To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

Relieved on that score—he might whisk Phoebe away from under the matrons’ eyes, but he knew what the ton’s arbiters would turn a blind eye to, and what they wouldn’t, and Phoebe whisking him away fell in the latter category—he returned his attention to her, to what had driven her to seek his help. “What do you want to tell me?”

Reaching the door, she opened it, glanced at him. “I’ll tell you when we’re private.”

She was tense, on edge; he followed her through the door without further hesitation. Closing it behind them, he looked around. They were in a corridor; Phoebe led him on.

“It’s this way.”

“What’s this way?” He fell in beside her.

“A suitable place to have our discussion. Now be quiet in case someone hears.”

He obligingly kept silent and followed; he’d no doubt learn all soon enough. Somewhat to his mystification, she led him unerringly through a maze of corridors—Gosforth House was centuries old—and then started up a flight of stairs.

“Do you know where you’re going?” he whispered.

She glanced back at him, her gaze severe. “Yes.” She looked ahead. “I’ve visited here often.”

She volunteered nothing more; he climbed the stairs in her wake, noting the sweet curves of her lush derriere tonight outlined in old gold silk. His hand started to rise before he realized and forced it down again. She seemed troubled; whatever had prompted her to send for him at the club was presumably preying on her mind.

Recalling that something had occurred to trouble her instantly suppressed his libido.

On the upper floor, she skirted a gallery, then led him down another corridor into a distant wing. The sounds of the ball had long faded; the rooms they passed were eerily still.

Unused. He felt sure of it. He glanced around, noting the thin layer of dust on a side table.

Then Phoebe opened a door and went through. He followed; the room beyond lay in darkness.

“Close the door,” she instructed from somewhere in the gloom. “Then I’ll light a lamp.”

He did as she asked, then stood in the darkness before the door and waited.

A spark flared, then moved; a wick caught, flared, lighting Phoebe’s face, then settled to burn steadily. Phoebe adjusted the wick, and the circle of light, until then limited to her and the lamp, spread and illuminated the room.

Deverell blinked, then stared.

Phoebe replaced the lamp glass and turned to him.

He couldn’t drag his eyes from the room and its furnishings. “Good Lord.”

His voice was weak, an accurate indication of the depth of his amazement. It was the most extraordinary room he’d ever seen. Bizarre was the adjective that first leapt to mind, closely followed by astonishing, unexpected, and utterly fantastic.

His jaw had dropped; it took effort to close it. Stunned, he surveyed the chamber. The size of a small parlor, it had been decorated as a cross between a seraglio and some lustful sheik’s desert tent, all rendered by an imagination run amok.

The walls were hung with spangled gossamer silk, a divan angled between two walls strewn with brocades and piled with satin cushions. The colors were rich—crimsons, purples, blues, and golds. There were silk tassles everywhere, with brass lamps and candlestands and small exotic inlaid tables scattered here and there. More cushions were piled on jewel-hued rugs. Even the ceiling was ornamented with gilt stars.

“Who…what is this place?” Returning his gaze to Phoebe, he discovered she’d walked to him.

“It’s Catherine’s boudoir—she’s Lady Gosforth’s middle daughter. She and I were close friends. Although she’s married now, she insisted her boudoir be left as it was.”

He nearly asked why but decided he didn’t need to know; the thought that the room had been created from the fantasies of a young lady boggled his mind enough as it was. The fact that Phoebe patently found that perfectly reasonable boggled it even more. His gaze had wandered to the fantastical décor; he looked back at Phoebe—just as she clasped his face between her hands, stretched up, and kissed him.

Unprepared, his loins ungirded—he hadn’t expected matters to take such a turn—and perhaps mentally primed by the suggestive surroundings, he found himself lured into an exchange that too quickly progressed from the sweet to the sultry, and from there in double-time to the flagrantly ardent.

But…

It took more effort than he liked to break from the kiss, to wrench his lips from the wanton delights of hers and rasp, “What—”

“We can light more lamps if you like.”