STEPHANIE LAURENS
To Distraction
A BASTION CLUB NOVEL
Contents
Chapter 1
“Dear Deverell, of course I know exactly the right lady…
Chapter 2
Bemused, surprised, Deverell followed his quarry from the library, stepping…
Chapter 3
But…
Chapter 4
They strolled through sunlight and shade, wending their way between…
Chapter 5
“Do you think we could take a wrong turn?”
Chapter 6
The breath she sucked in stuck in her windpipe; she…
Chapter 7
The next evening, ensconced in one of the large armchairs…
Chapter 8
Deverell ran Phoebe to earth in Lady Camberley’s ballroom. Rather…
Chapter 9
The last of the day’s light was fading from the…
Chapter 10
He moved closer, nudging her thighs wider as he did.
Chapter 11
He kissed her, but this time he hadn’t caught her…
Chapter 12
Phoebe woke the next morning with golden languor lingering in…
Chapter 13
Phoebe stared out of the carriage window at the houses…
Chapter 14
He followed close behind her as she led him up…
Chapter 15
Late that morning in a town house in fashionable Arlington…
Chapter 16
Their relationship was a liaison, nothing more.
Chapter 17
“There you are, dear.” Audrey dropped a neatly written reference…
Chapter 18
“Here she comes.” Phoebe pointed to a slight, cloaked figure…
Chapter 19
Later that night, Phoebe sat at her dressing table brushing…
Chapter 20
The work of the agency had to go on. Deverell…
Chapter 21
On the carriage floor, Phoebe suffered through every jolt, every…
Chapter 22
Concealed in the shadows of Lord Lowther’s drawing room, through…
Epilogue
“There you are, my boy!” Edith Balmain smiled at Malcolm…
About the Author
Other Books by Stephanie Laurens
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
London
Late April, 1816
“Dear Deverell, of course I know exactly the right lady for you.” Head high, Audrey Deverell swayed back on the stool on which she was perched, narrowed her eyes at the canvas she was daubing, then delicately touched the tip of her brush to one spot. Apparently satisfied, she regained her equilibrium and looked down at the palette balanced on her arm. “I’m only surprised it’s taken you so long to ask.”
Seated in a well-cushioned wicker armchair beside the wide windows through which the afternoon sun washed across his aunt’s “studio,” Jocelyn Hubert Deverell, 7th Viscount Paignton, known to all as simply Deverell, watched Audrey select another hue to add to her creation—a landscape featuring what he thought was supposed to be a single large oak.
The last time he’d visited, a mere few months ago, this room had been devoted to basket weaving. When he’d been shown in and had discovered Audrey sitting on a high stool before a canvas on an easel, her long, thin frame swathed in a dun-colored smock with a black beret atop her brassy curls, he’d had to fight a grin, one she, who took each of her outlandish pursuits absolutely seriously, would not have appreciated.
His only paternal aunt, much younger than her three brothers, of whom his father had been the eldest, Audrey was in her late forties. A determinedly confirmed spinster, she frequently pursued the outrageous. Nevertheless, being a Deverell and comfortably well-to-do, she remained an accepted member of the haut ton. Even though her more conventional friends, all long married, often displayed a certain jealousy over Audrey’s flamboyant freedom, she was much sought after, if nothing else to add color and verve to said matrons’ entertainments.
Audrey’s audacious unconventionality had from his earliest years drawn Deverell to her; he felt infinitely closer to her than to any of his other aunts—three maternal and two by marriage. Consequently, now that he quite clearly needed the sort of assistance aunts provided gentlemen such as he, it was Audrey to whom he’d turned.
He hadn’t, however, expected quite such a definite answer. Caution made him hesitate, but recollection of his state made him ask, “This lady—”
“Is quite perfect in every way. She’s of excellent family, attractive and lively, suffers from no affliction, physical or mental, is well dowered, correctly and appropriately educated, and I can personally vouch for her understanding.”
That last had him arching a brow. “A connection?”
Audrey flashed him a smile. “She’s one of my goddaughters. I have a small platoon of them.” She refocused on her painting. “Goodness knows why, but a multitude of my friends named me godparent to their offspring. I often wondered if they thought, childless as I am, that I shouldn’t be allowed to escape the nurturing role entirely.”
Deverell thought that only too likely. “This lady—”
“Will make you an outstanding wife. Trust me, I’ve seen your predicament coming for months, so of course I’ve given the matter due thought. You’re thirty-two, and what with the title as well as the estates, you really must marry. Admittedly there are your uncles who could inherit after you, but as neither George nor Gisborne have sons of their own, that really isn’t an acceptable alternative.” Pausing in her daubing, Audrey shot him a severe glance. “And the last thing any of us would wish is to see the estate revert to Prinny!”
“Indeed not.” The idea of the estates that, courtesy of the unexpected death of a cousin twice removed, had fallen into his lap reverting on his death to the Crown, and its licentious bearer, was one Deverell viewed with intense disfavor. He might not have expected to have to care for entailed estates, but now they were his, he’d be damned if he let Prinny, or whoever succeeded him, get their greedy hands on them.
Especially not now he’d visited his new holdings, the houses, farms and fields, and met those who tended them. Along with a title came responsibilities, and he’d never been one to shirk such obligations, even if unlooked for.
He was now Viscount Paignton; as such he had to marry. “Quite aside from the matter of an heir—”
“There’s the social obligations, of course.” Audrey nodded sagely, her gaze still on her canvas. “Your wife must be able to manage your houses, and even more importantly manage the dinners, parties, balls, and so on that as Paignton you will have to attend.”
He didn’t try to hide his grimace. “If she could minimize the latter—”
“Don’t even think it, not until you’ve been married for years. Then, perhaps, you might be allowed to slink off and hide in your library. Until that time, you’ll have to grit your teeth and stand by her side at all necessary functions.” Audrey threw him another strait glance. “Along with managing your appearances, your wife’s duties will include keeping you up to the mark—ensuring you appear at all the functions you ought.”
Deverell met Audrey’s glance levelly and inwardly wished his wife-to-be good luck. She’d need it. “You seem to have a very clear vision of the qualities my wife should possess.”
“Well, of course, dear. I’ve known you from birth, and despite what you think, you are very like your father—you have little time for artifice and none at all for fools. And after spending the last ten and more years being a spy in France, I imagine your prejudices have only become more fixed.
Consequently the notion of you finding any degree of marital satisfaction with the general run of young ladies is utterly untenable.” She arched a brow at him. “I understand you’ve been casting your eye over the herd.”
“The ‘herd’ appear to be henwitted flibbertigibbets with less sense than my horse.”
Audrey grinned. “Quite. Well, there you are—it’s clearly necessary to look elsewhere for your bride.” Laying aside her palette, she reached for a rag; sitting back, she started cleaning her brush.
He frowned. “Are you saying there’s some other place—some other field—in which I should have been searching? That the marriage mart isn’t the place to look?”
Audrey cast him a droll look. “Really, dear, I can’t believe you’d be so obtuse. The ladies who would suit you are no more enamored of the marriage mart than you. You won’t find them eating stale cakes at Almack’s.”
He blinked. Hope welled. After a moment he asked, “This paragon you believe would be the perfect wife for me—who is she?”
Eyes on her brush, Audrey smiled. “Phoebe Malleson.”
He could place neither lady nor name. “Have I met her?”
“If you can’t remember her, the answer is no. But I doubt you would have crossed Phoebe’s path, not if you’ve been doing the pretty by the matchmaking mamas and considering their latest offerings. Phoebe turned twenty-five just last week, but she’s been avoiding matrimonially inclined gatherings for years.”
He had to wonder. “Twenty-five and yet unwed.” He caught Audrey’s eye. “Why is it you think this lady is the perfect bride for me?”
The fond feminine smile, full of patronizing solicitude, that Audrey bent on him made him feel six years old. “Really, Deverell dear, do use your head—the very reasons Phoebe is unwed are precisely the reasons that make her perfect for you.”
He knew better than to quiz Audrey on the meaning of that conundrum; her answers would make his head ache. She had at least said the lady was attractive. Besides, there was clearly a more direct route to learning all he needed to know about Phoebe Malleson. “I take it Miss Malleson is not in town. Where, then, might I find her?”
“Oh, she’s often in town.” Audrey waved her brush. “Just not where you’d think to look. She’s an only child, and her mother died years ago. Phoebe has a small army of aunts and is usually to be found with one of them, either at their houses or visiting others in their train.”
Dropping her brush into a jar, Audrey swung to face him. “As it happens, I know Phoebe is presently with her aunt Mrs. Edith Balmain, and they’ll be attending a house party at Cranbrook Manor—it starts the day after tomorrow.”
He kept his eyes steady on Audrey’s face. “Lady Cranbrook’s a friend of yours, isn’t she?”
Audrey grinned. “Indeed. I’ll be traveling down tomorrow.” She let her gaze slide appreciatively over him, taking in his broad shoulders encased in Bath superfine, his neatly tied cravat, pristine linen, fashionable waistcoat, and his long legs, stretched out before him, defined muscles apparent beneath tight-fitting buckskin breeches tucked into glossy black Hessians. Her grin widened. “And if I tell Maria I’ve persuaded you to attend, she’ll kiss my feet.”
He grimaced. “And when will Miss Malleson be arriving?”
“Oh, Edith won’t want to miss a day—and you’d be well advised to take advantage of every moment available. If you arrive in the afternoon the day after tomorrow, then I’m sure Phoebe will be there. The party is only for four days, so you’ll want to make use of every minute.”
He frowned. “I will?”
“Well, of course! You surely can’t imagine your campaign will be easy?”
His campaign? “How long can it take to look Miss Malleson over and decide to offer for her hand? You’ve already assured me she’s suitable on all counts bar the personal.”
Audrey sobered. She regarded him directly for a long minute, then slowly shook her head. “Dear boy, you have the matter entirely by the tail. It’s not a case of Phoebe meeting with your approval, but of you meeting with hers. And that won’t be readily forthcoming. It’s not a question of whether she’s the perfect bride for you—you may rest assured she is—but of you convincing her that you are the perfect husband for her.”
He blinked.
Audrey smiled, fondly patronizing again. “You surely didn’t think securing the perfect bride would be easy.”
Reading the truth in her eyes, Deverell swallowed a groan.
He could think of ten activities he’d much rather be engaged in than setting out to persuade some difficult-to-please lady she should entrust her hand to him. Nevertheless, riven by mixed feelings, two days later he duly tooled his curricle out of town and down the newly macadamized roads into Surrey.
At least the day was fine, the breeze light, scented with grass and earthy growing things. His pair of matched grays leaned into their harness, glad to be stretching their legs beyond the confines of London’s crowded streets.
He was of two minds about following Audrey’s direction, yet he had asked, and she’d given her aid—her opinions and her advice. To not follow said advice might well rate as flying in the face of fate, and he’d long ago learned to bow when necessary. As his need of a bride was acute, the present situation qualified; that need was what had driven him to swallow his pride and ask for Audrey’s help in the first place.
Besides, underneath it all he trusted Audrey; he had confidence in her ability to read him. Consequently he was more than a little curious to meet the paragon she’d deemed perfect for him. God knew his own reconnaissance had signally failed to uncover any lady close to that ideal.
Until Audrey had mentioned it, he hadn’t considered the more than ten years he’d spent as a secret operative in Paris throughout the latter years of the war, when he’d kept a close eye on the commercial links crucial to the operation of the French state—the contracts, the connections—and, when wise or necessary, disrupting those links, to have had any material bearing on his requirements in a bride. No matter how deeply he delved into his own character, he couldn’t see that those years, and all he’d done and been forced to do, had changed him, not the true him, the real him behind his polished exterior.
He was the same man he’d always been destined to be…but, on reflection, he could see that Audrey might be correct in one sense: The years had entrenched his traits. The experience had made him harder, more definite and defined, more ruthless and impatient; he’d been forced to face questions many men went most if not all their lives without facing—the sort of questions that, once answered, disallowed self-delusion.
Consequently he knew and accepted that he wouldn’t be an easygoing husband, the sort of mild-mannered gentleman fashionable ladies married and thereafter took for granted. He was demanding, and not just as a lover; if a lady was his, he would expect to be the central focus of her life. And in such matters he had very little tolerance; his temper was such that he could bend just so far, and no further.
Indeed, his temper was one aspect ladies rarely read aright. The persona he showed to the world was one of fashionably languid laissez-faire. The reality was that he was ruthless and determined, and in the main insisted and ensured that he got his own way; he might smile and charm while he did it, but the result was the same.
A comfortable gentleman he was not, nor would he ever be.
And that was the root cause behind his rejection of all the bright young things he’d had paraded before him in recent months. If a magic wand had been waved and they’d been allowed to see the real man behind his glamor, the majority would have fainted. The rest would have fled.
He wasn’t the sort of man who would fit their mold, regardless of the ambitions too many of them, and even more of their mamas, fondly nursed.
Which was why from the first—the opening of the Season a month or so ago—he’d been careful. As until recently he’d been unencumbered by large estates, London had always been his favored haunt; although previously he
’d known it only as a well-heeled gentleman of twenty-one, he’d learned the ton’s ropes well enough. Enough to exercise all due caution. Enough to reconnoiter from the sidelines, appearing at balls at the last moment decency allowed and escaping half an hour later, as soon as he’d assessed the young ladies present.
Such guerrilla tactics, often executed in the company of Christian Allardyce, Marquess of Dearne, had caused consternation among the matchmaking ranks, but had kept everyone safe. Christian was a close comrade, one of the other six gentlemen of similar ilk—ex-secret operatives now retired from His Majesty’s service, all wealthy, titled, and needing to return to the world of the ton, and thus all requiring a wife—who had the previous year banded together to form the Bastion Club, their bolthole and stronghold against the marauding mamas who prowled the ton.
All of them had been determined not to fall victim to any leg-shackling trap but rather to choose their own brides, and while he had doubts that rational choice had been quite the way matters had transpired, four of their number were now happily married. Three days ago he’d returned from Jack Warnefleet’s wedding in Somerset even more set on finding his own bride.
He could admit, if only to himself, that seeing the others find their mates had increased his own restlessness, had escalated his need to find his bride—his salvation. The thought of returning to his new castle, Paignton Hall in Devon, alone, to face a summer of being hunted by every local mama with a daughter to settle, to have to attend innumerable functions and smile, chat, dance, all the while forever remaining on guard was for him a working description of hell.
During all the years he’d spent in France—every minute of every day of every month of every year—he’d been on guard. Alert, watchful, never resting. He was tired of the tension and increasingly impatient over the continuing need; although now home, he still needed to be on guard.