To Distraction (8 page)

She blinked, but she certainly wasn’t about to turn away such an offer. “Baritone?”

He nodded.

She’d seen something in the pile; she hunted, found the
sheet, and drew it free. “What about this? Two parts—first in alternate verses, then combined.”

He scanned the sheet, then nodded. “I remember it.”

“Excellent.”

He took the other sheets from her; while he set them aside, she adjusted the seat, then settled on it. As she set their selected piece on the stand, Maria bustled up, her face wreathed in smiles.

Phoebe smiled and made her even happier. “Paignton and I are going to perform a ballad.”

Maria glowed. She clapped in delight. “How wonderful!” She turned to Deverell, who had taken up his position by Phoebe’s right shoulder. “Thank you, my lord. This is
quite
the most perfect way to encourage the other gentlemen, and the other young ladies, too, to get into the spirit of things.”

Turning, she clapped loudly, calling the gathering to order, then announced them, and that they had elected to entertain the group with a ballad.

Cynically amused, Phoebe placed her fingers on the keys. “I’m not normally cast as an example to be followed.”

She looked up at Deverell. He met her eyes and dryly replied, “I imagine not.”

He understood what she meant, yet there was something in his tone, in his green eyes…then he nodded at the pianoforte. “When you’re ready.”

She turned back to the instrument and the music.

What followed was unlike any performance she’d given before. The notes flowed from her fingers as they always did, all but effortlessly, perfectly gauged in both rhythm and force; her voice rose, an unusually sweet contralto, strong enough to fill the room yet never strident. She sang the first verse alone, but even then she felt a difference, a subtle reshaping of her senses and thus how she delivered the notes and lyrics, because he stood so near.

And then he sang, and she lost all touch with the room in which they stood, forgot that there were others watching. His voice, effortlessly strong yet amazingly controlled, perfectly in tune, wove a web of sound around her—a web that only grew stronger, more mesmerizing, when she added her voice to his.

It was no contest, but a sensual interweaving; her voice rose when his fell and vice versa, first one dominating, then the other, not so much testing each other’s strengths as discovering how to interact, how to support, how to elicit the best from each other—the most from each other.

Never before had she participated in such an exchange, where her partner’s voice stretched hers, and hers demanded more from his.

The ballad had twelve verses. The music and their voices led them on, deeper into the ever twining harmony, until at the last they reached the final note—two perfectly held tones riding over two chords creating a single, perfectly blended sound.

It ended, died, and she returned to the world. To that instant of complete silence that follows a great performance, when the listeners have to draw breath and blink before they can applaud.

They did applaud. She smiled, acknowledged the accolades with a gracious nod, then allowed Deverell to take her hand and draw her to her feet.

They moved away so the next young lady, looking decidedly nervous, could take her place at the instrument. Deverell led her to the side of the room, where Audrey and Edith, smiling delightedly, were settled on a chaise.

“Lovely.” Edith beamed.

Audrey simply looked smug.

Standing beside the chaise, they turned to face the room. Deverell spoke softly. “I enjoyed that.”

“So did I.” She glanced up at his face. “I admit I didn’t expect it of you. Such talent isn’t all that common.”

He met her gaze; his lips curved. “One of the benefits of spending so much time in Parisian salons.”

“Ah.” She looked back at the pianoforte as the next young lady started to play.

The rest of the musical offerings were as boring as she’d expected. Worse, after their performance and with Deverell so near, her restlessness and impatience did nothing but grow. But there was nothing to be done, no way to escape, nothing to do but endure. Two young ladies gave creditable performances, but too many had demonstrably no real flair.

She glanced at Deverell. Stoic, he gave no sign whatever of impatience, but when he met her eyes, she sensed he was finding the evening as frustrating as she.

They’d stepped onto a new path that afternoon, one she wished to further explore. While their shared ballad had whetted her appetite, it hadn’t satisfied her craving to learn more. She positively itched with impatience but could think of no way to advance her cause.

By the time the tea trolley was wheeled in, later than usual to accommodate the performances, she was resigned to making no headway that night.

As soon as she’d finished her tea, Edith rose to retire. Setting aside her cup, Phoebe was about to go to her when Deverell laid a hand on her arm.

She turned to him.

He took her hand, briefly scanned the room, then met her eyes. “Later—the temple by the lake?”

She hesitated. He arched a brow and lifted her hand to lightly touch his lips to the backs of her fingers.

The light caress was enough to bring her nerves alive. Through his grip on her fingers, she sensed that, if anything, he was even more determined than she to forge ahead.

“Yes. All right,” she whispered back. “When all’s quiet.”

With a nod, he released her. She turned and went to Edith, then assisted her from the room, all the while conscious of Deverell’s gaze on her back, equally conscious of her focus on him.

It was close to midnight when she left the house by the side door near the music room. She’d had to wait until all the guests had been abed before meeting with Jessica, Lady Moffat’s recently hired lady’s maid.

Phoebe had explained to Jessica how they planned to rescue her, and how their little business operated; Jessica had all but fallen on her neck in gratitude. The poor girl was frantic at the prospect of returning to the Moffats’ country house, where lecherous Lord Moffat lurked.

After reassuring Jessica that she would be whisked away after the ball the following night, Phoebe parted from her and slipped outside. Rounding the house, she made for the small classical temple that stood by the side of the ornamental lake.

Lounging against one of the temple’s marble pillars, Deverell saw her coming, but not from the direction he’d expected. After parting from her that afternoon, he’d gone to the stables to look in on his grays and instruct Grainger to find out what he could about Miss Phoebe Malleson, only to discover the lad had acted on his own initiative. Deverell now knew that Phoebe had a maid called Skinner, a strict and severe sort but with a kind heart, who had been with her since childhood, that Edith’s coachman, a Scotsman by name McKenna, was also Phoebe’s groom, and that the chamber Phoebe had been given was beside Edith’s in the central wing overlooking the terrace at the rear of the house.

His room was above the library, facing the front of the house. If Phoebe had left from her room, the most direct
route to the temple would have been the way he’d come, via the library.

He’d discovered the temple after leaving the stables, while he’d been walking off the frustration caused by instincts he knew he couldn’t indulge. He’d noted the structure but hadn’t had any plans for it—not until the evening had unfolded and his frustration had reached new heights.

After their duet, he’d known he’d get no sleep, not unless he kissed Phoebe again, not until he’d taken advantage of the impatience he’d sensed in her to steer her through at least one more step.

One more step on her long road to seduction.

She slowed as she neared, peering through the shadows; the temple was screened from the house by a stand of trees. Pushing away from the column, he moved to stand in the archway closest to her. She saw him; even through the dimness he caught her quick smile. Lifting her skirts, she came on more quickly.

Looking down, she climbed the steps. “I didn’t know if you were here—”

He reached for her and stepped back, pulling her into the temple’s shadows. His impulse was to haul her fully against him; her small gasp reminded him—he stopped before he did.

Instead, he caught her face, tipped it up, and kissed her.

But this time, he wasn’t stopping there.

He drew her into the kiss; she followed willingly. Her hands came to rest, first one palm, then the other, on his chest. Her touch was light, yet he felt it to his bones.

Gently, slowly, he eased one hand from her face. She’d given him her mouth freely; her tongue flirted with his, innocent, inexperienced, yet learning. Learning to give and take, to receive pleasure, and return pleasure to him.

It was a heady sensation and a simple, yet real, sign of her interest. But it wasn’t enough.

Slowly, he slid his arm around her waist. He let it rest there, let her feel the weight, let her grow accustomed to it, to being within his control. Only gradually, oh-so-gradually as he continued to kiss her, continued to lead her, to show her what more a kiss could be, did he draw her to him, ease her inch by inch closer, until at last the silk of her bodice brushed his coat.

And she noticed.

Phoebe felt that first contact like a spear of sensation striking through her, tightening the peaks of her breasts. She hesitated, wondering, but with his lips on hers, his tongue languidly stroking hers, no panic awoke, no fear raised its head. She knew his arm was around her, knew it would feel like steel if she stepped back, but it—he—wasn’t forcing her forward, wasn’t seizing or trapping. His hand, resting lightly at the side of her back, wasn’t even grasping.

Yet she could feel him all around her. The more they kissed, the longer she stood there, she could feel the hard heat of him sinking into her bones.

Weakening them.

There came a moment when the temptation to lean into him simply became too much. Refusing to let herself think, she took that last half step and let their bodies meet. Let her breasts press against his chest, let her thighs touch the hard lengths of his.

A shiver of sheer pleasure swept through her; she welcomed it, wallowed in the sensation. But it was his reaction that enthralled her, that focused her mind even as they both instinctively readjusted the angle of their heads, continuing the kiss, continuing to taste and explore—even while she wondered, amazed at his restraint.

Fascinated by it.

His kisses remained unhurried, lazy and inviting, yet his body felt as if he had a devouring demon trapped within, a demon he held chained by sheer force of will. She pushed her hands, trapped against his chest, up and over his broad shoulders, savoring, assessing, marveling at the tension locked in every muscle of his large frame.

Behind the veil of his kisses lurked heat and fire, and hunger. A hunger she wondered if she could sate, could satisfy.

He was keeping her protected, shielded from it all—from his desire, his passion, all he wanted from her.

A certain sultriness slid through her mind. She kissed him back, more definite, more demanding; he took all she offered, gave all she wanted in return, but his control—steely and absolute—didn’t quake. It didn’t so much as quiver.

Temptation welled, stronger, more assured, more compelling, but even in her hazy, pleasured state, she knew it was too dangerous.

Far too dangerous to tempt him to drop his shields, and let her experience the full force of his desire.

It was he who eventually pulled back and lifted his head. He looked down at her; shadows wreathed his face—she couldn’t see his eyes.

But she could feel him all around her.

She stood within his arms, held gently against him, and not one nerve was shrieking in warning.

All her nerves were pleasured, warm, all but purring with content.

He searched her face, his own hard-edged planes sharpened by restraint. “You taste like fine wine. You’re addictive, intoxicating even in small sips.”

“You taste…dangerous.” Dangerously male.

“I am dangerous. But not to you.”

She looked into his eyes and found she believed him.

His arms fell from her and he stepped back. “Come—I’ll walk you to the house.”

She acquiesced with a nod. They walked back side by side, through the trees and across the lawns. He showed her how to walk across the gravel drive without making a sound, then led her to one of the French doors of the library.

He opened it and stood back.

As she moved to pass him, he reached out and drew her to him. She was surprised, but permitted it—permitted him to kiss her, one last, long, lingering time.

Raising his head, he murmured against her lips, “One small step at a time.”

Hands braced against his chest, she looked into his dark eyes and nodded. Then she stepped back.

He released her and guided her through the door. “Good night.”

She turned to look at him. “Aren’t you coming?”

He shook his head. “I’ll walk for a while.”

She frowned; he looked at her, then shut the door.

She stared, through the glass saw him move to the steps, go down onto the lawn, then stride away. Puzzled, she turned and headed upstairs.

“D
o you think we could take a wrong turn?”

“Easily.” Deverell considered the carriages ahead of his curricle. Another line followed behind. “Unfortunately, I doubt that we’d be allowed to get lost.”

A delightful picture in magenta-sprigged muslin, Phoebe sighed and adjusted the angle of her parasol. “Picnics are all very well in their way, but to have to listen to so much silly chatter—that invariably ruins my appetite.”

“Don’t expect any argument from me.” After a moment, he asked, “How did we get roped into this?”

“I don’t know.” Phoebe shot him a darkling glance. “But if you’d been rather less pointed in your attentions to me, I, at least, could have claimed ape-leader status and retired to the library with my book. I still haven’t finished it.”

He hid a smile; he knew what she’d been doing instead. “But such craven behavior on your part would leave me
exposed to the likes of Deidre and Leonora—you couldn’t be so cruel.”

She sniffed. “A gentleman has to be prepared to contend with such difficulties when he attends a house party to look over the field.”

“I didn’t. I came to look at you.” He congratulated himself on his decision to leave Grainger at the manor.

She blinked, then turned her head to study him. “Did you?”

“I told you so the first time we met.”

Phoebe faced forward.
I came for you.

She remembered his words clearly; replaying them in her mind, in his deep, decisive voice, sent the same peculiar shiver through her. “So you did. I should have paid more attention….”

He glanced at her, a frown in his eyes, as if he couldn’t follow her thoughts and felt uneasy that he couldn’t. But then the carriages ahead turned off the main lane onto a narrow rutted track and he had to concentrate on his horses.

Prime ’uns, as she’d been warned.

By the time he drew the curricle to a halt and came to hand her down, she’d formulated and rejected three different scenarios whereby he and she and his fabulous horses managed to free themselves of the surrounding throng. He’d been right; it wouldn’t be allowed.

Apparently all the other eligibles, male and female, had determined not to allow them any private time together. He, she, or both of them were constantly in demand; even during the picnic at a spot high on the downs, she was frequently applied to for information on the landmarks dotting the wide view.

“You’re very knowledgeable about the surrounding countryside.” Deverell lay stretched beside her on the grass,
looking out to the distant horizon. She was seated on a rug likewise looking out, the fresh breeze flirting with her hair. They were temporarily alone, surrounded by the chattering horde.

“I grew up not far from here. My father’s Lord Martindale—Martindale Hall is about twenty miles away, over there.” She pointed to the east.

He looked, then asked, “Do you spend much time there?”

Her lips twisted wryly. “Not since I was eight. My mother died when I was seven. My father became a recluse—he rarely leaves the hall. When I came out of mourning, I was sent to stay with my aunts—I have eleven of them. I moved around between them, but I’ve spent most time with Edith. Her husband had died and she was alone, and so was I.”

He said nothing. After a moment, she glanced at him. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

He shook his head. “Like you, my mother died when I was young. My father passed away while I was overseas. I’ve uncles and aunts, but no cousins on the paternal side.”

“Thus your need to marry.”

He nodded.

Before she could probe further—although she wasn’t at all sure why she wanted to know more—Georgina and Heather joined them.

“We’re going to stage the croquet tournament when we get back. Both of you must play, of course.”

Phoebe raised her brows; Georgina’s comment had been couched far too dictatorially. “I fear that after the exigencies of this picnic, I won’t have sufficient energy to make an adequate showing. You must count me out.”

“Oh.” Georgina blinked at her, considered, then patently decided they didn’t need her anyway. She turned her bright eyes on Deverell. “But you’ll play, won’t you, my lord? You certainly won’t be too fatigued.”

Phoebe looked too, only to find Deverell’s green eyes, slightly narrowed, fixed on her face.

Without shifting his gaze, he said, “I’ll play only on one condition—that Miss Malleson be my partner.”

She looked into his eyes and had to struggle not to laugh. They’d pushed too far; he’d retaliated with a demand that left Georgina no choice but to turn to her and plead, “Phoebe? You will play, won’t you?”

She held his gaze—he was a devil, no doubt, for he’d trapped her, too. “If Lord Paignton will lend me his undoubted expertise, then yes, very well, I’ll marshal enough energy to compete.”

Thus it was that three hours later they found themselves standing side by side at the edge of the croquet lawn.

“I haven’t played in years,” Deverell informed her.

Despite that, Phoebe quickly discovered he hadn’t forgotten how, but the game as he played it differed subtly from the one she knew.

In his version, there was a great deal more touching between partners, at least between them. She hadn’t previously considered croquet a sport with much, if any, contact, but his version was filled with little touches, brushes, the gentle pressure of his hand at the back of her waist, the tantalizing glide of his leg clad in tight buckskin breeches and glossy boot against her skirts.

The lightest brush of his fingers over the bright curls caressing her warm nape.

She knew from the first that he was doing it deliberately; oddly, from the first, she didn’t truly mind. To her continuing surprise, she didn’t mind being touched by him; indeed, she quite enjoyed the occasional
frisson
when supposedly unintentionally skin met skin.

Or when his hand passed lightly over a curve he really shouldn’t touch.

At least not in public. No one saw, of course.

Those fleeting, private touches added another dimension to their play. Although defeated in the final round by Peter and Heather, both keen players who concentrated fiercely, she was prepared to wager that of them all, she and Deverell had gained the most enjoyment from the tournament.

She parted from him, leaving him with the other men to tidy the hoops and mallets away. Trooping inside with the other ladies to get ready for the ball, she decided the afternoon hadn’t, after all, been entirely wasted.

Except…

It didn’t strike her until she was in her room that all those little touches had had a cumulative, inevitable effect. By the time she climbed into her garnet-colored ball gown, she felt as if she were ready to jump out of her skin.

It…
flickered
. Her nerves were tight, sensitive to even the lightest touch, eager for even the slightest caress, and desperately hungry for more.

“Damn him.” She muttered that and various other injunctions as she hurried to get ready, hoping against hope that he had something planned to ease her sudden need, although how he might accomplish that within the confines of a ballroom, she had no clue.

Sinking onto the stool before her dressing table, she reached for her favorite perfume. Skinner came to stand behind her and started to unpin her hair.

“Is everything set for tonight?”

Reaching for her brush, Skinner nodded. “They’ll be waiting with the carriage in the lane like you wanted. Jessica knows to meet you in the library. Poor mite, she’s that desperate I’m sure she’d run away if we weren’t about to get her away.”

“Hmm. Keep an eye on her if you can. We don’t want her to do anything silly and make Stripes or anyone else suspicious.”

“I’ll mother-hen her. Are you going to change after the ball?”

Phoebe reviewed what she planned to do later, then shook her head. “The way’s clear enough. I shouldn’t need to.”

“In that case, I’ll stick with Jessica. I’ll stay with her once she’s settled her ladyship for the night, keep her company until it’s time to meet you.”

“Yes, I think that would be wise.”

A light tap fell on the door. Phoebe and Skinner exchanged a glance, then Skinner crossed to open it.

With a breezy smile, Audrey glided through. “There you are, dear. I hoped I’d catch you.”

Clad in ivory and black silk draped much like a toga, a gold-and-black silk turban swathing her head, Audrey crossed to the armchair to one side of the dressing table, her shrewd gaze taking in Phoebe’s gown. “That color becomes you, dear. What are you going to wear with it—your garnets and pearls?”

In the mirror, Phoebe glanced at Skinner, who had returned to work on her hair. “That’s what I’d planned.”

“Excellent.” Audrey sank elegantly into the armchair. “Both Edith and I are…well, heartened, and very pleased to see you making an effort.”

Phoebe wanted to turn and look at Audrey, but a hiss from Skinner and a tap with the comb warned her to keep her head straight.

Before she could formulate any sensible response, Audrey continued, “I thought perhaps I should mention that the Deverells, all the males that is, while being quite…well, not to put too fine a point on it,
rakehellish
through their
formative years, all of them—every last one throughout the family’s history—have become quite
staid
once they wed.”

From the corner of her eye, Phoebe saw Audrey tilt her head, considering, then she added, “I’ve never been sure that the two states weren’t connected. That the latter wasn’t a direct consequence of the experience of the former, if you take my meaning.”

Audrey fell silent; Phoebe wasn’t sure what to say. Then Audrey spoke again.

“Your mother and I were very close. We shared all our hopes and dreams. I’ve told you that before, but there’s one story I haven’t mentioned, and I feel now is the time. When I was young—younger than you, about twenty-two—I had a beau and thought I was in love. For all I know I was, but my father was quite sure my suitor was a wastrel and he forbade the match. In those days I wasn’t quite so independent as I’ve since become, and while I sulked, I can’t say I fought all that hard. But…” Audrey shrugged lightly.

Phoebe frowned. “You’ve never stopped loving him?”

Audrey blinked her eyes wide. “Oh, no—it wasn’t like that. My father was quite right—poor Hubert was a wastrel. No, it’s not that I’ve been carrying a torch for him all these years. But what I have often wondered was, What might have been?

“You see, dear, we never do know.” Straightening, Audrey resettled her shawl. “I should hope, knowing me as you do, that you realize I regret very little in my life, that indeed I enjoy my life and am quite content with matters as they are. Or so I believe, but I do wonder, from time to time, whether my life would have been even better, even happier, if I’d grasped the chance that fate once offered and fought for what I wanted. I did want him at the time, but now I’ll never know what might have been—would he have been a wastrel if I’d married him? Would I have been even more content than I am?”

Audrey paused, then, with a rustle of silk, rose. “What I wished to say to you, dear, poised as you are at this moment in your life, is that while I regret nothing I’ve done in my life, I do sometimes regret what I didn’t do—those opportunities fate sent me that I didn’t grasp.”

Skinner finished Phoebe’s hair and moved aside. Audrey took her place, meeting Phoebe’s eyes in the mirror, laying a beringed hand lightly on her shoulder. “I just wanted to suggest, dear, that when opportunity knocks, you think of
what might be
before you turn it away.”

Phoebe looked into Audrey’s hazel eyes. Lifting one hand, she touched Audrey’s where it rested on her shoulder. “Thank you. I will think carefully.”

Audrey’s smile lit her face. “Good.” She turned to the door. “Now I’d better go and roust out Edith. We’ll see you in the drawing room.”

Skinner moved to hold the door for Audrey. Closing it behind her, Skinner returned to pick up and shake out Phoebe’s fringed shawl. “She’s still a devilishly handsome lady—no reason for her to think she’s past it. She’s not that old.”

“No, she’s not.” Phoebe rose so Skinner could drape the shawl over her shoulders. “Where’s my reticule?”

While she put on her garnet and pearl earrings, and looped her pearls about her neck, she thought over what Audrey had said. She had, of course, been speaking of marriage, but…

Phoebe let herself out of her room and headed for the stairs, confident that in her case, the same dictum applied to indulging in a liaison.

How would she know what might be if she didn’t?

Audrey’s revelation about Deverell males continued to play in Phoebe’s brain. He entered the drawing room late, dark
and devilishly handsome in black evening coat and crisp white linen; he came straight to her side, but there was little time for any but the mildest observations before Stripes arrived and the company went in to dinner.

Once again, she and he weren’t side by side. They were, however, seated opposite each other, which in some respects suited her better. In between chatting with Milton Cromwell and Peter, she grasped moments to observe Deverell, to evaluate and assess, and ponder.
Rakehellish
Audrey had said; it was an apt description. He didn’t exhibit the behavior of a true rakehell, but he definitely had a propensity for the role, as well as all the qualifications.

It wasn’t just his handsomeness, not just his glib tongue. There was something in his gaze, some hint of…not wildness, but something untamed and untameable, something not quite civilized, that set him apart.

Very definitely apart from the other gentlemen present. Which was no doubt the reason that all the young ladies continued to cast interested—willing to be infatuated—glances his way.

She inwardly sniffed; they would have to stand in line.

By the end of the meal, she’d decided it was those elements that made it so clear he would run in no woman’s harness that most attracted women to him. That, after all, was the essential danger in him.

It was what most fascinated her.