To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)
Sensation streaked through her, shards of sharp delight; she gasped through their kiss, and sensed in him, in his response, a dark satisfaction.
Yet his touch didn’t alter. Slow, unhurried—frustratingly languid. She wanted to rush on, yet…even as the thought formed, it was seduced from her mind by another, more evocative realization.
He was doing with her what he wished. As he wished.
The knowledge blossomed in her mind, washed through her on a heightened wave of pleasure as his fingers artfully, skillfully played.
She’d instigated this interlude deliberately, with unwavering determination. It was the only lure that held any chance of distracting him from his pursuit of her business secrets—encouraging his pursuit of her, and her private secrets.
When it came down to brass tacks, her private secrets were much less vital than the secret of the agency.
Although it was tempting to think of herself as some romantic heroine sacrificing her virtue to protect others, she couldn’t so delude herself; she was there in his arms, inviting him to seduce her because she hoped he would. He was the only man she’d ever been attracted to, and if he wished, and if she managed to keep her old memories at bay, he was richly qualified to teach her all she had thought she would never know; distracting him in this way hadn’t been that difficult a decision to make.
That was also why she’d been so determined—but she hadn’t, as he’d so rightly guessed, known quite what it was she’d been inviting.
She’d deliberately propelled them along this path, yet she wasn’t in control of this—he was. He wasn’t dancing to her tune; she was dancing to his. She’d placed herself in his arms and now couldn’t go back—couldn’t pull away, and didn’t want to.
He would teach her what she wished to learn, but there would be a price. His price.
It would be his way—his unhurried, languid way, a sensual demonstration of the control he could and would exercise over her.
The knowledge shivered through her, insidious and compelling, evoking a touch of fear and a wholly wanton anticipation. The expectation of experiencing pleasures she wouldn’t be able to escape, let alone deny, all at his command, sent illicit excitement streaking through her.
The mind is the most powerful target for seduction.
Clearly he knew of what he spoke.
Practiced it, too. That was implicit in the way he held her back, somehow managed the reins so that she couldn’t, no matter how she might wish, any longer rush ahead, push him or waltz them further, faster.
His hands on her breasts, his lips on hers, the net of pleasure he so skillfully wove held her—safe, but also secure.
Protected, but ultimately his.
When he finally drew his hands from her breasts, drew her once more flush against him and kissed her, long, deep, and lingeringly but with a finality impossible to mistake, then lifted his head, she sighed and accepted it when he eased her from him, letting her hands slide from about his neck.
His hands beneath her elbows steadying her, he studied her face, her eyes, then said, “Step by step. That’s the way it will be.”
A dictate, with a warning running beneath.
Tilting her head, she studied him in return, then inclined her head, turned, and led the way to the door.
The following evening, Deverell joined Phoebe at Lady Joinville’s rout. He accompanied Audrey; as he turned from greeting Lord and Lady Joinville and offered her his arm, he prayed she wouldn’t cramp his style.
It would take Montague some days at least to trace the recipient or recipients of Phoebe’s drafts. He knew better than to try to hurry the process; Montague was painstakingly thorough, which was why he retained him.
Meanwhile, neither he nor Grainger had succeeded in discovering anything out of the ordinary in the movements of either Phoebe, her maid, or her groom-cum-coachman, at least not during daylight hours. Tonight, he’d extended Grainger’s watch-duty to include the evening.
He led Audrey down the ballroom steps; the feather in her turban bobbed majestically by his ear. When they reached the floor, Edith, seated with a group of her cronies, waved and beckoned; with some relief, he delivered Audrey to them.
After greeting Audrey, Edith turned to him and smiled sweetly. “Phoebe’s here somewhere—she’s in fuschia, so she should be easy to spot.”
He smiled, inwardly wondering what fuschia
was. A color, or a material? He would have asked Audrey, but she was already engrossed in swapping the latest on-dits. With a general bow encompassing all four ladies, he left them and started quartering the crowd.
Fuschia proved to be a color—a brilliant hue midway between pink and purple. When he spotted Phoebe thus gloriously garbed, chatting amid a group of ladies and gentlemen, he stood back for a moment and drank in the sight.
If asked, he would have thought that the bright hue would clash with the color of her hair; instead, the combination was the epitome of dramatic. With the pale, flawless skin of her shoulders and arms exposed by the gown’s tiny, off-the-shoulder sleeves, with the scooped neckline of the bodice closed with tiny pearls showcasing her ample charms, and the fall of the lush silk skirts revealing, then concealing, the lithe limbs beneath, she was a sight to fix the interest of any man.