Five nights later, Phoebe lay warm and sated in the billows of her bed, sleepy but not yet ready for sleep; eyes closed, she drifted in the dark and marveled at the turn her life had taken.
Turns. It wasn’t simply the presence of the heavy male body sprawled beside her, one muscled arm slung over her waist, holding her protectively even in sleep, that was different. He’d made a place for himself there, in her private world, but he’d been equally assiduous in carving out a place in the agency and claiming it.
What she found so amazing was that, even there, be it in Kensington Church Street or in the lanes and alleys where they waited to whisk away the frightened women they rescued, that place he’d claimed was by her side—not in front of her, not instead of her, but with her. Alongside her.
He’d cast himself as her partner.
Through the darkness she glanced at him, at the slice of his face she could see—he was sleeping slumped on his side, his face burrowed into the pillow—and she was still astonished, irredeemably fascinated that a man such as he, a man such as she knew him to be, could be so…amenable. So willing to adjust, to mute what none knew better than she was his natural inclination to command, to instead defer to a woman—worse, a lady!
The only times he’d shown any tendency to take the reins had been during their rescues; he hovered, not liking the locations, the surroundings—the danger to her. She knew without words that he didn’t like her being part of the group who went out at night to rescue the women, but he’d accepted, reluctantly, that no woman hoping for rescue was likely to willingly go with him or Birtles—or indeed any man. It had to be Phoebe; she could reassure the girls as no one else could. So he chafed, but when all went according to plan, he drew back and let matters proceed as she
directed.
He’d managed to not just allay her fears on that score but open her eyes to a raft of possibilities that, prior to his advent into her life, she would have sworn were impossibilities.
Indeed, that day had brought a fresh round of observations and revelations. For some time she’d wanted to visit two of their resettled “special clients” to see how both girls were faring. Hearing of her wish, he’d offered to drive her into Surrey, to the two villages serving the country estates at which the girls now worked. Emmeline had written and made arrangements for the girls to meet Phoebe at the local inns.
That morning Deverell had driven her into the country, to the meetings. He’d sat a little apart, keeping watch over her and the girls while she and they had chatted, but when it had come time to leave, in both cases he’d risen and approached, and with his easy smile and a few charming words had eased each girl’s instinctive fear. He’d spoken with her in the girls’ presence, openly acknowledging his commitment to the agency, and more subtly to Phoebe herself. Each girl had blinked, startled that he—a gentleman of the very sort they had such bad memories of—would think and behave as he did.
Each had readily accepted his offer of a lift back to the gates of their place of employment; both had departed reassured and, Phoebe had no doubt, a trifle less inclined to paint all powerful gentlemen as blackguards.
The journey back had been another revelation; he’d questioned her as to the girls’ attitudes after rescue, their needs—emotional as well as physical—to best enable them to recover from their ordeal. To best eradicate the resultant fears.
Remembering, she let her lids fall; he’d been totally focused, completely absorbed, not just interested but…again, the word that fell into her mind was committed. He had some plan evolving in his head, on that she would wager, but he hadn’t yet mentioned it, hadn’t yet proposed it.
She’d intended to interrogate him that evening at Lady Hubert’s rout; instead, she’d spent much of the evening acting as his protector. Most of the balls and parties they’d previously attended—that she and Edith habitually graced—hadn’t been those at which the matchmaking mamas predominated, but her ladyship’s rout was one of the premier events of the Season, which was now in full swing. Despite Deverell’s clear preference for her company, they’d been approached by a steady stream of ladies keen to try their hands, as well as those of their charges at detaching him from her skirts.
He’d clung tight, and more than once she’d felt the need to employ her wits and her tongue to shield him. Really, some of the more brazen suggestions had made her blush for her sex.
She shifted in the bed, letting her leg brush his. If she were truthful, she’d startled herself by recognizing in herself a reaction she’d seen in him when other eligible gentlemen had tried to capture her interest.
In him, she’d labeled it possessiveness; in her…was it any different?
And if she had the right to feel so, didn’t he?
Numerous incidents during the rout had brought one point home: He needed a bride, a wife of the right caliber to help him, to assist him with the social round he’d inherited along with his title. She’d learned more of his circumstances from comments let fall by various ladies during the evening—and also from Audrey, now she’d taken to frequently looking in at the agency—enough to understand that his need was real.
Partnership.
The word revolved in her mind, as if she were mentally tasting it.
He’d become her partner in her enterprise, but what of his? He had a calling he needed to follow, just as she had. But was that any of her business?
The answer depended on what lay between them.
If what they now shared was in truth the liaison she’d assumed it would be, then it should be on the wane, attraction and desire fading, both of them starting to turn aside, their attention drifting. Yet if anything, the opposite was happening; they were growing more connected, their lives, hopes, and aspirations more intertwined by the day—and on his part that was unquestionably deliberate.
So if this wasn’t a liaison, what was it? A partnership, yes, but where did that end?
When she’d insisted on a liaison, she hadn’t known, hadn’t imagined a relationship like what was developing between them could exist—could possibly be.
But if it could…?
He’d changed his mind once and accepted a liaison. What if she now changed hers?
Would he, could she persuade him to, change his back?
Did she want him to?