To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

And metaphorically take her hand and teach her all she didn’t know.

All he’d offered, quite specifically, to teach her.

Which was surely madness. A dreadfully tempting madness.

She marched up the steps to the terrace, then, dragging in as large a breath as she could past the constriction banding her chest, swung to face him. “Thank you for your company, my lord.”

He met her eyes, his gaze direct, a certain cynicism in the green.

Before she could incline her head and leave him, a bell sounded from inside.

His lips twitched. With a graceful gesture, he waved to the French doors. “That will be luncheon. Shall we join the others?”

She inwardly cursed, nodded, still tense, and swept through the door.

If asked, she would have said that the last thing she needed at that moment was to be surrounded by a chattering horde. As it transpired, pretending to listen to the gay outpourings of the others back from their ride to the ruins gave her time to regain her equilibrium. Many of said outpourings were directed at Deverell, their aim to make clear how much excitement he’d missed. She quelled a snort and kept her eyes on her plate; he was, of course, seated next to her.

As before, his nearness ruffled her senses, but the effect wasn’t actually distressing. It was…not calming, certainly not soothing…pleasant, insidious, unrelenting temptation was the best description she could muster. She might be able to ignore it, if she put her mind to it, but her mind seemed to have other ideas.

Among them dwelling on the intriguing fact that in that fraught moment at the lookout, even though he hadn’t needed to, he had indeed stopped. He’d had absolute control and had exercised it; she found that infinitely fascinating.

Unfortunately once lunch ended, it was impossible to escape. The others had organized their archery contest; everyone adjourned to the back lawn, sitting in the shade under the trees while the butts were set up under Peter Mellors’s and Edgar Thomas’s direction.

More chairs had been brought out; all the ladies had seats. Deverell lounged on the lawn between Audrey’s chair and the one Phoebe occupied. She pretended to be attending to Georgina and Leonora chatting on her other side, while she listened to Deverell tell Audrey about the view from the folly. To her relief, Audrey didn’t ask who had gone there with him, and he omitted to volunteer that information.

Then Edgar clapped his hands, drawing their attention.

“Right now, everyone!” He grinned around at the assembled company. “We’ve divided you into groups of four, the winner of each heat to progress to the next.” He proceeded to read out the rules they’d decided on, then the names in each group. “We’ll have the ladies’ heats first, then the gentlemen’s, then follow with the final rounds.”

Those who had put their names forward rose. Deverell stood. He glanced down at her. “Not competing?”

She looked up at him. “No interest.”

He grinned, then, inclining his head in parting, sauntered away to where the other gentlemen were gathering.

The ladies’ heats eventually got underway. Phoebe glanced around; if she wanted to slip away, now was the time. The older ladies were either deep in gossip or watching their charges. The few older gentlemen had gathered to one side; they were engrossed in talk of hunting. Deverell was standing with the other eligible gentlemen, a longbow held in one hand; like the others, he was watching the younger ladies’ efforts.

Some, like Peter and Edgar and Charlie Wickham, occasionally called comments or encouragement. There was much laughter and good humor at the shooting line; no one was taking the contest all that seriously.

They were shooting parallel to the line of trees under which the ladies were sitting, far enough away from the shade so that anyone shifting within it wouldn’t distract the archers.

Phoebe told herself to get up and quietly slip away under the trees. She kept meaning to, yet the afternoon was so pleasant, the breeze warm and summer-scented, the atmosphere so lazy that she couldn’t summon the will.

And although she had no interest in archery herself, the antics about the shooting line were entertaining, as was the gradual increase in competitiveness that slowly permeated the air. She found herself smiling, sometimes cynically, sometimes simply in amused understanding.

Somewhat to everyone’s surprise, the ladies’ final was hotly contested by Leonora and Deidre. One blond, one brown-haired, they made an attractive pair of modern-day Dianas. In the end, Deidre prevailed; delighted, she looked around, inviting acknowledgment, gaily and charmingly accepting when it was duly tendered.

Phoebe noted Deidre’s eyes resting on Deverell, noted the way she clung to his words of congratulation.

But it was now time for the gentlemen’s final, and Deverell was one of the three finalists. Like the others, he had to open his coat to draw the bowstring; watching, Phoebe inwardly admitted that the width of chest thus revealed was impressive.

He was a few years older than the other two finalists—Carlton Philips and Charlie. He was also taller and heavier and, Phoebe was quite sure, stronger. She wasn’t the least surprised when he was clearly in the lead after the first round.

In accordance with the rules, the other two then shot before him. Watching not them but Deverell, Phoebe saw him eyeing not the other finalists but the knot of young ladies who had remained, eager and excited, behind the shooting line, patently waiting to congratulate the winner, to hang on his arm and claim his attention.

Then it was Deverell’s turn at the line. He took his place; Phoebe watched as he sent his three arrows flying toward the target in quick succession. They all struck, but none were anywhere near as close to the eye as his previous shots.

Even more telling, when the points were tallied, he was no longer in first place. Charlie was declared the winner, and laughingly insisted on the adoration of the assembled young ladies as his due. They laughed and obliged, but more than one pair of eyes followed Deverell as, after shaking Charlie’s hand and clapping him on the back, he handed Edgar his bow and made his way across the lawn—directly back to Phoebe.