To Distraction (4 page)

His dark brows shot up. “Witless?”

“Well,
speechless
at any rate.” She waved back at the group about Heather. “You stood there like a sphinx—beyond a hello and a good-bye, and the curtest of replies, you uttered not one word.”

His expression remained mild, still faintly amused. “Remaining silent seemed wisest. Better than allowing my boredom to show.”

She frowned at him. “Heather bored you?”

He glanced at the other guests. “All young ladies bore me.”

Eyeing his face—a study in masculine impassivity—Phoebe pressed her lips tightly together, reminding herself that
she
was no longer classed as a young lady. She made herself think twice, then said, “I understand…well, we’ve all heard that you need a wife.”

His attention shifted back to her; once more she was treated to the full intensity of his gaze.

She lifted her chin. “It’s common knowledge, and here you are, looking over the field.”

His mobile lips quirked. “Not quite. But you’re right in that I need a wife, and I am here.”

She nodded, and forced herself to hold his gaze. “And if you have any thought of me filling that position, you may put it out of your head—I have no interest in marriage. However, I realize Audrey and Edith have probably hatched some scheme and might well have got you down here under false pretenses. The least I can do is assist you in your search.”

His eyes widened; the curve of his lips deepened. “Assist me?”

“Yes. You clearly need help.” Folding her arms, she swung so that she could survey the assembled guests. He stood beside her, facing in the same direction, yet his gaze remained on her face. “Now, have you any physical preferences regarding your bride?”

He didn’t immediately answer. She waited, eyes fixed on the crowd.

Eventually, he said, voice deep and low, “Tall—she should be taller than the average.”

Phoebe glanced over the heads, studying all the females. Other than old Lady Althorpe, she was the tallest lady present. None of the unmarried young ladies stood taller than the average, but perhaps Monica Simmons or Georgina Riley might do; heaven knew they were pretty enough. “Blond or brunette?”

After a moment, his deep drawl reached her. “I’ve a penchant for a certain shade of dark red.”

The color of her hair.

Lips compressing, she kept her gaze on the crowd, then demanded, crisply, “Eye color?”

“A curious blend of violet and blue.”

She narrowed her eyes; slowly turning her head, she pinned him with a violet-blue stare. “This is not going to work. There is no point whatever in you fixing your attention on me.”

His lips curved. “Too late.” He glanced at the others. “Introducing me to the others did nothing more than confirm that in pointing me in your direction, Audrey understood my needs remarkably well.”

She drew a deep breath; lowering her arms, she turned to face the crowd. “Be that as it may, my lord, as I’ve already informed you, I have no interest in marriage.”

“Yes, I know. I heard you the first time.”

“Well, then you’ll realize that there is no benefit in spending any further time with me.” She made shooing motions toward the rest of the gathering. “Even if none here meet your requirements, I’d strongly suggest you use the opportunity to polish your approach. Permit me to inform you that you could use the practice.”

It was an impertinent speech, but she meant every word—every insult. The damned man got under her skin as no other ever had. Eyes on the crowd, she waited for him to take his leave of her.

A full minute ticked by.

“I have a better idea.”

Five simple words, but his tone, dark and infinitely dangerous, had her whipping her gaze back to his face.

Her eyes, wide, locked with his. Her heart leapt; her lungs stilled. They stood at the edge of a crowd, yet in that moment she could have sworn they were alone, isolated, the two of them standing in some world out of time.

His green gaze, sharp and hot, lazily, indolently, insolently roamed her face, lingered on her lips, then returned to her eyes.

Her every pore registered his nearness—as heat, power, a threat she couldn’t name. His next words, when they came, seemed to wrap about her, a potent, flagrant seduction in sound.

“Have you ever thought of changing your mind?”

She looked into his eyes and saw, behind the charm and the lurking amusement, a hardness, a ruthlessness, a power that reminded her of a time, a place, an incident she had no wish to recall.

Cold raced over her skin. “No.” Holding his gaze, she fought to quell a shiver. “That will never happen.”

She had to get away. Folding her arms, tightening them, she inclined her head, then turned and left him.

“What the devil’s the matter?”

Phoebe lifted her gaze to the mirror before her and met her maid, Skinner’s, dark eyes. Gowned for the evening, she sat before the dressing table in the bedchamber she’d been assigned; it was nearly time to go down for dinner. Skinner, thin and wiry, her steel gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, stood behind her, brushing and twisting her hair into a knot atop her head.

Hands busy, Skinner nodded to the jeweled comb Phoebe
had been fiddling with. “You’d best give that here before you break it—you’ve been scowling at the thing ever since you sat down.”

Phoebe grimaced and raised the comb; Skinner reached over her shoulder, took it, then set it into her hair. Skinner had been her maid for years. Phoebe had no closer confidante. “A gentleman arrived this afternoon—Deverell, Viscount Paignton. He’s Audrey’s nephew, has recently unexpectedly inherited the title, and thus is now in need of a wife.”

“Aha.” Skinner slipped in a last hairpin and threw her a shrewd glance. “Got his eye on you, has he?”

“So it seems, but he’ll have to take his intentions elsewhere. I’ve far too much to do with this rescue we’ve arranged to have a man of his ilk dogging my heels, wanting to monopolize my attention.”

“Hmm.” Skinner busied herself with Phoebe’s jewel box. “From what I heard in the servants’ hall, he sounded like a swell.” She handed a pair of pearl earrings to Phoebe.

Swiveling to look directly at Skinner, Phoebe took them. “How do you know? Did he bring a gentleman’s gentleman?”

She wouldn’t have classed Deverell as the sort to have a valet.

Skinner snorted. “No. He brought a groom-cum-tiger, a young lad from the west country who can’t say a bad word about his new lord. Seems he’s top of the trees, and our Fergus and the other coachmen were saying his lordship has a great eye for cattle—seems his pair are prime ’uns. But the lad’s a nice boy. He’s minding his
p
’s and
q
’s and tripping over his feet to be helpful. If his master’s got half as good a heart, he won’t be a bad ’un.”

“Regardless”—turning back to the mirror, Phoebe attached one earring—“we can’t have him watching me, attaching himself to my skirts and dogging my footsteps, particularly
not here, not now.” She picked up the second pearl drop. “Speaking of which, have you heard when Lady Moffat is expected?”

“Tomorrow morning. She’s been staying just over at Leatherhead with her sister, so she’s liable to arrive not long after breakfast.”

“Excellent. That should give us plenty of time to get everything in place to make our move after the ball on the third night.”

Skinner fastened Phoebe’s single strand of pearls about her throat. “I’d have thought you’d want to wait ’til the last night.”

Phoebe shook her head. “No, the small hours of the morning after the ball will be perfect. Everyone will be guaranteed to be snoring, and with any luck Lady Moffat won’t miss her maid until noon or later the next day. That way, even if something untoward occurs, the others will have plenty of time to overcome any hurdle and disappear into London.”

“Aye, well—there is that.”

“Indeed. But the first thing I must do is convince Deverell that when it comes to marriage, he has no chance whatever of changing my mind—that’s the only thing that will make him stop looking my way.”

Skinner snorted.

Interpreting that as a comment on the temerity of the man, Phoebe patted her pearls into place and considered her reflection.

The amber silk of her gown deepened the dark red of her hair and lent a subtle glow to her complexion, underscored by the sheen of the pearls about her throat. Her eyes appeared more violet in candlelight, her lips a deeper red.

She looked well enough, she supposed, although if looks were all, then he should have fastened on Deidre or Leonora.
Regardless, his comment that introducing him to the best of the eligible ladies had only confirmed him in his pursuit of her, while doubtless complimentary in its way, suggested that any further attempts in that direction would be doomed to continuing failure.

She narrowed her eyes. “If I can’t distract him with any other lady, how else can I make him stop focusing on me?”

She’d muttered the words to herself, but Skinner had heard.

“Tell him the truth.” Skinner spoke from the wardrobe, where she was hanging Phoebe’s day gown. “If the man is anything like the master, then straight-talking will serve you best.”

“I’ve already told him I’m not interested in marriage.”

“No doubt, but did you tell him why? Men, logical creatures that they are, like reasons. I’m thinking you might have greater success if you give him a reason or two for why you’re unlikely to change your mind.”

Phoebe met her own eyes in the mirror and wrinkled her nose.

In the distance a gong sounded, summoning all downstairs. She was as ready as she’d ever be; with a sigh, she rose. “I’d better go.”

She was waiting for him when he walked into the drawing room.

Deverell saw her instantly, standing to one side with Peter Mellors and two others. Her gaze equally instantly locked on him. Given the way they had parted, he wondered what new tack she had in mind to discourage him from pursuing her; if the set of her jaw was any guide, she was impatient to try it.

He nodded to Lady Cranbrook and Audrey, then moved into the growing crowd of guests standing and talking in
small groups. He didn’t head directly for Phoebe; instead, he took a circuitous route, stopping here and there to exchange a few words, simultaneously assessing his target.

She was well gowned, but not in the latest style. In her style, once again feminine yet aloof. Even as he studied her, he was aware other gentlemen did too; regardless of her disinterest in the opposite sex, she had that indefinable something that caught men’s eyes.

Making her an even more attractive target; the notion of succeeding where others had failed greatly appealed to his competitive nature.

He steadily circled the room toward her. Unfortunately Lady Cranbrook had been correct in predicting that he, his presence, would create a stir; regardless of his already demonstrated fixation with Phoebe, various matrons couldn’t resist trying their—or, more precisely, their daughters’ or nieces’—hands with him. He dealt with them with courtesy and patience, that last aided by the observation that their interference was irritating Phoebe, feeding her impatience.

In the end, she left those she’d been chatting with and strolled his way.

Glibly excusing himself from Lady Riley and her daughter, Georgina, he turned and, in a few long steps, intercepted Phoebe before a pair of long windows.

“Miss Malleson.” He reached for her hand.

For one second she considered not letting him have it, but then she surrendered it. He bowed easily; he held onto her slim fingers as he straightened, lightly caressing her knuckles with his thumb before, with clear reluctance, releasing her.

She shifted to fully face him, her back to the rest of the gathering. Her narrowed, violet-blue eyes met his. “I had hoped you would take the hint—the
large
hint I dropped this afternoon—and turn your attention to other ladies, but you haven’t, have you?”

He smiled at her. “Of course not.” He studied her eyes, then more quietly said, “You didn’t really believe I would.”

No, she hadn’t. Still battling the effects of that gentle, far too seductive touch on her fingers, Phoebe drew a deep breath and carefully enunciated, “This has to stop. There is no point. I am not interested in marrying, not you or any gentleman, because, put simply, I have no inclination whatever in that direction.”

He held her gaze, seemingly not the least put out by her declaration. “Why?”

Skinner had been right. “Because there are only three reasons any female contemplates matrimony. One, because she needs financial security. Two, because she wishes for a family to fill her time. Or three, because she desires that degree of male…companionship that marriage affords.”

She’d tried hard to come up with a better phrasing for her third reason; she wasn’t surprised to see amusement flash through his eyes.

“Male companionship?”

She narrowed her eyes to slits. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

He had the gall to smile. “Indeed.”

For definable seconds, she was trapped in his eyes, his gaze warm, inviting…

Frowning, she snapped free. She was quite sure he more than understood her allusion; indeed, he no doubt knew to what she referred far better than she. Reordering her thoughts, she harried her wits to action. “In my case, as my father’s heiress I stand in no need of a husband to keep me. Likewise, I have interests and concerns that more than adequately fill my time and engage my attention. My
full
attention. And lastly, when it comes to any desire for male companionship, I’ve never felt the slightest need to indulge.
There is, consequently, no benefit whatever for me in taking a stroll to the altar.”

He searched her eyes; his lips remained lightly curved, not so much indicating amusement or dismissal of her words as the fact that she hadn’t—yet—succeeded in convincing him, in shaking his confidence that he could win and wed her. “Not being privy to your financial state, I’ll concede that as your father’s heiress you won’t need a husband to support you. However, I wonder—have you considered that in terms of you being an attractive parti from a gentleman’s point of view, your fortune elevates rather than decreases your eligibility?”