To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

While waiting in the darkened morning room for Deverell to appear, Phoebe considered all that had changed in the past weeks—and all that hadn’t.

He’d changed her mind about a host of subjects; he’d surprised her at almost every turn. He’d taught her of things she hadn’t known—about the interaction between men and women, and not just on the physical plane. He’d opened her eyes in many ways, educated her senses, and left her with a much deeper appreciation of men like him.

What hadn’t changed was their future—for each of them their ideas of what their future would be.

He’d intended to marry her at the outset, but when she’d made it clear she wasn’t interested, he’d readily rescripted his desires and accepted a liaison instead. Since then, he’d given no indication he’d reversed that acceptance, that he’d changed his mind and was again contemplating marrying her.

For her part, while she could now see the attraction, or certainly more attraction than previously, her reservations remained….

She frowned. Didn’t they?

A sound outside the uncurtained windows had her looking up. Across the moonlit garden, she saw the gate swing open. Deverell appeared, shut the gate, took the key off the nail and locked it, then replaced the key and came striding across the lawn, directly to the French doors.

She watched, intrigued, but he paused before the doors for no more than a second before the lock clicked open and he stepped inside.

Concealed in the shadows, she stood. The movement immediately locked his gaze on her, but he recognized her in the same instant; the sudden tension that had flared abruptly dissipated.

Equally instantly, he sensed something was wrong. Head tilting, he approached. “Phoebe? What is it?”

“I…” Eyes wide, she stared at him; she’d forgotten that in the dark he always seemed much larger, much more…ruthless, determined, forceful, intimidating. Much more male.

His gaze, narrowed and searching, traveled her face. He raised a hand; in desperation she caught it in both of hers, held it between them as she drew in a quick breath and said, “I wanted to talk to you. About…about what people are thinking. Expecting. I think we need to consider—”

“The only thing we need to consider is what we want.” Shifting closer, Deverell turned his hand and captured one of hers. “What’s between us comes from us, and concerns only us—it’s not a matter the ton has any say in, not in any way.” Raising her hand, he turned it and pressed his lips to her wrist. Felt the telltale flutter of her pulse, her immediate response as his lips caressed.

Through the shadows, he held her gaze. “You want me, Phoebe, and I want you. For tonight, that’s all we need to consider.”

That’s all he was prepared to allow her to consider, because what else she wanted to consider…the way she’d spoken, her tone, her tension, told him without words that he couldn’t yet risk that, that despite his recent successes the dominoes had yet to fall decisively his way. The time to speak of matrimony was definitely not yet.

He was too experienced in strategy to risk such a vital thing, not until he was certain of victory.

She was still gowned in the green silk creation she’d worn to the evening’s balls. Still holding her hand, holding her captive, he reached out and brushed his thumb over the peak of her breast—and watched it pebble under the silk.

Heard her breath hitch, let his fingers lightly caress the swelling mound…deliberately spun a web he knew would hold her, at least in this setting, at least for tonight.

“I want you to imagine something.” He let his voice deepen to a more hypnotic note. “You’ve been sitting in the dark, just as you were, and a dark stranger appears. You rise to escape, but he catches your hand.”

His eyes on hers, he shifted his fingers about the hand he held, sliding them down to manacle her wrist. “You want to flee, but he holds you—and touches your breast.”

He continued to lightly caress the taut silk. Continued to hold her gaze. “You’re quivering.” She was, a fine tremor of desire. “You want to flee but you can’t—you know what he wants, what he intends to do with you. To you.”

She did. Phoebe’s mouth was dry. She couldn’t drag her eyes from his, couldn’t pull her mind from his spell. Couldn’t free her senses from his hold.

“Your biggest problem,” his voice went on, pure suggestion sliding into her brain, “your biggest secret is that you want what he wants, too.”

He was right, and he knew it. His confidence was blazoned in his steady gaze, in the seductively arrogant curve of his lips.

“So you’re going to do exactly what he tells you.” He let a moment elapse, then continued, his tone hardening, “What I tell you.”

Again he paused; when next he spoke his words were clearly an order. “You’re not to make a sound. You’re not required to speak.” His tone remained even, uninflected; he had every expectation of being obeyed. “The first thing you’re going to do is turn around and lead me—your dark stranger—to your bedchamber.”

She hesitated; she knew she could say no, simply refuse and insist they talk, and he would sigh and allow it…but he transparently didn’t want to discuss that point, and if he didn’t, did she really need to? Now, at this moment?

The truth was she’d much rather learn what he planned to do to her—all the details. Would much rather experience that than engage in a discussion she had a sudden premonition she wasn’t as prepared for as she’d thought.

She drew in a tight breath, opened her mouth to agree—he silenced her with a finger across her lips.

“No words. Once we’re inside your chamber with the door closed on the world, moans, sighs, screams, and breathless cries are permitted—but no words.” He held her gaze, and she felt the strands of his web tighten about her. “Now lead me upstairs.”