A subtle but powerful boon. No woman who had ever been a victim would forget the look of a true predator, but they did need to learn to look first, before they ran screaming into the night.
She glanced at him, tall, large, and subtly protective by her side, and let her lips curve. Looking ahead, she had to admit he’d surprised her; indeed, he’d trumped her expectations on virtually every count.
It was the Misses Berry who first set her inner alarm bells ringing. Rated among the biggest gossips in the ton, they were unsurprisingly interested in Deverell’s presence by her side.
Too interested.
Phoebe had known the sisters for years, but she’d never seen Mary quite so fixed on interrogating a gentleman of Deverell’s ilk. As for Agnes, she quite openly believed…that there was something rather more than a liaison in the wind.
Inwardly blinking, Phoebe took a mental step back. As if from a distance, she heard Deverell, unperturbed by the old ladies’ interest, deal with their arch queries without revealing anything at all. Unfailingly charming, he made their excuses; she bobbed a curtsy and let him lead her away.
She refocused and suppressed a violent urge to look around. To search other faces, to see what others thought. Were thinking, imagining.
The Misses Berry were intelligent, as astute as they could hold together. If they thought…then presumably they were receiving the wrong message.
One quick glance at Deverell’s face confirmed he was truly unperturbed, that the old ladies’ suppositions hadn’t bothered him in the least. She couldn’t believe that he, of all men, hadn’t read their comments as she had.
Which meant…
Eyes fixed forward, Phoebe drew in a deep breath.
It was clearly time to set certain matters straight.
Chapter 16
Their relationship was a liaison, nothing more.
While waiting in the darkened morning room for Deverell to appear, Phoebe considered all that had changed in the past weeks—and all that hadn’t.
He’d changed her mind about a host of subjects; he’d surprised her at almost every turn. He’d taught her of things she hadn’t known—about the interaction between men and women, and not just on the physical plane. He’d opened her eyes in many ways, educated her senses, and left her with a much deeper appreciation of men like him.
What hadn’t changed was their future—for each of them their ideas of what their future would be.
He’d intended to marry her at the outset, but when she’d made it clear she wasn’t interested, he’d readily rescripted his desires and accepted a liaison instead. Since then, he’d given no indication he’d reversed that acceptance, that he’d changed his mind and was again contemplating marrying her.
For her part, while she could now see the attraction, or certainly more attraction than previously, her reservations remained….
She frowned. Didn’t they?
A sound outside the uncurtained windows had her looking up. Across the moonlit garden, she saw the gate swing open. Deverell appeared, shut the gate, took the key off the nail and locked it, then replaced the key and came striding across the lawn, directly to the French doors.
She watched, intrigued, but he paused before the doors for no more than a second before the lock clicked open and he stepped inside.
Concealed in the shadows, she stood. The movement immediately locked his gaze on her, but he recognized her in the same instant; the sudden tension that had flared abruptly dissipated.
Equally instantly, he sensed something was wrong. Head tilting, he approached. “Phoebe? What is it?”
“I…” Eyes wide, she stared at him; she’d forgotten that in the dark he always seemed much larger, much more…ruthless, determined, forceful, intimidating. Much more male.
His gaze, narrowed and searching, traveled her face. He raised a hand; in desperation she caught it in both of hers, held it between them as she drew in a quick breath and said, “I wanted to talk to you. About…about what people are thinking. Expecting. I think we need to consider—”
“The only thing we need to consider is what we want.” Shifting closer, Deverell turned his hand and captured one of hers. “What’s between us comes from us, and concerns only us—it’s not a matter the ton has any say in, not in any way.” Raising her hand, he turned it and pressed his lips to her wrist. Felt the telltale flutter of her pulse, her immediate response as his lips caressed.
Through the shadows, he held her gaze. “You want me, Phoebe, and I want you. For tonight, that’s all we need to consider.”
That’s all he was prepared to allow her to consider, because what else she wanted to consider…the way she’d spoken, her tone, her tension, told him without words that he couldn’t yet risk that, that despite his recent successes the dominoes had yet to fall decisively his way. The time to speak of matrimony was definitely not yet.
He was too experienced in strategy to risk such a vital thing, not until he was certain of victory.
She was still gowned in the green silk creation she’d worn to the evening’s balls. Still holding her hand, holding her captive, he reached out and brushed his thumb over the peak of her breast—and watched it pebble under the silk.
Heard her breath hitch, let his fingers lightly caress the swelling mound…deliberately spun a web he knew would hold her, at least in this setting, at least for tonight.
“I want you to imagine something.” He let his voice deepen to a more hypnotic note. “You’ve been sitting in the dark, just as you were, and a dark stranger appears. You rise to escape, but he catches your hand.”
His eyes on hers, he shifted his fingers about the hand he held, sliding them down to manacle her wrist. “You want to flee, but he holds you—and touches your breast.”
He continued to lightly caress the taut silk. Continued to hold her gaze. “You’re quivering.” She was, a fine tremor of desire. “You want to flee but you can’t—you know what he wants, what he intends to do with you. To you.”
She did. Phoebe’s mouth was dry. She couldn’t drag her eyes from his, couldn’t pull her mind from his spell. Couldn’t free her senses from his hold.
“Your biggest problem,” his voice went on, pure suggestion sliding into her brain, “your biggest secret is that you want what he wants, too.”
He was right, and he knew it. His confidence was blazoned in his steady gaze, in the seductively arrogant curve of his lips.
“So you’re going to do exactly what he tells you.” He let a moment elapse, then continued, his tone hardening, “What I tell you.”
Again he paused; when next he spoke his words were clearly an order. “You’re not to make a sound. You’re not required to speak.” His tone remained even, uninflected; he had every expectation of being obeyed. “The first thing you’re going to do is turn around and lead me—your dark stranger—to your bedchamber.”
She hesitated; she knew she could say no, simply refuse and insist they talk, and he would sigh and allow it…but he transparently didn’t want to discuss that point, and if he didn’t, did she really need to? Now, at this moment?
The truth was she’d much rather learn what he planned to do to her—all the details. Would much rather experience that than engage in a discussion she had a sudden premonition she wasn’t as prepared for as she’d thought.
She drew in a tight breath, opened her mouth to agree—he silenced her with a finger across her lips.
“No words. Once we’re inside your chamber with the door closed on the world, moans, sighs, screams, and breathless cries are permitted—but no words.” He held her gaze, and she felt the strands of his web tighten about her. “Now lead me upstairs.”
They moved through the dark house in silence. He retained his hold on her wrist. When they reached the door to her room, he halted her. Reaching past her, he closed his hand about the doorknob, then, leaning close, his voice low and dark—that of the dark stranger—said, “Once we go through the door, I’m going to direct you in a fan
tasy. You’ll do exactly as I say, without hesitation. Although I’ll be with you—and you’ll know that—the fantasy starts here. You’ve come upstairs late, the rest of the household are long asleep. You go into your room—and as far as you know, you’re alone.”
On the last word, he set the door swinging wide. “Go in.”
She stepped across the threshold into his fantasy, and his fingers slid from her wrist.
She took one step and felt him like a shadow moving into the room behind her. Turning, she saw the door standing open; stepping back, she shut it.
“You believe you’re alone in your room. You start to undress, thinking of your lover.”
He was just another shadow at the periphery of her vision, moving outside the circle of light cast by the candelabra she’d left burning on her dressing table. She moved to the table, sat, and unpinned her hair. Picking up her brush, she ran it through the heavy tresses.
“You think of your lover—what he would see if he were here. What he would be thinking.”
She heard the armchair shift but didn’t look that way. Something else moved on the floor. She finished brushing her hair, then stood, rounded her dressing stool, and saw that he’d shifted the armchair back so it stood to one side and a little behind the cheval mirror he’d moved out into the room.
He was sitting in the armchair, booted foot on one knee, elbow on the chair arm. Watching her.
She reached for her laces, saw her reflection in the mirror. Her bodice was tight; she breathed a sigh of relief when the laces unraveled and freed her aching flesh.
“You imagine your lover is here, with you. Watching you undress.”
That wasn’t difficult; she could feel his gaze, already burning, on her. And knew the sensation would only grow hotter.
“You disrobe as you imagine you would to tantalize him.”
Lids at half-mast, she held up her bodice with both hands beneath her breasts and drifted across the floor until she stood directly before the mirror, far enough back so that she could see her reflection from her head to her toes. She studied what she saw—the rather tall, slender woman with the mahogany-red hair, skin pale where the candlelight reached it, dappled in mystery down her other side. Slowly smoothing her hands down over her body, she inched the gown to her waist, then steadily lower until her palms brushed her thighs, then she let the gown go and watched in the mirror as it slid, susurrating to the floor.
She drew a deep breath, filled her lungs, watched her breasts rise above the scooped neckline of her chemise. It was fastened with tiny buttons down the front; she set her fingers to them and slowly, steadily, slid them free—until the chemise gaped open to her waist, exposing the inner swells of her breasts and the shadowy valley between.
Head tilting, she considered her reflection, studied her face, the expression of sensuality that seemed to be slowly investing her features. She let her gaze roam slowly down. Her garters flirted with the hem of her chemise.
She glanced to where the dressing stool stood, then reached out and hooked it closer so one corner was before her. Lifting her right leg, she placed her foot, still in her low-heeled dancing pump, on the stool, then with both hands slid her garter—slowly—down her leg, taking her silk stocking with it, until at the last she removed shoe, garter, and stocking in one smooth movement.
The chair creaked as he shifted. Hiding a smile, she dealt with her other garter, stocking, and shoe in the same way, then pushed the stool away and straightened.
Her expression had subtly altered, grown more sultry, her lids heavier, her lips fuller. One knee slightly bent, she toyed with the open edges of the chemise, then boldy reached down, grasped the hem, and, still slowly, drew the garment off over her head….
Her gaze locked on the mirror. Hand extended, she froze—not from fear of any kind but from fascination. He’d seen her naked any number of times, but she hadn’t—she’d never had any real idea of what he saw, how she looked to his eyes.
What she saw in the mirror…
Was that truly her? She could feel his gaze, scorching and intense, wholly fixed. Wholly caught. Did she, her body, truly have that much power?
Then he spoke and she had her answer; his voice had deepened further, taking on the gravelly, rasping tone she now recognized as betokening desire. “Cup your breasts—caress them as he would.”
Faintly shocked at the suggestion, she did as he said, and shuddered.
“Close your eyes.”
She did, her fingers still shifting, stroking satin skin.
“Imagine how it would feel if he were with you.” A silent pause, then she sensed him behind her. “Imagine his hands on your skin.”
Imagination was heightened by sensation, merged with it seamlessly. His hands roved her body freely, but he knew her now, so well that his hands followed her script without direction. He touched her as she wished to be touched, as she dreamed of him touching her, yet not a word was spoken, not a glance exchanged.
She stood before him, before the mirror, naked, eyes closed, and he gave expression to her dreams, converted them to reality.
His hands slid over her skin, each caress more evocative than the last, building the fire inside her, sending it spreading beneath her skin, heating her.
Seducing her all over again.
Then his fingers splayed over her stomach, evocatively flexed, then slid lower. To artfully, tantalizingly caress her curls, then lightly, oh-so-lightly probe the soft flesh behind.
She sucked in a breath against the constriction banding her lungs. Cracking open her lids, she looked into the mirror, and saw him, a dark, dangerous shadow behind her, his shoulders wider than hers, his head bent as he studied her body, watched as his fingers played…
Then he lifted his head and saw her watching. Watched her watching his hands move evocatively, provocatively over her body until she shuddered and let her lids fall.
His hands eased, then left her.
“You wish your lover were here—you want to feel him inside you. But he isn’t.”
He’d moved back from her; she wasn’t sure where he was.
“So you let your hands fall, open your eyes, put on your nightgown, then blow out the candles and get into bed.”
She obeyed but didn’t see him. She picked up her lawn nightgown from the chair in which he’d previously been sitting, drew it on over her head, did up the buttons, then returned to the dressing table and doused the candles.
And caught a glimpse of him, a denser shadow near the bed. She headed for it; as she reached it he spoke from the darkness along the other side.
“You get under the covers, lie on your back, draw the covers to your chin, close your eyes, and compose yourself for sleep.”
Wondering, she did as he said, settling and closing her eyes, then relaxing.
“That’s when you realize you’re not alone—that there is, indeed, a man in the room with you. A man who’s been watching you undress lasciviously. Your lover? Or another? You don’t know, you can’t tell. The room’s too dark for you to see, so you keep your eyes closed, feign sleep, and wait to see what he, whoever he is, will do.”
Straining her ears, she heard him moving unhurriedly about the room, undressing. Then came silence.
Suddenly the covers were lifted, and the bed bowed beside her, then he shifted closer and she could feel the hard hot naked length of him stretching alongside her.
He settled on one elbow, looking down at her; she could feel his gaze on her face, sense his looming nearness.
Then he reached across her and caught her hand, caught the other and locked both in one of his; raising her arms, he pressed her hands into the pillows above her head.
And leaned nearer. “Open your eyes.”
She did; all she could see was a large dense shadow looming over her in the dark, all she could sense was the hard male strength of his body poised half over hers.
“Who am I?” The words drifted through her mind. “Your lover? Or the dark stranger?”
His attention had drifted to her lips. They throbbed.
“Both,” she murmured, instinctively arching, testing his hold on her hands, aching to feel his lips on hers, to feel his body along the length of hers.
She heard a deep chuckle, then he obliged and kissed her.
Ravenously.
Cocooned in the dark, he was as she’d said, both her lover and a dark stranger—a forcefully seductive male intent on taking from her all he wished, on wringing from her every last gasp, every last iota of surrender.
She had her own agenda. She wriggled and squirmed until he shifted over her, pinning her to the bed—and her senses sighed in delight, in satisfaction and building expectation. Why she so craved his weight was a mystery, but she had no time to pursue it, caught, held effortlessly in a wild mating of mouths, of lips melding, tongues tangling—while he opened the front of her nightgown and laid her breasts bare, set his free hand to the swollen mounds and made them ache.
Then he pulled back from the kiss, looked down, then lowered his head and devoured.
Her hands still anchored above her head, she could do nothing but gasp, arching helplessly, beyond thought offering her flesh for his delectation.
For his appeasement and her satisfaction.
For his pleasure and her delight.
She twisted sinuously beneath him, caressing the hard rod of his erection, flagrantly inviting, suggesting, luring.
And succeeded in stoking his fire as he was stoking hers, succeeded in adding an edge of driven passion to his already tense muscles, succeeded in invoking a dangerous shadow of deeper, darker desire.
She shifted again and he swore.
Between them, he reached down, wrenched the front of her nightgown to her waist, with his thighs spread hers wide, then settled heavily between.
She writhed and suceeded in brushing the blunt head of his erection with the slick pouting lips of her entrance.
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