It had been tempting to claim the title of St. George, but he’d resisted. With a nod, he’d parted from the gentleman and tacked through the crowd, eventually returning to Phoebe.
Along the way, he’d recalled her initial response to his interest; she’d tried her level best to drive him away. While with him she hadn’t succeeded, other gentlemen wouldn’t have found her methods of repelling them as entertaining and amusing as he had.
All of which led to his one remaining question, the question he’d hoped she would answer without him having to ask it. What had happened to raise her defenses? The same incident almost certainly had driven her to begin the agency.
Reaching her door, he paused, then gripped the handle and turned. The time had come; he had to know.
Somewhat to his surprise, she was standing before one of the windows, still dressed in her ballgown. The curtains were open, looking down on the quiet street below. Arms folded beneath her breasts, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him, smiled, then turned back to the view.
He came up behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders. “What are you doing?”
“Just…thinking.” She leaned back against him, resting her shoulders against his chest. “After our celebration today it just seemed the right moment to reflect…on how we started, what we’ve gone through, and where we are now.”
He didn’t say anything, just slid his hands down her upper arms, then slipped them around her waist, wrapping his arms around her, holding her against him.
Glancing at her face, he saw her smile, sensed its quality; she was looking back with satisfaction.
“The first year—the year after I rescued Emmeline—we set up the agency, me, Emmeline, Skinner, Fergus and Birtles, who’d followed her. He was the gardener at the estate she’d been at; he left and followed her and worked for two years to persuade her to marry him.”
Deverell devoutly hoped it wouldn’t take him that long to persuade Phoebe.
“That first year, we rescued two maids. The second year we rescued four. That was when Loftus joined us—we tried to place one of the maids in his household, but he realized her reference was a fake and came around to the agency. Once he learned the whole truth, he left, and we feared the worst—but then he returned and said he wanted to help. He’s gradually helped more and more with the years.”
“And you’ve rescued more and more women every year.”
“Yes.” Her expression the epitome of content, she nodded. “Last year, we managed nine. This year, we’ve already done eight special clients, and there’s more to come.”
“One tomorrow night.” Deverell laid his cheek against her hair, tightened his arms a fraction, held her closer. “And you shouldn’t forget the more public successes—thanks to the agency’s operations any number of female staff have been placed in good, and safe, positions.”
“True.” Happiness ringing in her voice, Phoebe tried to turn.
Deverell tightened his grip and prevented it.
Surprised, still smiling, she leaned to the side, trying to peer into his face, but he kept his cheek pressed to the silky fall of her hair. “What is it?”
He sighed. “Phoebe, I have to ask—I have to know.” He didn’t have the words to explain why, no reasons, just emotions, and he was discovering he was no master of those.
“What?” she prompted, her hands closing over his at her waist.
“I want to…need to know what happened to you that made you start the agency.”
She said nothing for a full minute, but he didn’t press, didn’t speak; the continuing suppleness of the body beneath his hands, the relaxed curve of her back against his chest, reassured him that she wasn’t reacting defensively. She was thinking.
Eventually, she murmured, “That was a long time ago.”
“Regardless. Please tell me.”
She sighed and leaned fully back against him, her head resting against his shoulder, her fingers gripping his. “I was at a house party with my aunt Marion. I was seventeen, not yet presented. The party was one of the first of that ilk I’d attended—a highly select group of guests gathered at the country residence of a senior peer. It was an honor to be invited, and for me, green as I was, a thrill to be there.”
Her voice grew distant; he sensed she was looking down the years at a scene well remembered, but in some respects fading. “We’d been there for three days. It was the night of the Grand Ball our hostess had decided to hold. It was a magnificent event—people came from all around. A lot of attention was paid to me. I confess I felt somewhat overwhelmed, almost giddy, drunk on enjoyment. The ballroom was filled to overflowing. Other salons nearby were full, too. It was a warm night, and I started to feel almost suffocated. I was looking for Marion, but I was surrounded by young gentlemen, all asking me to dance, all chatting—I didn’t know how to break away.
“But then…” Her voice changed. After a moment she went on, her tone flatter, more distant. “A gentleman, one of the guests and a close friend of the host, came to my rescue. Or so I thought. He kindly…” She paused, then went on, “He dismissed the younger men, telling them I needed a moment of peace to find my whirling feet, then he suggested we go for a stroll in the gallery. Everywhere else was crowded—he said the gallery would be cool and quiet, the windows open to the fresh air. I wanted to speak to Marion, to let her know where I’d be, but he assured me there was no need. It was a house party, not a London ball.”
Phoebe paused; after a long moment, she went on. “I let him lead me away, but the gallery he led me to wasn’t the main gallery about the head of the main staircase, but another in a separate wing, one containing nothing but bedchambers, and therefore at that hour quite deserted. The gallery was as quiet and cool as he’d said. It was also unlit and full of shadows, alcoves, and embrasures.
“I wasn’t comfortable but…I told myself I was imagining things. That my imagination was running amok. I didn’t see the danger—didn’t believe in the danger, until it was too late.”
“What happened?”
She tightened her hands over his, instinctively reassuring, yet…some part of her still quivered. “He started to say things—to make lascivious suggestions. I was shocked, and showed it, but that only inflamed him all the more. I remember the look in his eyes.” She shivered; she had to swallow before she said, “He backed me against the paneling.”
He didn’t know what moved him to it; if he lived to be a hundred, he still wouldn’t know. He stepped sideways, beyond the edge of the window, drawing her with him, smoothly turning her, then backing her against the wall. “Like this?” He moved closer, trapping her between the wall and him.
The light coming through the window was weak, yet enough for her to see his face. Her eyes had widened; they searched his, then, her voice a touch firmer, more in control, she nodded and said, “Yes.”
“What did he do then?”
“He tried to kiss me.”
“Tried?”
“I fought him, wouldn’t let him.”
He bent his head and covered her lips with his, forced hers wide and kissed her without restraint. As forcefully as he wished, plundering, taking—until they were both reeling.
Lifting his head, he looked into her hazed eyes. “You don’t have to fight me—you like being kissed by me.”
She blinked, struggled to find enough breath to say, “Yes.”
“And then?”
“And then…” Her gaze grew distant; after a moment, she licked her swollen lips. “We were struggling. I was trying to break free, but he was much stronger than me—he kept me pinned against the wall and started to pull up my skirts.”
“Like this?” With one hand, he grasped her skirts and drew them up, bunching them in his fist.
Eyes locked with his, she drew in an unsteady breath. “Yes.” The word shook, but it wasn’t fear but desire that made her voice quaver.
He lowered his head so that his breath washed over her lips. “And then?”
This time, when she tried to lick her lips, he swooped and captured her tongue, drew it into his mouth, then released it. “What happened next?”
Her breasts swelled as she drew in a breath. “He pushed one of his legs between mine—forced my legs apart.”
“Like this?”
He lifted her slightly, pressing one rock-hard thigh between hers, forcing her to ride the tensed muscle, ruthlessly stimulating her even through her rucked skirts.
She gasped, let her head fall back against the wall. “Yes—like that.” But then she shook her head, frowning. “No—not like that. With him it didn’t feel good.” He pressed and she gasped. “Nothing like—”
“Nothing like this, nothing like with me.”
“No…that was awful. This is…nice.”
That was what he’d wanted and hoped to hear, a reassurance that her past wouldn’t—couldn’t—come between them, not now, not later. He waited until she refocused on his eyes. “What then?”
She dragged in a huge breath. “Three maids came into the gallery, carrying warming pans for the guests’ beds. They were chattering—they were almost on us before they realized. They gasped and fell back. Then they froze. They didn’t know what to do. He’d twisted to look at them—I shoved, he staggered back and I broke free and fled.”
He paused, then said, “There’s no maids here.”
She focused on his eyes, saw him clearly. “No.” Her lips softened. “Nothing to stop you…from taking me.”
He looked into her eyes. “Only you.”
She studied his eyes, his face, then reached up with one hand, slid her palm over his nape, speared her fingers into his hair, and drew his lips to hers. “I don’t want you to stop.”
She breathed the words, then sealed his lips, and kissed him. Deeply.
He drew her skirts higher, trapped them at her waist, reached between her spread thighs and found her. Ready and swollen, wet and wanting.
It was the work of a minute to open the placket of his trousers, to free his aching staff and slowly, steadily, bury it deep in the hot haven she so ardently offered.
She sighed into his mouth, then arched as he lifted her higher against the wall, wordlessly urging him deeper.
He thrust in and she moaned; when he lifted her legs she wrapped them about his hips and clung. Gasping as he held her there, impaled, fully open, fully his.
It was a strange and wonderful loving, full of sighs and strangled moans, of intimate penetration accomplished beneath their clothes, and an even more evocative acceptance. Her body clasped his, again and again, holding him deep within her. There was no rush, no uncontrolled, out-of-control driving passion—just a simple wish for pleasure, a search to find it, give it, receive it in full measure. To wring every last scintilla of sensation from the moment, from their joining.
And at the last, when their senses were gorged and their nerves shredded and the frantic moment was upon them, when heat seared through their veins and for that glorious instant ripped them from the world, they still clung, wrapped together, savoring every last instant together.
The wave caught them, lifted them high, then flung them into ecstasy.
Once it faded, they fell back and collapsed across her bed, too exhausted to move, too sated to care.
Their labored breaths filled the air; he thought he could hear their hearts still thundering.
The tumult gradually faded. Relaxed beneath the arm he’d flung across her waist, Phoebe suddenly giggled. Eyes bright, she turned her head and looked at him. “That was…” She raised a hand, or tried to, then let it fall back to the bed. “Wonderful! Remarkable. Just don’t ask me to move any time soon.”
He snorted. “We’ll just lie here for an hour or two, until I figure out which way is up.”
She laughed, apparently delighted by the weakness she’d caused. The sound washed over him, a wonderful note that sank to his bones, evocative and intensely satisfying—just as satisfying, he decided, as the breathy little cry she always uttered when she climaxed.
After a moment, he struggled up on one elbow. He looked at her face, drank in her blissful expression. Debated, but he had to know. “What happened then?”
Lifting the lids she’d allowed to fall, she regarded him through the shadows, then sighed; her expression changed as she looked into the past.
“I ran all the way back to my room. I summoned Skinner and she came. She stayed with me. Later, when Marion looked in to ask where I’d got to, I told her I’d had a headache. Skinner and I discussed it—at the time, there was nothing I could do. If I’d made any protest…in those circles, in the circumstances, some wouldn’t have believed me—they’d have whispered that I was making such claims to make myself interesting—while others would have known I spoke the truth but wouldn’t have wanted to know. And above all else, there was the embarrassment, not just for myself but for Marion, too, and our hostess, who’d been nothing but kind.”
“Other than inviting a gentleman to her house who she must have known preyed on young ladies.”
Phoebe considered the naïve innocent she’d once been. “Indeed. Other than that.”
A moment passed, then Deverell asked, “Who was he?”
She looked at him, met his eyes, and decided against telling him he didn’t need to know. He didn’t, but not because he didn’t have the right to ask, especially not after what had just passed between them. “He…I took my revenge on him a few years later, once I’d learned how it could be done.”
He frowned. “How?”
“I learned he’d married for money and was dependent on his wife’s family, and therefore her support. I’d spent more time with Edith by then, and I’d learned how gossip works in the ton.” She held his gaze. “His wife didn’t know—she had no idea, but from all I could see she was the only one who didn’t have some inkling. I started a rumor—very easy when people credit Edith with knowing everything there is to know and assume I’m in her confidence. It was a simple matter to say I’d heard from someone else…his wife heard it from any number of sources and started watching her husband. Within days, she had proof the rumors were true. Ever since, she’s kept him a virtual prisoner in the country. She holds his purse strings, and given what she learned, she keeps a very tight grip on them.”
She paused, then added, “In the end, I hit him where it hurt him the most—in his pride. He’s something of a laughingstock now, for everyone knows why he’s confined to his estate. And of course his wife never holds house parties.”
Deverell studied her eyes, then nodded. “Remind me never to get on your wrong side.” The gentleman he’d met at the ball hadn’t been all that far wrong. Deadly—approach at your peril.
She chuckled and closed her eyes. “But now I’ve told you all my secrets, I want to know one of yours.”
He blinked, considered. “I don’t think I have any secrets—none that you might want to know.”
“Ah, but you do.” She opened her eyes and found his. “Tell me—why is it that with you, no matter what you do, no matter how…how forceful you are, how dominant, how frightening, how revulsed and panicked I would feel were it any other man but you doing the things you do to me—” She paused, then holding his gaze simply said, “Why is it that with you, the same things are so enjoyable?”
He looked into her eyes, shadowed in the dark, for a long moment, then bent his head and brushed her lips with his. “Because all the others are wrong—and I’m not. Because”—he touched his lips to hers, breathed over the delicate curves—“I’m the right man for you.”
She asked no more questions. After a long, lingering, gentle kiss, they undressed in the dark, let their clothes fall where they would, then climbed under the covers and found sleep in each other’s arms.
“What do you mean, she’s gone?” Sitting at the agency’s kitchen table beside Deverell, the accounts spread before them, Phoebe stared at Emmeline.
“Disappeared.” Emmeline nodded grimly from the mouth of the corridor. “J
ust like that other one, only this time the girl knew we were coming for her tonight—so why would she run last night?”
Deverell glanced toward the front of the shop. “Is that the housekeeper?”
“Yes. Mrs. Stanley. She’s the one helped organize our rescue. She’s embarassed, but”—Emmeline shrugged—“it’s hardly her fault.”
Deverell glanced at Phoebe, then looked at Emmeline. “Ask Mrs. Stanley to step in here. Let’s see if we can’t shed some light on what happened.”
Ushered to the kitchen by Emmeline, Mrs. Stanley nervously clutched her tapestry bag. Seeing Deverell and Phoebe, her eyes grew round; she quickly bobbed, regarding them with unbounded amazement. When Deverell politely invited her to sit, she looked uncertain.
“Oh, go on—they won’t bite.” Emmeline nudged her into a chair. “Just answer their questions and let’s see what we can work out.”
Mrs. Stanley perched on the edge of the chair and swallowed. “She—Lizette—was looking forward to getting away tomorrow with the agency. I swear I can’t make head nor tail of why she vanished last night—she’s not a silly girl, not Lizette.”
“Vanished?” Deverell kept his expression encouraging, as unthreatening as possible.
“Yes—one minute she was heading upstairs, and this morning she was nowhere to be found.”
“Her clothes, her belongings—are they still in her room?”
Mrs. Stanley nodded. “Must have been some powerful urge to have her leave them, but”—she shrugged—“who’s to say?”
Deverell didn’t like the notion that was forming in his head. “I believe, Mrs. Stanley, that you or the butler should inform the watch of Lizette’s disappearance. Granted it’s unlikely that they’ll find her, but in the interests of justice, that should be done.”
Mrs. Stanley nodded glumly. “Aye—I thought perhaps we should, but sure as eggs are eggs, they’ll never find hide nor hair of poor Lizette—no more’n they did with Higgins’s Bertha.”
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