To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

A rhetorical question. Deidre swung to him, disappointment in her eyes, but she quickly concealed it. She bobbed a curtsy; Mrs. Morrison nodded approvingly and let him escape.

Finding Phoebe wasn’t hard; she was skirting the knots of guests, clearly intending to slip away.

Amiably smiling, he set out in pursuit.

Phoebe saw him coming. She stifled an irritated sigh and turned to face him, mentally canvassing who else was present, what other young ladies might interest him. Neither Leonora nor Deidre had managed to hold his interest; perhaps he liked young young ladies?

Twenty minutes later, her frustration had reached new heights. Young young ladies made him cling even more tightly to her skirts. More, it had belatedly occurred to her that he was being far too amenable—too malleable—in allowing her to guide him around. He wasn’t the malleable sort.

He had no intention whatever of letting her distract him; no matter how pleasant and sociable his interaction with others, his real attention—his focus—had never shifted from her.

The realization sent a most peculiar ripple through her usually unimpressionable nerves.

Exasperated, both with him and that ripple, that he’d been able to make her feel such a thing, she marched away from the last knot of guests to which she’d introduced him—Heather Jenkings was a perfectly sweet chit—ridiculously aware that, if anything, he now prowled even closer beside her; all her senses, all her skin on that side, were flickering at his nearness.

Halting beneath the branches of a nearby tree, out of earshot of any others, she swung to face him. And fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare. “Audrey told me you were a major in the Guards, and that you fought at Waterloo. Is that correct?”

His green eyes met hers; the glint of amusement she caught in their depths sent her temper soaring. He nodded. “Along with an army of others.”

“Indeed. But having faced down Boney’s finest, I can’t see why a quiet chit like Heather Jenkings should have the power to render you witless.”

His dark brows shot up. “Witless?”

“Well, speechless at any rate.” She waved back at the group about Heather. “You stood there like a sphinx—beyond a hello and a good-bye, and the curtest of replies, you uttered not one word.”

His expression remained mild, still faintly amused. “Remaining silent seemed wisest. Better than allowing my boredom to show.”

She frowned at him. “Heather bored you?”

He glanced at the other guests. “All young ladies bore me.”

Eyeing his face—a study in masculine impassivity—Phoebe pressed her lips tightly together, reminding herself that she was no longer classed as a young lady. She made herself think twice, then said, “I understand…well, we’ve all heard that you need a wife.”

His attention shifted back to her; once more she was treated to the full intensity of his gaze.

She lifted her chin. “It’s common knowledge, and here you are, looking over the field.”

His mobile lips quirked. “Not quite. But you’re right in that I need a wife, and I am here.”

She nodded, and forced herself to hold his gaze. “And if you have any thought of me filling that position, you may put it out of your head—I have no interest in marriage. However, I realize Audrey and Edith have probably hatched some scheme and might well have got you down here under false pretenses. The least I can do is assist you in your search.”

His eyes widened; the curve of his lips deepened. “Assist me?”

“Yes. You clearly need help.” Folding her arms, she swung so that she could survey the assembled guests. He stood beside her, facing in the same direction, yet his gaze remained on her face. “Now, have you any physical preferences regarding your bride?”

He didn’t immediately answer. She waited, eyes fixed on the crowd.

Eventually, he said, voice deep and low, “Tall—she should be taller than the average.”

Phoebe glanced over the heads, studying all the females. Other than old Lady Althorpe, she was the tallest lady present. None of the unmarried young ladies stood taller than the average, but perhaps Monica Simmons or Georgina Riley might do; heaven knew they were pretty enough. “Blond or brunette?”

After a moment, his deep drawl reached her. “I’ve a penchant for a certain shade of dark red.”

The color of her hair.

Lips compressing, she kept her gaze on the crowd, then demanded, crisply, “Eye color?”

“A curious blend of violet and blue.”