To Distraction (17 page)

Where to, he wasn’t sure; he didn’t know this house. They passed the opening to another corridor on their right; he glanced down it as he strode past—and saw the perfect spot. Halting, he tugged Phoebe around and led her into the darkness of the narrower corridor. “This way.”

He made for the alcove at the end.

It was perfect—not for intimacy but for seduction. The corridor ended in a bow window, glass panes set in wooden frames curving from one side to the other. The windows started at knee height and reached nearly to the ceiling; the twin panels in the center of the bow had been left open to the mild night. But what rendered the semicircular alcove absolutely perfect were the thick velvet curtains that hung suspended from brass rings at either end of a polished pole that stretched from wall to wall.

Halting within the alcove, Deverell released Phoebe.
Reaching to either side, he pulled the heavy curtains across, sealing them in, concealing them, creating a quiet, private space where no one would find them.

The curtains cut them off from the world.

Turning, he saw Phoebe standing before the open windows, hands grasping the frames on either side, head tilted. He drew closer, then heard it, too—the distant playing of the musicians in the music room.

They played in fits and starts, clearly using the time to practice. Like the alcove, the music room looked over the side garden filled with trees, large shrubs, and dense shadows. Some of the music room windows were open; they’d be able to hear the rest of the performance.

The spot couldn’t have been more perfect for their needs.

Sensing him near, Phoebe started to turn; swiftly he stepped closer, eliminating the gap between them. Sliding a hand across her waist, he smoothly drew her against him, her back to his chest, her bottom against his thighs. Not tightly, but enough to let her know that that was where he wanted her. “Leave your hands where they are.”

She stilled within his hold but didn’t freeze. Twisting her head, she glanced back and up, caught his eyes.

The question in hers was easy to read even though the soft wash of moonlight pouring through the windows did little to illuminate the blue-violet depths.

“No kissing,” he told her. “At least, not lips to lips.” Raising his free hand, he brushed aside the bobbing strands screening her nape, bent and pressed his lips to the soft skin beneath. And felt her melt.

She breathed in; he felt her lungs swell. Felt her hold the breath as he moved his lips lightly over her sensitive nape.

“This time,” he murmured, “you don’t have to do anything…except feel.”

Lids falling, Phoebe heard the words, a dark whisper
sliding through her mind. She felt herself relax against him as his lips trailed across her shoulder, then he nudged her head aside and pressed a hot kiss at the junction where her shoulder met her neck.

He seemed to know all the places where just a light touch made her inwardly shiver, where the brush of his lips seemed a subtle intimacy.

He shifted, and his other hand joined the first at her waist. Then in concert they rose. Closed over her breasts, but gently, kneaded but lightly—just enough to make the heat well beneath her skin, make her breasts swell and warm and tighten.

Then his fingers moved to the tiny gold buttons closing her bodice. In anticipation, she’d worn another gown with a bodice that opened fully at the front, rather than a gown with back laces. From beneath her lids, she peeked down, and watched as he peeled away the cornflower blue silk, then her chemise, exposing her breasts, already peaked and firm, to the night.

To the cool breeze that laid sensory fingers across her already flushed skin. To the faint moonlight that turned her skin pearly white, framed by the blue of her gown, by his darker, lightly tanned hands as they cradled, then closed.

Her lids fell; her head lolled back against his shoulder, her spine arching as his hands and fingers worked, and pleasure bloomed and spread beneath her skin, then heightened and coursed through her, tightening nerves, heating, melting…and still he continued, languid, unhurried, until a nameless longing rose within her, making her restless under his hands.

Unbidden, her hips moved against him.

He bent and set his lips to cruise her nape and bare shoulder, lightly nipping, then soothing.

Then one hand left her breast; the other remained, pandering to her aching nipples, caressing the hot heated mounds, holding her wits, her senses captive. So she had no chance of thinking of anything else.

Until she felt the cool touch of air on her calves and realized his hand at her thigh was slowly, unhurriedly, lifting her skirt.

She didn’t just freeze—her entire body went rigid. Every muscle locked; she fought down and swallowed the urge to scream
No!
, battled to keep her hands where they were, gripping the sides of the open windows, rather than flailing and batting his away. Breaking free and running.

Blinking, mentally gasping, she struggled to subdue her reaction, tried to reorient her wits and her senses. Her breasts were rising and falling rapidly; her pulse was tripping and racing, not pleasantly.

He’d stopped. Simply stopped. His hands didn’t move, either to press on or retreat. His body was still there, warm and hard against her back, his fingers still wrapped about one breast. His masculine strength was all around her, surrounding her, but not holding her, not restraining her.

He was waiting, patiently, to see what she would do.

Beat by shaky beat her heart slowed; her skittering wits calmed.

Slowly, his head lowered beside hers; gently he placed a hot kiss on her naked shoulder. “What do you want to do?”

The words whispered through her mind, uninflected, undemanding.

She closed her eyes, once more leaned her head back against his shoulder. “I…” She swallowed. “I want to go on.” She did. Desperately. She licked her dry lips, whispered, “But I don’t know if I can.”

His lips grazed her earlobe. “You can. We can.” His fingers
her breast shifted, resuming their lazy caressing. Somewhat to her surprise, she didn’t stiffen; after a few moments, that insidious heat started to stir and rise within her again.

“Here’s how we’re going to manage this.”

His voice, although still low, had regained its dictatorial tones, but she sensed that in this, if she wished to argue he would listen.

“I desire you—you know that.” His words drifted past her ear, darkly seductive. “I’m going to touch you as a man touches a woman he desires.”

The statement elicited a sharp thrill—to her surprise not an unpleasant one; the thought of being touched by him in desire didn’t repulse her.

His voice continued, his drawl languid and deep, “If you want me to stop, all you have to do is say ‘no.’ But think hard before you do, for if you say the word, I will.”

Eyes closed, held within his arms, she thought about that. “What if…?”

He seemed to follow her panicky thoughts easily, in itself a blessed relief. “If you want me to pause, to linger to give you more time to catch up, say ‘wait.’”

His lips cruised her shoulder, then he whispered, “If you want me to go more slowly, say ‘slow.’”

After a moment, he murmured, “Do you understand?”

She drew in a breath, conscious of his artful fingers at her breast stirring her senses to life again, setting pleasure once more coursing her veins, pooling within her. She nodded.

“Good.” He hesitated, then said, “I’m going to touch you, but it will only happen if you desire it. You have control. It’s mine, but I’ll make it yours.”

He couldn’t have said anything more reassuring. She was glad he was behind her and so couldn’t see the silly tears that filled her eyes.

She felt his hand at her thigh flex, tense, but he didn’t
resume drawing up her skirt. Instead, she felt his gaze on the side of her face.

“Can I touch you, Phoebe?”

She held her breath and nodded.

His hand shifted, lifted.

She kept her eyes closed, the better to concentrate on her sensory perceptions, on her feelings.

Music reached her ears; the soprano’s voice floated sweet on the night air. The other guests would have returned to the music room. Yards away, she stood in the darkened alcove at the open window, her heated breasts bared to the night and him, an anticipation more definite than any she’d ever known infusing and driving her.

Holding her as her hems reached midthigh, then he flicked his hand and slid it beneath her skirts. His fingers trailed boldly over her garter and found bare skin. He touched, stroked, and she shivered.

With delight.

He was watching her face, and he knew. His fingertips slid to her inner thigh and trailed upward.

When they lightly brushed the curls at the apex of her thighs, her entire body reacted; she gasped as her skittering senses tensed with scintillating expectation.

In the music room, the soprano trilled.

His fingers slowed.

She nodded, moistened her lips, and managed to whisper, “Slow.”

His lips brushed her temple. “We can go as slow as you like.”

He did; she didn’t have to say the word again—not even think it. He seemed to know, to sense when she needed him to almost stop.

But he didn’t stop.

He brushed her curls increasingly definitely, then let his
fingers tangle gently in them. Then they sought out the soft flesh beneath and caressed.

Slowly, deliberately.

The music welled, swelled, the crescendo of sound mimicking the steady rise of her passion, an emotion she’d never encountered before, one she grasped the building moments to absorb.

Until she wanted more. Her dazed wits were trying to decide what word to use for that when he reached further, parted her folds, and touched her. More intimately, more possessively.

She shuddered and let her legs part a little further to allow him to caress her. The building pleasure radiating from where he touched spread throughout her body; she let it fill her, take her, overwhelm her worries, her fears.

Let it drown them.

Then he found a spot, swirled, then pressed—and she gasped.

He caressed and she arched against him, eyes closing tight, wits scrambling, feeling very much as if she were losing her sensual footing, as if a tide of fiery delight had swept her into a surging sea of uninhibited, wanton pleasure.

The golden sensation spread through her, with every deliberate flex of his fingers burgeoned and welled. It surrounded her, lapped about her, filled and buoyed her as in the distance the soprano’s voice soared.

Deverell knew they were running out of time, but there was nothing he could do. She was too new to this, too untouched, and he’d had to go too slowly; there simply wasn’t enough time left to bring her to release at a pace she could handle.

Even with his own desires ruthlessly held in check—largely ignored—he couldn’t bring himself to push her too fast, not even to alleviate the frustration she would later feel.

As for his frustration, he didn’t want to think of that. Any other lady and he would have lifted the back of her skirts and eased his throbbing staff into the hot haven of her body. He tortured himself with the thought but didn’t act on it. Not this time.

Instead, hauling in a deep breath, he toed the line he himself had drawn and set his mind, his hands, his lips to the task of easing her back from the brink she wouldn’t reach that night.

Tomorrow, yes, but that was another day. Tonight, they had a bare five minutes before they would need to reappear with the other guests.

Luckily, Phoebe was too out of her depth to argue; with enthusiastic applause reaching them through the night, she allowed him to straighten her gown and lead her back through the corridors without protest.

When they joined the throng of guests pouring out of the music room and milling in the hall, no one gave any indication of having noticed their absence. Given the crowd, given the care he’d taken to cover their movements, that wasn’t surprising.

As for Phoebe, he kept her arm locked with his and glibly deflected any question directed her way. While she was steady enough on her feet, and he’d ensured her gown was perfectly neat, her color was a touch too warm, and her eyes were still a trifle dazed.

The sight made him wonder how she—oh-so-definite-and-determined Phoebe—would be after…

He broke off the thought, smiled at Lady Griswald, then tacked through the crowd to come up by Edith’s side.

After delivering Edith and Phoebe to their carriage and seeing them off, he put Audrey in hers, refusing her offer to drop him off at the club. He let her believe that he intended to look in at one of the clubs in St. James; in reality, he
simply had to walk, although he doubted even that would help.

He’d probably spend most of his sleepless night imagining inventive ways to murder, slowly, whoever it was who’d harmed Phoebe.

He tried to tell himself that his reasons for seeking out Phoebe at Lady Fleming’s alfresco luncheon at Wimbledon the following day were all to do with tactics. He wanted to have his evening free to watch Edith’s house and track Phoebe’s groom and maid should they venture forth.

In reality, after the previous night he felt driven to complete what he’d started. It was as if his failure to bring his pleasuring of her to a proper and satisfactory conclusion sat like a blot—a big black blot—on his sexual record.

He couldn’t let it stand; he had to make it right.

Somewhat to his relief, Phoebe patently agreed. The instant she saw him approaching across the Flemings’ lawn, she stopped and stared, her eyes widening first in stunned surprise, then in startled speculation.

He’d forgotten how easy to read she was; he prayed he was the only one viewing the open book of her intentions.

“What are you doing here?” Despite the words, her tone made her underlying hopes abundantly clear.

He took the hand she instinctively offered, bowed, then, straightening, set her fingers on his sleeve. Turning, he surveyed the assembled horde. “I haven’t attended a function like this for over eleven years. I assume it’s still permissible for couples to stroll the gardens?”