They told it as concisely as they could, but Edith, Audrey, and even Loftus had questions, wanting to know every little detail. Phoebe inwardly railed at the delay but accepted that they needed to be reassured. She and Deverell held nothing back; quite aside from all those present having a right to know, the scandal of Lord Lowther’s suicide would be all over town come morning.
But at last they reached the end of the story. While Audrey and Edith exclaimed over Lowther, Deverell moved to Phoebe’s side and took her arm. Bending his head, he murmured, “You’re flagging—exhausted. You need to retire.”
She blinked up at him, then realized. “Oh—yes.” Turning to the others, she repeated his words, adding her own emphasis and letting her shoulders droop.
“Of course, dear—you must go up and rest. Don’t let us keep you.” Edith beamed at her—at them.
Audrey waved a dismissal. “We’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you to the stairs.” To the others, Deverell said, “I need to get on.” To where he didn’t say.
Phoebe turned to Skinner and Fergus. “Please take word to Emmeline and Birtles. I don’t want them worrying unnecessarily.”
“Aye.” Fergus glanced at Skinner. “We’ll get around there right away.”
“And you”—Deverell looked at Grainger—“can hie back to the club and tell Gasthorpe what’s happened. I have no idea when Crowhurst will get back tonight—it might be late.” He said nothing about his own return.
Grainger beamed and snapped a jaunty salute. “Yes, sir.” He turned and followed Skinner and Fergus through the door.
Phoebe followed more slowly, Deverell by her side. They paused in the hall. Deverell closed the drawing room door, waited until the other three had disappeared behind the green baize door, then he reached for Phoebe’s hand; she gripped his. “Come on.”
Hand in hand, they slipped up the stairs.
To her room.
At last! Phoebe led the way in, sweeping through the door Deverell set wide and on to the clear area before one window. Skinner had left a lamp burning, shedding sufficient light for her purpose. Marshaling her thoughts, she swung around to pace—and found he’d shut the door and was halfway across the room, advancing on her.
Her wits leapt to attention. Halting, she pointed at him. “Stop!”
He blinked, slowed, and did, leaving five feet of space between them. The look on his face as he searched hers plainly stated he had no idea what was going on. What she was thinking. If she was thinking or if she was panicking…
She waved her hands as if to erase his thoughts. “I need to talk to you—and I can’t even think if you’re too close.” His wary tension evaporated; she glimpsed a fleeting quirk of his lips before he schooled his expression to attentive interest. She frowned at him. “Just stay where you are, and listen.”
His lips set; his wariness hadn’t entirely left him.
She drew breath, clasped her hands before her, and faced him squarely. “I know that when we first met, all those weeks ago at Cranbrook Manor, you had it in mind that I might make a suitable bride for you. You need to marry—that is beyond question—not just for an heir, but because of the many social obligations that now fall to you as Paignton, obligations no bachelor could easily fulfill.”
She paused, then inclined her head. “So you have good reasons to hunt for a wife—indeed, it’s incumbent on you to do so.” She hesitated, searching his eyes, wondering if she dared put her suppositions into words…his steady, unwavering green gaze as always reassured her. Gave her the strength to say, “I…got the impression, all those weeks ago, that you seriously considered making me an offer, that you might well have done so if I hadn’t made it plain that I was uninterested in marriage.” Hesitating for only a heartbeat, she clasped her hands more tightly and lifted her chin. “Was that so?’
A moment passed while he searched her eyes, then he nodded. Briefly. “Yes.”
Relief of the sweetest kind washed through her. “Good. Because what I wanted to tell you is that I’ve changed my mind.” She held his gaze. “I’m no longer uninterested in marriage.”
He stared at her for a strangely dizzying moment, then something changed. Some shift in the atmosphere, some cosmic realignment—some sudden and glorious upwelling of joy.
His features eased; he stepped forward.
“No—wait!” She held up a hand. “You have to hear me out. It’s important—I’m not the sort of lady who changes her mind, not about things like that.”
“Phoebe—”
“No!” She folded her arms, held his gaze. “I’m determined to say this—you have to listen.”
Her chin had set in that determinedly stubborn way Deverell now knew very well. He was too relieved, too overjoyed to deny her anything—even an unnecessary delay at a moment like this. Although it was difficult to remain three feet from her and not close the distance, inclining his head, he acquiesced, inviting her to continue.
With something very like a warning frown, she went on, “I didn’t know before, when I decided against marriage, what a marriage between people like us, you and me, might be like. I didn’t even know men like you existed—there aren’t that many of you around, you know. My views had been formed from what I knew then, what I knew of gentlemen then, and as you know that wasn’t favorable.”
She paused, her eyes on his, then simply said, “You changed my perceptions. You opened my eyes.”
He nearly moved, but her eyes—violet blue and intense, colored by her emotions—held him.
“Not because of who you are, but because of what you are—the sort of man you are.” Frowning, she tilted her head. “You’re different, unconventional—you don’t react as others would, as they do. Working with you, alongside you on the agency’s business, I saw that every day. More than anything else it was what you did, your actions, that simply wouldn’t let my preconceived notions stand. You forced me to rethink, to reform my views—so that you would fit, so that I could understand you.” Her lips quirked as she straightened her head. “There aren’t many who could have accomplished that.”
She glanced past him, around, then brought her gaze, direct, open and serious, back to his face. “We’re well matched here, in the bedchamber, but that alone would never have induced me to change my mind. But you and I, we’re well matched in all spheres—in our interest in the agency, in going about in the ton, in the way we deal with society in general. It’s as if our lives were created to be complementary—as if they were meant to interlock into one.
“But”—she drew in a long breath and raised her head—“there’s one truth that has to be stated, that’s at the heart of this, of me and you and what might be. What changed my mind about marriage—with you and only you—was that you always, in whatever sphere, allowed me to be me. Allowed me the freedom to be me. When I think of you, I don’t think ‘husband’—I think ‘partner.’ Our relationship isn’t, and could never be, that of a conventional husband and wife of our class—it’s been, from inception to now, something more akin to the notion of helpmates, a working partnership.”
Her eyes locked on his. “And that’s what I want—a partnership with you. For life. I believe it would be in both our best interests to marry, but I could never be a conventional wife—I know myself well enough to know that as truth and accept it. In the normal way of things, that would bar me from marriage—the usual sort of marriage among our class. However, with you…you’re strong enough, unconventional and different enough to accept a different role, a different relationship, to live it, make it work so that I can be your wife.”
She paused, then simply said, “The question is: Will you? Will you take my hand and be my partner in life?”
He held her gaze, saw the tension that held her, the emotion glinting in her eyes. Understood, now, why she’d insisted on speaking.
He stepped closer. “Give me your hand.”
She did. He closed his fingers around hers and drew in a deep breath.
In that instant knew that all he wanted and needed in life would be his.
When he hesitated, she shifted, with a hint of waspishness combined with uncertainty prodded, “Well?”
He smiled. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her fingers. And spoke equally honestly. “I love you.”
She hadn’t said those words, but he didn’t care. She could dress her feelings in whatever guise she chose, whatever logical arguments, but he could see the truth shining in her eyes. Holding her gaze, he kissed her fingers again. “Beyond all recall, beyond distraction.”
He drew her nearer, bent his head, found her lips and covered them—drew her slowly, savoring every long-drawn second, into his arms, into a kiss that deepened and broadened and drew them both under.
She followed freely as always, without reservation. It would be so easy to accept all she offered and in return give her the simple “yes” she’d asked for…he drew her deeper into his arms, deeper into the kiss, for long moments let desire whirl while passion hovered in the wings…then with a sigh he drew back.
Breaking the kiss, he lifted his head. Looked down at her face as she blinked and struggled to refocus her eyes and her wits. Unwilling to release her, to forgo the feeling of her body supple and giving in his arms, the warmth of her against him, he waited patiently until she did, until he could hold her gaze and her attention.
“You have no idea,” he said, “how much I would prefer to simply say, ‘Yes, I’ll be your partner, in anything and everything ’til death us do part,’ to leave it at that and sweep you into my arms, into your bed and make love to you for the rest of the night—and thereafter for the rest of my life. I’d expected to have to convince you—it would be so easy to say yes and have done. But…” Holding her gaze, he drew in a breath. “That wouldn’t be fair—not to you, not to me, and most especially not to what’s come to be, to what’s grown between us.”
He paused, then went on, “You’re correct in saying that that isn’t the norm, the customary mild affection between husband and wife. That it’s something deeper and stronger, infinitely more demanding, commensurately more rewarding. That it’s something more, not less, and that we should embrace it, shield and honor it. In that vein…you spoke of the reasons why I need to wed, and you were right. But there’s another reason—the reason I have to marry you, and only you.”
Her eyes shone as if stars swam in them as she searched his face. “What?”
“I didn’t even realize, not until I met you—not until you focused my attention and drew me into your life—that what I was missing, had been missing since I resigned my commission, was a purpose in life, put simply, a reason for living.”
She frowned, trying to see. “What of your position, your estates?”
Smiling a touch ruefully, he shook his head. “My fortune and estates I manage with ease—too easily. They’re no challenge. The social obligations that I struggle to meet I see as an imposition—they’ll never engage me, never excite me.” He paused, then admitted, “Before I met you, I was restless, disengaged. In the way that matters most to a man like me, I had nothing to do. Nothing to engage my wits, nothing to challenge me. Nothing to build my life around, no commitment to set at its center.”
Raising a hand, he brushed a heavy lock back from her cheek, let his fingers lightly caress. “You’ve just offered me everything I need for a fulfilling life—a partnership with you. Yes, it’ll be different—novel, challenging, never dull. Just the agency itself holds boundless possibilities—combining our forces, we’ll be able to do much more while still keeping to your original, necessary, and wise charter. And that’s not even the half of what you’ve offered me. A family, a partnership, a marriage with a difference, an intriguing future. A new, challenging, unconventional commission I can accept and commit the rest of my life to.”
He looked into her eyes, violet-blue, shimmering. And quietly said, “If I understand anything, I understand that now—I need a purpose, and for that I need you.
“I need to be your husband, I need you as my wife—I need to have you at the center of my life. So yes, I accept your offer—I’ll be your partner in life. We’ll marry and make of our lives what we choose—husband and wife, partners and lovers.”
The words had come readily, although they felt like a surrender, not to her but to what held them, to what had grown and twined about them and now linked them beyond parting. What would always be there, in every glance, every touch.
She felt it, too, valued it as he did; that truth shone clear in her lustrous eyes. She smiled, joy and more blossoming—along with a hint of his own ruefulness. “You are in so many ways what I thought I would never want—too strong, too powerful, dangerous, forceful, ruthless—the list goes on and on. But you’ve convinced me that instead you’re precisely what I want, that to be your wife will be all and everything I’ll ever want.”
Smiling mistily, she shook her head. “I don’t understand that, I’ll admit. All I know is that I’ll never be happy—never be as happy as I might be—unless I’m with you. Unless I’m yours.”
Pushing her hands up over his shoulders, she wound her arms about his neck. His arms closing around her, he let her draw his head down, let her kiss him—let her take the lead and take him to her bed.
Let her take him into her arms, into her body.
Phoebe felt her heart swell, fuller, more joyous than it had ever been as he rose above her, her dark and dangerous lover, steely muscles gilded by candelight as they shifted and flexed as he loved her.
As she loved him. Closing her eyes, she twined her fingers with his, clutched tight as the fiery tide rose and caught them. Whirled them from this world and consumed them.
They’d said all they needed to say, opened their hearts, confessed all their hopes and dreams, and found themselves in agreement, in complete and utterly blissful accord. As the night closed around them, they explored and discovered that with admission, acceptance, and commitment new landscapes appeared, walls they hadn’t known existed dissolving to reveal a prize beyond price.
The ultimate reward.
The freedom to be themselves without restriction, to know and share without reservation. To take their partnership to new heights.
To love and be loved.
To complete and utter distraction.
To complete and absolute satisfaction.
Epilogue
Park Street, London
Five days later
“There you are, my boy!” Edith Balmain smiled at Malcolm Sinclair as he followed Deverell into Edith’s drawing room.
Deverell watched Sinclair return Edith’s greeting with a gentle smile. He bowed over her hand, then she waved him to sit in the armchair facing hers.
Edith looked at Deverell; he nodded and, as arranged, retreated to the other end of the room, to lounge against the wall beside a window. And watch.
He’d agreed to fetch Sinclair, whom Edith apparently knew. She’d refused to tell him, or Phoebe, Audrey, or anyone else why she needed to speak with the young man, only saying it was a personal matter and avoiding all discussion.
None of them—except perhaps Edith—knew what to make of Sinclair. On the night Lowther had taken Dalziel’s advice and put one of his precious pistols to his head, Christian had eventually run Sinclair to earth in White’s. When informed of his guardian’s demise, Sinclair had blinked, then commented rather vaguely that he supposed that was the end of it.
When questioned as to his meaning, he’d claimed he’d been referring to his wardship, to being under Lowther’s thumb, but Christian hadn’t been convinced.
That morning had been the first time Deverell had met Sinclair. His reading of the young man tallied with Christian’s. Lowther had said he was “bright enough,” but that was far short of the mark. Sinclair was sharply intelligent, yet it was a detached, strangely disconnected intelligence the like of which Deverell hadn’t encountered before. It, and Sinclair, seemed to have no focus, or none that Deverell could discern.
Sinclair seemed harmless enough; certainly he gave not the slightest sign of any leaning toward violence. Although well set-up, handsome in a still developing way, fashionably if rather somberly dressed, he projected very little physical presence. Tallish, with a lean figure still filling out, light hazel eyes, pleasing features, and shiny, fairish-brown hair, he would doubtless be a target in the coming years for the matchmakers. Especially now he’d come into his inheritance.
It seemed odd that Lowther hadn’t pilfered the boy’s money, but other than a few hundred pounds, the estate had been intact when, two days earlier, on his twenty-first birthday, Sinclair had taken possession under the terms of his father’s will.
Lowther had had no heirs, and although little would be left after his creditors were paid, what little there was would also pass to Sinclair. He was now a very wealthy young man.
Deverell shifted and fixed his eyes on Edith’s lips, tuned his ears to her words. He hadn’t made any commitment not to eavesdrop; although he knew Edith had assumed the distance would mean he couldn’t hear, his hearing was acute, especially when coupled with his eyesight, and given his and Christian’s uneasiness about Sinclair, he felt justified in listening.
Sinclair was facing Edith; Deverell couldn’t make out his words. But he could follow Edith as she came to the end of the usual platitudes and observances, and got down to business.
Dressed in various shades of soft pink, she appeared utterly harmless and inconsequential, something she definitely was not. He remembered that the first time he’d seen her, he’d recognized an observant nature he wouldn’t have willingly challenged. Meeting an observer like her in a French salon had at one time been his worst nightmare.
Edith’s bird-bright gaze was now resting on Sinclair.
“I’ve heard, of course, that you were involved in Lowther’s dastardly scheme, but that the authorities have accepted that you acted solely under Lowther’s orders and as his ward are therefore materially absolved of blame.” She paused, then went on, “Of course, the authorities didn’t know Lowther well, nor do they know you well. I, on the other hand, knew Lowther quite well at one time, and while I wouldn’t claim to know you, yourself, I knew your parents, not just your mother but your father, too, very well indeed.”
To Distraction Page 42