She raised her brows haughtily. “And have you?”
His smile deepened, genuine, warm—and subtly teasing. “Time will no doubt tell.”
Her instincts flickered. She held his gaze while thoughts milled in her head, recollections of what she’d heard of him—little by way of specifics, nothing that had prepared her for the impact of his physical presence, yet of his station speculation had been rife. He was wealthy, titled—and undeniably required a wife.
His aunt Audrey was her godmother, and a close friend of her aunt; it didn’t require much mental effort to discern why he’d been pointed in her direction. Yet despite her aunt’s and her godmother’s fond hopes, she wasn’t interested in filling the position he had vacant.
She refocused on his eyes and noted the intensity, the acuity behind his green gaze. How best to get rid of him? Tell him plainly to go away? In her experience such tactics rarely worked, especially not with men like him. He would either not believe she was serious, or worse, decide to interpret her refusal as a challenge.
No. In their current location there was a much more effective way of dealing with him.
“Perhaps,” she said, very conscious of his nearness and more, of his attention being completely focused on her, “we should join the others for afternoon tea?”
His lids flickered, then he searched her eyes. A moment passed, then he inclined his head. “If you wis
h.”
Before he could offer his arm and leave her compelled to take it—and thus be far closer to him than she needed to be—she flashed him a smile and turned to the French doors. “We can go this way.”
With determined brightness, she led the way outside.
Chapter 2
Bemused, surprised, Deverell followed his quarry from the library, stepping out through the French doors she’d set swinging wide onto a narrow terrace.
He’d sensed the connection, that indefinable spark that had flared between them the instant their eyes had met. He knew she’d felt it, too, but she’d merely blinked and ignored it. And him.
He wasn’t accustomed to being ignored, let alone having a lady so dismissively resist an attraction of that degree. Indeed, he couldn’t recall any female who had so focused his attention at first glance.
Without looking back, she descended to the lawn.
“You haven’t visited here before, have you? Maria—Lady Cranbrook—always gathers a lively crowd.”
She set out along one side of the large house; stepping down from the terrace in her wake, Deverell looked about, noting the line of mature trees that faded into woodland on the opposite side of the lawn. The other guests were congregated on the lawn at the rear of the house; Phoebe led him in that direction, determinedly blithe and gay.
“I’m sure you’ll find plenty to interest you during the next few days. Maria usually organizes a picnic on the downs, and there’s some lovely rides.”
She spoke over her shoulder as she walked briskly on, as if she saw him as something not quite civilized, certainly not safe—the sort of companion that made returning to the herd seem a good idea. A sufficiently compelling idea to make her forget her book; she’d dropped the tome on the chaise without a glance.
Despite her clear hope, he wasn’t about to let her slip from his sights.
She prattled on, extolling the pleasures of the gardens and a nearby folly. Unhurriedly lengthening his stride, he closed the distance between them, enjoying the view as he did. His earlier estimation of her figure had been pleasingly exceeded by the reality; she was a touch taller than he’d imagined—no Long Meg, yet the top of her head was level with his chin. Most of the unexpected length was in her legs, and while she was indeed slender, the curves beneath her muslin skirt held definite allure. As did those that more than adequately filled her bodice.
Her blue gown, with its rounded neckline, was neither prim nor precocious. It was ladylike, of the sort that declared the owner aware of her femininity yet not absorbed by it, deeming it unnecessary to make any point of it.
One of his peculiar, now finely honed talents was being able to read people—their characters, their traits—rapidly, with just a glance and a few words. His initial reading of Phoebe mirrored what Audrey had said of her: She had no interest whatever in gentlemen, nor did she expect to develop any such interest in the near future.
Well enough; he clearly had a challenge on his hands, but that spark of attraction held definite promise. And given what he now realized had been the wellspring of his recent restlessness—his lack of anything to actively pursue—he was not at all averse to viewing Phoebe Malleson, and her hand, as a prize to be fought for and won.
Especially as, in just a few minutes, she’d managed to intrigue him.
She rounded the corner of the house. Drawing alongside, he glanced at her face; expression determined, she was looking ahead to where the other guests were gathering about tables set for afternoon tea.
He couldn’t recall when a lady had so piqued his curiosity, or his fickle and long-jaded interest. Her refusal to acknowledge their mutual attraction only drove the spur deeper.
She felt his gaze but resisted meeting it; instead, she gestured at the guests. “I expect you’ve done the rounds and met everyone. Peter Mellors visits here regularly—he’ll be able to answer any questions you might have.”
He’d much rather ask her. He ambled beside her, interested to see where she was leading him—what she thought she was going to do with him.