"No!" She plopped back down on the bench, clamping her hands atop her knees. The motion sent stinging shards across her wounded palms. She cringed. He noticed.
Gently, he turned her hands over in her lap, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world.
"You’re bleeding," he said as he started to peel off her gloves with his long, tapered fingers.
Madelyn gasped and pulled her hands away. "I assure you, I am well." She adjusted her gloves. He waited silently for her to finish, then pulled out a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and softly placed it into her palm.
"Come. Allow me to escort you to the kitchen entrance and have my staff take a look at you."
"Your staff?"
He opened his mouth to respond, pausing for a moment as if he was carefully selecting his words. "No, no. That would be Wolverest’s staff, of course. I’m afraid I never introduced myself . . . I’m Gabriel Devine."
Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps this was why his face had appeared familiar to her. Wolverest’s family name was Devine. And they were known for their dark, exotic looks. She blinked up at him. "Mr. Devine, is it?"
"Hmm," came his noncommittal reply. With his hand cupping her elbow, he assisted her to stand.
"And perhaps you’ll want someone to attend to your hair before rejoining the party," he drawled, his gaze flicking to the top of her head.
Bringing up his hand, he froze, hesitating in the act of reaching for her hair. His features sharpened in a contemplative frown and he sighed, a strange mix of resignation and gruffness. It appeared he’d come to some sort of private decision. Tentatively, he looped one of her heavy curls around his finger and tried tucking it back atop her head. It resisted his urging and bounced back to the middle of her forehead. Apparently determined to bring it under control, he tried once again and ended up with the same result. For a moment, his eyes twinkled warmly with the reflection of the moonlight.
Madelyn forgot to breathe. No wonder the Devines were so sought after. Up close, whilst this particular Devine studied her untidy curls with his beautiful face, logical thought did not process. Truth be told, if he bent down to kiss her, she might do the unthinkable and go limp within his arms like a wet goose.
Distant thunder rumbled like a boulder rolling down a hillside. She knew she should act more demure, that her gaze shouldn’t be so direct, only she was quite certain he meant to tell her something but thought better of it. He shook his head, barely, and the spell cast between them broke.
"The invitees will be announced shortly," he said quietly. "Once they’re publicly declared, there’s no turning back." He looked away, a muscle working in his throat as he swallowed. Taking her hand, he linked her arm with his and led her toward the back of the mansion.
To Madelyn’s relief, the clouds waited until they reached the door before soaking the earth again. Mr. Devine turned to bid her farewell as soon as they stepped inside.
Gently, he took hold of her fingertips and kissed the air above her knuckles. His smile was tight, polite. As if she were already dismissed.
Using the light from the bright fire in the kitchen hearth, Madelyn discerned the color of his eyes--an uncommon shade of sparkling blue, offset by an outer ring of dark blue. How did anyone manage to concentrate under his attention? They were quite utterly . . . mesmerizing. Thinking of her own brown eyes, she was almost envious.
"Thank you," she said, finally.
His smile fell away, his gaze serious, distant. "No, no," he said, his pensive gaze caressed her face, his mind clearly in another place. "Thank you for being so . . . refreshing."
Blinking, she jolted out of the heady enchantment. He thought her refreshing? A greedy swallow of cool lemonade after eating a dry biscuit was refreshing. Had she gone round the bend? What had she expected? That their shared glance was akin to love at first sight? The man was simply being courteous. Was she such a green girl to consider any show of kindness from a handsome man to mean he was enamored of her?
Annoyed with herself, she broke into a polite grin of her own. At her smile he turned, gesturing to a young maid who he introduced as Anne. He proceeded to bark a few orders to the staff about what was to be done for Madelyn’s comfort. Catching the cook by a tap on her elbow, he pulled her aside, murmuring in her ear. At the cook’s nod, he turned and left the room.
If the servants were at all surprised to find Mr. Devine in the Duke of Wolverest’s kitchen distributing orders they made no mention of it. They bustled about placing glasses of wine on silver trays and arranging various sugared cakes on plates and three-tiered servers.
Others folded linen napkins far from where the cook stood merrily rolling dough onto a large worktable. The plump, rosy-cheeked woman looked perfectly happy to have all the organized chaos zipping around her kitchen.
Anne urged Madelyn to sit on a stool at one end of the table so she could take care of the wounds to her palms.
"Oh, miss! I see you’ll be leaving in a sennight."
Madelyn returned her attention to Anne. "Pardon?"
"Wolverest Castle, Miss," Anne replied. "You’ll be sure to have a grand time, if I may say so. The grounds are quite lovely." She unfolded the handkerchief Mr. Devine had pressed into Madelyn’s palm in the garden. "There’s an orangery, a splendid topiary garden, and a gleaming ballroom fit for a . . ."
Anne continued to speak, but Madelyn was no longer listening. Glancing down, she groaned. Tucked inside was the invitation Mr. Ashton had failed to present himself. Exasperated, she shook her head. "Oh, that Mr. Devine."
"Mr. Devine?" Anne asked, wide-eyed.
"Yes," Madelyn said. "‘Twas his name, no?"
"N--" Anne gasped as the cook bustled past, elbowing her in the ribs. "Y-Yes, of course, Miss Haywood, Mr. Devine he is," she rasped, rubbing her side.
Trailing her fingertip across the red wax seal, Madelyn whispered to the now blushing maid, "He’s as sly as a fox."
"Aye, miss. That he is."
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