The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (19 page)

She did want it, she wanted it desperately. Phoebe allowed herself to drift down this course with him, knowing full well that she was close to passing the point where she could stop this passionate encounter. She didn’t want to stop. Her desire had blossomed out of control, drawing from a well deep inside her and pulsing to the breast that he suckled. Oh, dear God, such pleasure! She raised her hands above her head, inadvertently knocking fabric and rulers and scissors to the wooden floor. The desire inside her was building toward a violent eruption.

But Summerfield suddenly stopped. Phoebe moaned and opened her eyes. He was looking at the door. It was then Phoebe heard the voices. Someone was coming up the stairs.

He quickly and silently pulled Phoebe to her feet, helped her rearrange her breasts into her bodice. She knotted her hair; Summerfield cupped her face and kissed her passionately once more before moving quietly through the door that led to her bedchamber.

Phoebe stood at the worktable, her chest heaving with the excitement and desire that was still crashing through her, the residual feelings of his kiss and his touch still pulsing deep and hot between her legs.

When Mrs. Turner appeared in the doorway, her eyes widened at the sight of Phoebe and her work scattered on the floor.

“Good Lord, Madame Dupree! What has happened?” she asked as Frieda eagerly pushed in behind her.

Phoebe glanced at her things on the floor, seeing the mess for the first time.

“I told you, Mrs. Turner, did I not?” Frieda asked triumphantly. “Lady Alice is in a mood today!”

Phoebe sighed and went down on her haunches, letting the two women think Alice had upset the workroom as she began to gather her things.

S pellbound.

Will could not remember a time he had ever felt so completely enchanted. Not even Rania, with all her seductive charm, had affected him quite like Phoebe.

It was hours later, and his body was still reacting to the passion he had shared with Phoebe, his heart still pounding with the anticipation of sinking deep inside her. He continued to wear the scarab, however—he feared how his desire might rage without it.

His convictions, he was sorry to note, had rapidly deserted him. His determination to be a good and decent man had flitted out the window with a single warm look from the blue-eyed beauty. He was surprised and appalled by his weakness, but even more startled by how completely spellbound he felt.

Perhaps it was her poignant description of love. Or the fact that she’d never held him in any particular reverence. Whatever it was about her, he could not stop thinking about her now, could not shed the feel of her from his body.

He was so enthralled that he could scarcely dress for the supper party. He stood in the middle of his dressing room, hands on hips, thinking about what he would do.

Convictions be damned.

He was a man, and he was physically and emotionally drawn to Phoebe Dupree in a way he had not been attracted to a woman in a very long time, perhaps as long as his first infatuation. That she was beautiful only intensified his desire.

His preoccupation with her allowed him to forget about Alice for a time. He decided to heed Phoebe’s advice and let his sister keep her blasted love letter, but he’d warned her through her locked door—as chambermaids hurried by him carrying table linens—that if she thought to see Mr. Hughes again, he would put an end to their infatuation in a manner she would most assuredly not like. He did not believe in their love. He really wasn’t certain what love was, for Alice or anyone else, but it seemed ridiculous to apply that word to her admiration of the smithy’s apprentice.

And as for himself? Will was incapable of naming the feelings that were gaining control over him. Desire? Obsession?

For all his staring into space, he’d forgotten about Addison, until the man gave him an appraising look. “What is it?” Will asked. “Have I forgotten something?”

“No, milord,” he said, and brushed a hair from Will’s shoulder. “But you do not seem at ease.”

Will snorted. “As usual, Addison, your powers of understatement are impeccable. Are you not the least bit acquainted with my sister Alice? No, Addison, I am not at ease. My brother cheats at cards, my sister is far too free with her affections, and there is a bloody seamstress underfoot…” He caught himself before saying more.

“Milord?”

“Nothing,” Will muttered.

Addison said nothing, but his ears began to redden. “Might I suggest a whiskey, milord, to ease the tension before you greet your guests?”

“A capital idea,” Will said gruffly as he pushed Addison’s hands away from his neckcloth. “Make it a double, will you?” he asked, and moved to straighten his blasted neckcloth himself.

“By the bye,” Addison said casually as he poured the whiskey. “I have done a bit of discreet inquiring about Madame Dupree.”

Will looked over his shoulder at Addison. “And?”

“And it seems that she has been rather involved in her work and has not spoken much about herself. Very little is known of her, really.”

“No mention of family? Lovers?”

“Not that I could ascertain, milord.”

He turned back to the mirror. “Then I shall have to ascertain it myself,” he said low.

Addison handed Will the whiskey—he tossed it back with the vain hope it would ease his burn.

It did not.

He was still on fire when he greeted his guests later. Everyone seemed in good spirits, and his siblings were, surprisingly, on their best behavior. Alice and Jane were beautifully turned out, and he marveled at their transformation. Jane’s dress, made of a soft green fabric, was simply adorned with a rose sash beneath the bodice. The skirt was covered in fine lace, which lent it an elegance that Jane carried well.

But it was Alice who seemed almost a different person. Her hair was swept up and tied with ribbons, and her lavender gown revealed a woman’s figure Will had not realized his sister possessed. Her gown was beautiful—rings of delicate little flowers lined the hem and sleeves. She wore the amethyst jewelry that had belonged to his mother, the earrings sparkling in the soft candlelight. Perhaps even more surprising, Alice smiled prettily when Samuel Remington engaged her in conversation.

Will could not remember the last time he’d seen her smile; her laughter warmed his heart in a way he would not have thought possible.

Roger, Will discovered, had an engaging way of conversing and was a natural host. In contrast, Joshua was brooding, keeping to himself as he often did when Will was present. He supposed he ought to at least be grateful that Joshua had not challenged anyone to a card game or made any lewd remarks to the ladies.

He had worried about the supper service, but the newly renovated dining room was large enough to accommodate them all, particularly when the younger guests were put at smaller tables in the corners of the room. And his staff, most of them rather new to their jobs, performed admirably well.

The conversation at supper turned lively when Mr. Fortenberry reviewed news from the last Parliamentary session. He very adamantly opposed reforms that Lords Radnor and Middleton were trying to push through the House of Lords that would give poor, working women certain protections and, to Mr. Fortenberry’s way of thinking, encourage them to pursue unnatural occupations.

“Unnatural?” Mrs. Remington sputtered, ignoring her husband’s wince. “Do you suppose, then, Mr. Fortenberry, that men should pursue the unnatural occupation of shopkeeper or seamstress?”

“A woman should concentrate on being a mother and a wife. She may sew her family’s clothes if she has an inclination for it, but to be a shopkeeper or a paid seamstress is unnatural,” Mr. Fortenberry exclaimed, putting his fist to the table to emphasize it.

“But what of those women who are not inclined to sew? What are they to do for clothing?”

“A woman who does not know the art of needlework has been given a negligent education in my opinion.”

“Oh, Mr. Fortenberry! That is preposterous!” Mrs. Remington snapped, and pressed two hands to her fleshy bosom as if she meant to prevent herself from leaping across the table and strangling him.

The table fell silent for a moment, but then Alice surprised Will by smiling and saying, “I am thankful there are seamstresses for hire, sir, for I cannot bear to think what I might be wearing tonight had we not brought in a seamstress.”

That was met with polite laughter around the table, interrupted only when Mr. Fortenberry went on to espouse his views that once a woman was given protective rights that took jobs from men, then the right to vote could not be far behind. Mrs. Remington loudly disagreed, averring women generally had no particular interest in something as dreadfully tiresome as politics.

And as the conversation turned livelier, with everyone tossing in their opinions, Will caught Miss Fitzherbert’s eye. She smiled at him from her seat halfway down the table. He smiled, too, but he found himself wondering if Miss Fitzherbert had ever felt as if she were breathing underwater.

After supper, the ladies retired to the game room while the men enjoyed a cigar and a round of port. “I tell you, it is trouble to allow women any rights or privileges under the law,” Mr. Fortenberry continued, stabbing the air with his cigar for emphasis. “In the blink of an eye, a man will not even be master of his house. He will be lawfully forced to allow his wife a say in the management of the home.”

“My wife has long demanded a say in the management of our home,” Mr. Remington said cheerfully. The men laughed.

“What do you say, Summerfield?” Mr. Fortenberry asked, fixing his gaze on Will.

What Will thought was that all the sitting about was tiresome. He wanted to move, to ride, and to be left to his thoughts. He felt oddly disjointed; the air was cloying and he had an almost overwhelming urge to rip his collar open. “I have not yet met a woman I feared, sir.”

The gentlemen laughed, but Henry eyed him playfully. “Come, now, Summerfield. Have you no opinion on the matter? Do you think yourself capable of tolerating a woman emboldened with civil rights?”

Will grinned at his old friend. “My tolerance of any woman, with or without civil rights, is strengthened only by her comely looks.”

Once again, the gentlemen laughed roundly, but still Mr. Remington would not cease trying to persuade the others that women who worked were a danger to the realm.

When the men finally rejoined the women, card tables had been set up for whist, and the billiards table had been prepared for players. Will had promised Miss Fitzherbert that he would partner her for a round of whist, but as he approached her, Joshua suddenly stepped in front of him.

“Miss Fitzherbert,” he said, bowing low. “Will you do me the honor of partnering me for whist?”

Miss Fitzherbert seemed as surprised by Joshua’s invitation as Will and uncertain what to do. “Oh. Well,” she said, glancing anxiously at Will.

Joshua ignored Will; he stood with his clasped hands behind his back and patiently awaited her answer.

“Yes…of course, Mr. Darby,” Miss Fitzherbert said at last.

“Splendid. Thank you,” he said, and put out his arm to her.

With another helpless look at Will, Miss Fitzherbert put her gloved hand on Joshua’s arm and allowed him to lead her away.

Will was not, as he thought he should have been, particularly disturbed by Joshua’s invitation to Miss Fitzherbert. But the vicar’s lovely young wife was disturbed for him—she disengaged from her husband and requested that Will be her partner for billiards.

They played two rounds, losing both times to Henry and an exuberant Jane. It was Will’s fault—he could not concentrate.

“What the devil is the matter with you?” Henry asked as a footman rearranged the billiards for another game. “Just last week you astonished me with superior skill. Tonight you can’t seem to find a single billiard pocket.”

“Too much wine,” Will said. But in truth, he could not shake the thoughts of Phoebe from his mind. He could not seem to wash away the taste of her or stop reliving her impassioned plea for Alice.

He had abandoned every last conviction, apparently, for after losing another round, instead of moving to a whist table as he ought to have done, he handed Mrs. MacDonald to Henry, asked one of the Remington boys to be Jane’s partner—which made poor Jane turn very pale—and announced to his guests that he must excuse himself for a time, as he would bid his father good night.

He walked to the door of the billiard room, instructed the two footmen there to ensure that no glass went empty, and quit the room. And as he moved up the stairs, he continued past the floor that housed the family quarters, including his father’s, and kept going up, to the top floors, where servants and closed nurseries and storage rooms were housed.

He noticed Phoebe’s workroom door was closed and withdrew his pocket watch from his waistcoat. It was half past eleven. She was certainly sleeping. Will hesitated, standing there with one foot on the stairs, one on the landing, debating whether or not to wake her.

Then he heard her voice. It was faint, but he heard her singing. The sound buoyed him. He moved down the corridor, straining to hear her, then stood outside her door, listening to her soft, lilting voice, marveling that any human being could sing so horribly off-key.

Good Lord, he’d heard mewling cats that sounded better than Phoebe Dupree.

Alas, my love, ye do me wrong

To cast me off discourteously,

And I have loved you so long,

Delighting in your company.

As she began the second verse, Will rapped on the door to stop her.

It worked. A moment later, she opened the door, a curious smile on her face that rapidly faded when she saw him standing there. She was wearing a nightgown and a dressing gown over it, her blond hair loose and hanging over her shoulders and around her face, as if he’d interrupted her brushing it.

“Good evening,” he said, and leaned against the doorjamb, taking her in.

“My lord!” She suddenly whirled around and picked up a Kashmir shawl from a chair, throwing it around her shoulders and holding it tightly to her. “What are you doing here? Has something happened?”