“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.
That defined, she would have given a great deal to know what attracted him to her—what brought him directly to her side as the company filed into the ballroom.
Halting beside her, he reached for her left hand and raised it, looking for the dance card that wasn’t there.
When he looked at her, brows rising, she explained, “I’m twenty-five.”
He grinned and lowered their hands, letting his fingers slide over hers. “Good. Then you can waltz every waltz with me.”
“Nonsense.” She retrieved her hand and primly clasped both before her. “Two waltzes is the maximum—well, perhaps three.”
“You being twenty-five?”
“Exactly. But you’ll have to dance with others, too.”
He didn’t look impressed, but there wasn’t a matron present who would allow it to be otherwise. He might be focused on her, but the chance to waltz with him was nevertheless an opportunity, one the matchmaking mamas wouldn’t allow their charges to miss.
Which thought had her dwelling on opportunities again.
Georgina came up on Milton’s arm, then Deidre appeared with Peter and Charlie.
“We were thinking of taking some guns out tomorrow.” Peter looked at Deverell. “Will you join us?”
He glanced at Phoebe, and declined, but then asked what sport Peter expected to find. It took a moment before Phoebe realized he’d chosen a topic guaranteed to bore the ladies present. Georgina shifted, as did Deidre, but neit
her gave any sign of moving on.
Phoebe took pity on them. “That’s a lovely comb, Deidre—where did you find it?”
The three of them were soon engaged in a comparison of London’s milliners and haberdashers.
Then the musicians at the end of the large ballroom started the prelude to a waltz. Deverell’s hand closed strongly about hers before the first chord faded.
He raised their linked hands, boldly raised her fingers to his lips, and kissed. “My dance, I believe.”
She wasn’t about to argue, but as she let him lead her to the floor, she glimpsed the chagrined look Deidre sent Peter, and his helpless grimace.
“You upset their plan,” she said as Deverell swung her into his arms.
He caught her eyes as he drew her to him. “My plan comes first.”
That was instantly apparent; he set them revolving with consummate grace, all powerful strength and ineffable control. Throughout their first circuit of the large room she was fully engaged in growing accustomed to the sensation of being so utterly in his control. And in letting her starved senses soak in his seductive nearness, and the promise therein.
Having him close seemed to subtly ease her flickering nerves—not so much soothing them as reassuring them that satisfaction was nigh. In that respect, a waltz with him was a flagrant exercise in sensual promise.
His strength surrounded her; she was even more aware of it than when she’d stood in his arms and let him kiss her. As they revolved and precessed, she was totally in his control, and he managed her effortlessly, guiding her where he willed, drawing her a fraction too close as they whirled through a tight turn, and later not easing his hold.
And all the while, his eyes held hers; she felt trapped in his green gaze. She wondered what he could see, what he was reading as he searched her eyes.
Deverell doubted she knew how transparent she was, at least to him, at least in this. Since he’d parted from her that afternoon, she’d reached a decision; she wasn’t seeking to be seduced but she was willing to be seduced. By him. Her altered stance did not extend to any other gentleman, only him. He was the one who had evoked the change, and he was the only one she had any interest in allowing to attempt her seduction.
That last calmed a primitive part of him, one he wasn’t well acquainted with and didn’t understand, that had been stirring—that hadn’t entirely liked the way Milton Cromwell had looked at Phoebe, or the glances other gentlemen had cast her undeniably appealing figure.
She’d been paying more attention to how she dressed, an indication of her interest that hadn’t escaped him. Her subtle transformation had focused his attention even more strongly, feeding his desire.
And now she’d decided to put her hand in his and allow him to lead her along the path to intimacy.
The scent of victory set a spur to his desire; he ruthlessly tamped it down. Her decision was a triumph, yes, but only in the sense his way forward was now clear—to the next step.
He put his mind to the task. Bringing them out of a turn, he set them revolving up the long room. “Why is it that chits like Deidre Mellors think that revealing as much of their charms as possible without precipitating a scandal is alluring?”
Phoebe’s brows rose. “I don’t know.” After a moment, she asked, “Isn’t it? Don’t gentlemen prefer that?”
He smiled into her eyes. “It’s not so much what we prefer as what we find most fascinating.” While Deidre had thought to capture interest with her daringly low-cut bodice, Phoebe had fixed his attention, and others’, much more effectively with her gown that hinted at what lay beneath but didn’t reveal enough to satisfy even their imaginations.
“We’re simple creatures,” he murmured. “You need to tease us.”
She laughed. “I’ll remember that.”
“Do.” He caught her eyes as they revolved, and let his voice deepen. “The mind is the most powerful target for seduction, and the most potent weapon.”
She raised her brows. “A point you’d know.”
“Indeed.”
The music ended; he whirled her to a flourishing halt, then bowed.
Laughing, a touch breathless, Phoebe curtsied, then let him take her hand and lead her to where Audrey and Edith had commandeered a chaise. He didn’t need to return her to her aunt’s side; at her age that was no longer necessary. It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him, but the combination of his words and him being near was a powerful distraction.
The mind is the most powerful target…and the most potent weapon.
Was it her imagination, or had there been a warning—an indication of what direction he intended to take—in those words?
She spent the next hour on tenterhooks, waiting—hoping—to find out.
He didn’t disappoint her. But…
“The morning room?”
“Strange to tell, it’s the one room in any house almost always overlooked, and never ventured into by anyone during a ball.”
He spoke with authority distilled, she presumed, from extensive experience, but as he ushered her through the door, she discovered he was right; the room was empty.
The curtains hadn’t been drawn. Moonlight washed through the long windows, providing enough light to navigate by, but not enough to see subtle variations in colors or fine detail. As the room hadn’t been prepared for use that evening, no lamps were lit.
Phoebe was relieved. Dealing with Deverell on this plane was difficult enough in the dark; she didn’t need to see him, didn’t need any visual reminder of his strength, that hers was so much less.
That, as usual, she was in his control.
Behind her, he closed the door. She heard the lock snib. A moment passed in which he studied her—she could feel his gaze on her back—then he pushed away from the door; she sensed him approaching.
She whirled. “I wanted to ask—”
Her breath suspended. He looked into her eyes from a distance of mere inches.
Then he reached for her; his arms slowly, gently surrounded her, and he eased her toward him. “What?”
She blinked and struggled to remember. “Ah…”
Above their heads, music played; the ball was in full swing, the dancers whirling to the strains of the first waltz after supper. On leaving the supper room, together and briefly alone, he’d led her into the house rather than back to the ball; no one had seen them disappear; no one knew where they were.
Her gaze had fixed on his lips.
They curved. One hand rising to cradle her face, he murmured, “Is it urgent?”
Amusement laced his tone; it, and his touch, made her shiver.
She lifted her gaze to his eyes. “What are you thinking of?” Perhaps that would give her some clue as to what he intended.
He held her gaze for an instant, then replied, “You.”
The arm about her waist tightened; he drew her fractionally closer. She spread her palms on his chest, fought down an urge to slide them further. She cleared her throat, hurriedly asked, “What about me?”
His devilish smile deepened. He leaned nearer; his lips brushed the corner of hers. “About what I want to do to you. With you.”
Her lips throbbed, hungry for his, but she swallowed and whispered, “What?”
“This.” His tone suggested she’d teased him far enough, that he’d reached the end of his patience. He kissed her, took her mouth, not forcefully, yet she couldn’t have resisted, couldn’t have denied him had she so wished.
Luckily, she hadn’t any intention of denying him, or herself. She let him take, then, emboldened, encouraged him to take more.
He did, but not as she’d expected. He lifted his head, breaking the kiss.
She caught the glint of his eyes beneath his heavy lids.
“This.” He murmured the word against her lips, his voice gravelly and deep. Then the arm about her tightened still more, a steely band locking her against him.
She tensed. He hesitated, but then bent his head and kissed her more deeply,
more persuasively, more urgently, until she responded, until she slid her hands up and wound them about his neck and kissed him back.
Deverell battled to keep his mind on her lips, her mouth, on the heated tangle of their tongues. Fought to keep his senses enmeshed in the increasingly sensual play, away from the sensation of her svelte body plastered the length of his.
Away from the warm pressure of her breasts against his chest, from the provocative weight of her hips and thighs caressing his.
She was pliant, willing, to that point at least, yet there remained within her a core of flighty, skittering resistance.
Of rearguard defiance—that was how the more primitive side of him chose to interpret it, that side of him few women had ever drawn forth but which she evoked so effortlessly. The side of him that wasn’t all that safe, that was in many ways dangerous.
That side of him he couldn’t, with her, forever hold back.
It was that aspect of him that deliberately stoked the kiss into a conflagration, into a building firestorm of need so that she gasped and clung, then melted.
So that she sank against him, so that it seemed her wish that he send one hand sliding down, palm spread, sculpting her hips, then swooping lower to cup her bottom and knead provocatively, her wish that he give in to temptation and flagrantly mold her to him.
Phoebe gasped, overwhelmed by sensation. By the depth and searing heat of their kiss, by the steady, unrelenting temptation of his lips and tongue, of his questing hand, of her own needs and wants flaring in response. Then his hand firmed; he pressed her to him—and everything within her stilled.
Her heart, her pulse, her wits, her mind.
Her fears.
He shifted against her; there was no mistaking the hard ridge of his erection pressing against her belly.
The last time she’d been this close to a man—
She blocked off the thought surprisingly easily; this was so unlike that other time. This time, desire warmed her veins; this time, passion and lust lapped about her—hers as well as his.
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