Skinner had been waiting to help her undress. Beyond confirming she’d done what she could to discourage Deverell—including offering him reasons for her disinterest in marriage—she’d said nothing more, nothing of that disconcerting moment on the terrace or the confusion in her mind.
Only when she blew out her candle and snuggled down in the dark did that confusion clear enough for her to review what had happened, to relive those moments, what she’d felt, what he’d done, what that meant….
Cocooned in darkness, she blinked, then sat up, stunned by the conclusion now shining brightly, with absolute clarity, in her brain.
If that’s the case…then perhaps…
Try as she might, she could think of no other interpretation, not when his tone and actions were combined with those words.
If she wasn’t interested in marriage…he was suggesting a liaison.
A little voice scoffed, reminding her he was her godmother’s nephew and wouldn’t do such a thing, that he had to be pulling her leg, that he hadn’t finished his sentence and stated his proposition in plain words because he hadn’t truly meant it, but that voice was weak.
And weakened even more by her memories of him, of the sheer weight of the sensual aura that clung to him.
She sat for a full ten minutes, stunned, shocked—not by his suggestion but by her reaction. Not just puzzled but astonished—at herself, not him.
He, after all, was a gentleman of a type she recognized well enough.
The cold reached through her nightgown. With a sudden scowl for her susceptibility—for her unexpected weakness—she lay down and pulled the covers to her chin.
And fought to keep the insidious idea that he truly had suggested a liaison from intruding on her dreams.
She woke the next morning determined to focus on the important things in life—on the task she had to accomplish while at the manor. With that goal in mind, avoiding Deverell seemed wise; rising, she sent Skinner to retrieve the book she’d completely forgotten from the library and fetch her breakfast on a tray, then she washed and dressed.
Sitting before the window, she broke her fast and tried to rediscover her interest in the novel. Skinner had reported that Deverell had been at the breakfast table with the others, and that the consensus for the morning’s activities had been a long ride to the ruins of an Iron Age fort.
Through the open window, Phoebe heard the clatter of booted feet, then laughter and chatter as the riding group assembled on the terrace; the voices faded as they headed for the stables. She waited for ten more minutes, then pushed aside her tray, rose, and, taking the novel with her, headed downstairs.
The front hall was cool, dim, and empty. Stepping onto the tiled floor, she listened but could hear no young voices—no young ladies gaily chattering, no deeper rumble from any gentlemen. The older ladies were all late risers; those few who had come down to preside over the breakfast table would have retired once more to their rooms.
All was as it should have been. Phoebe headed for the morning room at the back of the hall. As she’d expected, the room was empty. Slipping inside, she left the door ajar and settled to wait.
According to the mantelpiece clock, half an hour had passed when the sounds of an arrival drifted to her ears. Setting aside the book, she went to the door but remained behind it, screened from the hall as she listened.
Stripes went bustling past; footmen were already in attendance. An imperious female voice added to the cacophony, then Lady Cranbrook came hurrying down the stairs, her face beaming.
“Aurelia! Welcome, my dear.”
Smiling, Phoebe opened the door and made her entrance, gliding forward to join Lady Cranbrook and Lady Moffat, embracing amid the pile of her ladyship’s luggage.
Lady Moffat saw her. “Phoebe, how lovely to see you. I take it Edith’s here?”
Phoebe smiled and touched fingers with Lady Moffat. “Indeed, ma’am. She’s looking forward to chatting with you.”
“As I am with her. I declare no one knows more of what’s going on in the ton than Edith.”
Still smiling, Phoebe stood back, only very briefly meeting the eyes of the maid hovering protectively over her ladyship’s boxes. With the faintest nod to the girl, unseen by any other, Phoebe turned and glided away.
She went into the empty drawing room; crossing to the long windows already set open to the brilliant day, she folded her arms and looked out.
Really! What had Aurelia Moffat been thinking? One glance had been enough to confirm the problem; the maid was quite lovely, short perhaps, but a pocket Venus, the sort gentlemen described as a ripe armful. With Lord Moffat’s propensities, hiring such a maid was simply asking for trouble.
Irritated, Phoebe wondered whether, later, it might be prudent for her, or better still Edith, to drop a word in Lady Moffat’s ear. Now she’d seen the girl…
Regardless, she’d done all she could for the moment, despite her impatience to get on and make things happen. The bright sunshine outside beckoned. Her gown was suitable for walking; the sun wasn’t strong enough to make a hat or parasol necessary.
A sound came from behind her; she turned as Stripes came into the room.