“Aha.” Skinner slipped in a last hairpin and threw her a shrewd glance. “Got his eye on you, has he?”
“So it seems, but he’ll have to take his intentions elsewhere. I’ve far too much to do with this rescue we’ve arranged to have a man of his ilk dogging my heels, wanting to monopolize my attention.”
“Hmm.” Skinner busied herself with Phoebe’s jewel box. “From what I heard in the servants’ hall, he sounded like a swell.” She handed a pair of pearl earrings to Phoebe.
Swiveling to look directly at Skinner, Phoebe took them. “How do you know? Did he bring a gentleman’s gentleman?”
She wouldn’t have classed Deverell as the sort to have a valet.
Skinner snorted. “No. He brought a groom-cum-tiger, a young lad from the west country who can’t say a bad word about his new lord. Seems he’s top of the trees, and our Fergus and the other coachmen were saying his lordship has a great eye for cattle—seems his pair are prime ’uns. But the lad’s a nice boy. He’s minding his p’s and q’s and tripping over his feet to be helpful. If his master’s got half as good a heart, he won’t be a bad ’un.”
“Regardless”—turning back to the mirror, Phoebe attached one earring—“we can’t have him watching me, attaching himself to my skirts and dogging my footsteps, particularly not here, not now.” She picked up the second pearl drop. “Speaking of which, have you heard when Lady Moffat is expected?”
“Tomorrow morning. She’s been staying just over at Leatherhead with her sister, so she’s liable to arrive not long after breakfast.”
“Excellent. That should give us plenty of time to get everything in place to make our move after the ball on the third night.”
Skinner fastened Phoebe’s single strand of pearls about her throat. “I’d have thought you’d want to wait ’til the last night.”
Phoebe shook her head. “No, the small hours of the morning after the ball will be perfect. Everyone will be guaranteed to be snoring, and with any luck Lady Moffat won’t miss her maid until noon or later the next day. That way, even if something untoward occurs, the others will have plenty of time to overcome any hurdle and disappear into London.”
“Aye, well—there is that.”
“Indeed. But the first thing I must do is convince Deverell that when it comes to marriage, he has no chance whatever of changing my mind—that’s the only thing that will make him stop looking my way.”
Skinner snorted.
Interpreting that as a comment on the temerity of the man, Phoebe patted her pearls into place and considered her reflection.
The amber silk of her gown deepened the dark red of her hair and lent a subtle glow to her complexion, underscored by the sheen of the pearls about her throat. Her eyes appeared more violet in candlelight, her lips a deeper red.
She looked well enough, she supposed, although if looks were all, then he should have fastened on Deidre or Leonora. Regardless, his comment that introducing him to the best of the eligible ladies had only confirmed him in his pursuit of her, while doubtless complimentary in its way, suggested that any further attempts in that direction would be doomed to continuing failure.
She narrowed her eyes. “If I can’t distract him with any other lady, how else can I make him stop focusing on me?”
She’d muttered the words to herself, but Skinner had heard.
“Tell him the truth.” Skinner spoke from the wardrobe, where she was hanging Phoebe’s day gown. “If the man is anything like the master, then straight-talking will serve you best.”
“I’ve already told him I’m not interested in marriage.”
“No doubt, but did you tell him why? Men, logical creatures that they are, like reasons. I’m thinking you might have greater success if you give him a reason or two for why you’re unlikely to change your mind.”
Phoebe met her own eyes in the mirror and wrinkled her nose.
In the distance a gong sounded, summoning all downstairs. She was as ready as she’d ever be; with a sigh, she rose. “I’d better go.”
She was waiting for him when he walked into the drawing room.
Deverell saw her instantly, standing to one side with Peter Mellors and two others. Her gaze equally instantly locked on him. Given the way they had parted, he wondered what new tack she had in mind to discourage him from pursuing her; if the set of her jaw was any guide, she was impatient to try it.
He nodded to Lady Cranbrook and Audrey, then moved into the growing crowd of guests standing and talking in small groups. He didn’t head directly for Phoebe; instead, he took a circuitous route, stopping here and there to exchange a few words, simultaneously assessing his target.
She was well gowned, but not in the latest style. In her style, once again feminine yet aloof. Even as he studied her, he was aware other gentlemen did too; regardless of her disinterest in the opposite sex, she had that indefinable something that caught men’s eyes.
Making her an even more attractive target; the notion of succeeding where others had failed greatly appealed to his competitive nature.
He steadily circled the room toward her. Unfortunately Lady Cranbrook had been correct in predicting that he, his presence, would create a stir; regardless of his already demonstrated fixation with Phoebe, various matrons couldn’t resist trying their—or, more precisely, their daughters’ or nieces’—hands with him. He dealt with them with courtesy and patience, that last aided by the observation that their interference was irritating Phoebe, feeding her impatience.
In the end, she left those she’d been chatting with and strolled his way.
Glibly excusing himself from Lady Riley and her daughter, Georgina, he turned and, in a few long steps, intercepted Phoebe before a pair of long windows.
“Miss Malleson.” He reached for her hand.
For one second she considered not letting him have it, but then she surrendered it. He bowed easily; he held onto her slim fingers as he straightened, lightly caressing her knuckles with his thumb before, with clear reluctance, releasing her.
She shifted to fully face him, her back to the rest of the gathering. Her narrowed, violet-blue eyes met his. “I had hoped you would take the hint—the large hint I dropped this afternoon—and turn your attention to other ladies, but you haven’t, have you?”
He smiled at her. “Of course not.” He studied her eyes, then more quietly said, “You didn’t really believe I would.”
No, she hadn’t. Still battling the effects of that gentle, far too seductive touch on her fingers, Phoebe drew a deep breath and carefully enunciated, “This has to stop. There is no point. I am not interested in marrying, not you or any gentleman, because, put simply, I have no inclination whatever in that direction.”
He held her gaze, seemingly not the least put out by her declaration. “Why?”
Skinner had been right. “Because there are only three reasons any female contemplates matrimony. One, because she needs financial security. Two, because she wishes for a family to fill her time. Or three, because she desires that degree of male…companionship that marriage affords.”
She’d tried hard to come up with a better phrasing for her third reason; she wasn’t surprised to see amusement flash through his eyes.
“Male companionship?”
She narrowed her eyes to slits. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”
He had the gall to smile. “Indeed.”
For definable seconds, she was trapped in his eyes, his gaze warm, inviting…
Frowning, she snapped free. She was quite sure he more than understood her allusion; indeed, he no doubt knew to what she referred far better than she. Reordering her thoughts, she harried her wits to action. “In my case, as my father’s heiress I stand in no need of a husband to keep me. Likewise, I have interests and concerns that more than adequately fill my time and engage my attention. My full attention. And lastly, when it comes to any desire for male companionship, I’ve never felt the slightest need to indulge. There is, consequently, no bene
fit whatever for me in taking a stroll to the altar.”
He searched her eyes; his lips remained lightly curved, not so much indicating amusement or dismissal of her words as the fact that she hadn’t—yet—succeeded in convincing him, in shaking his confidence that he could win and wed her. “Not being privy to your financial state, I’ll concede that as your father’s heiress you won’t need a husband to support you. However, I wonder—have you considered that in terms of you being an attractive parti from a gentleman’s point of view, your fortune elevates rather than decreases your eligibility?”
She frowned. “My eligibility is not the issue here—rather, it’s marriage’s attraction for me.”
His smile took on an edge, as if she’d walked into a trap. “Indeed.” His tone deepened, becoming more private. “Leaving aside your second reason—one I’m not persuaded, given your third reason, that you as yet have had either opportunity or necessity to properly evaluate—then to address your third reason…” His eyes held hers, trapping her attention, drawing it all to him, to them. Focusing it entirely on their interaction. “How many gentlemen have courted you?”
She blinked, distantly aware that Stripes had appeared and was announcing dinner. “None. I’ve…” She broke off.
An instant passed as he waited for her to continue, then one dark brow arched. “Never permitted any to attempt it?”
“Well, no. Why would I?” Gathering her shawl, she turned to join the company; Lady Cranbrook was moving through the guests, pairing them for the table. “I’ve never been interested—”
“How can you tell if you’ve never let any gentleman close enough to…find out?”
The words fell by her ear and sent a shiver spiraling down her spine. He’d moved closer, behind and to her side; she glanced up, over her shoulder, and met his eyes.
He’d been going to say “seduce you” but had deigned to spare her, not that she hadn’t heard his meaning in the tenor of his voice, couldn’t read it, clear and unclouded, in his eyes.
She forced herself to hold his gaze. “I have no interest in ‘finding out.’” In being seduced.
They could hear Lady Cranbrook approaching, blithely directing this gentleman to partner that lady.
Deverell held Phoebe’s gaze. “You’re not such a coward.”
On the last word, he looked up—to smile at their hostess.
“There you are, my lord—your organization is quite perfect. Please do lead Miss Malleson in.”
He smiled and inclined his head. “It will be my pleasure, ma’am.”
With a light pat on Phoebe’s arm, Lady Cranbrook fluttered on.
Very conscious of Phoebe’s sudden stiffness, Deverell elegantly offered his arm and waited. Only when she slid her hand onto his sleeve did he lift his gaze to her face and lightly smile. “I promise not to bite.”
Her eyes flashed, briefly meeting his, then she faced forward. “I don’t.”
Deeming it wiser not to utter an assurance that he wouldn’t mind if she felt so inclined, he led her to join the exodus heading for the dining room.
Phoebe escaped from the dining room with the other ladies, leaving the gentlemen to pass the port.
Entering the drawing room, she glided to where a pair of French doors set open to the pleasant evening gave her some excuse to stand alone and contemplate.
Not that she was contemplating anything so bucolic as the view.
Deverell had…seduced her, at least in one way. Much as she shied from the word, it was the most applicable.
She’d entered the dining room on his arm, stiff, on guard, determined to preserve an aloof distance; Maria had doubtless imagined she was being helpful in seating them side by side. But from the moment he’d taken his seat beside her, he’d undermined her stance with questions and comments, following those with observations so acute she’d been drawn into replying against her better judgment, indeed, against her will.
Before she’d properly comprehended his direction, she’d been absorbed.
She knew that gentlemen like him, arrogantly powerful and not just used to getting their own way but strong enough to insist on it, should never be trusted. Yet somehow she’d fallen under the spell of conversing with a gentleman—of her class, of her generation—whose mind was as incisive, if not more so, than hers, whose tongue was just as sharp, whose vision of their society was as clear and as cynical as her own.
If she was honest, it had been refreshing; she couldn’t recall ever enjoying a dinner—being entertained by her partner over dinner—more.
Unfortunately she was fairly sure he knew that; when he’d stood and drawn back her chair for her to rise, she’d met his eyes and noted a certain calculation in the green. He hadn’t tried to hide it, as a lesser man—one less confident of his ability to sway her—seduce her—would have. He’d let her see, let her know, which only confirmed her view that men like him were not to be trusted. They had a deeply ingrained tendency to expect to win.
Much as she’d enjoyed Deverell’s company, much as she’d delighted in crossing verbal swords with him, in measuring her wits against his, he was definitely one man with whom she had no need to play.
Restating that goal forcefully in her mind, she swung around and took stock of the company. A trio of young ladies stood nearby; she smiled at Leonora Hildebrand. “Did you and Mr. Hinckley enjoy your ride?”
In short order she’d surrounded herself with six highly eligible young ladies. They clustered before her as she stood by the French doors; they appealed to her, as one older and clearly embracing her unwed state, for advice and information. She knew the house, the grounds, and most of the eligible gentlemen present better than they; when the gentlemen strolled in, they were engrossed in a discussion of the relative merits of nearby rides.
As she’d anticipated, Deverell was not among the first through the door, allowing the more eager gentlemen to join their group and swell its numbers. She smiled and chatted, encouraging all to remain as one large group—protecting her.
She kept her gaze from the drawing room door, but somewhat to her surprise she knew the instant Deverell stepped into the room; she felt his gaze on her—on her face, her throat, her shoulders. She had to fight to quell a reactive shiver—then fight to suppress her resultant frown. What on earth was it, this effect he had on her? No other gentleman had ever plucked her nerves as he seemed so effortlessly to do.
Increasingly tense, she tracked his movements more by sense than sight. He moved into the room, but not directly to her. She risked one glance and saw him bowing over Edith’s hand, then chatting to Audrey, seated beside her aunt on a chaise across the room.
She looked back at those about her, momentarily deaf to the conversation. Perhaps, seeing her so bulwarked, Deverell would spend the evening learning what he could from Edith, pursuing her from a different quarter….
The thought should have brought relief. She told herself that’s what she felt, but couldn’t quite make herself believe it.
She mentally set her teeth. Irritated, annoyed, and not a little dismayed, she kept a smile on her lips and forced her mind back to the discussions around her—and forced it to remain there. May the saints preserve her if she was so easily seduced by a man’s glib tongue that in just an hour or two she’d come to crave his company.
As matters transpired, she needn’t have worried about disturbing any celestial host; leaving Edith and Audrey, Deverell crossed the room to her side.
Directly to her side.
She felt his gaze on her, steady, unwavering, and growing in intensity as he neared, and then he was there; as if by magic, a space opened up, allowing him to stand beside her. She continued to smile, but when she glanced his way, the gesture grew somewhat thin.
His eyes met hers, amusement lurking, but then he turned to the others.
And in a matter of minutes, with a few well-placed comments, a few artful suggestions, dispersed the group.
She fought to keep her jaw from dropping. His que
stions over the dinner table hadn’t been idle, the information he’d encouraged her to impart far from random. She’d told him all he needed to know to distract every other eligible gentleman or lady there.
The realization left her momentarily dumbfounded, unable to bludgeon her wits into thinking of any clever way of circumventing his strategy. When Peter Mellors and Georgina Riley, the last of her unwitting defenders, flashed her parting smiles and left to ask Lady Cranbrook about the croquet equipment, leaving her deserted, entirely alone with her nemesis by the side of the room, she drew in a long breath and turned to face him, unable to keep her eyes from narrowing.
He met her gaze and merely raised a brow.
“My lord—”
“Call me Deverell. Everyone does.”
“You appear to be laboring under a misapprehension. No matter how set on the outcome you are, I am not going to be swayed—”
“Perhaps”—his green gaze remained steady on her face—“we should adjourn to the terrace? While I am, of course, eager to hear whatever you wish to say to me, I see no reason for the numerous interested others populating this room to be privy to our discussion—do you?”
She didn’t. He’d shifted so his shoulders effectively screened her from the room, but she had little doubt a certain amount of prurient interest was, nevertheless, focused on them.
“If the propriety troubles you, your aunt can see us.”
“Propriety be damned—I’m twenty-five!” Turning on her heel, she led the way through the French doors onto the paved terrace.
Hiding a smile, Deverell followed at her heels.
So close that when she abruptly halted halfway across the wide terrace and swung to face him, he nearly mowed her down.
He stopped just in time, with no more than an inch between them, a bare inch separating her silk-clad breasts and his chest.
Looking down, he watched as the ivory mounds revealed by her low-cut bodice swelled and rose. But she didn’t step back. Raising his gaze, first to her lips, fractionally parted, then to her eyes, wide, her gaze disoriented, he realized she’d stopped breathing.