She narrowed her eyes; slowly turning her head, she pinned him with a violet-blue stare. “This is not going to work. There is no point whatever in you fixing your attention on me.”
His lips curved. “Too late.” He glanced at the others. “Introducing me to the others did nothing more than confirm that in pointing me in your direction, Audrey understood my needs remarkably well.”
She drew a deep breath; lowering her arms, she turned to face the crowd. “Be that as it may, my lord, as I’ve already informed you, I have no interest in marriage.”
“Yes, I know. I heard you the first time.”
“Well, then you’ll realize that there is no benefit in spending any further time with me.” She made shooing motions toward the rest of the gathering. “Even if none here meet your requirements, I’d strongly suggest you use the opportunity to polish your approach. Permit me to inform you that you could use the practice.”
It was an impertinent speech, but she meant every word—every insult. The damned man got under her skin as no other ever had. Eyes on the crowd, she waited for him to take his leave of her.
A full minute ticked by.
“I have a better idea.”
Five simple words, but his tone, dark and infinitely dangerous, had her whipping her gaze back to his face
.
Her eyes, wide, locked with his. Her heart leapt; her lungs stilled. They stood at the edge of a crowd, yet in that moment she could have sworn they were alone, isolated, the two of them standing in some world out of time.
His green gaze, sharp and hot, lazily, indolently, insolently roamed her face, lingered on her lips, then returned to her eyes.
Her every pore registered his nearness—as heat, power, a threat she couldn’t name. His next words, when they came, seemed to wrap about her, a potent, flagrant seduction in sound.
“Have you ever thought of changing your mind?”
She looked into his eyes and saw, behind the charm and the lurking amusement, a hardness, a ruthlessness, a power that reminded her of a time, a place, an incident she had no wish to recall.
Cold raced over her skin. “No.” Holding his gaze, she fought to quell a shiver. “That will never happen.”
She had to get away. Folding her arms, tightening them, she inclined her head, then turned and left him.
“What the devil’s the matter?”
Phoebe lifted her gaze to the mirror before her and met her maid, Skinner’s, dark eyes. Gowned for the evening, she sat before the dressing table in the bedchamber she’d been assigned; it was nearly time to go down for dinner. Skinner, thin and wiry, her steel gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, stood behind her, brushing and twisting her hair into a knot atop her head.
Hands busy, Skinner nodded to the jeweled comb Phoebe had been fiddling with. “You’d best give that here before you break it—you’ve been scowling at the thing ever since you sat down.”
Phoebe grimaced and raised the comb; Skinner reached over her shoulder, took it, then set it into her hair. Skinner had been her maid for years. Phoebe had no closer confidante. “A gentleman arrived this afternoon—Deverell, Viscount Paignton. He’s Audrey’s nephew, has recently unexpectedly inherited the title, and thus is now in need of a wife.”
“Aha.” Skinner slipped in a last hairpin and threw her a shrewd glance. “Got his eye on you, has he?”
“So it seems, but he’ll have to take his intentions elsewhere. I’ve far too much to do with this rescue we’ve arranged to have a man of his ilk dogging my heels, wanting to monopolize my attention.”
“Hmm.” Skinner busied herself with Phoebe’s jewel box. “From what I heard in the servants’ hall, he sounded like a swell.” She handed a pair of pearl earrings to Phoebe.
Swiveling to look directly at Skinner, Phoebe took them. “How do you know? Did he bring a gentleman’s gentleman?”
She wouldn’t have classed Deverell as the sort to have a valet.
Skinner snorted. “No. He brought a groom-cum-tiger, a young lad from the west country who can’t say a bad word about his new lord. Seems he’s top of the trees, and our Fergus and the other coachmen were saying his lordship has a great eye for cattle—seems his pair are prime ’uns. But the lad’s a nice boy. He’s minding his p’s and q’s and tripping over his feet to be helpful. If his master’s got half as good a heart, he won’t be a bad ’un.”
“Regardless”—turning back to the mirror, Phoebe attached one earring—“we can’t have him watching me, attaching himself to my skirts and dogging my footsteps, particularly not here, not now.” She picked up the second pearl drop. “Speaking of which, have you heard when Lady Moffat is expected?”
“Tomorrow morning. She’s been staying just over at Leatherhead with her sister, so she’s liable to arrive not long after breakfast.”
“Excellent. That should give us plenty of time to get everything in place to make our move after the ball on the third night.”