Glancing at her face, he saw her smile, sensed its quality; she was looking back with satisfaction.
“The first year—the year after I rescued Emmeline—we set up the agency, me, Emmeline, Skinner, Fergus and Birtles, who’d followed her. He was the gardener at the estate she’d been at; he left and followed her and worked for two years to persuade her to marry him.”
Deverell devoutly hoped it wouldn’t take him that long to persuade Phoebe.
“That first year, we rescued two maids. The second year we rescued four. That was when Loftus joined us—we tried to place one of the maids in his household, but he realized her reference was a fake and came around to the agency. Once he learned the whole truth, he left, and we feared the worst—but then he returned and said he wanted to help. He’s gradually helped more and more with the years.”
“And you’ve rescued more and more women every year.”
“Yes.” Her expression the epitome of content, she nodded. “Last year, we managed nine. This year, we’ve already done eight special clients, and there’s more to come.”
“One tomorrow night.” Deverell laid his cheek against her hair, tightened his arms a fraction, held her closer. “And you shouldn’t forget the more public successes—thanks to the agency’s operations any number of female staff have been placed in good, and safe, positions.”
“True.” Happiness ringing in her voice, Phoebe tried to turn.
Deverell tightened his grip and prevented it.
Surprised, still smiling, she leaned to the side, trying to peer into his face, but he kept his cheek pressed to the silky fall of her hair. “What is it?”
He sighed. “Phoebe, I have to ask—I have to know.” He didn’t have the words to explain why, no reasons, just emotions, and he was discovering he was no master of those.
“What?” she prompted, her hands closing over his at her waist.
“I want to…need to know what happened to you that made you start the agency.”
She said nothing for a full minute, but he didn’t press, didn’t speak; the continuing suppleness of the body beneath his hands, the relaxed curve of her back against his chest, reassured him that she wasn’t reacting defensively. She was thinking.
Eventually, she murmured, “That was a long time ago.”
“Regardless. Please tell me.”
She sighed and leaned fully back against him, her head resting against his shoulder, her fingers gripping his. “I was at a house party with my aunt Marion. I was seventeen, not yet presented. The party was one of the first of that ilk I’d attended—a highly select group of guests gathered at the country residence of a senior peer. It was an honor to be invited, and for me, green as I was, a thrill to be there.”
Her voice grew distant; he sensed she was looking down the years at a scene well remembered, but in some respects fading. “We’d been there for three days. It was the night of the Grand Ball our hostess had decided to hold. It was a magnificent event—people came from all around. A lot of attention was paid to me. I confess I felt somewhat overwhelmed, almost giddy, drunk on enjoyment. The ballroom was filled to overflowing. Other salons nearby were full, too. It was a warm night, and I started to feel almost suffocated. I was looking for Marion, but I was surrounded by young gentlemen, all asking me to dance, all chatting—I didn’t know how to break away.
“But then…” Her voice changed. After a moment she went on, her tone flatter, more distant. “A gentleman, one of the guests and a close friend of the host, came to my rescue. Or so I thought. He kindly…” She paused, then went on, “He dismissed the younger men, telling them I needed a moment of peace to find my whirling feet, then he suggested we go for a stroll in the gallery. Everywhere else was crowded—he said the gallery would be cool and quiet, the windows open to the fresh air. I wanted to speak to Marion, to let her know where I’d be, but he assured me there was no need. It was a house party, not a London ball.”
Phoebe paused; after a long moment, she went on. “I let him lead me away, but the gallery he led me to wasn’t the main gallery about the head of the main staircase, but another in a separate wing, one containing nothing but bedchambers, and therefore at that hour quite deserted. The gallery was as quiet and cool as he’d said. It was also unlit and full of shadows, alcoves, and embrasures.
“I wasn’t comfortable but…I told myself I was imagining things. That my imagination was running amok. I didn’t see the danger—didn’t believe in the danger, until it was too late.”
“What happened?”
She tightened her hands over his, instinctively reassuring, yet…some part of her still quivered. “He started to say things—to make lascivious suggestions. I was shocked, and showed it, but that only inflamed him all the more. I remember the look in his eyes.” She shivered; she had to swallow before she said, “He backed me against the paneling.”
He didn’t know what moved him to it; if he lived to be a hundred, he still wouldn’t know. He stepped sideways, beyond the edge of the window, drawing her with him, smoothly turning her, then backing her against the wall. “Like this?” He moved closer, trapping her between the wall and him.
The light coming through the window was weak, yet enough for her to see his face. Her eyes had widened; they searched his, then, her voice a touch firmer, more in control, she nodded and said, “Yes.”
“What did he do then?”
“He tried to kiss me.”
“Tried?”
“I fought him, wouldn’t let him.”
He bent his head and covered her lips with his, forced hers wide and kissed her without restraint. As forcefully as he wished, plundering, taking—until they were both reeling.