To Distraction (3 page)

Into the fascinating emerald depths.

At the edge of her vision, the curve of his lips deepened.

“I came for you.”

It took a moment or three for his words to reach her brain. Even when they did, they made no sense—not when matched with the tenor of his voice. Deep, reverberating, it seemed to suggest…a meaning far more primitive than could possibly be the case.

With an effort, Phoebe harried her brain into action. “Is my aunt asking after me?”

His brows, dark, slightly winged, rose. “Not that I know of.”

She blinked, and glanced through the French doors at the lawns beyond. “I take it it’s time for tea?” She eased her fingers from his firm grip.

Allowing her digits to slide from his clasp, he glanced over her head at the clock on the mantelpiece beyond the chaise. “Soon, I daresay.”

Phoebe suppressed a frown. If he hadn’t come searching for her because of her aunt, or to summon her for afternoon tea…

Sudden suspicion bloomed. Narrowing her eyes, she fixed them on his. “
Why
did you come looking for me?”

His light smile was charming; behind it, she sensed, he thought quickly.

“Audrey suggested I do so.”

She frowned, hard, at him. “Audrey?” She hoped she conveyed her disbelief that he was so malleable that his aunt could direct him.

His lips quirked. “Indeed.”

“Why?”

“I gather she believed I would benefit from making your acquaintance.”

She raised her brows haughtily. “And have you?”

His smile deepened, genuine, warm—and subtly teasing. “Time will no doubt tell.”

Her instincts flickered. She held his gaze while thoughts milled in her head, recollections of what she’d heard of him—little by way of specifics, nothing that had prepared her for the impact of his physical presence, yet of his station speculation had been rife. He was wealthy, titled—and undeniably required a wife.

His aunt Audrey was her godmother, and a close friend of her aunt; it didn’t require much mental effort to discern why he’d been pointed in her direction. Yet despite her aunt’s and
her godmother’s fond hopes, she wasn’t interested in filling the position he had vacant.

She refocused on his eyes and noted the intensity, the acuity behind his green gaze. How best to get rid of him? Tell him plainly to go away? In her experience such tactics rarely worked, especially not with men like him. He would either not believe she was serious, or worse, decide to interpret her refusal as a challenge.

No. In their current location there was a much more effective way of dealing with him.

“Perhaps,” she said, very conscious of his nearness and more, of his attention being completely focused on her, “we should join the others for afternoon tea?”

His lids flickered, then he searched her eyes. A moment passed, then he inclined his head. “If you wish.”

Before he could offer his arm and leave her compelled to take it—and thus be far closer to him than she needed to be—she flashed him a smile and turned to the French doors. “We can go this way.”

With determined brightness, she led the way outside.

B
emused, surprised, Deverell followed his quarry from the library, stepping out through the French doors she’d set swinging wide onto a narrow terrace.

He’d sensed the connection, that indefinable spark that had flared between them the instant their eyes had met. He knew she’d felt it, too, but she’d merely blinked and ignored it. And him.

He wasn’t accustomed to being ignored, let alone having a lady so dismissively resist an attraction of that degree. Indeed, he couldn’t recall any female who had so focused his attention at first glance.

Without looking back, she descended to the lawn.

“You haven’t visited here before, have you? Maria—Lady Cranbrook—always gathers a lively crowd.”

She set out along one side of the large house; stepping down from the terrace in her wake, Deverell looked about, noting the line of mature trees that faded into woodland on
the opposite side of the lawn. The other guests were congregated on the lawn at the rear of the house; Phoebe led him in that direction, determinedly blithe and gay.

“I’m sure you’ll find plenty to interest you during the next few days. Maria usually organizes a picnic on the downs, and there’s some lovely rides.”

She spoke over her shoulder as she walked briskly on, as if she saw him as something not quite civilized, certainly not safe—the sort of companion that made returning to the herd seem a good idea. A sufficiently compelling idea to make her forget her book; she’d dropped the tome on the chaise without a glance.

Despite her clear hope, he wasn’t about to let her slip from his sights.

She prattled on, extolling the pleasures of the gardens and a nearby folly. Unhurriedly lengthening his stride, he closed the distance between them, enjoying the view as he did. His earlier estimation of her figure had been pleasingly exceeded by the reality; she was a touch taller than he’d imagined—no Long Meg, yet the top of her head was level with his chin. Most of the unexpected length was in her legs, and while she was indeed slender, the curves beneath her muslin skirt held definite allure. As did those that more than adequately filled her bodice.

Her blue gown, with its rounded neckline, was neither prim nor precocious. It was ladylike, of the sort that declared the owner aware of her femininity yet not absorbed by it, deeming it unnecessary to make any point of it.

One of his peculiar, now finely honed talents was being able to read people—their characters, their traits—rapidly, with just a glance and a few words. His initial reading of Phoebe mirrored what Audrey had said of her: She had no interest whatever in gentlemen, nor did she expect to develop any such interest in the near future.

Well enough; he clearly had a challenge on his hands, but that spark of attraction held definite promise. And given what he now realized had been the wellspring of his recent restlessness—his lack of anything to actively pursue—he was not at all averse to viewing Phoebe Malleson, and her hand, as a prize to be fought for and won.

Especially as, in just a few minutes, she’d managed to intrigue him.

She rounded the corner of the house. Drawing alongside, he glanced at her face; expression determined, she was looking ahead to where the other guests were gathering about tables set for afternoon tea.

He couldn’t recall when a lady had so piqued his curiosity, or his fickle and long-jaded interest. Her refusal to acknowledge their mutual attraction only drove the spur deeper.

She felt his gaze but resisted meeting it; instead, she gestured at the guests. “I expect you’ve done the rounds and met everyone. Peter Mellors visits here regularly—he’ll be able to answer any questions you might have.”

He’d much rather ask her. He ambled beside her, interested to see where she was leading him—what she thought she was going to do with him.

How she thought she was going to lose him.

His lips curved. His expectations of the next four days soared; his entertainment appeared assured. He made a mental note to remember to thank Audrey.

Phoebe Malleson marched into the clustered guests much like a general visiting his troops; others gave way before her, reminiscent of the parting of the Red Sea. Deverell followed close behind, smiling genially on everyone yet making no attempt to disguise his intent; he preferred all to see him as he was—an experienced gentleman in fixed pursuit of Phoebe Malleson.

She headed for the table behind which Stripes stood, magisterially manning an ornate silver samovar.

Deverell drew level; reaching the table, he nodded to Stripes. “A cup for Miss Malleson.”

She threw him a glance, but when he handed her the delicate cup, she accepted prettily enough.

“And you, sir?”

Deverell met Stripes’s gaze. The man knew perfectly well that he was not the type to coddle his innards with tea. However…“Indeed.”

Taking the cup Stripes offered, Deverell was aware of Phoebe’s frowning gaze as she sipped and studied him over the rim of her cup.

He turned to her, and she turned away. Her gaze raced over the guests, then she shifted and drifted to a nearby group. Not the closest group; one she’d selected. He followed, wondering why.

“Mrs. Hildebrand. Leonora, Tabitha. Mr. Hinckley.” Phoebe glanced at Deverell as he halted beside her. “I believe you’ve met Viscount Paignton?”

The ladies smiled brightly, gazes already locked on him; Mr. Hinckley inclined his head.

“I was just describing to his lordship the many activities we usually indulge in whilst here.” Phoebe smiled at Leonora Hildebrand, a dashing blond. “You’re such an excellent rider, Leonora—did you intend to go riding this afternoon?”

Leonora hadn’t, but as she lifted her blue eyes to his face, Deverell was perfectly sure Phoebe had known that. Just as she’d known Leonora would breathily gush, “I had thought of it. Perhaps we could get up a party?”

Leonora’s eyes remained on his face. He smiled vaguely, as if thinking of other things, and took a sip of tea, apparently unaware that Leonora’s general question had in fact been addressed primarily to him.

When he didn’t respond, Leonora was forced to look to Mr. Hinckley.

Who was only too ready to leap into the breach. “We could ride to the ford. It’s not that far away. We’d be back in plenty of time to change for dinner.” Eager, enthused, he appealed to Mrs. Hildebrand.

Having taken shrewd stock of Deverell’s immobility, Leonora’s mama deigned to smile on Mr. Hinckley. “Indeed—fresh air and exercise. That’s precisely what the doctor prescribed for blowing away the megrims poor Leonora has suffered over these last weeks. I declare, London has been overrun by encroaching cits and halfpay officers.”

Mr. Hinckley contrived to look sympathetic.

Deverell didn’t bother; he’d already taken stock of Leonora and Mrs. Hildebrand.

Hinckley turned to him. “Can we interest you in joining us, Paignton?”

Setting his cup on its saucer, he used the moment to appear to be considering. “It’s tempting, but I think not. I’ve only just arrived, and I need to get my bearings.”

Hinckley disguised his relief well. He turned to Phoebe. “Miss Malleson?”

Phoebe shot a glance at Deverell; instinct pushed her to accept simply to ensure she was somewhere he wouldn’t be…but she didn’t trust him not to change his mind. “Thank you, but no. However, you might speak with Mr. Manning and Miss Pilborough. They’re both keen riders.”

Mr. Hinckley and Mrs. Hildebrand turned eagerly to scan the guests. Leonora looked distinctly less keen.

Before she could initiate any conversational gambit to try to hold Deverell, Phoebe took charge. “I believe you wished to speak with Mr. Mellors, Paignton. He’s just over there.” She smiled brightly at the other three. “If you’ll excuse us?”

Everyone murmured politely. Parting from them, she steered Deverell toward the group that included Peter Mellors—along with his ravishingly beautiful sister, Deidre.

Obviously, Leonora didn’t suit; she’d have to find some other young lady to catch Deverell’s eye.

And deflect it from her.

She had far too much going on in her life to have a potential suitor dogging her heels. Especially one like him.

She’d recalled he was, or had been, involved with the military, or the army—the authorities in some guise. A number of her regular activities were of debatable legality; having Deverell peering over her shoulder…just the thought made her shiver.

With apprehension. She was sure it was that.

Deidre had been keeping a surreptitious eye on Deverell; she turned and smiled delightedly as they neared, and quickly shifted to make space for them beside her.

Phoebe adjusted her approach so that Deverell had no option but to stand next to Deidre. She waited until everyone had finished exchanging greetings, then caught Peter Mellors’s eye. “Peter dear, I’ve been extolling your knowledge of the house and surrounds to Viscount Paignton. He hasn’t visited here before and needs to find his way about.”

Peter grinned good-naturedly. He nodded to Deverell. “Just ask away, old man. Happy to help.”

Deverell smiled easily. “I’ve already found the billiard room.”

“Ah, well. Most important room in the house.” Peter winked. “We—well, most of the gentlemen—usually gather after dinner for a few rounds.”

“After doing your duty in the drawing room, I hope!” Mrs. Morrison, a formidable matron, eyed Peter with mock censure, sure to become real if he didn’t respond appropriately.

Peter’s grin was irrepressible. “Of course,” he vowed. “That’s understood.”

“It better be.” Mrs. Morrison faced Deverell. “The last thing we want is to find you gentlemen deserting us.”

“With such a coterie of fascinating ladies, I can’t imagine you’ll endure such a fate.” His glib answer, delivered with a charming smile and a hand over his heart, had Mrs. Morrison’s lips twitching.

“We’ll see.” After an instant’s hesitation, she inquired, “Are you intending to remain for the entire four days?”

“That is my intention.”

“Unless you’re called away, of course.” Deidre Mellors, an exquisitely beautiful young lady with glossy brown hair, shifted to draw his attention her way.

He obliged, but remained more aware of Phoebe on his other side, quietly observing, than of Miss Mellors’s lovely hazel eyes.

Eyes she deployed shamelessly. “I understand your new estates are in Devon. It must be quite fatiguing, learning all the ropes when you hadn’t expected to inherit.”

“It hasn’t been as difficult as it might have been. There were excellent staff in place—they helped me pick up the reins.”

“I expect you’ll be spending the summer down there.”

“I hadn’t really thought.” Although conscious of Deidre’s eager expression, registering it and smiling in response, his attention had locked on Phoebe as she turned to speak with Mrs. Morrison; he couldn’t hear what she was saying. “There’s a few matters I need to settle before I retire for the summer.”

“Indeed?” Deidre’s eyes lit.

With an easy, yet noncommittal, faintly vague smile in place, he glanced at Peter Mellors. “Is there much shooting in the vicinity?”

Peter pulled a face. “Not much game at this time of year, but”—he glanced at Edgar Thomas, standing beside him—“we could set up a tournament.”

“Not pistols,” Deidre immediately said. “Archery. That way we ladies can join in.”

Deverell smiled—genuinely. The others took the altered expression to signify encouragement; they immediately fell to discussing plans for an archery tournament. In reality, that smile was for himself; as he’d expected, thinking him drawn in, Phoebe was making her move.

She’d already turned from him to chat with Mrs. Morrison; quietly taking her leave of that lady, she continued turning away and slipped from his side.

“Will you join us with bow and arrow, my lord?” Deidre gazed up at him, hazel eyes openly inviting.

He raised his brows. “I certainly plan to take aim at a target.”

His intended target was out of earshot.

Deidre beamed and turned to her brother. Deverell seized the moment to nod to Peter and Edgar. “Put my name down. If you’ll excuse me?”

A rhetorical question. Deidre swung to him, disappointment in her eyes, but she quickly concealed it. She bobbed a curtsy; Mrs. Morrison nodded approvingly and let him escape.

Finding Phoebe wasn’t hard; she was skirting the knots of guests, clearly intending to slip away.

Amiably smiling, he set out in pursuit.

Phoebe saw him coming. She stifled an irritated sigh and turned to face him, mentally canvassing who else was present, what other young ladies might interest him. Neither Leonora nor Deidre had managed to hold his interest; perhaps he liked
young
young ladies?

Twenty minutes later, her frustration had reached new
heights.
Young
young ladies made him cling even more tightly to her skirts. More, it had belatedly occurred to her that he was being far too amenable—too malleable—in allowing her to guide him around. He wasn’t the malleable sort.

He had no intention whatever of letting her distract him; no matter how pleasant and sociable his interaction with others, his real attention—his focus—had never shifted from her.

The realization sent a most peculiar ripple through her usually unimpressionable nerves.

Exasperated, both with him and that ripple, that he’d been able to make her feel such a thing, she marched away from the last knot of guests to which she’d introduced him—Heather Jenkings was a perfectly sweet chit—ridiculously aware that, if anything, he now prowled even closer beside her; all her senses, all her skin on that side, were flickering at his nearness.

Halting beneath the branches of a nearby tree, out of earshot of any others, she swung to face him. And fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare. “Audrey told me you were a major in the Guards, and that you fought at Waterloo. Is that correct?”

His green eyes met hers; the glint of amusement she caught in their depths sent her temper soaring. He nodded. “Along with an army of others.”

“Indeed. But having faced down Boney’s finest, I can’t see why a quiet chit like Heather Jenkings should have the power to render you witless.”