She sucked in a breath, decided against any attempt to have the last word. Head rising, she plastered a smile on her face and walked forward, joining the exodus as the ladies left the room.
The gentlemen didn’t hurry back to the drawing room, for which Madeline gave fervent thanks. She spent the time ensuring she was adequately protected from whatever machinations or maneuverings her nemesis might employ.
Returning to the drawing room to find her wedged between Mrs. Juliard and Mrs. Entwhistle on one of the sofas, Gervase spent no more than an instant in appreciation of her strategy.
He was running out of time.
Not only had the gentlemen lingered over their port, reminiscing and swapping anecdotes, but a storm was blowing in. He’d felt the elemental change in the air long before he’d glimpsed the thickening clouds beyond the windows.
Until then he’d been content to let Madeline play her hand, but there was only one place at Porthleven Abbey where, during a dinner party, he could speak with her alone.
He needed to get her to himself before the storm hit.
Hanging back by the door, he waited until the other gentlemen had been absorbed into the various groups around the room, then strolled across the floor to halt before Madeline.
With an easy smile for Mrs. Juliard and Mrs. Entwhistle, leaning down he reached for Madeline’s hand—trapped it before she, lips parted in surprise, had a chance to pull back. “If you’ll excuse us, ladies, there’s an important matter I must lay before Madeline.”
Straightening, he drew smoothly on her hand; his smile changed tenor as he met her eyes. “It’s that matter I mentioned before.”
She all but gaped, but then her wide eyes searched his, confirming his determination—confirmed that he wasn’t in any way bluffing. “Ah…” She allowed him to draw her to her feet. “I…perhaps…”
He wound her arm in his, nodded politely to the other ladies, then steered her across the room.
She went with him, but…“This is ridiculous!” He stopped before a pair of French doors. She faced him as he released her arm. “We are not having any discussion—and certainly not here!”
His fingers locking about her hand, he met her gaze as he reached for the doorknob. “Half right.” Opening one door, he whisked her through, ignoring the squeak of surprise that escaped her.
Leaving the door open, he put a hand to her back and with barely any pressure kept her moving down the terrace.
They were nearly at the end—out of sight of anyone in the drawing room—when he halted and dropped his hand.
She swung to face him, every inch the Valkyrie, sparks lighting her darkened eyes. “What, precisely, are we doing here?”
Madeline used the tone guaranteed to quell every male she’d ever met. She pinned her tormentor with a fulminating glare—only to discover that neither tone nor glare seemed to have any effect whatever on him.
Worse, he was looking at her hair. The bane of her life, doubtless it had already started escaping from the knot at the back of her head.
But then his eyes shifted; there was just enough cloud-drenched moonlight for her to watch as his gaze slowly swept her face, lowered to linger on her lips, then, at last, returned to meet her eyes.
“We’re here”—his voice had lowered, deepened—“to face what must be faced.”
His amber gaze remained steady; his tone wasn’t forceful, yet neither did it carry any indication of softness. Of uncertainty.
She was reminded, yet again, that he was one of those rare males she couldn’t rule. Which left her with far fewer weapons to fall back on; anger and stubbornness seemed her best hope. She lifted her chin, held to her stony glare. “I have no idea what particular worm has infested your brain, but let me make one thing perfectly clear. I am not looking—”
“Precisely.” There was nothing—not the tiniest hint—of softness in the line of his lips, either. “That’s my point.”
She blinked. He continued, “I haven’t been looking, and neither have you.” He took a step closer. “And you still aren’t.”
Her entire vision was now filled with him.
But this was a side of him she hadn’t before seen, only sensed. She’d locked her curiosity safely away—or so she’d thought—but now it stirred, stretched, pressed forward to look.
She narrowed her eyes on his. “What am I supposed to be looking at?” She lifted her hands, palms up, to the sides. “What is there to see?”
His amber gaze didn’t waver. “Not to see.” Slowly, his gaze lowered to her lips. “To discover.”
His voice had dropped again, to an even deeper, more resonant note. Her lips throbbed; she could feel her own breath passing over them. And knew she had to ask. “What? What is there to find?”