To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

Not the him she’d known through the first three days of their acquaintance, he who had tempted her to believe that an affair between them was possible—more, had taught her that it was something she desired.

Not the him with whom she’d spent the picnic afternoon, different from others, yes, but entertaining and relaxing, his company very much to her taste.

The man who invaded her dreams stalked her, caught her—spun her, helpless, back against a tree. Hot green eyes seared her, then he bent his head and ravaged her mouth, took, seized yet more, then his hard body pressed flush against hers—and sent a flash of excitement unlike anything she’d ever known spearing through her—

She woke with a gasp and a thudding heart, and a body oddly aching, heated and restless, nerves flickering and tight.

Wrapped in darkness, she lay still, listening to her breathing slow, her racing heart gradually subside.

And wondered.

Chapter 7

The next evening, ensconced in one of the large armchairs in the library at Number 12 Montrose Place, Deverell sat in blessed silence, sipped a postprandial brandy, and contemplated the ceiling on which shadows, thrown by the fire leaping in the grate, flickered.

It would, at this juncture, be easy to step back—to simply wash his hands of Phoebe Malleson and walk away.

His life would undoubtedly be simpler, less stressful, if he did. She wasn’t in any way a restful female, and the likelihood of what she was involved in held the promise of untold difficulties.

Unfortunately, no matter how hard one part of his mind tried to convince him to look elsewhere, he didn’t want to; he couldn’t imagine not pursuing Phoebe, irritating female though she was. She made him feel emotions he’d never truly felt, edged those emotions with which he was familiar with a fresh, strange, and compelling urgency. Her peculiar panicky fear was, to his mind, just another challenge, another hurdle to be overcome in wooing and winning her.

He thought back to all that had occurred at Cranbrook Manor, heard again Audrey’s voice calmly pointing out that of all the men present, he was the one with the right skills to hunt down Phoebe. They’d been talking of locating her, but after all that had passed, he sensed he was, in many ways, still hunting Phoebe.

Regardless of his uncertain success thus far, he knew in his bones that Audrey had been right. He was the man with the best chance of capturing Phoebe; no other would succeed. Unless he missed his guess, even Phoebe sensed that.

More, Audrey had been right in reciprocal vein; Phoebe was the right lady for him. He was going to marry her; his resolution on that score had if anything hardened.

That being so, letting her secret, whatever it was, slide back into the obscurity she would no doubt prefer wasn’t an option.

Idly sipping, he considered all he knew, searching for some lever to force the issue—some fact he could use to prise the lid from her secret.

Time and again his mind circled back to the two men he’d glimpsed in the lane with the carriage. For years, his life had depended on his visual acuity, among other skills his ability to recognize men from just a glimpse. He was sure he would recognize both men.

But where should he look for them? Logically, the answer would account for how Phoebe had met them and come to know them.

Draining his glass, he rose, then stretched.

Then he headed for his bed.

Tomorrow he’d go hunting.

The following evening, he strolled into Lady Loxley’s ballroom. Pausing at the head of her ladyship’s ballroom steps, he looked over the sea of heads, searching for the one he wanted.

A flash of glossy dark red, garnet beneath the light of the chandeliers, drew his eye. He located Phoebe across the room. Gowned in a creation of amber silk, she stood beside a chaise on which Edith was sitting; she was in earnest conversation with two ladies he didn’t recognize. Lips curving, he started down the steps.

Although she was committed elsewhere, Audrey had been certain Edith, and therefore Phoebe, would attend the Loxleys’ ball. She’d been right; certain she would be, she’d demanded in return that he “do something to the point.”

He fully intended to do just that.

Phoebe sensed him before she saw him. Her head suddenly lifted; her gaze rose and locked with his. He was near enough to see the flash of surprise that lit her violet-blue eyes, then she veiled them and returned her attention to the ladies—one a matron, the other clearly her daughter—with whom she’d been conversing.

Deverell bowed before Edith and exchanged greetings with her and Mrs. Delauney, then moved on to Phoebe’s little circle. She offered her hand; one brief glance into his eyes and she’d known if she hadn’t, he would have commandeered it. He clasped her fingers but refrained from lifting them to his lips; he could feel the tremor running through them. Standing by her side, he could sense the tension permeating her slender frame; she was on edge, poised to react.

The matron and her daughter hovered, obviously hoping for an introduction. Phoebe obliged, but with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. “Lady Cartwell, Miss Emily Cartwell—Lord Paignton.”

He smiled urbanely and did his best to discourage Lady Cartwell from lingering. His best was excellent; taking the hint, Lady Cartwell excused herself and her daughter and moved on.

Phoebe shifted. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord—”