To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

Phoebe looked too, only to find Deverell’s green eyes, slightly narrowed, fixed on her face.

Without shifting his gaze, he said, “I’ll play only on one condition—that Miss Malleson be my partner.”

She looked into his eyes and had to struggle not to laugh. They’d pushed too far; he’d retaliated with a demand that left Georgina no choice but to turn to her and plead, “Phoebe? You will play, won’t you?”

She held his gaze—he was a devil, no doubt, for he’d trapped her, too. “If Lord Paignton will lend me his undoubted expertise, then yes, very well, I’ll marshal enough energy to compete.”

Thus it was that three hours later they found themselves standing side by side at the edge of the croquet lawn.

“I haven’t played in years,” Deverell informed her.

Despite that, Phoebe quickly discovered he hadn’t forgotten how, but the game as he played it differed subtly from the one she knew.

In his version, there was a great deal more touching between partners, at least between them. She hadn’t previously considered croquet a sport with much, if any, contact, but his version was filled with little touches, brushes, the gentle pressure of his hand at the back of her waist, the tantalizing

glide of his leg clad in tight buckskin breeches and glossy boot against her skirts.

The lightest brush of his fingers over the bright curls caressing her warm nape.

She knew from the first that he was doing it deliberately; oddly, from the first, she didn’t truly mind. To her continuing surprise, she didn’t mind being touched by him; indeed, she quite enjoyed the occasional frisson when supposedly unintentionally skin met skin.

Or when his hand passed lightly over a curve he really shouldn’t touch.

At least not in public. No one saw, of course.

Those fleeting, private touches added another dimension to their play. Although defeated in the final round by Peter and Heather, both keen players who concentrated fiercely, she was prepared to wager that of them all, she and Deverell had gained the most enjoyment from the tournament.

She parted from him, leaving him with the other men to tidy the hoops and mallets away. Trooping inside with the other ladies to get ready for the ball, she decided the afternoon hadn’t, after all, been entirely wasted.

Except…

It didn’t strike her until she was in her room that all those little touches had had a cumulative, inevitable effect. By the time she climbed into her garnet-colored ball gown, she felt as if she were ready to jump out of her skin.

It…flickered. Her nerves were tight, sensitive to even the lightest touch, eager for even the slightest caress, and desperately hungry for more.

“Damn him.” She muttered that and various other injunctions as she hurried to get ready, hoping against hope that he had something planned to ease her sudden need, although how he might accomplish that within the confines of a ballroom, she had no clue.

Sinking onto the stool before her dressing table, she reached for her favorite perfume. Skinner came to stand behind her and started to unpin her hair.

“Is everything set for tonight?”

Reaching for her brush, Skinner nodded. “They’ll be waiting with the carriage in the lane like you wanted. Jessica knows to meet you in the library. Poor mite, she’s that desperate I’m sure she’d run away if we weren’t about to get her away.”

“Hmm. Keep an eye on her if you can. We don’t want her to do anything silly and make Stripes or anyone else suspicious.”

“I’ll mother-hen her. Are you going to change after the ball?”

Phoebe reviewed what she planned to do later, then shook her head. “The way’s clear enough. I shouldn’t need to.”

“In that case, I’ll stick with Jessica. I’ll stay with her once she’s settled her ladyship for the night, keep her company until it’s time to meet you.”

“Yes, I think that would be wise.”

A light tap fell on the door. Phoebe and Skinner exchanged a glance, then Skinner crossed to open it.

With a breezy smile, Audrey glided through. “There you are, dear. I hoped I’d catch you.”

Clad in ivory and black silk draped much like a toga, a gold-and-black silk turban swathing her head, Audrey crossed to the armchair to one side of the dressing table, her shrewd gaze taking in Phoebe’s gown. “That color becomes you, dear. What are you going to wear with it—your garnets and pearls?”