Then he settled to feast, and she shuddered.
Burned as he turned his attention to her other breast—burned to lift a hand and bury it in his hair and hold his clever, ravenous mouth to her, but she needed both hands to lean on. She had to simply sit there, her spine arched, her breasts surrendered to him, and let him take as he willed, let him devour as he wished.
And he did.
As he drew one tight peak deep, Deverell thanked God and all the saints that she’d been susceptible to the game.
Where had her fears come from? Either a too-enthusiastic would-be lover or…he preferred not to dwell on the alternative. Knowing that some man had forced her, or tried to, or threatened to, wouldn’t help; unless she told him who, he wouldn’t be able to relieve his fury in any satisfactory way.
No, best to imagine some cowhanded stripling had tried to sweep her away and failed. Regardless of the cause, the effect was the same—not just one hurdle but a series of hurdles he’d have to work to overcome.
Tonight at least he’d triumphed. When he raised his head and gloatingly surveyed all he’d claimed, he felt not just a bone-deep satisfaction but also a sense of vindication.
Even though he was at some distant level conscious that his body ached for hers, that some more primitive part of him longed to stroke between her thighs, even through the silk of her gown to touch her there and lay claim to that most intimate place, his control had never once wavered, and courtesy of her fears, his control was vital, the bulwark, the cornerstone on which he could build her confidence, on which he would convince her to rely.
Without that, seducing Phoebe to wife would be anything but easy.
Even now it wouldn’t be easy, but it was, definitely, going to be.
He stroked the pads of his fingers across the taut satin skin of her breasts, savoring the texture and the telltale heat. He assessed, examined; he’d been careful not to mark her anywhere that would show, yet her skin was so fine, so white, and now so evocatively flushed, that they would definitely be returning to the house via the gardens.
A long walk in the cool night air would let that flush fade, but first, he’d have to stop touching her, caressing her, possessing her.
He lifted his gaze to her face, noted the lack of any hint of tension in her fine features. A light frown bisected her brows; eyes closed, she was tracking the movements of his fingers, wholly absorbed with each caress, each sensation.
He smiled, for long moments continued to play with her and her senses, then he inwardly sighed and drew his hands from her breasts. Sliding his palms up over her collarbones, up on either side of her long throat, he framed her face, bent and kissed her parted lips, then slid one arm around her and drew her upright.
Then he broke the kiss and whispered against her lips, “I’ve tasted enough for tonight, querida. It’s time to return to the ball.”
“One point continues to elude me.” It was the following evening, and Grainger had learned nothing of note. Deverell had likewise heard nothing yet from Montague; he was feeling increasingly impatient.
Impatient enough to attend Lady Griswald’s musicale, an act of desperation that had delighted Audrey, Edith, and their cronies.
He slanted a glance at Phoebe, standing beside him. “Perhaps you can enlighten me?”
She met his eyes, briefly searched, then arched a brow. “What is it you wish to know?”
He glanced at the crowd milling and shifting between the rows of chairs filling her ladyship’s music room. The assembled audience had yet to take their seats. There were few eligible gentlemen among them; when he’d arrived ten minutes before, he’d found Phoebe chatting in her usual animated fashion with two youthful, highly fashionable matrons, both somewhat younger than she.
Aware she’d followed his gaze and was surveying the crowd, he asked, “Why is it, given you have no interest in marriage, that you continue to attend events such as these?”
Her gaze whipped back to his face; he met it, held it.
She blinked and tried to conceal her frown by assuming a surprised, near blank expression. “Why? Well, the
truth is, I suppose, that I feel I owe it to Edith to accompany her to ‘events such as these.’ She’s been very good to me over the years.”
“I see. So your attendance here is more in the nature of a companion?”
Looking back at the crowd, she nodded. “Indeed, a companion of sorts. That’s an excellent description.”
Only if he were blind. Anything less companionlike than Phoebe and the way she swanned through the fashionable hordes was difficult to imagine. Regardless of any intentions, she still treated Edith much as a chaperone, a totally redundant chaperone, perhaps, but that was closer to the mark than any notion of a companion.
Edith certainly didn’t regard her in that light; her aunt smiled encouragingly his way at every opportunity.
The musicians appeared and started tuning their instruments, the traditional signal for the audience to be seated.
“Come.” He took her elbow. “Let’s find some seats.”