To Distraction (7 page)

Those who had put their names forward rose. Deverell stood. He glanced down at her. “Not competing?”

She looked up at him. “No interest.”

He grinned, then, inclining his head in parting, sauntered away to where the other gentlemen were gathering.

The ladies’ heats eventually got underway. Phoebe glanced around; if she wanted to slip away, now was the time. The older ladies were either deep in gossip or watching their charges. The few older gentlemen had gathered to one side; they were engrossed in talk of hunting. Deverell was standing with the other eligible gentlemen, a longbow held in one hand; like the others, he was watching the younger ladies’ efforts.

Some, like Peter and Edgar and Charlie Wickham, occasionally called comments or encouragement. There was much laughter and good humor at the shooting line; no one was taking the contest all that seriously.

They were shooting parallel to the line of trees under which the ladies were sitting, far enough away from the shade so that anyone shifting within it wouldn’t distract the archers.

Phoebe told herself to get up and quietly slip away under the trees. She kept meaning to, yet the afternoon was so pleasant, the breeze warm and summer-scented, the atmosphere so lazy that she couldn’t summon the will.

And although she had no interest in archery herself, the antics about the shooting line were entertaining, as was the gradual increase in competitiveness that slowly permeated
the air. She found herself smiling, sometimes cynically, sometimes simply in amused understanding.

Somewhat to everyone’s surprise, the ladies’ final was hotly contested by Leonora and Deidre. One blond, one brown-haired, they made an attractive pair of modern-day Dianas. In the end, Deidre prevailed; delighted, she looked around, inviting acknowledgment, gaily and charmingly accepting when it was duly tendered.

Phoebe noted Deidre’s eyes resting on Deverell, noted the way she clung to his words of congratulation.

But it was now time for the gentlemen’s final, and Deverell was one of the three finalists. Like the others, he had to open his coat to draw the bowstring; watching, Phoebe inwardly admitted that the width of chest thus revealed was impressive.

He was a few years older than the other two finalists—Carlton Philips and Charlie. He was also taller and heavier and, Phoebe was quite sure, stronger. She wasn’t the least surprised when he was clearly in the lead after the first round.

In accordance with the rules, the other two then shot before him. Watching not them but Deverell, Phoebe saw him eyeing not the other finalists but the knot of young ladies who had remained, eager and excited, behind the shooting line, patently waiting to congratulate the winner, to hang on his arm and claim his attention.

Then it was Deverell’s turn at the line. He took his place; Phoebe watched as he sent his three arrows flying toward the target in quick succession. They all struck, but none were anywhere near as close to the eye as his previous shots.

Even more telling, when the points were tallied, he was no longer in first place. Charlie was declared the winner,
and laughingly insisted on the adoration of the assembled young ladies as his due. They laughed and obliged, but more than one pair of eyes followed Deverell as, after shaking Charlie’s hand and clapping him on the back, he handed Edgar his bow and made his way across the lawn—directly back to Phoebe.

“Damn!” Seeing his direction, even at that distance feeling the weight of his gaze, she realized her time to escape him had passed.

Assuming she had wanted to escape him.

Deverell reached the shade; ducking under a low-hanging branch, he halted before Audrey. She’d been watching the contest through a pair of lorgnettes, which now lay in her lap.

She looked up at him and blandly observed, “I had no idea Charlie was such an excellent shot—even better than you.”

He shrugged. “He was the better man on the day.”

Audrey raised her brows but said no more.

He turned to Phoebe—just as Stripes arrived on the lawn, heralding afternoon tea. Suppressing a grimace, he looked at Edith and Audrey. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.” They both nodded.

He turned to Phoebe and raised a brow.

She held out a hand. “I’ll come and help.”

Grasping her hand, he drew her to her feet. Side by side, they crossed to the trestle, where tea and cakes were being dispensed; he quizzed her on her lack of interest in archery, extending his interrogation to her childhood, anything to fill the time while he swiftly herded her past the urn and the cake plates and had them both on their way back to Audrey and Edith, avoiding all the other young ladies casting inviting glances his way.

They reached their aunts and handed around the cups. The two were engrossed in remembering some long-ago event and barely paused to nod their thanks; he and Phoebe stood beside their chairs and sipped.

Over the rim of her cup, Phoebe’s eyes met his.

He held her gaze for an instant, then drained half his cup in one swallow.

His back to the others, he looked toward the surrounding trees. Nothing more than distantly aware of other ladies’ glances, he was highly sensitive to Phoebe’s. Ever since they’d left the folly, she’d been casting surreptitious looks his way; for the past hour, she’d all but constantly been watching him.

She and her glances were starting to distract him in a way in which he hadn’t been distracted for years—no, decades. Not since he’d been at Eton and the maids had cast covetous eyes over him. To his surprise, his reaction now wasn’t all that different from his reaction then, a lowering thought considering all the experience he’d accumulated in between.

It was clear that Phoebe was seriously considering his suggestion. That fact, combined with the effect of her glances, was steadily inflating his desire for her, a lust that, after that moment in the folly, he was all too well aware he couldn’t yet slake. Indeed, that it might be some time before he could slake it.

He’d been going to kiss her but hadn’t. While prudence and wisdom had dictated he pull back, his own needs were anything but appeased. And after the last hour of those considering looks, which strongly suggested she was at the very least of two minds over continuing to resist him, all he wanted was to get her alone and reassess their situation.

As Audrey had guessed, he’d deliberately lost the archery contest so he could pursue Phoebe without distraction.

And hopefully convince her to surrender the kiss he hadn’t taken earlier. If he didn’t kiss her soon, didn’t at least taste her, he was going to go insane.

He drained his cup. Deciding the level in hers had dropped sufficiently, he caught her eye. “There’ll be nothing but talk for the next hour or so.” He kept his voice low, beneath the level of Audrey’s and Edith’s conversation. “I wonder if you’d care for a walk. There’s a pretty spot along the stream.”

He’d discovered it that morning and had taken due note.

She held his gaze for an instant, then nodded. She moved to set down her cup on the small table beside Audrey. Audrey paused and glanced at her.

“We’re going for a walk by the stream.” Phoebe met Edith’s eyes as her aunt looked up; she waited, the defense that she was twenty-five hovering on the tip of her tongue. But both Edith and Audrey merely smiled.

“Yes, of course, dear.” Edith waved her away. “It’s such a glorious afternoon.”

“A pity not to enjoy it to the full,” Audrey added. Then they resumed their discussion.

Phoebe narrowed her eyes at the pair. Admittedly they would have had to swivel to glance at Deverell, as he was standing behind their chairs, but they should at least have looked at him in the way chaperones always did—warning him to behave himself.

She was twenty-five and they weren’t going far, but still.

Inwardly shaking her head, she turned to Deverell and promptly forgot about her godmother and her aunt. There was something in his face—a hardness edging the lines of cheek and jaw—that seemed somehow different.

He stepped back and waved her along the line of trees. “It’s this way.”

Luckily, they’d been at the end of the line of chairs; they slipped away beneath the branches without drawing the
attention, or the company, of any of the other young people. She saw his watchful glance over her head and knew he didn’t want any others to join them.

Neither did she.

T
hey strolled through sunlight and shade, wending their way between the old trees that bordered the lawn and dotted the gentle slope leading away from the house. The stream burbled along the bottom of its own narrow valley formed by more steeply sloping banks; Deverell took her hand, steadying her as they made their way down, climbing over gnarled roots to the narrow path that edged the rippling water.

Still swollen by spring rains, the stream was running high, splashing and gurgling over large rocks and boulders. The sound was a pleasant song; the zip of dragonflies and the high-pitched call of finches punctuated the bright melody. The lazy warmth of the afternoon had gathered in the valley; it wrapped around them, sinking to their bones. They walked along without words; she’d visited the manor many times but had never strolled this way.

Then they rounded a curve, and she saw what he’d meant
by “a pretty spot.” The stream widened into a large pool; the music of its passing fell away, muted as the babbling rush spread with a sigh into deeper water. The path, which had been hugging the stream’s edge, diverted inland a little way; between it and the water a group of trees clustered, their spreading branches overhanging the pool.

Deverell led her beneath the green canopy. After walking in the sun, the cool air beneath the arching branches was refreshing. She followed him to where an old tree grew just a few yards back from the bank. Halting by the smooth bole, she leaned against it and watched as he stooped, picked up a flat stone, and with one flick of his wrist sent it skipping over the still surface.

The stone sank just before the opposite bank. A flash of turquoise marked a kingfisher, disturbed enough to dart away downstream.

He stood, hands on hips, looking out over the pool. She leaned more heavily against the bole and wondered what she was doing there.

Tempting fate.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, he turned and looked at her. Then, arms lowering, he walked back to her.

He stopped a foot away. He looked into her eyes, searched them, then without a word raised his large hands, gently framed her face, tipped it up, and kissed her.

It happened so smoothly, so easily, she had no time to panic. There’d been no hint of a threat in his movements or his touch; her lips had softened beneath his before she’d had time to think.

Then she did, and mentally froze, waited, ready to tense and push him away. But nothing happened, nothing changed; his lips remained warm and pliant against hers, beguiling as they caressed, seductively tempting.

But he made no move to press her. He didn’t shift closer,
didn’t crowd her with his large, hard body; there were only his hands, his lips.

And the pleasure.

Pleasure that insidiously bloomed, that slid through her like warmed honey and slowly heated her.

Slowly, step by step, made her want more.

Hunger for more.

Until she followed his direction and parted her lips, did something she’d never done with any man and welcomed him into her mouth.

Even then he was gentle, unhurried, unthreatening.

There was nothing but pleasure in the heavy stroke of his tongue against hers, in the artful, skillful caresses he fed her, in the gentling of his hands about her face as she responded.

Deverell fought down the instinct to reach for her, to draw her into his arms and take things further; she might be kissing him back, but he’d felt her hesitation, could sense just how wary she was, how ready to take flight. Innocence, inexperience, and wariness; with such a combination, he had to tread carefully.

Had to go slowly, slower than he’d ever gone with any woman.

The knowledge clashed with a burgeoning primitive urge to seize her, to make her his—to at least take steps to set that in train. He could overwhelm her so easily, let loose the passion he held reined and sweep her into intimacy, there in the grass by the stream, but everything he knew of her told him he’d never win her that way.

But if he couldn’t have her yet, he was determined to take the first step at least, to make her crave his kiss. So he kept his hands still, gentle about her face, and bent his mind, his will, and his considerable expertise to capturing her with just a kiss.

Raising one hand, Phoebe touched the back of his, still so
gently cradling her face. The muscles and tendons were hard, rigid, yet his touch was almost reverent. So careful, so reassuring. So not what she’d expected.

Even while she indulged and let him beguile her into more, into long, slow exchanges that all but curled her toes, some part of her mind puzzled at the implicit contradiction.

His kiss remained gentle and beguiling, yet he wasn’t a gentle and beguiling man.

He was ruthless, hard, determined beyond measure, and comprehensively used to getting his own way.

She might have avoided such exchanges as far as she’d been able, yet she knew enough not to be deceived. Closing her hand over his only confirmed that he, his body, was locked, held immobile beneath his steely will.

He was holding back all that she feared. It wasn’t that he didn’t wish to sweep her into his arms, that he didn’t want to crush her to him, to touch her body, her breasts, her bottom; he wanted all those things, but had sensed she didn’t, and he was strong enough—and for whatever reason had decided to be gallant enough—to check his own desires.

In pursuit of hers?

The thought drifted through her mind, a seduction all its own.

But the passion she sensed through her touch on his hand, while not a threat, was proof a threat could yet exist. She didn’t yet know if she was safe with him.

Reluctantly—she was surprised by how reluctantly—she drew back from the kiss. He hesitated, then let her break it, but he didn’t release her face.

She opened her eyes, blinking back into the world. Focusing on the darkened green of his eyes, she watched him search hers—and mentally scoffed at her earlier thought. Safe? With him? He was the epitome of
un
safe, the type of man she
knew
could never be “safe,” not for her or any woman.

Yet…try as she might, she could sense no threat from him.

She frowned, sensing the question in his mind. “I don’t know…” He confused her as no man ever had.

His gaze sharpened. “Why don’t we take this one step at a time, and see where the path leads us?”

He was, quite clearly, speaking of indulging in an affair, but was indicating he was willing to accommodate her as to the pace….

She would never, ever, get a better offer—a chance more to her taste, or more responsive to her needs.

From a man like him, it was a generous suggestion, one that would cost him far more than it would her, assuming he adhered to it. She knew in her heart she would regret saying no, could not say no—not yet.

“I…” She drew in a breath and took the plunge. “Yes. All right—but just one step at a time, and let’s see.”

His gaze remained steady on hers, then his features softened in a smile. One that took on an almost rueful edge as he lowered his hands from her face, lightly stroking one cheek as he did.

“I’ve been waiting to kiss you since I first laid eyes on you.”

“In the library?” She wasn’t overly surprised.

“Yes.” He closed a hand about one of hers, engulfing it in warmth and hardness. “But if I’d acted then, I wouldn’t have stopped at just a kiss, not with the chaise there and no one else in the room.”

She tilted her head, greatly daring said, “There’s no one else here now.”

His gaze sharpened; he hesitated but then shook his head. “No, there isn’t, but there’s a time and place for all things, and this isn’t it.”

Deverell stepped back and drew her away from the tree.
“Come—we should return. You’ll need to dress for dinner.”

And after turning down that last invitation—which had been no invitation but a test in disguise—he needed to take another walk.

To cool his ardor.

“Tell Jessica to meet me in the music room once everyone settles for the night.” Sitting before her dressing table, Phoebe glanced at Skinner in the mirror. “Tonight’s our musical evening. It will no doubt be boring in the extreme, but we may as well capitalize on it. If anyone sees Jessica downstairs later tonight, she can say Lady Moffat left her fan in the music room and she’s looking for it.”

“Aye, I’ll tell her. Though if the evening’s to be as boring as you say, I’m wondering why you’re insisting on wearing this.” Skinner lifted Phoebe’s peacock green silk gown from her second trunk and shook it out, then looked at Phoebe, her brows raised high.

Phoebe met her eyes briefly, then reached for her perfume. “Because I live in hope that the company will be more interesting than the entertainment.”

“Company, heh? Tall, dark, and handsome as sin—
that
company?”

“
Any
company,” Phoebe repressively replied, although Skinner was, of course, correct. She was dressing with more care because she knew Deverell would be present.

More, because she knew he would spend time with her, and she was looking forward to those moments, to see what he would make of them, and what she might learn. In terms of teaching her about the pleasure to be gained from a liaison, she doubted any man was better qualified.

“Should I tell Jessica that it’ll be tomorrow night?”

Finishing dabbing perfume behind her ears and on her
wrists, Phoebe stoppered the bottle. “Yes. Has Fergus sent word to Birtles?”

“He has. He’s expecting to hear back tomorrow morning.”

“Good. Let me know when everything’s in place.” She rose and let Skinner slide the striking blue-green gown over her head. She wriggled, settling it, then looked in the mirror and was pleased. The unusual hue wasn’t one many ladies could successfully wear, but it complemented her coloring; most importantly, the vivid hue attracted and held the eye.

Anyone’s eye.

She stood while Skinner laced the gown, then sat again to let Skinner attend to her hair. She always wore it up, so Skinner had to unravel the topknot that had seen her through the day, then brush out her long hair and refashion a more stylish knot for the evening.

While Skinner worked, Phoebe donned aquamarine earrings and a matching bracelet and pendant. Skinner helped her clip the chain around her neck.

“Damn!” Skinner muttered, poking at the curls that brushed her nape. “These strands are too short to reach the knot. I’ll pin them up.”

Phoebe blinked. In that instant felt again the sensation of Deverell touching those strands, cupping her nape. “No. Leave them.”

Skinner looked at her in surprise; she usually insisted that her hair be perfectly tidy.

Phoebe lightly shrugged and reached for her figured shawl. “I’ve grown used to them.”

And if they weren’t there, Deverell might not touch her in quite that way again…and he’d been right. She’d liked it.

After dinner, the company adjourned to the music room. By then, Phoebe’s view of the evening had grown distinctly
jaundiced. She walked into the ornate room with no expectations beyond being bored to tears.

She’d gone down to the drawing room buoyed by an eagerness she hadn’t felt in years, only to be waylaid by Peter and Edgar the instant she’d crossed the threshold. They’d kept her chatting about the croquet tournament they were arranging for the following afternoon; every time she’d opened her mouth to excuse herself, they’d asked her another question.

Exasperated, she’d glanced about the room, hoping to locate Deverell and move him to rescue her, only to discover him trapped before a window with Deidre and her friends, Heather and Millicent, who formed a frilly wall before him.

Between her and him.

She’d looked at Peter—Deidre’s brother—and all had become clear.

Just as she’d started to narrow her eyes, her mind evaluating various less polite means of escape, a stir beside her had resolved itself into Stripes, who had announced that dinner was served.

Unfortunately, Maria had a habit of juggling her guests about the dinner table. Tonight, Phoebe had been seated at the other end of the table from Deverell. He had been flanked by Georgina and Deidre, while she’d had Charlie and a Mr. Combes to entertain her.

They’d tried but hadn’t succeeded.

She’d endured, but with not even any time in the drawing room, she now had nothing more ahead of her than a few hours of listening to weak musical performances with the entire company gathered around.

She enjoyed music, but it had to be well performed. As she glided toward the pianoforte, she couldn’t drum up the slightest iota of enthusiasm.

Maria had already whispered in her ear; being the eldest unmarried young lady, Phoebe would be the first to perform. She’d nearly declined; the aim of such evenings was to display to the assembled—captive—eligible gentlemen the accomplishments of the marriageable young ladies. The underlying purpose was matchmaking, and she was no longer in the market. However, if she was going to be forced to sit and listen to others mangle rhythms and chords, then they could first listen to her demonstrate how it should be done.

Raising the pianoforte’s lid, she ran her fingers experimentally over the keys, confirming that the instrument was adequately tuned, then she reached for the pile of music sheets left in readiness.

She was flicking through the pile, evaluating possibilities, when her senses stirred, then focused. Looking up and around, she found Deverell approaching, his gaze on her. She glanced at the others, now settling into seats spread about the room. Deidre and her friends had been summoned by their mothers and were now in earnest consultation over what piece would best demonstrate their talents.

Deverell halted beside her. He held her gaze for an instant, then looked at the sheets in her hands. “What were you thinking of playing?”

She shrugged. “An air, a sonata—something soothing.”

She glanced up in time to see his lips quirk.

His eyes met hers. “Do you sing?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, what about a ballad? If you can find something suitable, I’ll sing with you.”