To Distraction

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her body shifted against his; the flagrant incitement was enough to achieve her purpose—to have him jettisoning all resistance, urging her flush against him, bending his head and recapturing her mouth, plunging them back into a heated engagement….

  She met him—as boldly as she dared, still not completely sure, but unquestionably determined.

  His mind was reeling. Not good.

  Regardless of what she thought, she had no idea of what she was dealing with—of what, with him, she held the power to evoke. Provoke. Even he wasn’t sure he’d yet glimpsed the full picture, but what he’d seen so far was enough to shake him; he didn’t want to learn what being confronted by such raw sexual force might do to her.

  Yet her lips were hot and swollen beneath his, her mouth yielded, her body wantonly tempting…he was a man, not a eunuch.

  A stray thought slid over the surface of his dazed mind; he recognized it, remembered, caught it and clung.

  Step by step.

  That’s what they’d agreed to. Slow, slow, slow—that had to be his credo.

  He firmed his hands on her silk-clad back, then swept them to her sides, then up—and felt her pause, felt her hesitate in her headlong rush to cinder his control and learn all.

  He shifted his hands, with his thumbs lightly grazed the sides of her breasts, traced the full curves….

  She’d stopped breathing. Totally focused on that simple evocative touch, on each slow, suggestive caress, she halted, waited, let him lead.

  He continued to kiss her, continued to lightly caress.

  It was the only way he was going to be able to control her, slow her, hold her back, by finding, each time—for clearly there would be other times, more times—the next point of her inexperience, and force her to follow as he educated her senses and her mind.

  That was the only way he would—could—retain control. Of her, and himself.

  Letting the kiss grow light, less distracting, he slid his hands forward so he cupped her breasts. They filled his palms; he cradled them, weighed them, alert to the tension that had risen within her, the racking of her nerves to the next level of sensual awareness.

  Phoebe struggled to cope with the myriad sensations cascading through her, the instincts, the emotions, her nebulous fear. The latter added a sharp edge but didn’t dominate; the pleasurable sensations did.

  His touch, hands hard, fingers strong yet gentle—prepared to be gentle—had mesmerized her, her senses, her wits, her mind. Her breasts seemed firmer, swollen, heavier; the heat of his palms sank through her silk bodice and warmed her.

  She stood before him, anchored by his kiss, by the continuing supping of his lips and tongue, steadied by the steely columns of his thighs against which hers were propped. She felt safe, supported; she didn’t need to worry about standing erect but could simply concentrate…on her breasts.

  On what he was making her feel.

  His hands shifted again. She waited…then his thumbs cruised over the straining mounds, flirting about the tightened peaks, then settling to circle them, slowly, hypnotically.

  Her flesh tightened, constricted until her nipples were furled buds, pinching and hot. Her senses reveled, wholly caught, nerves leaping. Anticipation rode them with a silver spur.

  Sharp, promising excitement untold, pleasure unimagined.

  And she wanted.

  Her hands had fallen to grip his shoulders; she shifted one to cup his nape, to press in encouragement, to let him know…

  He knew. His hands firmed; his fingers came into play, firming about her nipples, gently rolling them, gently tweaking.

  Sensation streaked through her, shards of sharp delight; she gasped through their kiss, and sensed in him, in his response, a dark satisfaction.

  Yet his touch didn’t alter. Slow, unhurried—frustratingly languid. She wanted to rush on, yet…even as the thought formed, it was seduced from her mind by another, more evocative realization.

  He was doing with her what he wished. As he wished.

  The knowledge blossomed in her mind, washed through her on a heightened wave of pleasure as his fingers artfully, skillfully played.

  She’d instigated this interlude deliberately, with unwavering determination. It was the only lure that held any chance of distracting him from his pursuit of her business secrets—encouraging his pursuit of her, and her private secrets.

  When it came down to brass tacks, her private secrets were much less vital than the secret of the agency.

  Although it was tempting to think of herself as some romantic heroine sacrificing her virtue to protect others, she couldn’t so delude herself; she was there in his arms, inviting him to seduce her because she hoped he would. He was the only man she’d ever been attracted to, and if he wished, and if she managed to keep her old memories at bay, he was richly qualified to teach her all she had thought she would never know; distracting him in this way hadn’t been that difficult a decision to make.

  That was also why she’d been so determined—but she hadn’t, as he’d so rightly guessed, known quite what it was she’d been inviting.

  She’d deliberately propelled them along this path, yet she wasn’t in control of this—he was. He wasn’t dancing to her tune; she was dancing to his. She’d placed herself in his arms and now couldn’t go back—couldn’t pull away, and didn’t want to.

  He would teach her what she wished to learn, but there would be a price. His price.

  It would be his way—his unhurried, languid way, a sensual demonstration of the control he could and would exercise over her.

  The knowledge shivered through her, insidious and compelling, evoking a touch of fear and a wholly wanton anticipation. The expectation of experiencing pleasures she wouldn’t be able to escape, let alone deny, all at his command, sent illicit excitement streaking through her.

  The mind is the most powerful target for seduction.

  Clearly he knew of what he spoke.

  Practiced it, too. That was implicit in the way he held her back, somehow managed the reins so that she couldn’t, no matter how she might wish, any longer rush ahead, push him or waltz them further, faster.

  His hands on her breasts, his lips on hers, the net of pleasure he so skillfully wove held her—safe, but also secure.

  Protected, but ultimately his.

  When he finally drew his hands from her breasts, drew her once more flush against him and kissed her, long, deep, and lingeringly but with a finality impossible to mistake, then lifted his head, she sighed and accepted it when he eased her from him, letting her hands slide from about his neck.

  His hands beneath her elbows steadying her, he studied her face, her eyes, then said, “Step by step. That’s the way it will be.”

  A dictate, with a warning running beneath.

  Tilting her head, she studied him in return, then inclined her head, turned, and led the way to the door.

  The following evening, Deverell joined Phoebe at Lady Joinville’s rout. He accompanied Audrey; as he turned from greeting Lord and Lady Joinville and offered her his arm, he prayed she wouldn’t cramp his style.

  It would take Montague some days at least to trace the recipient or recipients of Phoebe’s drafts. He knew better than to try to hurry the process; Montague was painstakingly thorough, which was why he retained him.

  Meanwhile, neither he nor Grainger had succeeded in discovering anything out of the ordinary in the movements of either Phoebe, her maid, or her groom-cum-coachman, at least not during daylight hours. Tonight, he’d extended Grainger’s watch-duty to include the evening.

  He led Audrey down the ballroom steps; the feather in her turban bobbed majestically by his ear. When they reached the floor, Edith, seated with a group of her cronies, waved and beckoned; with some relief, he delivered Audrey to them.

  After greeting Audrey, Edith turned to him and smiled sweetly. “Phoebe’s here somewhere—she’s in fuschia, so she should be easy to spot.”

  He smiled, inwardly wondering what fuschia
was. A color, or a material? He would have asked Audrey, but she was already engrossed in swapping the latest on-dits. With a general bow encompassing all four ladies, he left them and started quartering the crowd.

  Fuschia proved to be a color—a brilliant hue midway between pink and purple. When he spotted Phoebe thus gloriously garbed, chatting amid a group of ladies and gentlemen, he stood back for a moment and drank in the sight.

  If asked, he would have thought that the bright hue would clash with the color of her hair; instead, the combination was the epitome of dramatic. With the pale, flawless skin of her shoulders and arms exposed by the gown’s tiny, off-the-shoulder sleeves, with the scooped neckline of the bodice closed with tiny pearls showcasing her ample charms, and the fall of the lush silk skirts revealing, then concealing, the lithe limbs beneath, she was a sight to fix the interest of any man.

  Recalling Lady Charters’s ambush of the previous night, he kept a wary eye out for potential attackers, but noting that Phoebe was once again animatedly questioning a gentleman, he hung back and watched. With the eye of a master interrogator analyzed.

  Did the gentleman she’d cornered know he was being interrogated?

  A moot point, but then, her curiosity apparently appeased, Phoebe drew back. And felt his gaze.

  She turned her head, saw him, and smiled.

  He found himself smiling back, surprised by the warmth he felt at her response. He was about to go to her; instead, she quickly made her adieus, swung around, and came to him.

  It was difficult to temper his smile.

  The musicians struck up a waltz as she neared. Taking her hand, he smoothly bowed, then immediately led her to the floor.

  Turning her into his arms, he felt compelled to murmur, “It might be wise not to appear quite so eager.”

  She blinked at him. “Eager?”

  Even the way she moved into the revolutions with him, without the faintest hesitation or even thought, bore witness to her fixed direction.

  “Next time, wait for me to come to you. I promise not to be offended if you act a trifle haughtily”—he caught her eye—“in public.”

  A moment passed, then she elevated her nose. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  He hid his smile and steered her down the floor. And plotted their next step.

  It might try his patience—and hers, come to that—but step by step was the only viable way forward, embracing her lack of experience and nascent fears while tempering his already too heightened passion with more sophisticated play. That tack would doubtless prove a tightrope he’d have to steady her along, but the long-drawn-out wait would heighten the ultimate pleasure, for both of them increasing the anticipation and priming their senses.

  Such an approach would also allow him to ensure he in no way hurt or harmed her, that he didn’t again evoke any real panic. That instead he allayed any fear that might rise in her mind, that might cloud and dim her senses.

  When the music ended and he whirled her to a halt, they were at the end of the room, near the doors open to the terrace and the moonlit gardens beyond.

  Raising her from her curtsy, he drew her arm through his and steered her to the doors.

  “Where are we going?” Phoebe glanced at him, at his face, currently wearing what she mentally termed his social mask; a charmingly urbane expression he seemed able to assume at will, it veiled his ruthless edges.

  “The garden, to begin with.”

  Those last three words made her hold her tongue; clearly, his direction was the same as hers. He’d said—to her mind, promised—a step-by-step progress; it was time for their next advance.

  On the terrace, he turned her to walk along the flags; there were steps leading down to the lawn at each end. A number of other couples were strolling in the fresher air, both on the terrace and on the silvery lawn below.

  As they neared one set of steps, she grew increasingly aware of being alone with him, of his body so close, of its warmth, its strength, its hardness. A shiver ran through her.

  Instantly, he glanced at her. “Are you cold?”

  She considered lying, but he might insist on returning inside. “No.” It was anticipation, not the cool air, that had affected her.

  The upward kick of his mobile lips as he looked ahead assured her he’d understood her perfectly. “Let’s go down.”

  Once on the gravel walk bordering the lawn, rather than leading her to where other couples were ambling in full view, he steered her to the left, into the dark shadows beneath the large trees separating the lawn from various garden beds.

  She cleared her throat. “You mentioned before that morning rooms frequently proved useful.”

  Through the darkness, he glanced at her. “Do you know where the morning room is?”

  She pointed deeper under the trees to a minor path wending its way between herbaceous borders. “It’s in that wing—the French doors look out on the next section of lawn.”

  He glanced at her, lips curving, then looked ahead and obediently led her down the narrower path.

  To the next section of lawn and the morning room French doors. Which were locked.

  She hissed, and glared at the lock. “Now wh—” She broke off as a blade glinted in his fingers where before no blade had been. He applied it to the lock, which immediately clicked. Smoothly sliding the penknife back into a pocket, he grasped the handle and opened the door.

  Brows rising, she went in.

  The room was much the same as the last time she’d seen it, some weeks before when she and Edith had last visited. As per his dictum, it was empty, helpfully deserted.

  Behind her, she heard the door close. She turned to him—

  Directly into a kiss.

  A demanding one, one she felt she immediately had to appease, had to give him her mouth and engage with him, lift her arms and grasp his shoulders as his hands seized her waist and he backed her.

  Until the edge of the sofa table standing along the rear of the sofa hit the very tops of her thighs.

  He held her there while he pressed the kiss on, drove her deeper into the seductive exchange, deeper into heat laced with toe-curling pleasure.

  Then he drew back and lifted her.

  Hoisted her up so she sat on the edge of the sofa table. She only just managed to swallow a weak shriek.

  Eyes glinting under heavy lids, lips curved—was that what lust looked like?—he edged her knees apart and moved between. His hands slid from her waist, over her hips and down the outsides of her thighs.

  And she froze. Caught her breath. Remembered.

  She sucked in another breath, tighter than before. She blinked, and refocused on his face. Eyes narrowed, no longer sensually amused, he was studying her.

  Before she could react, even think, he lifted both hands, slowly, gently framed her face, tipped it and held it steady as he leaned close and kissed her.

  Gently, beguilingly.

  Gradually, he drew her back into the heat, into the pleasure. As she had once before, she raised a hand and cradled the back of one of his.

  Felt the tension in him, the passion, the desire, sensed how utterly, ruthlessly reined it was.

  This was him, not that other. Her fears subsided and she relaxed, returning his caress, languid as ever, with increasing impatience.

  At last he drew back, just enough for their eyes to meet. He looked into hers, then glanced at her lips. “I have a suggestion—a game we should play.”

  “A game?” She was sure he didn’t mean pick-up-sticks.

  “A mind game.” He swooped in and took her lips, lingeringly held them, then drew back to whisper, “An imaginary situation where you choose how you’ll respond.”

  The waft of his breath over her lips made them hungry. She tried to follow his, but his hands firmed; he held her immobile and drew back a fraction further.

  Enough to meet her eyes.

  “Imagine this—you’re the daughter of a Spanish grandee. You’ve been dispatched to the Indies, there to marry a
much older man as part of an arranged marriage. You’re untouched, of course, but not by choice. Then, far out at sea, your ship is attacked by pirates.”

  Releasing her face, he placed his hands on the table on either side of her, caging her; she barely noticed, caught by the picture he was painting. “Every man on your ship is killed or dispatched. All the treasure on board is collected and transferred to the pirate vessel—yourself included. You’re locked in the captain’s cabin, then your ship is sunk. You see it going down out of the porthole. You also hear the men on the deck above muttering. They’re superstitious and don’t want a woman on board. They want to toss you into the briny deep.”

  Trapped in his eyes, she caught her breath, could feel—imagine—as if she were there, in that imaginary cabin.

  His eyes held hers, searching, then he continued. “You hear the captain tell his men not to be fools, but you know he’s facing a difficult situation. Then you hear his footsteps coming down the companionway, boots swiftly striding down the corridor to the door—then it opens and he’s there.

  “He’s tall, dark, and handsome, everything a pirate captain should be. He explains what you’ve just heard—and asks what you’ll give him in order to persuade him to overrule his men.”

  He straightened a fraction so her hands fell from his shoulders and his eyes were no longer level with hers; she had to look up to meet them.

  And his wolfish smile. “I’m the pirate captain. What are you going to offer me to save your life?”

  She blinked, then realized this was the point where she could choose how to react. She remembered her pearl necklace, the pearl drops at her ears. Lifting one hand to her throat, she touched the milky strand. “My pearls?”

  He gave her a disgusted look. “I’m a pirate captain—I’ve just looted a Spanish brig. I have chests full of jewels.”

  She frowned at him. “What then?”

  “Well…” His gaze lowered. First to her lips, where it lingered until they throbbed, then lower still. After a moment, after her breasts had swollen and peaked under his gaze, he murmured, “I might be amenable if you offered me…pearls of a different sort.”