Her blue gown, with its rounded neckline, was neither prim nor precocious. It was ladylike, of the sort that declared the owner aware of her femininity yet not absorbed by it, deeming it unnecessary to make any point of it.
One of his peculiar, now finely honed talents was being able to read people—their characters, their traits—rapidly, with just a glance and a few words. His initial reading of Phoebe mirrored what Audrey had said of her: She had no interest whatever in gentlemen, nor did she expect to develop any such interest in the near future.
Well enough; he clearly had a challenge on his hands, but that spark of attraction held definite promise. And given what he now realized had been the wellspring of his recent restlessness—his lack of anything to actively pursue—he was not at all averse to viewing Phoebe Malleson, and her hand, as a prize to be fought for and won.
Especially as, in just a few minutes, she’d managed to intrigue him.
She rounded the corner of the house. Drawing alongside, he glanced at her face; expression determined, she was looking ahead to where the other guests were gathering about tables set for afternoon tea.
He couldn’t recall when a lady had so piqued his curiosity, or his fickle and long-jaded interest. Her refusal to acknowledge their mutual attraction only drove the spur deeper.
She felt his gaze but resisted meeting it; instead, she gestured at the guests. “I expect you’ve done the rounds and met everyone. Peter Mellors visits here regularly—he’ll be able to answer any questions you might have.”
He’d much rather ask her. He ambled beside her, interested to see where she was leading him—what she thought she was going to do with him.
How she thought she was going to lose him.
His lips curved. His expectations of the next four days soared; his entertainment appeared assured. He made a mental note to remember to thank Audrey.
Phoebe Malleson marched into the clustered guests much like a general visiting his troops; others gave way before her, reminiscent of the parting of the Red Sea. Deverell followed close behind, smiling genially on everyone yet making no attempt to disguise his intent; he preferred all to see him as he was—an experienced gentleman in fixed pursuit of Phoebe Malleson.
She headed for the table behind which Stripes stood, magisterially manning an ornate silver samovar.
Deverell drew level; reaching the table, he nodded to Stripes. “A cup for Miss Malleson.”
She threw him a glance, but when he handed her the delicate cup, she accepted prettily enough.
“And you, sir?”
Deverell met Stripes’s gaze. The man knew perfectly well that he was not the type to coddle his innards with tea. However…“Indeed.”
Taking the cup Stripes offered, Deverell was aware of Phoebe’s frowning gaze as she sipped and studied him over the rim of her cup.
He turned to her, and she turned away. Her gaze raced over the guests, then she shifted and drifted to a nearby group. Not the closest group; one she’d selected. He followed, wondering why.
“Mrs. Hildebrand. Leonora, Tabitha. Mr. Hinckley.” Phoebe glanced at Deverell as he halted beside her. “I believe you’ve met Viscount Paignton?”
The ladies smiled brightly, gazes already locked on him; Mr. Hinckley inclined his head.
“I was just describing to his lordship the many activities we usually indulge in whilst here.” Phoebe smiled at Leonora Hildebrand, a dashing blond. “You’re such an excellent rider, Leonora—did you intend to go riding this afternoon?”
Leonora hadn’t, but as she lifted her blue eyes to his face, Deverell was perfectly sure Phoebe had known that. Just as she’d known Leonora would breathily gush, “I had thought of it. Perhaps we could get up a party?”
Leonora’s eyes remained on his face. He smiled vaguely, as if thinking of other things, and took a sip of tea, apparently unaware that Leonora’s general question had in fact been addressed primarily to him.
When he didn’t respond, Leonora was forced to look to Mr. Hinckley.
Who was only too ready to leap into the breach. “We could ride to the ford. It’s not that far away. We’d be back in plenty of time to change for dinner.” Eager, enthused, he appealed to Mrs. Hildebrand.
Having taken shrewd stock of Deverell’s immobility, Leonora’s mama deigned to smile on Mr. Hinckley. “Indeed—fresh air and exercise. That’s precisely what the doctor prescribed for blowing away the megrims poor Leonora has suffered over these last weeks. I declare, London has been overrun by encroaching cits and halfpay officers.”
Mr. Hinckley contrived to look sympathetic.
Deverell didn’t bother; he’d already taken stock of Leonora and Mrs. Hildebrand.
Hinckley turned to him. “Can we interest you in joining us, Paignton?”
Setting his cup on its saucer, he used the moment to appear to be considering. “It’s tempting, but I think not. I’ve only just arrived, and I need to get my bearings.”
Hinckley disguised his relief well. He turned to Phoebe. “Miss Malleson?”
Phoebe shot a glance at Deverell; instinct pushed her to accept simply to ensure she was somewhere he wouldn’t be…but she didn’t trust him not to change his mind. “Thank you, but no. However, you might speak with Mr. Manning and Miss Pilborough. They’re both keen riders.”
Mr. Hinckley and Mrs. Hildebrand turned eagerly to scan the guests. Leonora looked distinctly less keen.
Before she could initiate any conversational gambit to try to hold Deverell, Phoebe took charge. “I believe you wished to speak with Mr. Mellors, Paignton. He’s just over there.” She smiled brightly at the other three. “If you’ll excuse us?”
Everyone murmured politely. Parting from them, she steered Deverell toward the group that included Peter Mellors—along with his ravishingly beautiful sister, Deidre.
Obviously, Leonora didn’t suit; she’d have to find some other young lady to catch Deverell’s eye.
And deflect it from her.
She had far too much going on in her life to have a potential suitor dogging her heels. Especially one like him.
She’d recalled he was, or had been, involved with the military, or the army—the authorities in some guise. A number of her regular activities were of debatable legality; having Deverell peering over her shoulder…just the thought made her shiver.
With apprehension. She was sure it was that.
Deidre had been keeping a surreptitious eye on Deverell; she turned and smiled delightedly as they neared, and quickly shifted to make space for them beside her.
Phoebe adjusted her approach so that Deverell had no option but to stand next to Deidre. She waited until everyone had finished exchanging greetings, then caught Peter Mellors’s eye. “Peter dear, I’ve been extolling your knowledge of the house and surrounds to Viscount Paignton. He hasn’t visited here before and needs to find his way about.”
Peter grinned good-naturedly. He nodded to Deverell. “Just ask away, old man. Happy to help.”
Deverell smiled easily. “I’ve already found the billiard room.”
“Ah, well. Most important room in the house.” Peter winked. “We—well, most of the gentlemen—usually gather after dinner for a few rounds.”
“After doing your duty in the drawing room, I hope!” Mrs. Morrison, a formidable matron, eyed Peter with mock censure, sure to become real if he didn’t respond appropriately.
Peter’s grin was irrepressible. “Of course,” he vowed. “That’s understood.”
“It better be.” Mrs. Morrison faced Deverell. “The last thing we want is to find you gentlemen deserting us.”
“With such a coterie of fascinating ladies, I can’t imagine you’ll endure such a fate.” His glib answer, delivered with a charming smile and a hand over his heart, had Mrs. Morrison’s lips twitching.
“We’ll see.” After an instant’s hesitation, she inquired, “Are you intending to remain for the entire four days?”
“That is my intention.”
; “Unless you’re called away, of course.” Deidre Mellors, an exquisitely beautiful young lady with glossy brown hair, shifted to draw his attention her way.
He obliged, but remained more aware of Phoebe on his other side, quietly observing, than of Miss Mellors’s lovely hazel eyes.
Eyes she deployed shamelessly. “I understand your new estates are in Devon. It must be quite fatiguing, learning all the ropes when you hadn’t expected to inherit.”
“It hasn’t been as difficult as it might have been. There were excellent staff in place—they helped me pick up the reins.”
“I expect you’ll be spending the summer down there.”
“I hadn’t really thought.” Although conscious of Deidre’s eager expression, registering it and smiling in response, his attention had locked on Phoebe as she turned to speak with Mrs. Morrison; he couldn’t hear what she was saying. “There’s a few matters I need to settle before I retire for the summer.”
“Indeed?” Deidre’s eyes lit.
With an easy, yet noncommittal, faintly vague smile in place, he glanced at Peter Mellors. “Is there much shooting in the vicinity?”
Peter pulled a face. “Not much game at this time of year, but”—he glanced at Edgar Thomas, standing beside him—“we could set up a tournament.”
“Not pistols,” Deidre immediately said. “Archery. That way we ladies can join in.”
Deverell smiled—genuinely. The others took the altered expression to signify encouragement; they immediately fell to discussing plans for an archery tournament. In reality, that smile was for himself; as he’d expected, thinking him drawn in, Phoebe was making her move.
She’d already turned from him to chat with Mrs. Morrison; quietly taking her leave of that lady, she continued turning away and slipped from his side.
“Will you join us with bow and arrow, my lord?” Deidre gazed up at him, hazel eyes openly inviting.
He raised his brows. “I certainly plan to take aim at a target.”
His intended target was out of earshot.
Deidre beamed and turned to her brother. Deverell seized the moment to nod to Peter and Edgar. “Put my name down. If you’ll excuse me?”
A rhetorical question. Deidre swung to him, disappointment in her eyes, but she quickly concealed it. She bobbed a curtsy; Mrs. Morrison nodded approvingly and let him escape.
Finding Phoebe wasn’t hard; she was skirting the knots of guests, clearly intending to slip away.
Amiably smiling, he set out in pursuit.
Phoebe saw him coming. She stifled an irritated sigh and turned to face him, mentally canvassing who else was present, what other young ladies might interest him. Neither Leonora nor Deidre had managed to hold his interest; perhaps he liked young young ladies?
Twenty minutes later, her frustration had reached new heights. Young young ladies made him cling even more tightly to her skirts. More, it had belatedly occurred to her that he was being far too amenable—too malleable—in allowing her to guide him around. He wasn’t the malleable sort.
He had no intention whatever of letting her distract him; no matter how pleasant and sociable his interaction with others, his real attention—his focus—had never shifted from her.
The realization sent a most peculiar ripple through her usually unimpressionable nerves.
Exasperated, both with him and that ripple, that he’d been able to make her feel such a thing, she marched away from the last knot of guests to which she’d introduced him—Heather Jenkings was a perfectly sweet chit—ridiculously aware that, if anything, he now prowled even closer beside her; all her senses, all her skin on that side, were flickering at his nearness.
Halting beneath the branches of a nearby tree, out of earshot of any others, she swung to face him. And fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare. “Audrey told me you were a major in the Guards, and that you fought at Waterloo. Is that correct?”
His green eyes met hers; the glint of amusement she caught in their depths sent her temper soaring. He nodded. “Along with an army of others.”
“Indeed. But having faced down Boney’s finest, I can’t see why a quiet chit like Heather Jenkings should have the power to render you witless.”
His dark brows shot up. “Witless?”
“Well, speechless at any rate.” She waved back at the group about Heather. “You stood there like a sphinx—beyond a hello and a good-bye, and the curtest of replies, you uttered not one word.”
His expression remained mild, still faintly amused. “Remaining silent seemed wisest. Better than allowing my boredom to show.”
She frowned at him. “Heather bored you?”
He glanced at the other guests. “All young ladies bore me.”
Eyeing his face—a study in masculine impassivity—Phoebe pressed her lips tightly together, reminding herself that she was no longer classed as a young lady. She made herself think twice, then said, “I understand…well, we’ve all heard that you need a wife.”
His attention shifted back to her; once more she was treated to the full intensity of his gaze.
She lifted her chin. “It’s common knowledge, and here you are, looking over the field.”
His mobile lips quirked. “Not quite. But you’re right in that I need a wife, and I am here.”
She nodded, and forced herself to hold his gaze. “And if you have any thought of me filling that position, you may put it out of your head—I have no interest in marriage. However, I realize Audrey and Edith have probably hatched some scheme and might well have got you down here under false pretenses. The least I can do is assist you in your search.”
His eyes widened; the curve of his lips deepened. “Assist me?”
“Yes. You clearly need help.” Folding her arms, she swung so that she could survey the assembled guests. He stood beside her, facing in the same direction, yet his gaze remained on her face. “Now, have you any physical preferences regarding your bride?”
He didn’t immediately answer. She waited, eyes fixed on the crowd.
Eventually, he said, voice deep and low, “Tall—she should be taller than the average.”
Phoebe glanced over the heads, studying all the females. Other than old Lady Althorpe, she was the tallest lady present. None of the unmarried young ladies stood taller than the average, but perhaps Monica Simmons or Georgina Riley might do; heaven knew they were pretty enough. “Blond or brunette?”
After a moment, his deep drawl reached her. “I’ve a penchant for a certain shade of dark red.”
The color of her hair.
Lips compressing, she kept her gaze on the crowd, then demanded, crisply, “Eye color?”
“A curious blend of violet and blue.”
She narrowed her eyes; slowly turning her head, she pinned him with a violet-blue stare. “This is not going to work. There is no point whatever in you fixing your attention on me.”
His lips curved. “Too late.” He glanced at the others. “Introducing me to the others did nothing more than confirm that in pointing me in your direction, Audrey understood my needs remarkably well.”
She drew a deep breath; lowering her arms, she turned to face the crowd. “Be that as it may, my lord, as I’ve already informed you, I have no interest in marriage.”
“Yes, I know. I heard you the first time.”
“Well, then you’ll realize that there is no benefit in spending any further time with me.” She made shooing motions toward the rest of the gathering. “Even if none here meet your requirements, I’d strongly suggest you use the opportunity to polish your approach. Permit me to inform you that you could use the practice.”
It was an impertinent speech, but she meant every word—every insult. The damned man got under her skin as no other ever had. Eyes on the crowd, she waited for him to take his leave of her.
A full minute ticked by.
“I have a better idea.”
Five simple words, but his tone, dark and infinitely dangerous, had her whipping her gaze back to his face
.
Her eyes, wide, locked with his. Her heart leapt; her lungs stilled. They stood at the edge of a crowd, yet in that moment she could have sworn they were alone, isolated, the two of them standing in some world out of time.
His green gaze, sharp and hot, lazily, indolently, insolently roamed her face, lingered on her lips, then returned to her eyes.
Her every pore registered his nearness—as heat, power, a threat she couldn’t name. His next words, when they came, seemed to wrap about her, a potent, flagrant seduction in sound.
“Have you ever thought of changing your mind?”
She looked into his eyes and saw, behind the charm and the lurking amusement, a hardness, a ruthlessness, a power that reminded her of a time, a place, an incident she had no wish to recall.
Cold raced over her skin. “No.” Holding his gaze, she fought to quell a shiver. “That will never happen.”
She had to get away. Folding her arms, tightening them, she inclined her head, then turned and left him.
“What the devil’s the matter?”
Phoebe lifted her gaze to the mirror before her and met her maid, Skinner’s, dark eyes. Gowned for the evening, she sat before the dressing table in the bedchamber she’d been assigned; it was nearly time to go down for dinner. Skinner, thin and wiry, her steel gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, stood behind her, brushing and twisting her hair into a knot atop her head.
Hands busy, Skinner nodded to the jeweled comb Phoebe had been fiddling with. “You’d best give that here before you break it—you’ve been scowling at the thing ever since you sat down.”
Phoebe grimaced and raised the comb; Skinner reached over her shoulder, took it, then set it into her hair. Skinner had been her maid for years. Phoebe had no closer confidante. “A gentleman arrived this afternoon—Deverell, Viscount Paignton. He’s Audrey’s nephew, has recently unexpectedly inherited the title, and thus is now in need of a wife.”
To Distraction Page 3
