Reaching across her, he took her hand, enfolded it in his; raising it, holding her violet gaze, he brushed his lips across the sensitive backs of her fingers. “I said I would come for you.”
His tone was deep, dark—private. Phoebe dragged in a too-tight breath and struggled to focus her wits on him—on his eyes and the message therein, on his words and their meaning. Tried to wrench her senses free of his hold, of their immediate lock on the strength and heat of the hard male hand at the back of her waist. He wasn’t touching her any more intimately than he would in a waltz. Why, then, was that simple touch registering as so much more?
It took effort to tilt her chin and coolly state, “I had hoped you’d find something else to amuse you.”
His lips curved. He was standing close; he hadn’t moved his hand. His eyes, a heated green, continued to hold hers, watching. “Learning your secrets—all your secrets—consumes me.”
Studying his eyes, she felt her own widen. All?
As if she’d uttered the word, his gaze dropped to her lips and he reiterated, “All.” His low tone sent the word resonating through her, a verbal caress as well as a promise.
A promise of what, she didn’t want to imagine.
Her lips felt hot and dry; under his gaze, she licked them, and was instantly aware of the flare of heat in his eyes.
She’d noticed before how long and lush his dark lashes were, but when they veiled his eyes, they were a distracting screen. One she could do without; she wanted to see his eyes, wanted to examine that reaction—
No, she didn’t.
With an effort she mentally jerked her wits back and remembered what she’d been about to say. “My secrets are my own, and no concern of yours.”
The curve of his lips only deepened. “On the contrary, every secret you have commands my attention.”
“Why?”
His lids rose; his eyes met hers. Trapped hers, held hers. Then the hand on her back shifted, sliding slowly, heavily over the silk, down to unhurriedly caress her bottom.
She sucked in a sharp breath, then couldn’t breathe out. His gaze sharpened.
Without pause, let alone hesitation, he continued his artful stroking, every move languidly explicit, invested with an absolute cold-blooded certainty not only that he could do as he was, but of what his touch was doing to her.
Inwardly she shuddered, but forced herself to hold his eyes and not lower hers. Forced herself to let the sensations his touch evoked roll through her, sending a flush spreading under her skin, warming and weakening. She continued to meet his heated gaze, continued to witness that indefinable hardening of his features without wavering.
Without breaking and running, something she knew he wouldn’t permit.
Then his hand left her curves and rose, smoothly, unhurriedly, up her spine. His fingers brushed the curls screening her nape, slid beneath and caressed, then the pads of his fingertips lightly gripped.
The caress made her shiver; the evocative grip made her shudder.
Her lips had parted; her gaze had fallen to his lips. Realizing, she stifled a weak gasp and looked up—into his eyes.
“Why I intend to learn all your secrets should be clear enough.” His voice reached her, soft yet infinitely dangerous, the words slow, uninflected, yet all the more potent for that. His grip on her nape released; his hand slid down to the back of her waist.
“Tell me…or show me. It matters not which you choose. But one way or another, I intend to learn every last secret you possess.”
She’d fallen into the green well of his eyes and couldn’t find her way out. Couldn’t, for the life of her, break free of his hold.
“I’m going to seduce you, as we agreed at the manor. One step at a time—do you recall?”
She almost nodded, stopped herself just in time. “No. That was then, this is now, and—”
“Nothing whatever has changed. I still want you—I still intend to have you. And along the way I intend to learn everything—every last little aspect you hide from the world. From me, you’ll hide nothing.” His gaze held hers, then he softly added, “You won’t be able to. I intend to strip you naked in every way.”
Deverell watched each word sink into her mind, watched her reactions darken her eyes—shock, yes, but that wasn’t her dominant response. Fear, yes, but that, too, was overridden, not wiped away but rechanneled by the rush of some stronger, more elemental and primitive emotion.
There was nothing simple about her response to him and to what he was suggesting; it was complex and complicated. Fascination was a part of it, along with sexual need and a flaring, darker hunger.
He’d been with enough women to recognize its like, but such responses were strongly individual. And with Phoebe, he sensed he’d be walking a tightrope—it would be crucial to get the balance right.
Tonight, he was feeling his way. Cautiously.
Lifting her hand, he raised it to his lips and once again kissed, breaking the spell. She blinked, then refocused on his face.
“Tonight, I want to waltz with you—just a waltz, nothing more.” He’d pitched his voice to a cadence he knew ladies found soothing.
The suspicion in her eyes told him she wasn’t fooled, but the musicians had started the prelude to a waltz.
“Come.” He urged her forward.
Unable to deny him without creating a scene, she allowed him to lead her to the floor. Allowed him to take her into his arms and set them whirling.
Gradually, revolution by revolution, the frown in her eyes faded, the stiffness in her spine eased. But she remained puzzled, confounded, unsure whether or not she wished to flee. Whether or not she wanted to escape him.
Mildly he arched a brow at her. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know I didn’t learn anything of substance today. I did, however, set various lines of inquiry underway.”
Her lips thinned; she studied him, then said, “You’re not going to go away, are you?”
He let his mask slip for a moment, let her see the truth, then whirled her to a halt as the music ended.
He bowed over her hand, then straightened; raising her from her curtsy, he met her eyes. “Until tomorrow night—and our next step.”
Without waiting for an answer, with a nod he left her—and left the Camberleys’ ballroom before temptation, and she, got the better of him.
Phoebe didn’t let her emotions surface until Skinner had left her alone in her bedchamber. Clad in her fine nightgown, her hair brushed and rippling over her shoulders, she paced before the dying fire in the hearth and tried to focus her mind.
Tried to deal with her feelings, to put them into some frame of reference so that she could manage them—or at least understand them.
When she couldn’t do that, she turned her frustrated attention to their cause.
Deverell.
While she would have liked to heap full blame on his head, indeed, was sorely tempted, there was no point in self-delusion. It was her reaction to him that lay at the root of her problem.
Flinging out her hands, she addressed the room. “Why him?”
Indeed. Him kissing her was bad enough, but when he touched her like that—as he had that evening—while every sense she possessed knew enough to be afraid, while fear definitely leapt and coursed her veins, it was instantly, in the same breath, submerged beneath a tide of almost ravenous longing.
Her fear didn’t drown, didn’t evaporate, but became a part of that scintillating, surging sea of need. Merged with it, into it, lending a certain edge, a frankly primitive thrill that only added to the excitement.
The anticipation of excitement. And more.
No other man had affected her as Deverell did.
One part of her rational, logical mind unreservedly labeled him as dangerous—to be avoided. An equally assertive part of that same rational mind pointed out, quite tartly, that she knew perfectly well that with him she was safe.
Not only had he told her—sworn to her—that he would never harm her, she bel
ieved him.
Oddly enough, to her soul.
He was driving her demented.
He wasn’t going to go away, and her chances of avoiding him were slim to none. If he wanted to whisk her away alone—for instance, tomorrow night—he would. There was precious little she could do to stop a man of his ilk from doing as he pleased, especially not one as experienced as he.
And then…
Her mind halted. Simply refused to go further. Didn’t need to go further and imagine what would follow.
“I have to get control of this.” She muttered the words through clenched teeth; the instant she heard them, she knew they were right.
The right—possibly the only—way forward.
She halted. Glancing at the clock, she grimaced at the hour. She had “business” to attend to tomorrow; determinedly she headed for her bed.
At least she now knew what she had to do.
The one remaining mystery was how.
Phoebe was waiting for Edith in the front hall, ready to leave for their morning engagements, when Fergus McKenna, her longtime groom, who also acted as the household’s coachman, appeared at the open front door.
Alerted by the large shadow he cast, Phoebe looked up from buttoning her gloves and smiled. “What is it, Fergus?”
Fergus beckoned. Henderson, Edith’s butler, was hovering; Fergus rarely ventured into the front hall, Henderson’s domain.
Phoebe joined Fergus by the door, her eyes repeating her question.
“Thought as I should warn you,” Fergus rumbled, his Scots burr smothering his words. “Paignton’s young lad’s skulking about in the street, keeping an eye on the house. D’you want something done about him?”
Lips thinning, Phoebe considered, then shook her head. “As long as he’s only watching the front of the house, he won’t see anything useful.”
“I think he’s been following us about town.”
Phoebe raised her brows, then smiled. “In that case, we’ll certainly keep him busy today—we’ve two morning visits, and three afternoon teas. Let him follow by all means—he won’t learn anything.”
Fergus shuffled. “Skinner said as how Paignton—Deverell as he’s called—saw enough to become suspicious.”
“Indeed.” Phoebe turned as Edith came slowly down the stairs; she lowered her voice. “Which is why I want his lad let be. If you run him off, Deverell will know we’ve something to hide in where we go, and he’ll set someone else to watch, from the mews, for instance. I’d much rather his lad was following us.” She met Fergus’s eyes. “That way, we’ll control what he sees.”
“Aye.” Pulling one earlobe, Fergus nodded. “There is that.” He smiled at Edith, then stepped back onto the porch. “Let’s be off, then.”
Phoebe waited for Edith to join her, then, arm in arm with her aunt, went down the front steps to the waiting carriage.
Phoebe spent the day interviewing prospective employers. Not, of course, that the ladies she spoke with had any inkling she was assessing them and their households; over the four years since she’d established her business, she’d grown adept at conducting such interviews without the interviewees suspecting.
“Lady Lancaster.” Beside Edith, Phoebe curtsied to her ladyship, the last of the hostesses they planned to call on that afternoon. After exchanging greetings and the usual small talk about the Lancaster children—Phoebe made a mental note that Annabelle, the eldest daughter, now married with her own household, was increasing and would thus, at some not too distant time, require a nursemaid and later a governess—she and Edith moved into her ladyship’s drawing room.
The Lancaster events were always well attended. Despite her lack of success thus far that day, Phoebe remained optimistic that somewhere among the ladies gathered to chat over the teacups, she would find one with the right credentials.
After settling Edith with her cronies, all of whom Phoebe knew well, she started quartering the room, moving easily from one group to the next, all but unremarked.
All her aunts were godsent, but Edith most of all; she was widely regarded as one of those unusual people who always knew the latest news, not by actively searching for it but because the latest news somehow made its way to them. Edith was thus invited everywhere; Phoebe had long realized that becoming her shadow—literally viewed as just another facet of her aunt and therefore unremarkable—was the perfect entree into the circles she needed to assess.
The established households of the wealthy and well-to-do, those presided over by sensible ladies with appropriate sensibility who kept firm hands on the reins and who were looking for female staff were her principal targets.
From Mrs. Gilmore and Mrs. Hardcastle she heard that old Lady Pelham was considering moving to the country.
“Well,” Mrs. Gilmore confided, “now her son’s brought his new wife home, there’s no reason she needs to remain in London, looking after that drafty old house. And being in the capital never suited her health.”
Phoebe made the right noises, then left the ladies discussing how it must feel to hand over the reins of a house one had come to as a bride to one’s son’s bride.
She didn’t go straight to Lady Pelham’s side. She circled, waiting until the two ladies the old lady was chatting with stood to leave; as they moved away, she moved in.
With a smile, she sat beside her ladyship, who knew her and greeted her warmly.
“I hear you and Edith have been gadding down in Surrey with Maria.”
Phoebe chuckled and told Lady Pelham what she wanted to know—who else had been there, and whether any matches might have been made during the house party.
At the end of her report, she fixed Lady Pelham with a quizzical look. “But I hear you’re thinking of leaving us?”
Lady Pelham sighed. “Not just thinking of it, my dear—I’m fixed on it. The dower house at Craxley’s waiting for me, and there’s no longer anything to keep me here—at least not permanently. Craxley’s not so far I can’t venture up to town whenever I pine for company, but my health isn’t what it was—I’ll do much better in the country.”
Phoebe soothingly agreed. “Will you be leaving soon?”
Lady Pelham snorted. “I would be there now, but I’m missing a maid. Just last week, my old Carson—she’s been with me for years—had to leave me. Her brother’s taken ill, so she’s gone home to Devon to nurse him. It was a blow to both of us. We’d imagined growing old together. But now…well, really, my dear, where am I going to find a maid willing to spend the next years in the peace of the countryside? While there are plenty of young things with training enough who desperately want to be a lady’s maid, unfortunately by that they mean a lady swanning about town, going to balls and parties, one who needs their skills and talents, and where they’ll earn trinkets and tips for turning her out in style.”
Lady Pelham grimaced. “I’m nearing sixty, my dear, and my swanning days are over. And the purpose of moving to Craxley is to get away from London.”
“Hmm.” Phoebe frowned; inside, she was jubilant. This was even better than she’d dared hope. “I have heard,” she said musingly, “of an agency—an employment agency for maids and such like—that prides itself on closely matching ladies’ requirements with that of the girls on their books, the intention being to promote a happier situation from the first.” She opened her eyes wide. “Perhaps they could help you.”
Lady Pelham was looking at her in dawning hope. “Do you know where this agency is?”
Phoebe frowned harder. “I know it’s in town—Henrietta Willesden used their services not long ago, and I know she was pleased. Now where…” Her face cleared. “Oh, that’s right—the Athena Agency in Kensington Church Street.” She met Lady Pelham’s eyes. “Why don’t you try there? They might have just the girl you need.”
Lady Pelham had brightened. She tapped her cane on the floor. “I’ll call there tomorrow. If they have someone suitable, I’ll take her on, and then I’ll be off to the country.”
Phoe
be beamed, as delighted as her ladyship at the prospect. Rising, she helped Lady Pelham to her feet. “The Athena Agency. Kensington Church Street.”
On returning to Edith’s house in Park Street, Phoebe retired to her bedchamber to bathe and dress for the evening—and to advise Skinner of her success.
“I know we have other lady’s maids who would be suitable, but I think we should seize the chance to get Jessica out of town. Both the Moffats are currently here. I knew Lady Moffat would return after the house party, but I met her this morning and she told me that when Lord Moffat heard about her maid going missing, he came tearing up to London, irascible, insisting she was to blame, and generally being an overbearing ass.” Climbing out of her petticoats, Phoebe met Skinner’s eyes. “Her ladyship has no idea why.”
Skinner made a rude noise.
“Precisely—but that’s what we have to deal with. The blindness, willful or otherwise, of the Lady Moffats of this world, and the propensities of the Lord Moffats, who, after all, are the real villains.”
Stripping off her chemise, Phoebe dropped it on a stool and climbed into the steaming bath Skinner had prepared. “I know it’s unlikely that if hired by some tonnish matron, Jessica would inadvertently come under Lord Moffat’s eye, but it’s not impossible. Letting her take a position in any tonnish London-based household is too risky—for her and for us.”
“Aye, well, you’ll get no argument from me on that score.” Skinner handed Phoebe her sponge, then moved to the wardrobe.
Phoebe leaned back against the tub’s edge and closed her eyes. “I’ll need you to take a message to Emmeline. While Deverell’s keeping watch on the house, I daren’t slip away. Tell Em that Lady Pelham’s perfect for our purpose—she’s one of the old school, quite strict but kind. She won’t put up with anything untoward in her household, on that we can rely. Jessica should suit her perfectly—she’s well trained, of sensible disposition and good temperament, and she has excellent references. Or at least she will have by the time we’re finished with them.”