To Distraction (9 page)

That defined, she would have given a great deal to know what attracted him to her—what brought him directly to her side as the company filed into the ballroom.

Halting beside her, he reached for her left hand and raised it, looking for the dance card that wasn’t there.

When he looked at her, brows rising, she explained, “I’m twenty-five.”

He grinned and lowered their hands, letting his fingers slide over hers. “Good. Then you can waltz every waltz with me.”

“Nonsense.” She retrieved her hand and primly clasped both before her. “Two waltzes is the maximum—well, perhaps three.”

“You being twenty-five?”

“Exactly. But you’ll have to dance with others, too.”

He didn’t look impressed, but there wasn’t a matron present who would allow it to be otherwise. He might be focused on her, but the chance to waltz with him was nevertheless an opportunity, one the matchmaking mamas wouldn’t allow their charges to miss.

Which thought had her dwelling on opportunities again.

Georgina came up on Milton’s arm, then Deidre appeared with Peter and Charlie.

“We were thinking of taking some guns out tomorrow.” Peter looked at Deverell. “Will you join us?”

He glanced at Phoebe, and declined, but then asked what sport Peter expected to find. It took a moment before Phoebe realized he’d chosen a topic guaranteed to bore the ladies present. Georgina shifted, as did Deidre, but neither gave any sign of moving on.

Phoebe took pity on them. “That’s a lovely comb, Deidre—where did you find it?”

The three of them were soon engaged in a comparison of London’s milliners and haberdashers.

Then the musicians at the end of the large ballroom started the prelude to a waltz. Deverell’s hand closed strongly about hers before the first chord faded.

He raised their linked hands, boldly raised her fingers to his lips, and kissed. “My dance, I believe.”

She wasn’t about to argue, but as she let him lead her to
the floor, she glimpsed the chagrined look Deidre sent Peter, and his helpless grimace.

“You upset their plan,” she said as Deverell swung her into his arms.

He caught her eyes as he drew her to him. “My plan comes first.”

That was instantly apparent; he set them revolving with consummate grace, all powerful strength and ineffable control. Throughout their first circuit of the large room she was fully engaged in growing accustomed to the sensation of being so utterly in his control. And in letting her starved senses soak in his seductive nearness, and the promise therein.

Having him close seemed to subtly ease her flickering nerves—not so much soothing them as reassuring them that satisfaction was nigh. In that respect, a waltz with him was a flagrant exercise in sensual promise.

His strength surrounded her; she was even more aware of it than when she’d stood in his arms and let him kiss her. As they revolved and precessed, she was totally in his control, and he managed her effortlessly, guiding her where he willed, drawing her a fraction too close as they whirled through a tight turn, and later not easing his hold.

And all the while, his eyes held hers; she felt trapped in his green gaze. She wondered what he could see, what he was reading as he searched her eyes.

Deverell doubted she knew how transparent she was, at least to him, at least in this. Since he’d parted from her that afternoon, she’d reached a decision; she wasn’t seeking to be seduced but she was willing to be seduced. By him. Her altered stance did not extend to any other gentleman, only him. He was the one who had evoked the change, and he was the only one she had any interest in allowing to attempt her seduction.

That last calmed a primitive part of him, one he wasn’t well acquainted with and didn’t understand, that had been stirring—that hadn’t entirely liked the way Milton Cromwell had looked at Phoebe, or the glances other gentlemen had cast her undeniably appealing figure.

She’d been paying more attention to how she dressed, an indication of her interest that hadn’t escaped him. Her subtle transformation had focused his attention even more strongly, feeding his desire.

And now she’d decided to put her hand in his and allow him to lead her along the path to intimacy.

The scent of victory set a spur to his desire; he ruthlessly tamped it down. Her decision was a triumph, yes, but only in the sense his way forward was now clear—to the next step.

He put his mind to the task. Bringing them out of a turn, he set them revolving up the long room. “Why is it that chits like Deidre Mellors think that revealing as much of their charms as possible without precipitating a scandal is alluring?”

Phoebe’s brows rose. “I don’t know.” After a moment, she asked, “Isn’t it? Don’t gentlemen prefer that?”

He smiled into her eyes. “It’s not so much what we prefer as what we find most fascinating.” While Deidre had thought to capture interest with her daringly low-cut bodice, Phoebe had fixed his attention, and others’, much more effectively with her gown that hinted at what lay beneath but didn’t reveal enough to satisfy even their imaginations.

“We’re simple creatures,” he murmured. “You need to tease us.”

She laughed. “I’ll remember that.”

“Do.” He caught her eyes as they revolved, and let his voice deepen. “The mind is the most powerful target for seduction, and the most potent weapon.”

She raised her brows. “A point you’d know.”

“Indeed.”

The music ended; he whirled her to a flourishing halt, then bowed.

Laughing, a touch breathless, Phoebe curtsied, then let him take her hand and lead her to where Audrey and Edith had commandeered a chaise. He didn’t need to return her to her aunt’s side; at her age that was no longer necessary. It was on the tip of her tongue to remind him, but the combination of his words and him being near was a powerful distraction.

The mind is the most powerful target…and the most potent weapon.

Was it her imagination, or had there been a warning—an indication of what direction he intended to take—in those words?

She spent the next hour on tenterhooks, waiting—hoping—to find out.

He didn’t disappoint her. But…

“The morning room?”

“Strange to tell, it’s the one room in any house almost always overlooked, and never ventured into by anyone during a ball.”

He spoke with authority distilled, she presumed, from extensive experience, but as he ushered her through the door, she discovered he was right; the room was empty.

The curtains hadn’t been drawn. Moonlight washed through the long windows, providing enough light to navigate by, but not enough to see subtle variations in colors or fine detail. As the room hadn’t been prepared for use that evening, no lamps were lit.

Phoebe was relieved. Dealing with Deverell on this plane was difficult enough in the dark; she didn’t need to see him,
didn’t need any visual reminder of his strength, that hers was so much less.

That, as usual, she was in his control.

Behind her, he closed the door. She heard the lock snib. A moment passed in which he studied her—she could feel his gaze on her back—then he pushed away from the door; she sensed him approaching.

She whirled. “I wanted to ask—”

Her breath suspended. He looked into her eyes from a distance of mere inches.

Then he reached for her; his arms slowly, gently surrounded her, and he eased her toward him. “What?”

She blinked and struggled to remember. “Ah…”

Above their heads, music played; the ball was in full swing, the dancers whirling to the strains of the first waltz after supper. On leaving the supper room, together and briefly alone, he’d led her into the house rather than back to the ball; no one had seen them disappear; no one knew where they were.

Her gaze had fixed on his lips.

They curved. One hand rising to cradle her face, he murmured, “Is it urgent?”

Amusement laced his tone; it, and his touch, made her shiver.

She lifted her gaze to his eyes. “What are you thinking of?” Perhaps that would give her some clue as to what he intended.

He held her gaze for an instant, then replied, “You.”

The arm about her waist tightened; he drew her fractionally closer. She spread her palms on his chest, fought down an urge to slide them further. She cleared her throat, hurriedly asked, “What about me?”

His devilish smile deepened. He leaned nearer; his lips
brushed the corner of hers. “About what I want to do to you. With you.”

Her lips throbbed, hungry for his, but she swallowed and whispered, “What?”

“This.” His tone suggested she’d teased him far enough, that he’d reached the end of his patience. He kissed her, took her mouth, not forcefully, yet she couldn’t have resisted, couldn’t have denied him had she so wished.

Luckily, she hadn’t any intention of denying him, or herself. She let him take, then, emboldened, encouraged him to take more.

He did, but not as she’d expected. He lifted his head, breaking the kiss.

She caught the glint of his eyes beneath his heavy lids.

“This.” He murmured the word against her lips, his voice gravelly and deep. Then the arm about her tightened still more, a steely band locking her against him.

She tensed. He hesitated, but then bent his head and kissed her more deeply, more persuasively, more urgently, until she responded, until she slid her hands up and wound them about his neck and kissed him back.

Deverell battled to keep his mind on her lips, her mouth, on the heated tangle of their tongues. Fought to keep his senses enmeshed in the increasingly sensual play, away from the sensation of her svelte body plastered the length of his.

Away from the warm pressure of her breasts against his chest, from the provocative weight of her hips and thighs caressing his.

She was pliant, willing, to that point at least, yet there remained within her a core of flighty, skittering resistance.

Of rearguard defiance—that was how the more primitive side of him chose to interpret it, that side of him few women had ever drawn forth but which she evoked so effortlessly.
The side of him that wasn’t all that safe, that was in many ways dangerous.

That side of him he couldn’t, with her, forever hold back.

It was that aspect of him that deliberately stoked the kiss into a conflagration, into a building firestorm of need so that she gasped and clung, then melted.

So that she sank against him, so that it seemed her wish that he send one hand sliding down, palm spread, sculpting her hips, then swooping lower to cup her bottom and knead provocatively, her wish that he give in to temptation and flagrantly mold her to him.

Phoebe gasped, overwhelmed by sensation. By the depth and searing heat of their kiss, by the steady, unrelenting temptation of his lips and tongue, of his questing hand, of her own needs and wants flaring in response. Then his hand firmed; he pressed her to him—and everything within her stilled.

Her heart, her pulse, her wits, her mind.

Her fears.

He shifted against her; there was no mistaking the hard ridge of his erection pressing against her belly.

The last time she’d been this close to a man—

She blocked off the thought surprisingly easily; this was so unlike that other time. This time, desire warmed her veins; this time, passion and lust lapped about her—hers as well as his.

This time she was willing; this time she had some say, some influence.

She might not have control, but he did.

Nerve by nerve, tendon by tendon she let her fears slide away, let their grip on her unravel. Felt them fall away as his hand firmed again; he’d known she’d tensed, known she was close to pushing him away, and had waited.

He hadn’t backed away, but he hadn’t tried to press her on.

When the last vestige of her tension evaporated and she sank willingly against him again, Deverell mentally sighed with relief. They were, thank heaven, over that hurdle. If she’d panicked…

He would have stopped, but the cost would have been more than he wished to contemplate. He’d taken a risk leading her this far, but the angels had smiled and she was still with him.

But he knew his limits, and they’d reached them. He didn’t dare tempt himself more by dallying with her for much longer.

Gradually, moment by moment, he eased them back from the brink of the next step. She wasn’t any great help; her lips clung and tempted, demanded, then pouted when he insisted on lifting his head.

He looked down at her slumbrous eyes and inwardly gloated. Raising one hand, he brushed the pad of his thumb over her full, lower lip and watched passion swim through her lovely, dazed eyes.

He wanted her more than he’d imagined possible.

Dragging in a tight breath, he eased his arms from her; making sure she was steady on her feet, he stepped back, putting space and safe air between them.

She sighed, then looked down and shook out her skirts. “I suppose we should get back.”

Her tone suggested she wasn’t convinced. Through the waning moonlight, he stared at her. It was go back, or…

His body felt wooden, but he forced one arm up and waved her to the door. “Yes. We should. We need to be seen again.”

She passed by him on her way to the door, head tilting, a slight frown on her face as she tried to see his eyes well enough to gauge the reason behind his terse tone.

He broke; as she passed, he swung behind her and slipped an arm about her waist. He drew her back against him, one hand splayed over her waist, the other palm stroking her upper arm—his fingertips quite deliberately lightly caressing the side of her breast.

She sucked in a breath but didn’t freeze.

Bending his head, he pressed his lips to the warm, scented hair above her ear, and whispered, “I want you, Phoebe, and you will be mine. Soon.”

A second ticked by, then he straightened. And released her.

She didn’t immediately move forward. Instead, she turned her head and over her shoulder met his eyes. Then she looked at his lips, and nodded. “Soon.”

With that, head high, she swept to the door.

He blinked, mentally shook his head free of his lust, and, his expression studiously impassive, followed.