He, however, had breached her guards—and, apparently, stirred that awful memory. He’d been so successful in easing her into his arms, easing her past all those moments when she’d frozen, poised on the brink of uncertainty, that she hadn’t seen the danger. She’d long ago assumed that the memory and its effect on her had died; she’d had no inkling it could rise up and ambush her as it had last night.
She’d spent the following hours wallowing in disappointment and mortification. Disappointment because she’d allowed herself to hope that with Deverell she could experience all she’d never had a chance to know. He was the only one who had ever raised her interest, let alone her desire. She was shatteringly disappointed that their affair was not to be.
And last but by no means least, the more she thought of those moments in the wood, the more she cringed in mortification. He’d witnessed her weakness, her silly, irrational, ungovernable panic; she truly didn’t want to face him again. If he’d guessed what lay behind her reaction, he’d doubtless pity her; if he hadn’t, he’d think she was touched.
Luckily, Skinner hadn’t come to rouse her until late. She’d gone down to luncheon feeling dismal and morose but able to keep an adequate mask in place. She’d sat at the table, not allowing herself to look at him, waiting for the day to end, and considering how early tomorrow morning she and Edith could depart.
Lady Moffat’s sweeping in and protesting her loss had abruptly refocused Phoebe’s mind—she’d instantly seen that Deverell would guess the connection. And matters had gone downhill from there. The last thing she’d expected was for him to be asked to investigate, and through that learn of the two earlier rescues.
He was learning far too much, yet although she’d racked her brain, she couldn’t see how he might learn any more. Not unless she told him, and that she’d never do.
Unfortunately, he now knew enough to cause her serious problems. If he revealed what he’d seen last night, if at the conclusion of his investigation he pointed his finger her way…
She’d wasted no further time on her personal woes. As the sleepy afternoon had dragged on, she’d assessed the situation from every angle, imagining what he might do, evaluating the ways in which she might react. In the end, only one tack would work. Blank denial, complete and absolute, was her only possible defense.
She would simply say he was mistaken, that the woman he’d seen certainly hadn’t been her. His word against hers. Not a strong defense; it would inevitably raise questions in people’s minds and make future rescues more difficult.
But not impossible. Most importantly, simply staring down any accusations Deverell might make would keep all the others, and her enterprise itself, safe. Still functioning.
Finally the sun sank low and everyone headed indoors to dress for dinner. She went in surrounded by others, but as she and Edith planned to leave early the following morning, she detoured via the library to return the novel she’d lost all interest in.
Cautiously slipping through the library door, she was immensely relieved to see no dark, handsome ex-major lounging about, waiting to pounce on her. Under Lord Cranbrook’s and Lord Craven’s benign gazes, she returned the volume to the shelves, then left.
She’d just pulled the library door closed when she sensed him.
Before she could whirl, a hard hand settled at the back of her waist and propelled her forward. She took an involuntary step, then dug in her heels.
He drew close, beside and behind her. His breath brushed her ear. “Don’t struggle. Don’t make a scene—or I’ll pick you up and carry you.”
The thought of calling his bluff occurred only to be dismissed. It wasn’t a bluff.
Obedient to the pressure at her back, she walked stiffly forward. He steered her across to the morning room, opened the door, and guided her inside.
He paused to close the door; she walked quickly forward and turned to face him over a small table.
Quitting the door, he strolled up. He eyed the table, then looked at her. And raised both brows.
To her intense annoyance, every nerve she possessed leapt and skittered, reacting to his nearness in a thoroughly distracting way. Her spark of anger felt like salvation; she embraced it, clung to it, fed it. Unable to help herself, she quickly searched his eyes, but his expression was impassive; she could see no hint of pity, nor yet any sign he thought her demented.
Folding her arms, she lifted her chin and imperiously demanded, “What do you want? I’ve nothing whatever to say to you.”
Eyes slightly narrowed, he studied hers. To her relief, he made no move to come around the table. A minute ticked by, then he said, quietly and evenly, “You’re going to have to tell me sometime.”
He was speaking of the rescue. She held his green gaze, kept her anger close, and tipped her chin higher. “When hell freezes.”
To her surprise, he didn’t react, or at least not with the immediate arrogant response she’d expected.
He stood there, watching her, considering, thinking…letting the silence and, she belatedly realized, her nerves stretch. And stretch.
She tightened her arms and reminded herself that her cause was too important to risk, not in any circumstance. That she would resist him, that he couldn’t force her to tell him anything, no matter what he thought, that…
When he spoke, she nearly sighed with relief.
“I think you’ll discover it will be much sooner than that.”
She blinked. Waited. But that was, it seemed, all he wished to say.
With a slow nod, he turned, walked to the door, opened it and left.
The door shut with a click. Puzzled, she stared at the panels.
Wondering what he intended to do. Realizing she had no idea.
Wondering why, even now, she didn’t fear him as much as she suspected she should.
He’d intended to press her a great deal harder, but seeing her standing there, arms crossed defensively, determined to resist yet with all manner of emotions coloring her eyes, he’d remembered that learning her secret was only one step along what was proving a difficult road.
A more challenging road than he’d foreseen, but in that moment when he’d studied her across that silly table—he could have pushed it aside with one finger—he’d remembered his true goal. And adjusted his strategy accordingly.
Pressuring her would only increase her resistance and, it seemed likely, her strange, underlying fear. He was going to have to find some different route to her secret, preferably one that didn’t involve her; he was too old a hand at strategy and tactics to let his push to learn her secret put his ultimate goal out of reach.
That evening, throughout their time in the drawing room before dinner, which he spent with Audrey and Lady Cranbrook, then during dinner itself, when he was flanked by Georgina and Heather, Phoebe watched him, puzzled and wary.
When the company regathered in the drawing room, he made no move to join her. Which only puzzled her more.
As he’d anticipated, Lord Cranbrook called the company to order, then turned to him. “Perhaps, my lord, we should share our conclusions with all here.”
Even though she stood across the room, he sensed the tension that gripped Phoebe.
He nodded and faced the company, who fell obediently—expectantly—silent. “As requested by his lordship, I’ve spent the day investigating the disappearance of Lady Moffat’s maid.” He nodded to her ladyship, still florid and inclined to take umbrage; frowning, she nodded curtly in return.
“After questioning all those likely to have information”—he let his gaze roam the wide circle, coming to rest on Phoebe’s white face—“all I can conclude is that the maid ran away, or perhaps was lured away, sometime during the night, after she’d seen Lady Moffat to bed.”
Phoebe’s hand clenched tightly on her fan.
Deverell inclined his head, apparently to the company, in reality to her.
“Beyond that, all else is conjecture.”
A murmur rose; people turned to their
neighbors. Speculation filled the air.
Phoebe stood with Deidre, Peter, and Edgar and let the talk wash over her. She felt dizzy, giddy with relief that Deverell hadn’t revealed what he knew, but with trepidation dawning, slowly gaining ground.
He hadn’t given her away. Why? The one thing she felt sure of was that there would be a reason.
She shifted and glanced around Edgar’s shoulders to where Deverell stood talking with Lord Cranbrook and Lord Craven. The events of the day had somehow drawn a line between him and the younger gentlemen; no one could any longer see him as one of them.
He was not just older, but other. Not just more experienced but an altogether different sort of man. Which brought her back to the confusion she felt every time she looked at him, every time she was near him.
As if he felt her gaze, he half turned; across the room, his eyes met hers.
Their gazes locked, held. And she could almost hear his promise, in his deep, dark, dangerous voice, sensed beyond question his resolution, his implacability.
A heartbeat passed, then two.
Then, as if confirming her understanding, he inclined his head. He held her gaze for one last pregnant moment, then turned back to their lordships.
Phoebe shivered. Shaken, rattled, it was a full minute before she breathed freely again. She turned back to the others, focused her attention on them, forced herself to respond to their comments about what entertainments they expected to attend when they returned to London.
Inside, she grew increasingly concerned.
Deverell had concealed her part in the disappearance. Did he, would he, expect some…recompense for his restraint?
Until that moment when she’d met his eyes and known he wasn’t finished with her, she hadn’t considered that his silence had in a very real way placed her in his debt.
The very last place she would have chosen to be.
That night, sleep was difficult to find, and when it came, she dreamt of him.
Not the him she’d known through the first three days of their acquaintance, he who had tempted her to believe that an affair between them was possible—more, had taught her that it was something she desired.
Not the him with whom she’d spent the picnic afternoon, different from others, yes, but entertaining and relaxing, his company very much to her taste.
The man who invaded her dreams stalked her, caught her—spun her, helpless, back against a tree. Hot green eyes seared her, then he bent his head and ravaged her mouth, took, seized yet more, then his hard body pressed flush against hers—and sent a flash of excitement unlike anything she’d ever known spearing through her—
She woke with a gasp and a thudding heart, and a body oddly aching, heated and restless, nerves flickering and tight.
Wrapped in darkness, she lay still, listening to her breathing slow, her racing heart gradually subside.
And wondered.
Chapter 7
The next evening, ensconced in one of the large armchairs in the library at Number 12 Montrose Place, Deverell sat in blessed silence, sipped a postprandial brandy, and contemplated the ceiling on which shadows, thrown by the fire leaping in the grate, flickered.
It would, at this juncture, be easy to step back—to simply wash his hands of Phoebe Malleson and walk away.
His life would undoubtedly be simpler, less stressful, if he did. She wasn’t in any way a restful female, and the likelihood of what she was involved in held the promise of untold difficulties.
Unfortunately, no matter how hard one part of his mind tried to convince him to look elsewhere, he didn’t want to; he couldn’t imagine not pursuing Phoebe, irritating female though she was. She made him feel emotions he’d never truly felt, edged those emotions with which he was familiar with a fresh, strange, and compelling urgency. Her peculiar panicky fear was, to his mind, just another challenge, another hurdle to be overcome in wooing and winning her.
He thought back to all that had occurred at Cranbrook Manor, heard again Audrey’s voice calmly pointing out that of all the men present, he was the one with the right skills to hunt down Phoebe. They’d been talking of locating her, but after all that had passed, he sensed he was, in many ways, still hunting Phoebe.
Regardless of his uncertain success thus far, he knew in his bones that Audrey had been right. He was the man with the best chance of capturing Phoebe; no other would succeed. Unless he missed his guess, even Phoebe sensed that.
More, Audrey had been right in reciprocal vein; Phoebe was the right lady for him. He was going to marry her; his resolution on that score had if anything hardened.
That being so, letting her secret, whatever it was, slide back into the obscurity she would no doubt prefer wasn’t an option.
Idly sipping, he considered all he knew, searching for some lever to force the issue—some fact he could use to prise the lid from her secret.
Time and again his mind circled back to the two men he’d glimpsed in the lane with the carriage. For years, his life had depended on his visual acuity, among other skills his ability to recognize men from just a glimpse. He was sure he would recognize both men.
But where should he look for them? Logically, the answer would account for how Phoebe had met them and come to know them.
Draining his glass, he rose, then stretched.
Then he headed for his bed.
Tomorrow he’d go hunting.
The following evening, he strolled into Lady Loxley’s ballroom. Pausing at the head of her ladyship’s ballroom steps, he looked over the sea of heads, searching for the one he wanted.
A flash of glossy dark red, garnet beneath the light of the chandeliers, drew his eye. He located Phoebe across the room. Gowned in a creation of amber silk, she stood beside a chaise on which Edith was sitting; she was in earnest conversation with two ladies he didn’t recognize. Lips curving, he started down the steps.
Although she was committed elsewhere, Audrey had been certain Edith, and therefore Phoebe, would attend the Loxleys’ ball. She’d been right; certain she would be, she’d demanded in return that he “do something to the point.”
He fully intended to do just that.
Phoebe sensed him before she saw him. Her head suddenly lifted; her gaze rose and locked with his. He was near enough to see the flash of surprise that lit her violet-blue eyes, then she veiled them and returned her attention to the ladies—one a matron, the other clearly her daughter—with whom she’d been conversing.
Deverell bowed before Edith and exchanged greetings with her and Mrs. Delauney, then moved on to Phoebe’s little circle. She offered her hand; one brief glance into his eyes and she’d known if she hadn’t, he would have commandeered it. He clasped her fingers but refrained from lifting them to his lips; he could feel the tremor running through them. Standing by her side, he could sense the tension permeating her slender frame; she was on edge, poised to react.
The matron and her daughter hovered, obviously hoping for an introduction. Phoebe obliged, but with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. “Lady Cartwell, Miss Emily Cartwell—Lord Paignton.”
He smiled urbanely and did his best to discourage Lady Cartwell from lingering. His best was excellent; taking the hint, Lady Cartwell excused herself and her daughter and moved on.
Phoebe shifted. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord—”
“No.”
She blinked as he turned his head and looked down at her. Between them, hidden by her skirts, he closed his hand around hers. “If you entertain any notion that I’m here because I enjoy doing the pretty by dozens of matrons and their insipid charges, allow me to disabuse you of it.” He held her gaze. “Once again, I came for you.”
She stiffened. Her head rose. “If you imagine—”
“At the moment, I don’t imagine anything. I came to inform you of a number of facts that, no doubt, will be of interest to you.”
She hesitated. He’d spoken in his customary social drawl, a tone he suspected she would find less threatening. Less f
rightening, especially in this arena. The social accents also made his comments less noticeable amidst the chatter around them.
Her gaze searched his face. “What facts?”
“I’m focusing on identifying the two men in the lane—the ones you handed the maid over to. My memory is excellent—I only caught a glimpse, but I’m confident that will prove enough. You should also probably know that I’m not at all averse to adopting a disguise and going out on the streets in search of information.”
He caught and held her gaze. “I’ve already established that those men are not part of your aunt’s household. The question that immediately arises, of course, is where it was that you, a gently reared lady, came into contact with rough men of significantly lower station.”
Her violet-blue gaze held steady. A moment passed, then she swallowed and said, with commendable coolness if not sense, “Nothing about those two men is any concern of yours.”
“Much as it pains me to contradict a lady, that isn’t how I view the matter.” He let his gaze harden. “Do I need to remind you that I didn’t expose your role in the incident at Cranbrook Manor?”
Her chin rose. “No. But—”
“Because of that”—he continued to speak mildly—“I naturally consider myself in some part responsible for your safety, given I didn’t sound the alarm when—or so most would consider—I should have.”
Her eyes widened. She stared at him. Then she stated clearly, as if the notion horrified her, “You are not in any way responsible for me—or my safety. If the question should ever arise, I absolve you entirely from all such responsibility, now and in the future.”
He smiled, but she was well aware the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. “How kind of you. However, be that as it may, I can’t absolve myself.” Abruptly he dropped every shield he possessed and told her, “That’s never going to happen.”
The unvarnished truth.
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