To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

More, because she knew he would spend time with her, and she was looking forward to those moments, to see what he would make of them, and what she might learn. In terms of teaching her about the pleasure to be gained from a liaison, she doubted any man was better qualified.

“Should I tell Jessica that it’ll be tomorrow night?”

Finishing dabbing perfume behind her ears and on her wrists, Phoebe stoppered the bottle. “Yes. Has Fergus sent word to Birtles?”

“He has. He’s expecting to hear back tomorrow morning.”

“Good. Let me know when everything’s in place.” She rose and let Skinner slide the striking blue-green gown over her head. She wriggled, settling it, then looked in the mirror and was pleased. The unusual hue wasn’t one many ladies could successfully wear, but it complemented her coloring; most importantly, the vivid hue attracted and held the eye.

Anyone’s eye.

She stood while Skinner laced the gown, then sat again to let Skinner attend to her hair. She always wore it up, so Skinner had to unravel the topknot that had seen her through the day, then brush out her long hair and refashion a more stylish knot for the evening.

While Skinner worked, Phoebe donned aquamarine earrings and a matching bracelet and pendant. Skinner helped her clip the chain around her neck.

“Damn!” Skinner muttered, poking at the curls that brushed her nape. “These strands are too short to reach the knot. I’ll pin them up.”

Phoebe blinked. In that instant felt again the sensation of Deverell touching those strands, cupping her nape. “No. Leave them.”

Skinner looked at her in surprise; she usually insisted that her hair be perfectly tidy.

Phoebe lightly shrugged and reached for her figured shawl. “I’ve grown used to them.”

And if they weren’t there, Deverell might not touch her in quite that way again…and he’d been right. She’d liked it.

After dinner, the company adjourned to the music room. By then, Phoebe’s view of the evening had grown distinctly jaundiced. She walked into the ornate room with no expectations beyond being bored to tears.

She’d gone down to the drawing room buoyed by an eagerness she hadn’t felt in years, only to be waylaid by Peter and Edgar the instant she’d crossed the threshold. They’d kept her chatting about the croquet tournament they were arranging for the following afternoon; every time she’d opened her mouth to excuse herself, they’d asked her another question.

Exasperated, she’d glanced about the room, hoping to locate Deverell and move him to rescue her, only to discover him trapped before a window with Deidre and her friends, Heather and Millicent, who formed a frilly wall before him.

Between her and him.

She’d looked at Peter—Deidre’s brother—and all had become clear.

Just as she’d started to narrow her eyes, her mind evaluating various less polite means of escape, a stir beside her had resolved itself into Stripes, who had announced that dinner was served.

Unfortunately, Maria had a habit of juggling her guests about the dinner table. Tonight, Phoebe had been seated at the other end of the table from Deverell. He had been flanked by Georgina and Deidre, while she’d had Charlie and a Mr. Combes to entertain her.

They’d tried but hadn’t succeeded.

She’d endured, but with not even any time in the drawing room, she now had nothing more ahead of her than a few hours of listening to weak musical performances with the entire company gathered around.

She enjoyed music, but it had to be well performed. As she glided toward the pianoforte, she couldn’t drum up the slightest iota of enthusiasm.

Maria had already whispered in her ear; being the eldest unmarried young lady, Phoebe would be the first to perform. She’d nearly declined; the aim of such evenings was to display to the assembled—captive—eligible gentlemen the accomplishments of the marriageable young ladies. The underlying purpose was matchmaking, and she was no longer in the market. However, if she was going to be forced to sit and listen to others mangle rhythms and chords, then they could first listen to her demonstrate how it should be done.

Raising the pianoforte’s lid, she ran her fingers experimentally over the keys, confirming that the instrument was adequately tuned, then she reached for the pile of music sheets left in readiness.

She was flicking through the pile, evaluating possibilities, when her senses stirred, then focused. Looking up and around, she found Deverell approaching, his gaze on her. She glanced at the others, now settling into seats spread about the room. Deidre and her friends had been summoned by their mothers and were now in earnest consultation over what piece would best demonstrate their talents.

Deverell halted beside her. He held her gaze for an instant, then looked at the sheets in her hands. “What were you thinking of playing?”

She shrugged. “An air, a sonata—something soothing.”

She glanced up in time to see his lips quirk.

His eyes met hers. “Do you sing?”