To Distraction (5 page)

She frowned. “My eligibility is not the issue here—rather, it’s marriage’s attraction for me.”

His smile took on an edge, as if she’d walked into a trap. “Indeed.” His tone deepened, becoming more private. “Leaving aside your second reason—one I’m not persuaded, given your third reason, that you as yet have had either opportunity or necessity to properly evaluate—then to address your third reason…” His eyes held hers, trapping her attention, drawing it all to him, to them. Focusing it entirely on their interaction. “How many gentlemen have courted you?”

She blinked, distantly aware that Stripes had appeared and was announcing dinner. “None. I’ve…” She broke off.

An instant passed as he waited for her to continue, then one dark brow arched. “Never permitted any to attempt it?”

“Well, no. Why would I?” Gathering her shawl, she turned to join the company; Lady Cranbrook was moving through the guests, pairing them for the table. “I’ve never been interested—”

“How can you tell if you’ve never let any gentleman close enough to…find out?”

The words fell by her ear and sent a shiver spiraling down
her spine. He’d moved closer, behind and to her side; she glanced up, over her shoulder, and met his eyes.

He’d been going to say “seduce you” but had deigned to spare her, not that she hadn’t heard his meaning in the tenor of his voice, couldn’t read it, clear and unclouded, in his eyes.

She forced herself to hold his gaze. “I have no interest in ‘finding out.’” In
being seduced
.

They could hear Lady Cranbrook approaching, blithely directing this gentleman to partner that lady.

Deverell held Phoebe’s gaze. “You’re not such a coward.”

On the last word, he looked up—to smile at their hostess.

“There you are, my lord—your organization is quite perfect. Please do lead Miss Malleson in.”

He smiled and inclined his head. “It will be my pleasure, ma’am.”

With a light pat on Phoebe’s arm, Lady Cranbrook fluttered on.

Very conscious of Phoebe’s sudden stiffness, Deverell elegantly offered his arm and waited. Only when she slid her hand onto his sleeve did he lift his gaze to her face and lightly smile. “I promise not to bite.”

Her eyes flashed, briefly meeting his, then she faced forward. “I don’t.”

Deeming it wiser not to utter an assurance that he wouldn’t mind if she felt so inclined, he led her to join the exodus heading for the dining room.

Phoebe escaped from the dining room with the other ladies, leaving the gentlemen to pass the port.

Entering the drawing room, she glided to where a pair of French doors set open to the pleasant evening gave her some excuse to stand alone and contemplate.

Not that she was contemplating anything so bucolic as the view.

Deverell had…seduced her, at least in one way. Much as she shied from the word, it was the most applicable.

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 questions 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.

Hiding a smile, Deverell followed at her heels.

So close that when she abruptly halted halfway across the wide terrace and swung to face him, he nearly mowed her down.

He stopped just in time, with no more than an inch between them, a bare inch separating her silk-clad breasts and his chest.

Looking down, he watched as the ivory mounds revealed by her low-cut bodice swelled and rose. But she didn’t step back. Raising his gaze, first to her lips, fractionally parted,
then to her eyes, wide, her gaze disoriented, he realized she’d stopped breathing.

Dazedly, she blinked, then her gaze drifted to his lips.

Every instinct he possessed urged him to slide an arm about her, draw her against him, bend his head, and taste those luscious lips.

And counter her arguments with one of his own.

B
ut…

Her pulse was racing; he sensed it—a primal knowledge he didn’t think to question. She’d never been this close to a man, any man intent on wooing her. Seducing her. He’d already accepted that the latter would precede the former; as she’d so stridently stated, she was twenty-five.

And highly, extremely—more than he’d ever known any woman to be—sensually aware of him. A highly passionate woman unawakened, she’d fallen into his grasp, and she would be his.

She was all but quivering; he felt an overwhelming urge to soothe as well as seize her.

Slamming a mental door on such distracting feelings, he forced himself to take her hand, suspended in midair to one side, and gently ease her back; stepping back from her was beyond him. His body was screening her from the drawing
room. She was still dazed. He closed his fingers more firmly about hers. “Phoebe? What was it you wished to say to me?”

Years of dissembling allowed him to keep his tone even, to eradicate all trace of the primitive emotions riding him.

She blinked, then blinked again. Then she blushed and took another step back. He retained his hold on her hand, preventing her from moving too far away.

“I, ah…” She drew in a huge breath and fixed her eyes on his. “I wanted to inform you that…that I truly have no ambition whatever to be any man’s wife, and if you have any sensitivity whatever, you won’t press me further on that score.”

Phoebe stared into his eyes and wondered where those words had come from; they certainly hadn’t been the tirade she’d intended to heap on his head. But that had been before she’d turned and found him so close, looked up and discovered his lips so near…felt him near, felt his heat down the entire front of her body, sensed the maleness of his hard frame as a beckoning temptation.

Her heart was still thudding in her throat.

She’d wanted him to kiss her.

The realization was so stunning she wasn’t the least surprised it had frozen her mind. But…

She had to get away, escape…somehow break free of the mesmerizing spell he and his eyes and his fascinating lips had cast over her. Blinking, she realized her gaze had once more lowered to those disturbingly sensual lips. Jerking her eyes up, she discovered he seemed to have a similar fascination; his gaze had settled on her lips.

They throbbed. Instinctively, she licked them.

His eyes briefly closed, then opened and trapped hers.

“If that’s the case…” His voice was a dark whisper in the night. “If you truly feel no inclination to be any man’s wife, then perhaps…”

She couldn’t see the color of his eyes, but she could tell they’d darkened. Mesmerized, she watched as he lifted the hand he still held, turning her fingers. His eyes locked with hers, he lowered his head, raised her wrist to his lips, and pressed a kiss—hot and shockingly ardent—to the sensitive inner face.

His lips burned like a brand. She sucked in a breath, felt the world spin, then settle as he lifted his head.

“Don’t answer—not now.” His voice was deep, dark, rippling through her. “Think about it.”

Her brain wasn’t functioning, not at all. As if sensing that, his lips twisted, then he turned and, setting her hand on his sleeve, guided her toward the drawing room. “We should go in.”

They had; Deverell had returned her to Edith as the tea trolley had been wheeled in, then he’d remained by her side while the cups had been dispensed and the customary ritual observed. Between him, Edith, Audrey, and Mr. Philips, the conversation had flowed; she hadn’t had to do more than nod.

As usual, Edith had elected to retire in the wake of the tea trolley. Phoebe had insisted on seeing her aunt to her bedchamber, then she’d cravenly slipped away to her own.

Skinner had been waiting to help her undress. Beyond confirming she’d done what she could to discourage Deverell—including offering him reasons for her disinterest in marriage—she’d said nothing more, nothing of that disconcerting moment on the terrace or the confusion in her mind.

Only when she blew out her candle and snuggled down in the dark did that confusion clear enough for her to review what had happened, to relive those moments, what she’d felt, what he’d done, what that meant….

Cocooned in darkness, she blinked, then sat up, stunned
by the conclusion now shining brightly, with absolute clarity, in her brain.

If that’s the case…then perhaps…

Try as she might, she could think of no other interpretation, not when his tone and actions were combined with those words.

If she wasn’t interested in marriage…he was suggesting a liaison.

A little voice scoffed, reminding her he was her godmother’s nephew and wouldn’t do such a thing, that he had to be pulling her leg, that he hadn’t finished his sentence and stated his proposition in plain words because he hadn’t truly meant it, but that voice was weak.

And weakened even more by her memories of him, of the sheer weight of the sensual aura that clung to him.

She sat for a full ten minutes, stunned, shocked—not by his suggestion but by her reaction. Not just puzzled but astonished—at herself, not him.

He, after all, was a gentleman of a type she recognized well enough.

The cold reached through her nightgown. With a sudden scowl for her susceptibility—for her unexpected weakness—she lay down and pulled the covers to her chin.

And fought to keep the insidious idea that he truly had suggested a liaison from intruding on her dreams.

She woke the next morning determined to focus on the important things in life—on the task she had to accomplish while at the manor. With that goal in mind, avoiding Deverell seemed wise; rising, she sent Skinner to retrieve the book she’d completely forgotten from the library and fetch her breakfast on a tray, then she washed and dressed.

Sitting before the window, she broke her fast and tried to
rediscover her interest in the novel. Skinner had reported that Deverell had been at the breakfast table with the others, and that the consensus for the morning’s activities had been a long ride to the ruins of an Iron Age fort.

Through the open window, Phoebe heard the clatter of booted feet, then laughter and chatter as the riding group assembled on the terrace; the voices faded as they headed for the stables. She waited for ten more minutes, then pushed aside her tray, rose, and, taking the novel with her, headed downstairs.

The front hall was cool, dim, and empty. Stepping onto the tiled floor, she listened but could hear no young voices—no young ladies gaily chattering, no deeper rumble from any gentlemen. The older ladies were all late risers; those few who had come down to preside over the breakfast table would have retired once more to their rooms.

All was as it should have been. Phoebe headed for the morning room at the back of the hall. As she’d expected, the room was empty. Slipping inside, she left the door ajar and settled to wait.

According to the mantelpiece clock, half an hour had passed when the sounds of an arrival drifted to her ears. Setting aside the book, she went to the door but remained behind it, screened from the hall as she listened.

Stripes went bustling past; footmen were already in attendance. An imperious female voice added to the cacophony, then Lady Cranbrook came hurrying down the stairs, her face beaming.

“Aurelia! Welcome, my dear.”

Smiling, Phoebe opened the door and made her entrance, gliding forward to join Lady Cranbrook and Lady Moffat, embracing amid the pile of her ladyship’s luggage.

Lady Moffat saw her. “Phoebe, how lovely to see you. I take it Edith’s here?”

Phoebe smiled and touched fingers with Lady Moffat. “Indeed, ma’am. She’s looking forward to chatting with you.”

“As I am with her. I declare no one knows more of what’s going on in the ton than Edith.”

Still smiling, Phoebe stood back, only very briefly meeting the eyes of the maid hovering protectively over her ladyship’s boxes. With the faintest nod to the girl, unseen by any other, Phoebe turned and glided away.

She went into the empty drawing room; crossing to the long windows already set open to the brilliant day, she folded her arms and looked out.

Really! What had Aurelia Moffat been thinking? One glance had been enough to confirm the problem; the maid was quite lovely, short perhaps, but a pocket Venus, the sort gentlemen described as a ripe armful. With Lord Moffat’s propensities, hiring such a maid was simply asking for trouble.

Irritated, Phoebe wondered whether, later, it might be prudent for her, or better still Edith, to drop a word in Lady Moffat’s ear. Now she’d seen the girl…

Regardless, she’d done all she could for the moment, despite her impatience to get on and make things happen. The bright sunshine outside beckoned. Her gown was suitable for walking; the sun wasn’t strong enough to make a hat or parasol necessary.

A sound came from behind her; she turned as Stripes came into the room.

“Oh—I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t know you were in here.”

“That’s perfectly all right, Stripes—I’m about to go out. If my aunt inquires, please tell her I’ve gone for a walk to the folly.” Phoebe hesitated, then asked, “Did all the gentlemen go riding?”

“I’m not sure, miss, but there’s no one in the library or the other downstairs rooms.”

Phoebe smiled. “Thank you, Stripes.” Turning, she walked to the open French doors and confidently stepped through.

From his seat under the apple trees close by the stream, Deverell watched Phoebe walk toward him. Safe at this distance, he let his gaze roam, over her curves and the long lines of her legs, the evocative sweep of her thighs clearly outlined beneath her light skirts as, looking down, she steadily crossed the lawn.

Crying off from the riding party, he’d taken refuge there; the rustic bench set near the bridge over the stream gave an unimpeded view of the back of the house and the walks leading to the stables and shrubbery on one side, and to the woods on the other. It was the perfect spot to lie in wait.

His quarry looked pensive, absorbed; while he might hope her thoughts were of him, of them, he doubted that was so. Her revelations last night had brought one puzzling aspect of her to the forefront of his brain.

She’d stated unequivocally that she had some occupation that demanded her full attention, something that absorbed the energies normally devoted to a husband and family. Yet when he’d later interrogated Audrey, she’d had no idea of Phoebe’s consuming interest; both she and Edith had given him the impression Phoebe was largely at loose ends—reading, writing, visiting, in general living the customary life of a fashionable lady with no commitments.

But that wasn’t how Phoebe had painted herself, and he would swear she hadn’t been lying. Moreover the existence of some absorbing occupation fitted better with her character; she was vibrant, vital, and actively alive—doing nothing was not an option. Just as he’d been chafing at the bit because he’d had no finite goal to pursue, so, too, with her; she couldn’t possibly
not
be actively involved in something,
some scheme, some project, some real activity to engage her mind and absorb her considerable energies.

The more he thought of it—her secret occupation—the more convinced of its existence he became. Whatever it was, she was, at least in part, concealing it. He’d seen enough of her to suspect it wouldn’t be anything mundane.

He needed to know what it was—what interested and absorbed her, what endeavor filled her time and occupied her mind. There might be something in it he could use in pursuing her. He also needed to confirm that said occupation would prove no hurdle to her being his bride.

Phoebe didn’t see him until she stepped into the cool shade beneath the trees, and by then it was too late to retreat. Inwardly cursing, she halted, watching him swing his long legs to the ground and slowly stand.

He met her eyes. He didn’t grin wolfishly but simply said, “Not even a twenty-five-year-old lady should go walking alone.”

Her first impulse was to sniff and at least
try
to dismiss him, but insisting she was in no danger with him standing before her was patently absurd. Elevating her nose, she airily informed him, “I’m going to the folly on the hill. It’s quite a way.”

He did smile then and stepped closer. “I’ll come with you—you can show me the sights you described yesterday.”

She narrowed her eyes fractionally, trying to penetrate his amiable mask. He knew perfectly well she didn’t want him with her, but he wanted to walk with her and she had no grounds on which to deny him. She could read nothing of his intentions in his face; what reached her was his determination. Arguing would be futile.

With a gesture, she turned to the bridge. “It’s this way.”

He walked beside her in the sunshine. She kept her lips
firmly shut. Somewhat to her surprise, he made no effort to fill—disrupt—the pleasant silence. Beyond the gurgling stream, the path slowly wended its way up the hill; the grade was gentle enough for her not to need his arm, for which she was devoutly thankful.

He was matching her stride, a good two feet between them, yet to her irritation that wasn’t separation enough. Enough to deaden his impact on her witless senses.

That fraught moment on the terrace the previous night, along with his suggestion of a liaison, seemed to have exacerbated the effect of his nearness, leaving her nerves twitching, her senses ruffled, and her distracted.

Somehow, he’d stirred to life a side of her she hadn’t known existed, not until she’d clapped eyes on him. To her immense annoyance, she was exhibiting all the symptoms of a schoolgirl afflicted with her first infatuation; what truly stung was that she’d never in truth fallen victim in that way, even in the schoolroom. It was lowering to acknowledge that she was infatuated now, at the ripe old age of twenty-five, yet she could hardly ignore the disturbing sensations, the way her nerves skittered and her thoughts scattered…. She felt a horrible urge to start babbling just to distract herself—and wouldn’t that make him smile?

Lifting her head, she coolly said, “Audrey didn’t say much about your time in the army, other than that you were in the Guards. In which theaters did you see action?”