To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

She felt it, too, valued it as he did; that truth shone clear in her lustrous eyes. She smiled, joy and more blossoming—along with a hint of his own ruefulness. “You are in so many ways what I thought I would never want—too strong, too powerful, dangerous, forceful, ruthless—the list goes on and on. But you’ve convinced me that instead you’re precisely what I want, that to be your wife will be all and everything I’ll ever want.”

Smiling mistily, she shook her head. “I don’t understand that, I’ll admit. All I know is that I’ll never be happy—never be as happy as I might be—unless I’m with you. Unless I’m yours.”

Pushing her hands up over his shoulders, she wound her arms about his neck. His arms closing around her, he let her draw his head down, let her kiss him—let her take the lead and take him to her bed.

Let her take him into her arms, into her body.

Phoebe felt her heart swell, fuller, more joyous than it had ever been as he rose above her, her dark and dangerous lover, steely muscles gilded by candelight as they shifted and flexed as he loved her.

As she loved him. Closing her eyes, she twined her fingers with his, clutched tight as the fiery tide rose and caught them. Whirled them from this world and consumed them.

They’d said all they needed to say, opened their hearts, confessed all their hopes and dreams, and found themselves in agreement, in complete and utterly blissful accord. As the night closed around them, they explored and discovered that with admission, acceptance, and commitment new landscapes appeared, walls they hadn’t known existed dissolving to reveal a prize beyond price.

The ultimate reward.

The freedom to be themselves without restriction, to know and share without reservation. To take their partnership to new heights.

To love and be loved.

To complete and utter distraction.

To complete and absolute satisfaction.

Epilogue

Park Street, London

Five days later

“There you are, my boy!” Edith Balmain smiled at Malcolm Sinclair as he followed Deverell into Edith’s drawing room.

Deverell watched Sinclair return Edith’s greeting with a gentle smile. He bowed over her hand, then she waved him to sit in the armchair facing hers.

Edith looked at Deverell; he nodded and, as arranged, retreated to the other end of the room, to lounge against the wall beside a window. And watch.

He’d agreed to fetch Sinclair, whom Edith apparently knew. She’d refused to tell him, or Phoebe, Audrey, or anyone else why she needed to speak with the young man, only saying it was a personal matter and avoiding all discussion.

None of them—except perhaps Edith—knew what to make of Sinclair. On the night Lowther had taken Dalziel’s advice and put one of his precious pistols to his head, Christian had eventually run Sinclair to earth in White’s. When informed of his guardian’s demise, Sinclair had blinked, then commented rather vaguely that he supposed that was the end of it.

When questioned as to his meaning, he’d claimed he’d been referring to his wardship, to being under Lowther’s thumb, but Christian hadn’t been convinced.

That morning had been the first time Deverell had met Sinclair. His reading of the young man tallied with Christian’s. Lowther had said he was “bright enough,” but that was far short of the mark. Sinclair was sharply intelligent, yet it was a detached, strangely disconnected intelligence the like of which Deverell hadn’t encountered before. It, and Sinclair, seemed to have no focus, or none that Deverell could discern.

Sinclair seemed harmless enough; certainly he gave not the slightest sign of any leaning toward violence. Although well set-up, handsome in a still developing way, fashionably if rather somberly dressed, he projected very little physical presence. Tallish, with a lean figure still filling out, light hazel eyes, pleasing features, and shiny, fairish-brown hair, he would doubtless be a target in the coming years for the matchmakers. Especially now he’d come into his inheritance.

It seemed odd that Lowther hadn’t pilfered the boy’s money, but other than a few hundred pounds, the estate had been intact when, two days earlier, on his twenty-first birthday, Sinclair had taken possession under the terms of his father’s will.

Lowther had had no heirs, and although little would be left after his creditors were paid, what little there was would also pass to Sinclair. He was now a very wealthy young man.

Deverell shifted and fixed his eyes on Edith’s lips, tuned his ears to her words. He hadn’t made any commitment not to eavesdrop; although he knew Edith had assumed the distance would mean he couldn’t hear, his hearing was acute, especially when coupled with his eyesight, and given his and Christian’s uneasiness about Sinclair, he felt justified in listening.

Sinclair was facing Edith; Deverell couldn’t make out his words. But he could follow Edith as she came to the end of the usual platitudes and observances, and got down to business.

Dressed in various shades of soft pink, she appeared utterly harmless and inconsequential, something she definitely was not. He remembered that the first time he’d seen her, he’d recognized an observant nature he wouldn’t have willingly challenged. Meeting an observer like her in a French salon had at one time been his worst nightmare.

Edith’s bird-bright gaze was now resting on Sinclair.

“I’ve heard, of course, that you were involved in Lowther’s dastardly scheme, but that the authorities have accepted that you acted solely under Lowther’s orders and as his ward are therefore materially absolved of blame.” She paused, then went on, “Of course, the authorities didn’t know Lowther well, nor do they know you well. I, on the other hand, knew Lowther quite well at one time, and while I wouldn’t claim to know you, yourself, I knew your parents, not just your mother but your father, too, very well indeed.”