The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (7 page)

Phoebe shifted around on the bench to have a better look. His shoulders were broader and stronger than she remembered, his back tapered into powerful hips and thighs. She imagined one of those thighs between her legs and released a quiet sigh of longing before turning the page of her sketchbook. She began to try to capture the image of Summerfield and the horse.

The large red stallion, standing a few yards away from the rest of the herd, ignored Summerfield as he nibbled a fresh patch of grass. Summerfield slowly raised his arm, palm up, and took a step toward the horses. Two of the horses standing nearby shied. But not the red, oh no—he did not even lift his head. Summerfield took another deliberate step, and another, until his hand was just below the horse’s nose. After what seemed hours instead of moments, the horse finally lifted his head and touched his nose to Summerfield’s hand.

Phoebe gasped softly as Summerfield stepped closer, his free hand going to the horse’s mane and neck, stroking it carefully as the horse chewed whatever offering he’d brought him. It was magical—it was almost as if Summerfield and the horse had formed an acquaintance.

And then, as if sensing the acquaintance, another of the wild horses came forward to sniff the viscount. A pregnant mare followed that one. Phoebe was mesmerized by the scene playing out before her—the man standing amid those wild beasts, befriending them so easily. But when a flock of birds suddenly rose from the trees, it startled the herd and the horses cantered away, disappearing over a rise in the land. Summerfield watched the horses until he could no longer see them, then stooped down and picked up his hat and walked away, through a path that led into the woods.

Only then did Phoebe look at her sketch of him standing before the horses. She quickly filled in the morning shadows and trees. It was a very rough sketch, but it captured the magic of…of his physique. The sketch would make a fine painting—the wild man taming the wild horse. Actually, Phoebe could imagine him taming any number of things. Children. Dragons. Women…

She closed her eyes and imagined him stroking her hair as he had stroked the horse’s mane. The image warmed her, made her feel strangely full. She often had such thoughts—more times than she supposed was decent. But she felt like something was building in her, something tall and massive from which it felt she could easily fall. Into what, she didn’t know, but she had a feeling it was something tantalizingly dangerous.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes, shut the book, and started back to the house.

When Phoebe walked through the main entrance, the sound of female voices reached her, and she noticed that someone had moved the flowers. As a pair of carpenters was hard at work near the main stairwell, Phoebe chose a different path to avoid disturbing them and encountering the women. That path led her down a corridor she had not yet seen.

This corridor had obviously been renovated. The paint on the walls was fresh, the carpet new. She walked by an open door. The room inside—a salon, by the look of it—had just been painted, too, judging by the smell of turpentine. But it was the color that caught Phoebe’s eye, and she frowned slightly, pausing to duck her head inside. The paint was the color of pewter, which she thought rather too dull in a room that received very little sun. It was too cold and uninviting for a receiving salon. As no one was within, Phoebe stepped across the threshold to have a look.

Oh no. Oh dear. The furniture had been placed awkwardly about the room, a table there, an ottoman here, and two overstuffed chairs shoved side by side against a wall. With her foot, Phoebe pushed the ottoman away from its place by the door. Then she moved the table near the ottoman, and followed that by pushing the two chairs into a grouping. She was considering the placement of a side cart when she heard footsteps behind her and quickly snatched up her sketchbook and whirled around.

At the threshold was one of the Darby brothers she had seen from her view in the workroom. He was her age, perhaps a bit younger. He was dressed in a coat of black superfine, with his hair cut short and curled around his face, as was the current fashion. He was a handsome man—but not as handsome as his older brother.

He smiled darkly when he saw her. “What have we here?” he asked, wandering insouciantly into the room as he boldly took her in.

His manner made her tense; she knew his expression, had seen it directed at her many times in her life, and it made her feel exposed.

“My, my,” he said, his gaze lingering on her bosom. “Who is this woman, this beauty, wandering about Wentworth Hall when the other ladies gather like a gaggle around my brother? You are not known to me,” he said, raising his tobacco brown gaze to hers.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Phoebe said with a curtsy. “I am Madame Dupree. I have been retained as a modiste—”

“A what?”

“A dressmaker.”

He frowned a little at that. “You’re the seamstress? I thought seamstresses were little old women with bowed backs and gray hair,” he said as his gaze dipped to her bosom again.

Phoebe gathered her shawl and held it just below her throat to block his view of her flesh.

“Where is your husband, Madame Dupree?” he asked brazenly, looking up, peering at her. “Has he no care for you? He should not allow his beauty to be sent off alone. Where is he?”

The young man was sorely lacking in etiquette—a gentleman would never question her so boldly. “I am widowed,” she said simply.

“A widow, eh?” He smirked. “A widow is a man’s dream, they say, for she does not require marriage or a fee for her favors.”

Phoebe blanched, appalled.

But the younger Darby chuckled and pointed at her sketchbook. “If you are a seamstress, what are you doing here?”

“Ah…” She glanced around. “Just admiring things.”

“Admiring what? Are you a thief, seamstress?”

“Certainly not!” Phoebe exclaimed. “I was looking at the furniture.”

“Why?” he asked as he strolled in a circle around her.

Phoebe debated what to say, and finding nothing plausible, she finally admitted the truth. “It was poorly arranged.”

He gave a bark of surprised laughter. “I beg your pardon?”

Phoebe lifted her chin. “It is not very inviting, in truth.”

He laughed again. “You are a curious thing, are you not? What have you got there?”

Phoebe glanced at her book. “My…my sketchbook.”

“A sketchbook?” he said, his smile going deeper. “And what have you sketched, Widow Dupree? Let’s have a look,” he said, holding out his hand.

She instantly moved the sketchbook out of his reach. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I would rather not.”

“I hardly care if you would or would not,” he said easily, gesturing for her to give him the book.

“It is private.”

His gaze turned dark with anger. “You do not refuse me, madam. I am the son of the Earl of Bedford, and you are a servant in my house. You will do as you are told if you want to retain your employment. Now let me have a look.”

She was shocked to be treated so rudely, but moreover, she was furious. “No, sir,” she said politely but firmly, even though her heart was racing. “I prefer not—”

With a growl, he suddenly grabbed it from her hand.

“Stop that!” she cried, lurching for it. “That belongs to me!”

The young man opened it. And grinned with delight. “Well then, I should—”

Whatever he might have said was lost—Phoebe was jostled when Lord Summerfield suddenly surged past her and clamped his hand down on her sketchbook. She hadn’t heard him come into the room, and apparently, neither had his brother. Summerfield was taller than his brother, broader and thicker, and glared down at the younger man with a murderous gaze. “Joshua,” he said through clenched teeth, “the lady does not want to share her sketches.” He yanked the book from Joshua’s hands. “Please do apologize.”

“She is not a lady, she is a seamstress, and she is rather suspiciously lurking about the room—”

“Joshua.”

Summerfield’s commanding voice had the desired effect. Joshua shifted his blazing gaze from the viscount to Phoebe. “I beg your pardon,” he said curtly.

The viscount stepped aside. “Now go.”

Glaring at his brother, Joshua strode forward, pushing past Phoebe as he quit the room.

When he had gone, Summerfield closed the sketchbook without looking at it—thanks to the slew of promises Phoebe had just made to God in exchange for his not looking—and handed it to her.

“My sincerest apology for my brother’s abominable behavior,” he said tightly.

Phoebe nodded. “Thank you for retrieving my book,” she said, and held it tightly to her chest for a moment.

He said nothing, but his gaze was intent on hers. His scrutiny made her feel awkward. Yet he was not looking at her in the same manner men generally looked at her. There was no lust in his expression. Just curiosity.

“I beg your pardon,” Phoebe stammered nervously. “I was indeed lurking where I ought not to have been, but I noticed—” She winced, dismayed by her lack of decorum.

He glanced around. “Noticed what?” he asked.

“Nothing at all,” she said, clutching the sketchbook tighter.

“There is something,” he contradicted her, and looked at her questioningly.

Phoebe glanced heavenward a moment, then sighed. She’d been a fool to wander where she should not have been. “It is the color, my lord.”

“The color?” It was clear he did not understand.

“The thing is,” Phoebe said, relaxing a little, “the room does not receive a lot of sun, and the gray color will make it seem cold.”

He glanced at the walls.

“And…the furniture is a bit…”

He shot a look at her; Phoebe hesitated. “A bit…?” he prompted her.

“Scarce. A rug, perhaps,” she said, sweeping her hand to the floor. “And a divan.”

Summerfield looked at the furniture she had rearranged.

While he looked at the furniture as if he’d only just noticed it, Phoebe looked at him. He’d changed out of his buckskins and lawn shirt, and into attire more appropriate for a viscount. But his neckcloth, she noticed, was hastily tied and hung crookedly. His shirt cuffs were bunched beneath the sleeves of his coat, as if he’d just thrown it on. The curious black mark on his wrist, which she had glimpsed the morning he’d helped her to feed the horses, was even more visible, and she could see it was a tail that curled up the inside of his arm.

He was not a fastidious man, and the effect was rather stirring—Phoebe could very well imagine him scaling mountains and sailing the high seas. Good God, she could hardly look at him without that blasted heat rising in her cheeks. But how could she help herself? He had the most striking hazel eyes she had ever seen, and his mouth…

He suddenly looked at her and caught her staring at him.

She blinked. “I should…go,” she blurted. “Thank you,” she added. But as she began to walk away, she clumsily dropped her sketchbook. It hit the table and fell open on the carpet. With a gasp, she instantly went down on her haunches to retrieve it. Unfortunately, Summerfield was faster, picking it up before she could reach it.

Phoebe’s heart started to race. “How clumsy of me! Thank you,” she added, extending her hand for the book.

But Summerfield was intent on closing it. He turned the book over in his palm to do just that, and her sketch caught his eye. He paused. One dark golden brow rose high above the other as he looked at it.

There it was, then. Phoebe wanted to die. Preferably in a manner that was fiery and completely engulfing, but she’d settle for the earth simply opening and gobbling her whole.

When Summerfield glanced up, his eyes were shining with amusement.

“Ah…you were standing down there,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the window, “and I…ahem…I was walking. And you were there,” she said again.

God help her, she sounded absolutely ridiculous. Her voice trailed off; she was at a loss for words. She could only imagine what he must think of her, now that he’d discovered her nursing a childish infatuation. She was hardly the sophisticated modiste he had hired and she sighed in exasperation.

Summerfield smiled a little. “The likenesses of the horses are done admirably well,” he said as he closed the book. “But I confess, I am not familiar with my image from that particular vantage point so I cannot say whether it is a fitting likeness or not.”

“It is…it is an excellent likeness,” she muttered.

His smile widened a little. “Are you often in the habit of sketching unsuspecting subjects?”

She took the book and looked up at his laughing hazel green eyes. “Actually, in spite of its being a particularly rude habit, the answer is yes.”

Summerfield laughed.

Why wouldn’t the earth open up and suck her down into Hades now? What a cabbagehead she’d suddenly become! “If you will excuse me, my lord, I should like to go and bury myself in a very large hole.”

He grinned, but Phoebe had already started moving, practically sprinting, from sheer mortification. She did not, however, make it very far, for Farley suddenly appeared in the doorway with three women on his heels, all of them craning their necks to see inside.

“Ah, there you are, Summerfield!” one of them called, waving her hand and pushing past Farley.

“Mrs. Remington. Mrs. Donnelly. Mrs. MacDonald. Please do come in,” Summerfield said. “I beg your pardon for being late to your tour—I had a rather urgent matter to attend to,” he said.

Feeding wild horses, Phoebe thought. She stepped out of the way, and bowed her head as the three women sailed into the room. She intended to go right out and on to her work, but Farley stood just at the threshold, blocking any hope of an unnoticed exit.

“You are too kind to let us tour the hall,” the woman Phoebe thought was Mrs. Remington said. “What you’ve done to it is…is…Well. Words fail me,” she said with a smile.

“Thank you.”

“And this room!” she added cheerfully. “Rather remarkable, isn’t it?”

“Rather remarkable in how poorly it was done,” one of the other women added.

Phoebe swallowed a gasp.

“I beg your pardon?” Summerfield said, his brow furrowing with confusion as he, too, looked around the room.