To Distraction Page 19

  To heighten the experience…

  She looked ahead, but a narrow archway through a thick hedge limited her view of the next garden; all she could tell was that it contained trees tall enough to rise above the hedge. Nerves suddenly flickering, her mind raced, cataloguing all the types of gardens they’d passed, and what they’d yet to see….

  Without pause, he led her under the arch.

  Coolness enveloped them as they emerged on the other side and stepped onto a rougher graveled path that led through an arboretum.

  Tall trees closed around them, many old with wide, thick boles. To either side of the path, leaves blanketed the ground, relatively level, spreading to either side. Within a minute, she realized they were no longer on the path; glancing behind, she couldn’t see the archway. She was alone with him in the cool glade where shadows lay heavy, dappling as an errant breeze ruffled the high canopies.

  His stride slowed.

  She recalled very well the last time they’d been in a landscape such as this.

  Recalled very well what had happened.

  Drawing in a suddenly not quite steady breath, she looked at him.

  He halted; letting her hand go, lowering his arm, he slowly turned to face her.

  Increasingly breathless, she studied his face. Wondered why it was that when they were alone, he never bothered to disguise his ruthless self behind his charming mask. When he looked at her, she had no difficulty seeing him for what he was—and reading what he wanted, what he intended, in his eyes.

  She licked suddenly dry lips and kept her gaze fixed on his, conscious of her body tightening, of her nerves already taut and flickering.

  But over what? In anticipation of what?

  He’d been studying her face, her features; his gaze came to rest on her eyes. “You aren’t frightened of me—and you can’t be frightened by this place, not in daylight.”

  His low, matter-of-fact tone focused her wits. Made her think…then she nodded. Found her voice. “I’m not afraid of you.” She cast a glance around. “Or of this place.” It was a wood, just a wood.

  “Good.”

  The intent in his deep voice had her gaze darting back to him, fixing on him as he stepped slowly, unhurriedly, toward her.

  Eyes widening, she instinctively backed, equally slowly, step by step—as she knew he intended her to. He didn’t rush or grab, but simply herded her.

  Until her back came up against the bole of a tall tree; smooth and ungiving, she let it support her. She licked her lips, watched him close the distance between them, his eyes heating as they followed the tip of her tongue. “Why good?”

  The question was little more than a murmur as his hands bracketed her waist and he moved close.

  He paused, then replied, “Because I’m going to kiss you, and then I’m going to ravish you, here in the dark wood under the trees.” His eyes lifted and met hers; he held her gaze for an instant, then lowered his eyes again to her lips. “And you’re going to enjoy every second.”

  Chapter 11

  He kissed her, but this time he hadn’t caught her hands; she held them up, palms out, uncertain, then tentatively rested them on his shoulders.

  Waiting to see…

  But he was right; there was nothing in his kiss, nothing in him to frighten her. She knew him, recognized him, felt comfortable and safe with him. His tongue cruised her lips; she parted them, let him enter. His tongue found hers, then stroked, heavy and certain, confident of her response; her senses sighed and yielded.

  The kiss went on, grew hotter, more demanding, more commanding of her wits, her mind, her senses. Her body. Held trapped between his hands, braced against the tree, it heated, then smoldered, then burned; he set a steady flame within her, and steadily, ruthlessly stoked it.

  His hands slid upward and found her breasts, claimed them, left them heavy and swollen with aching need; his fingers tweaked her nipples to tight, excruciatingly sensitive buds. Even muted by two layers of cloth, his touch—flagrantly possessive—affected her profoundly, sank into her psyche and touched something there.

  A darker, stronger passion.

  At first she thought it was his, then she recognized it as her own. Realized that with him, not only did she feel it, but she could own it—embrace it.

  She liked being held, trapped between unforgiving wood at her back and a passionate man intent on ravishing her. A dangerous like.

  An alluring like. One that sparked her senses and made them come alive.

  Then one hand left her breast and he reached for her skirts, this time wasting no time in lifting them, in gathering them up, bunching them between them, then sliding his hand beneath.

  To find her bare skin, and possess that, too.

  He cupped the back of her thigh, bare above her stocking, then ran his hand up, spread his fingers and cupped one globe of her bottom, hand to naked skin. He kneaded, not as gentle as last night—more, she sensed on a spurt of delicious awareness, driven.

  That he wanted her she’d never doubted, yet he’d so successfully reined his passions, held his desires under such tight control that she’d got little taste of them…until now.

  His hand flexed, gripped her bottom; his other hand kneaded her breast. His lips and tongue plundered her senses without quarter, and she sensed…

  The power in him. His elemental male dominance, the strength, the will, the passion that could so easily overwhelm her, that would allow him to take from her whatever he wished at any time.

  Before her thoughts could even coalesce about that realization, he pulled back from the kiss. Just an inch. His hand flexed, caressed her bottom as from under heavy lids his eyes raked her face.

  She lifted her lids just enough to see…the raw hunger that prowled just beneath his controlled exterior. It was no surprise to discover her breathing was unsteady, too fast, a trifle ragged, but to realize that his was too was a slight shock—albeit one that brought a distinct thrill.

  His gaze lowered to her lips. “Those words we agreed to yesterday—they still work.”

  “‘No,’ ‘wait,’ and ‘slow’?”

  He nodded, leaned in again. “They’ll always work. With me.”

  That was all he’d wanted to say, to tell her. His lips covered hers and he waltzed her straight back into their fire, the conflagration of heated passion waiting to sear their senses, to consume them.

  The hand beneath her skirts shifted, boldly moved to splay over her belly, tensing, claiming, then he wedged one hard thigh between hers, eased her legs wider apart, and his long hard fingers speared down and between, and found her.

  Claimed her.

  Not just the sensitive spot he’d caressed last night, although he paused to pay homage there and set her senses leaping. This time he reached further, stroking, caressing, parting, then probing, evocatively exploring.

  She shuddered. Held against the tree, her mouth all his, her senses careening, she found a fleeting moment to wonder if she would panic, but even before the thought was fully formed it was swept away.

  He eased one finger inside her and she gasped.

  For one instant, her world teetered, poised on a sensual brink, then a wave of breathless longing welled and flooded her and washed her helplessly over the edge, drowning out all else.

  His hard finger withdrew, then more boldly thrust in; his hand shifted between her thighs, his other fingers touched, caressed—and her senses splintered.

  Hunger rose, that darker passion driving it, and she suddenly understood all she’d heard of the act—how addictively tempting it could be.

  His tongue found and mated with hers, thrusting to the same steady, relentless plundering rhythm at which his hand worked between her thighs, at which his finger filled her, repetitively intimate. Pleasure uncoiled and spread through her, driven by that unwavering intimate invasion.

  At some point, her hands had risen to his head, her fingers tangling in the thick dark locks. Now she gripped and held him to her, boldly kissed him back an
d made it clear—as clear as she knew how—that she wanted more.

  That she wanted all.

  Deverell sensed her demand and inwardly rejoiced, relieved and vindicated. She wasn’t yet truly desperate, but he didn’t want her to learn just how desperate he could make her before giving her release—that was for later. Much later.

  Right now…relief swept him as he set his mind to the task of introducing her to sensual glory. To guiding her senses along the last stretch to release. All the while holding his own clamoring desires ruthlessly in check.

  Somewhat to his surprise, his control held firm; it didn’t even waver when, his fingers artfully tightening about her nipple in time to the deep stroking of the finger buried in her sheath, she uttered a little scream, smothered by their kiss, then climaxed.

  He waited until she slumped, then lifted his head to watch her face. To study the sight as the tightness of passion was washed away, replaced by that most mesmerizing of expressions. He loved seeing that glow on his lovers’ faces. On Phoebe’s…as he looked down on her face, he felt his heart contract.

  He kept his hand between her thighs, lightly stroking, soothing more than driving as the last ripples of tension faded. His fingers at her breast idly caressed the tortured bud, drawing out her descent from the peak.

  Her flesh was scalding, slick and welcoming, swollen and soft beneath his probing fingers. Every iota of male need within him was focused on that, all but salivating, teased even more by the sweet, musky scent that rose to wreathe his senses.

  Yet to his surprise—his great surprise—his passions and desires seemed content to remain harnessed. For now. That was understood, yet…when it came to Phoebe, his control seemed, if not limitless, then more definite. Which was curious, given that she stirred that too primitive side of him more than any other ever had.

  He studied her face, wondering. Perhaps it was because that more primitive side of him understood and accepted that in order to have Phoebe—to have her as he wished—this was how things had to be.

  Step by step, as he’d dictated from the first. At least now he understood why.

  It was a matter of trust. First to last, with Phoebe that’s what was needed. First, she needed to learn she could trust him, especially intimately. Only once she trusted him would she—could she—willingly lie beneath him, of that he was sure. But once she’d taken that step and given herself to him, then inevitably she would realize she could trust him with all her other secrets, too, with all the rest that made up her life.

  When it came down to it, that’s what he was after.

  Her body, her soul, her secrets—and the rest of her life.

  “Fergus and I wondered,” Skinner said, shaking out Phoebe’s unusually crushed muslin day gown, “seeing as how you and Mrs. Edith don’t have to be at Lady Crackendower’s ball until later, if you wanted to slip around to the agency this evening between dinner and leaving for the ball. Seeing as Lady Pelham’s going to be seeing Jessica tomorrow.”

  Sitting in her hip bath, wreathed in steam, Phoebe stopped her vigorous application of the sponge to her skin and frowned. “I would like to, but…”

  Inwardly muttering, she forced her wits to work. If this lingering lassitude, which seemed to linger even more mentally than physically, was the unavoidable outcome of being pleasured, then it was no wonder half the ladies of the ton so often appeared to be mentally disconnected.

  “I’m not sure…” She wasn’t, but why? It took a minute or more for the reason to materialize through the clouds fogging her brain. “Deverell…”

  “His man is watching the front, so we can nip out the back and his viscountship’ll be none the wiser.”

  “No, it’s not that.” Eyes narrowing, she related, as much for herself as Skinner, “He told me he wouldn’t see me at Lady Crackendower’s tonight because he had other business to attend to.”

  “Well then—perfect.” Skinner frowned at the muslin skirt, then plopped down in a chair. “I don’t know what you did today, but this gown has heaps of tiny bits of bark caught in the weave.” She started plucking them out. “You need to take better care.”

  Phoebe lifted the sponge to her flushed cheeks, muting her inarticulate reply. She remarshaled her thoughts. “Be that as it may,” she said, lowering the sponge, “I’ve a strong premonition that his ‘other business’ will be watching this house, too—and he’s far too clever not to think of the back.” If he wasn’t with her…

  She reminded herself that she was the one who had instigated her seduction in order to distract him. And although while he was with her he seemed totally focused on her, when he wasn’t…she had very little confidence that he would be distracted at all. She was the one more thoroughly distracted, not him.

  A state he’d gone out of his way to ensure.

  Even now she was amazed at her brazenness, but when he’d eventually drawn his hand from between her thighs, let her skirt fall, and then tensed to step away, she’d grabbed his shoulders and, admittedly in rather elliptical phrases, suggested he take what he wanted. That he stop being so damned controlled and come inside her.

  He’d understood her perfectly, but his jaw and his determination had only firmed. He’d leaned close, one arm braced on the tree above her head, wound a finger—the same finger with which he’d earlier pleasured her—in a lock of her hair, then caught her eyes and told her, bluntly, how it would be when he did.

  In a bed, with her completely naked, not a stitch to hide behind, with him totally naked, too, and with adequate light so he could see her as he took her.

  The picture he’d painted had been brutally primitive; before she’d even had time to absorb it, he’d swiftly kissed her, then seized her hand and towed her from the tree—all the way back to the lawn and the other guests.

  After that, of course, her distraction had been complete.

  It still was. Thinking of anything else was hard enough, but keeping her wits focused seemed well nigh impossible.

  She continued to ply her sponge while she wrestled with the possibilities. Tried to. In the end, she sighed and settled for acting on intuition. “Don’t go out tonight—not you or Fergus. I don’t want to risk it.” Not with Deverell potentially out there prowling. “Send a lad with a message first thing in the morning, as if he were being sent on the usual morning errands. Give Jessica my best wishes for the interview, and tell Emmeline to send word—again by a lad—afterward.”

  Skinner shot her a sharp look. “You’re being very careful with his viscountship.”

  “If you’d spent much time in his company, you’d understand why.”

  “Is he really likely to kick up a stink if he realizes what you’re up to?”

  Phoebe grimaced and gazed into the distance. “I don’t know,” she eventually replied. “But I don’t want to risk finding out.”

  By the next evening, by the time she and Edith entered Lady Gosforth’s ballroom, Phoebe was no longer certain what she might or might not risk.

  What she was certain of was that Deverell’s step-by-step approach had pushed her to the limit of her endurance. The previous night, even though she’d known she wouldn’t see him, her senses had expected to. She’d felt deflated, unutterably bored for the entire ball, unable to find one good moment, take one scintilla of pleasure in the evening.

  She hadn’t even been able to concentrate on chatting, talking and keeping up with the ton’s news as she needed to do. Her mind had simply refused to focus.

  A state of affairs that had continued unabated through not just the evening and a restless night but the entire ensuing day. While she had thought of Jessica attending her interview with Lady Pelham, thought, too, of numerous other aspects involved in the smooth functioning of the agency, she hadn’t been able to convince herself that any action on any such count was urgent—more urgent than fantasizing about when next she and Deverell would meet, and what they would do when they did.

  Never before had she been prey to such mindless wool-gathering
; it had to stop.

  Standing by the side of Lady Gosforth’s ballroom near the chaise to which she’d conducted Edith, Phoebe plotted and planned. Luckily, Gosforth House was an excellent venue in which to ensure Deverell came to the point.

  Impatience gripped her. When poor Mr. Camberley approached and asked her to dance, it was all she could do to refuse with civility; it was so irritating not to be able to simply state that she was waiting for someone else.

  She’d assumed Deverell had been learning where she and Edith would be each evening through Audrey, but just in case, she’d remembered his instructions of where he could be reached and dispatched a note to Montrose Place bidding him join her at Gosforth House. She’d kept the note brief. It was possible, even likely, that he would misinterpret her purpose in summoning him, but that was immaterial.

  The important thing was that he should come.

  It was after ten-thirty, the middle of the evening, when Deverell strolled through Lady Gosforth’s ballroom doors. After exchanging greetings with his host and hostess, who were acquainted with his family, he moved into the room, preparing to search for Phoebe—only to discover her making a beeline for him.

  His instincts flickered, but, his glibly charming smile in place, he went to meet her.

  “Miss Malleson.” Taking her hand, he bowed—instantly felt, through just her fingers, the nervy tension thrumming through her. Straightening, he continued to smile easily as he asked, “What is it?” His tone conveyed his instant alertness, his awareness that something wasn’t as it should be.

  She acknowledged it with a tight little nod. “I need to speak with you alone. Come with me.”

  Linking her arm with his, she turned to one corner of the long room. He moved smoothly, covering her hand on his sleeve, looking attentively at her—disguising the fact that she was leading him, not the other way around. “Where are we going?”