She’d entered the dining room on his arm, stiff, on guard, determined to preserve an aloof distance; Maria had doubtless imagined she was being helpful in seating them side by side. But from the moment he’d taken his seat beside her, he’d undermined her stance with questions and comments, following those with observations so acute she’d been drawn into replying against her better judgment, indeed, against her will.
Before she’d properly comprehended his direction, she’d been absorbed.
She knew that gentlemen like him, arrogantly powerful and not just used to getting their own way but strong enough to insist on it, should never be trusted. Yet somehow she’d fallen under the spell of conversing with a gentleman—of her class, of her generation—whose mind was as incisive, if not more so, than hers, whose tongue was just as sharp, whose vision of their society was as clear and as cynical as her own.
If she was honest, it had been refreshing; she couldn’t recall ever enjoying a dinner—being entertained by her partner over dinner—more.
Unfortunately she was fairly sure he knew that; when he’d stood and drawn back her chair for her to rise, she’d met his eyes and noted a certain calculation in the green. He hadn’t tried to hide it, as a lesser man—one less confident of his ability to sway her—seduce her—would have. He’d let her see, let her know, which only confirmed her view that men like him were not to be trusted. They had a deeply ingrained tendency to expect to win.
Much as she’d enjoyed Deverell’s company, much as she’d delighted in crossing verbal swords with him, in measuring her wits against his, he was definitely one man with whom she had no need to play.
Restating that goal forcefully in her mind, she swung around and took stock of the company. A trio of young ladies stood nearby; she smiled at Leonora Hildebrand. “Did you and Mr. Hinckley enjoy your ride?”
In short order she’d surrounded herself with six highly eligible young ladies. They clustered before her as she stood by the French doors; they appealed to her, as one older and clearly embracing her unwed state, for advice and information. She knew the house, the grounds, and most of the eligible gentlemen present better than they; when the gentlemen strolled in, they were engrossed in a discussion of the relative merits of nearby rides.
As she’d anticipated, Deverell was not among the first through the door, allowing the more eager gentlemen to join their group and swell its numbers. She smiled and chatted, encouraging all to remain as one large group—protecting her.
She kept her gaze from the drawing room door, but somewhat to her surprise she knew the instant Deverell stepped into the room; she felt his gaze on her—on her face, her throat, her shoulders. She had to fight to quell a reactive shiver—then fight to suppress her resultant frown. What on earth was it, this effect he had on her? No other gentleman had ever plucked her nerves as he seemed so effortlessly to do.
Increasingly tense, she tracked his movements more by sense than sight. He moved into the room, but not directly to her. She risked one glance and saw him bowing over Edith’s hand, then chatting to Audrey, seated beside her aunt on a chaise across the room.
She looked back at those about her, momentarily deaf to the conversation. Perhaps, seeing her so bulwarked, Deverell would spend the evening learning what he could from Edith, pursuing her from a different quarter….
The thought should have brought relief. She told herself that’s what she felt, but couldn’t quite make herself believe it.
She mentally set her teeth. Irritated, annoyed, and not a little dismayed, she kept a smile on her lips and forced her mind back to the discussions around her—and forced it to remain there. May the saints preserve her if she was so easily seduced by a man’s glib tongue that in just an hour or two she’d come to crave his company.
As matters transpired, she needn’t have worried about disturbing any celestial host; leaving Edith and Audrey, Deverell crossed the room to her side.
Directly to her side.
She felt his gaze on her, steady, unwavering, and growing in intensity as he neared, and then he was there; as if by magic, a space opened up, allowing him to stand beside her. She continued to smile, but when she glanced his way, the gesture grew somewhat thin.
His eyes met hers, amusement lurking, but then he turned to the others.
And in a matter of minutes, with a few well-placed comments, a few artful suggestions, dispersed the group.
She fought to keep her jaw from dropping. His que
stions over the dinner table hadn’t been idle, the information he’d encouraged her to impart far from random. She’d told him all he needed to know to distract every other eligible gentleman or lady there.
The realization left her momentarily dumbfounded, unable to bludgeon her wits into thinking of any clever way of circumventing his strategy. When Peter Mellors and Georgina Riley, the last of her unwitting defenders, flashed her parting smiles and left to ask Lady Cranbrook about the croquet equipment, leaving her deserted, entirely alone with her nemesis by the side of the room, she drew in a long breath and turned to face him, unable to keep her eyes from narrowing.
He met her gaze and merely raised a brow.
“My lord—”
“Call me Deverell. Everyone does.”
“You appear to be laboring under a misapprehension. No matter how set on the outcome you are, I am not going to be swayed—”
“Perhaps”—his green gaze remained steady on her face—“we should adjourn to the terrace? While I am, of course, eager to hear whatever you wish to say to me, I see no reason for the numerous interested others populating this room to be privy to our discussion—do you?”
She didn’t. He’d shifted so his shoulders effectively screened her from the room, but she had little doubt a certain amount of prurient interest was, nevertheless, focused on them.
“If the propriety troubles you, your aunt can see us.”
“Propriety be damned—I’m twenty-five!” Turning on her heel, she led the way through the French doors onto the paved terrace.