathered the local elite.”

“Indeed. After our encounter with Squire Ridley this morning, I thought it might be wise to make it more widely and definitely known that I intend remaining at the castle for the summer.”

Releasing her hand, Gervase turned slightly, so that the group of gentlemen by the windows was in their line of sight. “I haven’t yet had a chance to ask if anyone else has been approached about their mining leases.”

She leapt on the topic, as he’d known she would. “This seems the perfect time to ask.”

Smiling lightly, he strolled by her side as they joined the other gentlemen. In planning the evening, he’d searched his memory, and recalled this as her habit; before dinner she chatted with the gentlemen, who, as now, welcomed her into their midst without a blink, shifting to make space for her, as well as for Gervase.

After the usual brisk greetings, she asked, “Have any of you been approached about your mining leases?”

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.

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?”