To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

She’d spent the following hours wallowing in disappointment and mortification. Disappointment because she’d allowed herself to hope that with Deverell she could experience all she’d never had a chance to know. He was the only one who had ever raised her interest, let alone her desire. She was shatteringly disappointed that their affair was not to be.

And last but by no means least, the more she thought of those moments in the wood, the more she cringed in mortification. He’d witnessed her weakness, her silly, irrational, ungovernable panic; she truly didn’t want to face him again. If he’d guessed what lay behind her reaction, he’d doubtless pity her; if he hadn’t, he’d think she was touched.

Luckily, Skinner hadn’t come to rouse her until late. She’d gone down to luncheon feeling dismal and morose but able to keep an adequate mask in place. She’d sat at the table, not allowing herself to look at him, waiting for the day to end, and considering how early tomorrow morning she and Edith could depart.

Lady Moffat’s sweeping in and protesting her loss had abruptly refocused Phoebe’s mind—she’d instantly seen that Deverell would guess the connection. And matters had gone downhill from there. The last thing she’d expected was for him to be asked to investigate, and through that learn of the two earlier rescues.

He was learning far too much, yet although she’d racked her brain, she couldn’t see how he might learn any more. Not unless she told him, and that she’d never do.

Unfortunately, he now knew enough to cause her serious problems. If he revealed what he’d seen last night, if at the conclusion of his investigation he pointed his finger her way…

She’d wasted no further time on her personal woes. As the sleepy afternoon had dragged on, she’d assessed the situation from every angle, imagining what he might do, evaluating the ways in which she might react. In the end, only one tack would work. Blank denial, complete and absolute, was her only possible defense.

She would simply say he was mistaken, that the woman he’d seen certainly hadn’t been her. His word against hers. Not a strong defense; it would inevitably raise questions in people’s minds and make future rescues more difficult.

But not impossible. Most importantly, simply staring down any accusations Deverell might make would keep all the others, and her enterprise itself, safe. Still functioning.

Finally the sun sank low and everyone headed indoors to dress for dinner. She went in surrounded by others, but as she and Edith planned to leave early the following morning, she detoured via the library to return the novel she’d lost all interest in.

Cautiously slipping through the library door, she was immensely relieved to see no dark, handsome ex-major lounging about, waiting to pounce on her. Under Lord Cranbrook’s and Lord Craven’s benign gazes, she returned the volume to the shelves, then left.

She’d just pulled the library door closed when she sensed him.

Before she could whirl, a hard hand settled at the back of her waist and propelled her forward. She took an involuntary step, then dug in her heels.

He drew close, beside and behind her. His breath brushed her ear. “Don’t struggle. Don’t make a scene—or I’ll pick you up and carry you.”

The thought of calling his bluff occurred only to be dismissed. It wasn’t a bluff.

Obedient to the pressure at her back, she walked stiffly forward. He steered her across to the morning room, opened the door, and guided her inside.

He paused to close the door; she walked quickly forward and turned to face him over a small table.

Quitting the door, he strolled up. He eyed the table, then looked at her. And raised both brows.

To her intense annoyance, every nerve she possessed leapt and skittered, reacting to his nearness in a thoroughly distracting way. Her spark of anger felt like salvation; she embraced it, clung to it, fed it. Unable to help herself, she quickly searched his eyes, but his expression was impassive; she could see no hint of pity, nor yet any sign he thought her demented.

Folding her arms, she lifted her chin and imperiously demanded, “What do you want? I’ve nothing whatever to say to you.”

Eyes slightly narrowed, he studied hers. To her relief, he made no move to come around the table. A minute ticked by, then he said, quietly and evenly, “You’re going to have to tell me sometime.”

He was speaking of the rescue. She held his green gaze, kept her anger close, and tipped her chin higher. “When hell freezes.”

To her surprise, he didn’t react, or at least not with the immediate arrogant response she’d expected.

He stood there, watching her, considering, thinking…letting the silence and, she belatedly realized, her nerves stretch. And stretch.

She tightened her arms and reminded herself that her cause was too important to risk, not in any circumstance. That she would resist him, that he couldn’t force her to tell him anything, no matter what he thought, that…

When he spoke, she nearly sighed with relief.

“I think you’ll discover it will be much sooner than that.”

She blinked. Waited. But that was, it seemed, all he wished to say.

With a slow nod, he turned, walked to the door, opened it and left.

The door shut with a click. Puzzled, she stared at the panels.