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.
Chapter 3
But…
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?”
When he didn’t immediately reply, she glanced at him. Pacing by her side, he was looking down; she couldn’t read his expression.
“Initially I was with the Guards, but within a month I was seconded to another arm of the services.” He looked up and met her eyes. “I spent most of the last ten years of the war in Paris.”
She stared at him. “Paris? But…”
Deverell watched her face blank, watched her work out the implications, then she blinked and refocused.
“You were a spy?”
He grimaced, but if she was going to marry him, she needed to know. “The official term is ‘covert operative.’”
To his relief, far from being horrified, she seemed thoroughly intrigued. “What did you do? Did you ferret out secrets and smuggle them to Whitehall?”
His lips quirked. “Not often—that wasn’t my brief.” He hesitated, then went on, “Prior to enlisting, quite aside from the usual education—Eton and Oxford—courtesy of my father I had an excellent grounding in business affairs. It was his forte—supply and demand on a national scale. Knowing how to influence transport, and the logistics of moving large quantities of commodities from one side of the world to the other. The family fortune derived from such enterprises.”
They continued along the path; he grasped her elbow to steady her over an exposed root. “Because of my peculiar knowledge and the fact that I speak fluent French and could pass myself off as, if not French, then from one of France’s far-flung colonies, I was a natural to infiltrate that arm of French business crucially involved in keeping Fran
ce—the state—afloat.”
He glanced at her and saw she was truly interested. “For instance, it’s difficult to keep an army supplied with rifles if pig iron doesn’t arrive at the ports that serve the foundries. Disrupting vital cargoes at critical times can cause significant damage to any war effort.”
“How…enthralling. It must have been so—” She broke off, a frown tangling her brows. After a moment, she said, “I was going to say it must have been exciting, and I suspect in one way it was, but it must also have been very dangerous.” She looked at him. “Ten years is a long time.”
Nodding, he looked down, remembering every one of those years. “One had to be very careful, always on guard against giving yourself away.”
The path curved around and up the hill, spiraling about the nearly conical mound. Here and there clumps of trees shaded the way, providing cool spots in which to linger and appreciate the vistas that opened up as they climbed ever higher.
Phoebe paused in one such spot, looking out across the patchwork of fields dappling the downs; he halted beside her. At this elevation, a light breeze skipped and swooped, flirting with tendrils of her hair that had slid from the knot on the top of her head to caress her exposed nape.
His gaze rested on that sensitive skin; as if she felt it, she turned and met his eyes. Her own had widened; once again, he knew she’d stopped breathing.
After a moment, she said, “I’ve heard that your cattle are prime ’uns, from which I infer that now you’re back on this side of the Channel, you’ve taken up the reins of the life you would have led had the war not intervened.”
He laughed, shortly, as they started walking again. “Would that that were so, but the unexpected acquisition of both title and large estate changed my destiny.” He thought, then shrugged. “Truth be known, even if my distant cousin hadn’t unexpectedly died, I doubt I could have settled back to fashionable life. Ten years of tension and action tend to alter one’s tastes.”
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