To Distraction (16 page)

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.”

She drew in a breath, faintly scandalized, wholly fascinated, while her mind skittered and raced. “You want me to…?”

He lightly shrugged, his eyes lifting to meet hers. “You have to offer. You have to decide.”

He held her gaze, his unwavering, waiting. She could read nothing in his eyes; in the darkened room, he quite easily could have been the pirate he’d described…and she couldn’t think of any alternative but to offer him what he’d suggested.

She exhaled, her breath tight and shaky, and looked down. Raising both hands, she set her fingers to the tiny pearl closures running down the center of her bodice.

As she slipped them free, the bodice gaped, then slid lower; the tiny fragments of sleeves set off the shoulder provided no anchorage.

Her character in this play was untouched…as she was. The haughty Spanish lady baring her breasts to a pirate captain was her.

A thrill, insidious, illicit, shot through her as her sleeves sank to her elbows and her gown slithered to her waist. Her hands were shaking as she tugged the bow securing her chemise undone, then she loosened the gathered neckline and drew the fine fabric down.

Leaving her breasts exposed, nipples already furled in the cool night air. In the weak light, her skin shone, pale, pearlescent.

She glanced at his face, but he wasn’t looking at hers. She glanced down as he raised first one hand to brush, then cup one mound, thumb cruising the fine skin; her nerves leapt and tingled, her skin heated and flushed as her breast firmed and grew heavier. Then he repeated the gesture with her other breast, as if he truly were a pirate captain assessing captured treasure.

“Very nice.” His voice was deep and gravelly, low enough to make her shiver. His eyes lifted to hers. He caught her gaze and slowly said, “These are mine, now, to do with as I please.” His hands firmed, his thumbs caressed. “To enjoy as I please.”

Trapped in his gaze, his hands hard and hot on her naked flesh, she swallowed, her throat constricted, and nodded.

H
e moved closer, nudging her thighs wider as he did. His hands firm about her breasts, he ducked his head, found her lips, and drew her into a long, increasingly ardent kiss.

She caught his shoulders and leaned back, tipped her head back the better to engage with him.

He broke the kiss briefly to say, his voice a dark murmur, “Lean back on your hands.”

She did, and instantly felt steadier—instantly felt more exposed as his fingers closed about her nipples, and tightened…with a gasp she arched her spine, pressing her breasts more firmly into his hands, blatantly offering them up to him, to his artful ministrations.

It was the pirate who chuckled through the kiss, then drew back to look down at his hands, freely possessing, stroking, lightly kneading.

She didn’t dare look; it was all she could do to watch his
face, to see the familiar planes grow more angular, more hard-edged. More ruthless.

“Now let’s see…”

The low words shivered through her, then she gasped again, arched again, head tipping back, eyes closing as his fingers tightened, the pressure on her nipples increased, and sensation streaked like lightning through her veins.

Her lips parted; she was panting, then he covered her lips with his, filled her mouth with his tongue, and settled to plunder her senses.

Her wits were reeling, her senses giddily spinning, her nerves heated and alive when he drew back from her mouth. He didn’t lift his head but trailed nipping, hungry kisses over her jaw, then down the taut line of her throat.

Arms braced, head back, eyes closed, as if from a distance she heard her own gasp as his lips touched, then cruised the flushed, taut skin of the upper curves of her breasts. Then his hand firmed about one heavy mound, raising it. She cried out when his mouth closed over her aching nipple.

Whimpered as he stroked his tongue across the peak.

Then he settled to feast, and she shuddered.

Burned as he turned his attention to her other breast—burned to lift a hand and bury it in his hair and hold his clever, ravenous mouth to her, but she needed both hands to lean on. She had to simply sit there, her spine arched, her breasts surrendered to him, and let him take as he willed, let him devour as he wished.

And he did.

As he drew one tight peak deep, Deverell thanked God and all the saints that she’d been susceptible to the game.

Where had her fears come from? Either a too-enthusiastic would-be lover or…he preferred not to dwell on the alternative. Knowing that some man had forced her, or tried to, or threatened to, wouldn’t help; unless she told him who, he
wouldn’t be able to relieve his fury in any satisfactory way.

No, best to imagine some cowhanded stripling had tried to sweep her away and failed. Regardless of the cause, the effect was the same—not just one hurdle but a series of hurdles he’d have to work to overcome.

Tonight at least he’d triumphed. When he raised his head and gloatingly surveyed all he’d claimed, he felt not just a bone-deep satisfaction but also a sense of vindication.

Even though he was at some distant level conscious that his body ached for hers, that some more primitive part of him longed to stroke between her thighs, even through the silk of her gown to touch her there and lay claim to that most intimate place, his control had never once wavered, and courtesy of her fears, his control was vital, the bulwark, the cornerstone on which he could build her confidence, on which he would convince her to rely.

Without that, seducing Phoebe to wife would be anything but easy.

Even now it wouldn’t be easy, but it was, definitely, going to be.

He stroked the pads of his fingers across the taut satin skin of her breasts, savoring the texture and the telltale heat. He assessed, examined; he’d been careful not to mark her anywhere that would show, yet her skin was so fine, so white, and now so evocatively flushed, that they would definitely be returning to the house via the gardens.

A long walk in the cool night air would let that flush fade, but first, he’d have to stop touching her, caressing her, possessing her.

He lifted his gaze to her face, noted the lack of any hint of tension in her fine features. A light frown bisected her brows; eyes closed, she was tracking the movements of his fingers, wholly absorbed with each caress, each sensation.

He smiled, for long moments continued to play with her
and her senses, then he inwardly sighed and drew his hands from her breasts. Sliding his palms up over her collarbones, up on either side of her long throat, he framed her face, bent and kissed her parted lips, then slid one arm around her and drew her upright.

Then he broke the kiss and whispered against her lips, “I’ve tasted enough for tonight,
querida
. It’s time to return to the ball.”

“One point continues to elude me.” It was the following evening, and Grainger had learned nothing of note. Deverell had likewise heard nothing yet from Montague; he was feeling increasingly impatient.

Impatient enough to attend Lady Griswald’s musicale, an act of desperation that had delighted Audrey, Edith, and their cronies.

He slanted a glance at Phoebe, standing beside him. “Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

She met his eyes, briefly searched, then arched a brow. “What is it you wish to know?”

He glanced at the crowd milling and shifting between the rows of chairs filling her ladyship’s music room. The assembled audience had yet to take their seats. There were few eligible gentlemen among them; when he’d arrived ten minutes before, he’d found Phoebe chatting in her usual animated fashion with two youthful, highly fashionable matrons, both somewhat younger than she.

Aware she’d followed his gaze and was surveying the crowd, he asked, “Why is it, given you have no interest in marriage, that you continue to attend events such as these?”

Her gaze whipped back to his face; he met it, held it.

She blinked and tried to conceal her frown by assuming a surprised, near blank expression. “Why? Well, the truth is, I suppose, that I feel I owe it to Edith to accompany her to
‘events such as these.’ She’s been very good to me over the years.”

“I see. So your attendance here is more in the nature of a companion?”

Looking back at the crowd, she nodded. “Indeed, a companion of sorts. That’s an excellent description.”

Only if he were blind. Anything less companionlike than Phoebe and the way she swanned through the fashionable hordes was difficult to imagine. Regardless of any intentions, she still treated Edith much as a chaperone, a totally redundant chaperone, perhaps, but that was closer to the mark than any notion of a companion.

Edith certainly didn’t regard her in that light; her aunt smiled encouragingly his way at every opportunity.

The musicians appeared and started tuning their instruments, the traditional signal for the audience to be seated.

“Come.” He took her elbow. “Let’s find some seats.”

She glanced at him, the frown in her eyes more definite, then looked ahead as he steered her toward a line of chairs. When he paused to allow her to precede him into the row, she leaned closer and murmured, “I
thought
…
?
”

She looked up and caught his eyes.

He suppressed an urge to smile wolfishly. “Not now. After the intermission.”

Her eyes opened wider, her lips parted on an “Oh.” Then she nodded and consented to sit.

Settling beside her, he fixed his gaze on the Italian soprano who had joined the musicians at the front of the room, listened to Lady Griswald’s gushing introduction, then gave his mind not to the music but to the vexed question of how he was going to manage, at a musicale of all events, to live up to Phoebe’s expectations.

Beside him, Phoebe stared unseeing at the buxom Italian diva and fought to keep a frown from her face.

If Deverell had noticed enough to question her presence at such events, what more had he seen? Had his watchers reported something she’d assumed they hadn’t noticed? More importantly, had he deduced anything from whatever observations had prompted his question—she was quite sure it hadn’t been idle.

Until now, she’d only considered him, the potential danger of his presence in ballrooms, from the moment he hove into her view. What if before approaching her, he’d been watching her?

She knew what he would have seen—her interviewing various gentlemen, and tonight two ladies. The older ladies she met at morning and afternoon teas weren’t her sole source of information on the families of the ton. The younger generation were in many ways easier to elicit relevant information from; they spoke more readily, more openly and with far less discretion of the shortcomings of others, especially their relatives.

Since the age of twenty-one, she’d attended balls and parties and all the other varied gatherings of the ton with only one aim in mind—to identify the suitable, acceptable households and learn of any potential vacancies therein that the girls and women her agency represented might fill.

She slanted a sideways glance at Deverell; his expression impassive, he was watching the singer with an unwavering regard. Returning her own gaze to the woman, she wondered if she dared simply continue as she had been, and trust to luck that he wouldn’t—couldn’t—guess the truth. Or anything even close.

This time of year was the busiest for the agency in terms of rescued females they needed to resettle; with the prospect of summer looming ever nearer, heralding long months spent in close quarters with their employers on country estates, girls under pressure started looking for escape.

Once she and the agency had helped them “disappear,” they had to then find them somewhere else to go. That had from its inception been the primary purpose behind the agency.

During these months, her own contribution was crucial; while they had other avenues for learning of vacancies, she was the prime gatherer of information on the relative safety of households. Without her input, the agency wouldn’t be able to function properly.

But now she’d encouraged Deverell to join her in the ton’s ballrooms, and unfortunately he saw too much. Worse, with his watch on the house and her movements, he’d reduced her ability to assist in other ways, such as coaching Jessica for her interview with Lady Pelham.

She frowned, unseeing, at the singer.

Matters were getting complicated. When she’d instigated a liaison in order to distract him from the rest of her life, she’d assumed, naïvely it now seemed, that their interaction would quickly progress to intimacy, which, after a few interludes, would be enough for them both—he would lose interest, and she would have learned enough—and then they would part.

Initially, she’d thought a week would be enough, maybe two.

She stifled a humph. At their current rate of progress—the rate he was holding them to—it would take at least that long to reach their first intimate interlude. And it was already clear that she had much more to learn, that there was much more he could teach her than she’d supposed.

Regardless of any fond hopes on her part, she wasn’t going to be able to bid him farewell and cut all ties with him anytime soon.

Bad enough. But now it seemed as if her two separate pursuits—to distract him and seize the opportunity he offered to educate herself about passion on the one hand, and
her indispensable role in vetting suitable households for the agency on the other—were getting tangled.

She sat and stared at the singer, hearing not a note. Her natural habit was to plan carefully and avoid potential pitfalls; unfortunately, no matter how she racked her brain, there was nothing she could think of that would result in the disappearance of the gentleman beside her.

“I take it you disapproved of the performance?”

His languid drawl jolted her back to the present, back to Lady Griswald’s music room, and him. Head turned her way, his green gaze was on her face; his lips were lightly curved.

Seeing her bemusement, he added, “You looked like you’d swallowed something disagreeable. I assumed it was your reaction to the music.”

Blinking, she sat straighter and looked around. The singer had finished; the audience was still applauding. She quickly put her hands together and clapped, too, ignoring his cynically arching brow.

Lady Griswald stood and informed her guests that Madame Grimaldi would return after supper to regale them with a further demonstration of her talents.

“Come.” His hand at her elbow, Deverell drew her to her feet. “Let’s head for the supper room.”

Phoebe hesitated, wondering if she should join Edith and help her through supper to lend credence to her role as companion—then rejected the notion as laughable. She wouldn’t fool him, but she’d certainly confuse Edith.

Deverell led her to join the stream of other guests exiting the room. According to Lady Griswald, supper had been laid out in a salon down the hall to the left. When they cleared the music room doors, he drew Phoebe out of the throng, moving to the right as if politely allowing the many older guests, or those with young ladies in tow, to precede them into supper.

Phoebe shot him a questioning glance.

Guiding her further along, then stopping near the wall beside a corridor leading deeper into the house, he met her gaze. “Are you hungry?”

She blinked. “No…” Her gaze dropped to his lips. She licked hers and softly said, “At least not for what Lady Griswald will be serving.”

She was an innocent, yet that action and her words could have been delivered by the most gifted of courtesans.

They certainly had the requisite effect on him.

His hand tightened over hers where it rested on his sleeve. He cast a quick glance at those still filing out of the music room. Those who had seen them separate from the crowd had already moved on. Those just coming out didn’t glance their way but instead turned left, following those ahead of them.

One step to the side, and he drew Phoebe around the corner and into the deserted corridor. She blinked, but said nothing; she kept pace as, her hand locked in his, he led her quickly on.