To Distraction

by Stephanie Laurens

  Even without looking, he sensed he’d puzzled her, that he wasn’t fitting the mold she’d imagined he would.

  “What do you think of the Regent? Have you met him?”

  “Prinny? Yes. I can’t say I’m enamored.”

  That made her smile. She continued peppering him with questions, outwardly random, yet he sensed she was searching for some level of understanding, of comprehension, some framework within which she could place, measure and judge him. Nothing loath, he played her game, admitting, when she pressed him on what other horses he owned, that collecting prime horseflesh was one of the fashionable vices in which he indulged.

  He waited for her to ask which other fashionable vices he was prey to, but while the thought definitely occurred, she shied from being quite so impertinently direct.

  A pity. He’d had an excellent answer prepared.

  Despite outward appearances, he wasn’t like others of his kind. Phoebe couldn’t escape that conclusion, or the fact that learning more about him had done nothing to lessen her infuriating infatuation. Quite the opposite. She now felt an entirely unhelpful curiosity about him—about what was important to a man like him, one with his peculiar history, about what drove him.

  At least curiosity was a great deal more manageable than infatuation, and much easier to own to and excuse.

  By the time they reached the folly, a small circular lookout perched on the hilltop, she’d learned enough to accept that she’d do well to wipe her mental slate clean of all preconceived notions where he was concerned. That, of course, left her wondering about his words on the terrace—had he meant them as she’d interpreted them? If so…

  Deverell followed her onto the circular wooden platform beneath the fanciful carousel-like roof. Painted white, the structure was in good repair. Phoebe walked to one side; gripping the railing, she looked out.

  Halting in the center of the floor, he grasped the moment to observe her—her stance, the way she moved—and what that told him. In one way, she was easy to read; characteristically direct and decisive, she projected her intentions clearly. Yet her motives, the reasons behind her decisions and the actions that flowed from them, remained largely hidden. Despite his facility for reading others, what Phoebe was thinking remained a mystery.

  And she was sufficiently unusual to make relying on extrapolating from his extensive experience of other ladies unwise.

  For one of his ilk, that was a trifle disconcerting. Managing—manipulating—a woman whose thought processes were screened from him was a significantly more difficult task. One fraught with the potential for failure, yet with Phoebe he didn’t intend to fail.

  But with her he was reduced to guessing. He didn’t think she’d changed her mind over entertaining any marriage proposal. He didn’t think she’d yet decided to take up his alternative approach to persuading her into matrimony, his suggestion of an informal relationship, but he thought—hoped—she was considering it.

  He stirred and walked to her, halting with just a foot between them, behind her and to one side. The view before them was magnificent; they looked down on the manor in its grounds, and far beyond to field and river, to gently undulating hills that stretched away to the purple-tinged horizon.

  Dipping his head, he glanced at her face. He hid a smile at the light frown etched between her brows; she wasn’t thinking of the fields and river.

  They were very much alone yet theoretically in public, the perfect setting in which to indulge in a little persuasion.

  His lips curved; straightening, he gave in to temptation. Lifting one hand, with one finger he touched—just touched—the fine curls caressing her nape. The silky curls brushed her skin; he didn’t.

  She shuddered. Her hands gripped the rail more tightly, then she dragged in a breath and shot him an irritated glance. “Stop that!”

  He met her gaze only briefly, then returned his attention to her nape. “Why?” Before she could answer, he looked back and trapped her gaze. “Didn’t you like it?”

  For a telltale moment, honesty held her tongue, but then she freed it and her blue eyes snapped. “No!”

  He grinned but lowered his hand. And shifted fractionally closer, tilting his head so their gazes were closer to level, so he could study her face and she could study his.

  She eyed him warily, her grip on the rail rigid.

  He smiled genuinely. “Breathe.”

  She blinked, and did. Rather tightly.

  “If you faint, I’ll have to catch you, hold you—perhaps even carry you back to the house.”

  Her eyes widened and locked with his. “I don’t faint.”

  He didn’t answer; instead, he slowly lifted his hand and cupped her nape. Lightly, not forcefully, but that was all it took. She shivered again, unable not to, unable to quell her reaction to his touch.

  The realization sent a shaft of unadulterated lust spearing through him.

  She closed her eyes, tried to stiffen her spine; as his fingers and palm firmed, she dragged in a breath and held it.

  Every instinct he possessed urged him to tighten his grasp and draw her to him, draw her lips to his and simply take possession.

  His muscles tensed to do so; he shifted a fraction nearer.

  Her lids flew up; her eyes locked with his.

  He froze. Confusion tinged with a species of fear ran riot in her lovely eyes, swamping her burgeoning desire.

  The sight stopped him as nothing else could have; he instantly eased his hold, forced the muscles in his arm to relax. He didn’t take his palm from her nape; instead, he lightly, soothingly stroked, as he would a skittish horse.

  The analogy was apt; studying her eyes, he knew—could see—that he was going too fast. She was barely breathing; once again she was inwardly quivering. She was unawakened, untouched; she was immobilized by his nearness—if she’d been free, she would have bolted.

  She was twenty-five; he couldn’t believe she’d never been kissed. Yet this degree of reaction, of panic…

  Her reaction to him was unusually intense, as was his reaction to her. While that attracted him even more, perhaps to her it was too much, too soon. They’d only set eyes on each other yesterday.

  He wasn’t a patient man, but she wasn’t just any woman.

  Reining in his impulses, he leaned closer. She tried to stiffen, to pull back, but that only made her feel his restraining hand at her nape all the more. She tensed, but he didn’t try to kiss her. Instead, he touched his lips to the sleek hair above her ear.

  “Stop fighting this.” He waited while the whispered words sank into her mind, until the realization he wasn’t going to force a kiss on her allowed her to ease her locked muscles. “Stop fighting me. I can teach you more about pleasure than you can imagine.”

  She frowned as he drew back. She opened her mouth.

  “And don’t bother telling me you’re not interested in pleasure.” He caught her eyes. “With the type of pleasure we’re discussing, everyone is.”

  They walked back to the house; Phoebe’s heart pounded the entire way. She felt as if she’d escaped being devoured by a dangerous beast, only to have that same dangerous beast dog her heels every step of the way back to safety.

  The beast wasn’t him; it was what flared between them. As they crossed the lawn and the house rose before them, she was perfectly clear about that.

  She didn’t know what to make of him, but what flared between them was more unnerving than he was.

  Much more disconcerting than he was. For reasons she couldn’t elucidate, she—her female mind—increasingly viewed him as…interesting. He’d proved to be other than she’d thought, and her curiosity was piqued. And while what flared between them was beyond unsettling, when he’d seen she hadn’t wanted to be kissed, he’d stopped.

  And hadn’t.

  What shook her to the core was that at the time, at the precise instant he’d drawn back, she—some wild, incomprehensible, self-destructive part of her—hadn’t wanted him to stop. Had wanted him
to disregard her leaping fear, brush aside her instinctive panic and…

  And metaphorically take her hand and teach her all she didn’t know.

  All he’d offered, quite specifically, to teach her.

  Which was surely madness. A dreadfully tempting madness.

  She marched up the steps to the terrace, then, dragging in as large a breath as she could past the constriction banding her chest, swung to face him. “Thank you for your company, my lord.”

  He met her eyes, his gaze direct, a certain cynicism in the green.

  Before she could incline her head and leave him, a bell sounded from inside.

  His lips twitched. With a graceful gesture, he waved to the French doors. “That will be luncheon. Shall we join the others?”

  She inwardly cursed, nodded, still tense, and swept through the door.

  If asked, she would have said that the last thing she needed at that moment was to be surrounded by a chattering horde. As it transpired, pretending to listen to the gay outpourings of the others back from their ride to the ruins gave her time to regain her equilibrium. Many of said outpourings were directed at Deverell, their aim to make clear how much excitement he’d missed. She quelled a snort and kept her eyes on her plate; he was, of course, seated next to her.

  As before, his nearness ruffled her senses, but the effect wasn’t actually distressing. It was…not calming, certainly not soothing…pleasant, insidious, unrelenting temptation was the best description she could muster. She might be able to ignore it, if she put her mind to it, but her mind seemed to have other ideas.

  Among them dwelling on the intriguing fact that in that fraught moment at the lookout, even though he hadn’t needed to, he had indeed stopped. He’d had absolute control and had exercised it; she found that infinitely fascinating.

  Unfortunately once lunch ended, it was impossible to escape. The others had organized their archery contest; everyone adjourned to the back lawn, sitting in the shade under the trees while the butts were set up under Peter Mellors’s and Edgar Thomas’s direction.

  More chairs had been brought out; all the ladies had seats. Deverell lounged on the lawn between Audrey’s chair and the one Phoebe occupied. She pretended to be attending to Georgina and Leonora chatting on her other side, while she listened to Deverell tell Audrey about the view from the folly. To her relief, Audrey didn’t ask who had gone there with him, and he omitted to volunteer that information.

  Then Edgar clapped his hands, drawing their attention.

  “Right now, everyone!” He grinned around at the assembled company. “We’ve divided you into groups of four, the winner of each heat to progress to the next.” He proceeded to read out the rules they’d decided on, then the names in each group. “We’ll have the ladies’ heats first, then the gentlemen’s, then follow with the final rounds.”

  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 Phoe
be’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.