Recalling Lady Charters’s ambush of the previous night, he kept a wary eye out for potential attackers, but noting that Phoebe was once again animatedly questioning a gentleman, he hung back and watched. With the eye of a master interrogator analyzed.
Did the gentleman she’d cornered know he was being interrogated?
A moot point, but then, her curiosity apparently appeased, Phoebe drew back. And felt his gaze.
She turned her head, saw him, and smiled.
He found himself smiling back, surprised by the warmth he felt at her response. He was about to go to her; instead, she quickly made her adieus, swung around, and came to him.
It was difficult to temper his smile.
The musicians struck up a waltz as she neared. Taking her hand, he smoothly bowed, then immediately led her to the floor.
Turning her into his arms, he felt compelled to murmur, “It might be wise not to appear quite so eager.”
She blinked at him. “Eager?”
Even the way she moved into the revolutions with him, without the faintest hesitation or even thought, bore witness to her fixed direction.
“Next time, wait for me to come to you. I promise not to be offended if you act a trifle haughtily”—he caught her eye—“in public.”
A moment passed, then she elevated her nose. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
He hid his smile and steered her down the floor. And plotted their next step.
It might try his patience—and hers, come to that—but step by step was the only viable way forward, embracing her lack of experience and nascent fears while tempering his already too heightened passion with more sophisticated play. That tack would doubtless prove a tightrope he’d have to steady her along, but the long-drawn-out wait would heighten the ultimate pleasure, for both of them increasing the anticipation and priming their senses.
Such an approach would also allow him to ensure he in no way hurt or harmed her, that he didn’t again evoke any real panic. That instead he allayed any fear that might rise in her mind, that might cloud and dim her senses.
When the music ended and he whirled her to a halt, they were at the end of the room, near the doors open to the terrace and the moonlit gardens beyond.
Raising her from her curtsy, he drew her arm through his and steered her to the doors.
“Where are we going?” Phoebe glanced at him, at his face, currently wearing what she mentally termed his social mask; a charmingly urbane expression he seemed able to assume at will, it veiled his ruthless edges.
“The garden, to begin with.”
Those last three words made her hold her tongue; clearly, his direction was the same as hers. He’d said—to her mind, promised—a step-by-step progress; it was time for their next advance.
On the terrace, he turned her to walk along the flags; there were steps leading down to the lawn at each end. A number of other couples were strolling in the fresher air, both on the terrace and on the silvery lawn below.
As they neared one set of steps, she grew increasingly aware of being alone with him, of his body so close, of its warmth, its strength, its hardness. A shiver ran through her.
Instantly, he glanced at her. “Are you cold?”
She considered lying, but he might insist on returning inside. “No.” It was anticipation, not the cool air, that had affected her.
The upward kick of his mobile lips as he looked ahead assured her he’d understood her perfectly. “Let’s go down.”
Once on the gravel walk bordering the lawn, rather than leading her to where other couples were ambling in full view, he steered her to the left, into the dark shadows beneath the large trees separating the lawn from various garden beds.
She cleared her throat. “You mentioned before that morning rooms frequently proved useful.”
Through the darkness, he glanced at her. “Do you know where the morning room is?”
She pointed deeper under the trees to a minor path wending its way between herbaceous borders. “It’s in that wing—the French doors look out on the next section of lawn.”
He glanced at her, lips curving, then looked ahead and obediently led her down the narrower path.