To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

“Stay far, far away from me.” Her words drifted back to him, a fading whisper as she put space between them. “Don’t ever come near me again.”

Jaw set, he waited until she was far enough ahead, then trailed her; stopping within the shadows of the wood, he watched until she disappeared into the library.

And then there was just him and the night, and an abject sense of failure. Of a mistake he’d inadvertently made, a misstep he’d unwittingly taken. He stood in the dark, replaying the scene in the wood again, and tried to understand what had happened.

He was down early for breakfast the following morning, but she, along with the majority of other guests, didn’t appear.

Accepting a copy of the latest London news sheet from Stripes, he retreated to the peace and quiet of the library.

He sat in an armchair at the other end of the room from the chaise on which he’d first sighted Miss Phoebe Malleson reclining and eating grapes. Flicking out the news sheet, he held it before his face and pretended to read; the last thing he wanted was for some other guest to engage him in cheery conversation.

After untold hours reviewing all that had passed between them, he was feeling unrepentant, and just a trifle sour. Last night—that unsettling interlude in the wood—had been her fault first to last. It had been her fault that, rather than sleeping, he’d once again been pacing the darkened gardens, walking off the effects of the lust she’d evoked.

That was why he’d been there to see her slipping so suspiciously away from the house with another female in train. Of course he’d followed. The only thought in his brain had been to ensure she was safe.

Until he’d seen her hand the girl over to the unknown men.

Then he hadn’t known what to think.

So he’d asked her.

All that had followed had been a direct result, as far as he could see, of her refusal to explain and set his mind at rest.

A simple explanation, that was all he’d asked for—surely not too much to ask of the lady who, just hours before, had unequivocally indicated that she was willing to let him seduce her, ultimately into marriage. Her acceptance had been implicit in all they’d said and done.

She’d made her decision, but then, when faced with the need to explain her suspicious actions, she’d changed her mind.

His reaction to that was so sharp, so intense, he paused and turned over a page of the news sheet just to give the feeling a moment to subside.

For her, he’d ridden his desires more strongly, more rigidly than he had with any woman before; the previous evening, he’d exercised restraint he hadn’t known he possessed. She’d appreciated that at the time, but later how had she repaid him?

By refusing to trust him and, to his mind even worse, refusing to take adequate care.

Why that last aspect should head his list of grievances he didn’t know, but the danger inherent in her flitting through a dark wood, without any protection, to meet with rough and uncouth men in a lane after midnight, was the point that did most violence to his soul.

If anything had happened to her…

He inwardly snorted and told himself that the reason her safety mattered so much was because if anything happened to her, he wouldn’t be able to marry her, which would leave him where he’d started….

Even in his present mood, the argument wasn’t convincing.

The damned woman had got under his skin in a way he didn’t understand. Regardless, she was now there, and he would have to cope with the ramifications.

So would she.

On that, he was unalterably determined.

He checked on and off through the morning, but none of the ladies came downstairs.

Stripes informed him that that was often the case after a ball. “Getting their beauty sleep, my lord.”

He suppressed a snort, but as Stripes had prophesized, it wasn’t until after the luncheon gong sounded that he heard the tap of female footsteps on the stairs. Folding the news sheet—in desperation he’d read every word—he laid it aside and rose.

When he reached the dining room, where a cold collation had been laid out upon the sideboard, he discovered Phoebe already at the table—surrounded by the other young ladies. She knew he’d walked into the room, but while the others—Deidre and Leonora especially—looked up and smiled brightly in welcome, Phoebe avoided his eye.

Preserving his urbane mask, he returned the others’ smiles with one merely polite, then walked to the sideboard.

After heaping his plate, he retired to the other end of the table where Lord Cranbrook and Lord Craven, one of the few older male guests, sat chatting. They welcomed him, and the talk turned to horseflesh.