He’d probably spend most of his sleepless night imagining inventive ways to murder, slowly, whoever it was who’d harmed Phoebe.
He tried to tell himself that his reasons for seeking out Phoebe at Lady Fleming’s alfresco luncheon at Wimbledon the following day were all to do with tactics. He wanted to have his evening free to watch Edith’s house and track Phoebe’s groom and maid should they venture forth.
In reality, after the previous night he felt driven to complete what he’d started. It was as if his failure to bring his pleasuring of her to a proper and satisfactory conclusion sat like a blot—a big black blot—on his sexual record.
He couldn’t let it stand; he had to make it right.
Somewhat to his relief, Phoebe patently agreed. The instant she saw him approaching across the Flemings’ lawn, she stopped and stared, her eyes widening first in stunned surprise, then in startled speculation.
He’d forgotten how easy to read she was; he prayed he was the only one viewing the open book of her intentions.
“What are you doing here?” Despite the words, her tone made her underlying hopes abundantly clear.
He took the hand she instinctively offered, bowed, then, straightening, set her fingers on his sleeve. Turning, he surveyed the assembled horde. “I haven’t attended a function like this for over eleven years. I assume it’s still permissible for couples to stroll the gardens?”
“Well, yes.” Phoebe blinked, then let her gaze wander over the guests, the multitude of fashionable young ladies and eligible young gentlemen promenading on the lawn, the matrons and older ladies gathered in chairs and idling groups about its edge, while she imagined…“But you can’t mean to…to slip away and engage in…here?”
Looking up, she met his green eyes; what she saw there made her heart stutter.
Holding her gaze, he arched a brow. “Why not?”
She blinked again and looked away—from those too-knowing eyes and the too-tempting suggestion lurking in their depths. “I…ah…”
“Don’t you wish to?” His voice had lowered to that seductive tone that invariably sent a delicious shiver down her spine.
She pressed her lips tight against a telling urge to blurt, “Yes, of course,” and forced herself to try at least to think.
He shifted nearer. “Last night the soprano’s last song wasn’t long enough—we could, I thought, continue with the discoveries her brevity forced us to curtail.”
Every syllable of the illicit invitation echoed evocatively through her whirling mind, distracting, luring….
She looked across the lawn to where Edith, Audrey, and three of their dearest friends were engrossed in conversation, studiously not glancing their way—as if they hadn’t noticed him, a dark and dangerous predator, stalking over the sward to corner her. “I’m positive—” She broke off, cleared her throat, then continued more firmly, “I’m positive that slipping away privately will be considered too fast.”
He’d followed her gaze to the congregation of matrons and chaperones; now he snorted. “Phoebe, not one of them expects us to stay here and chat and exchange inanities with the rest. They know—or hope they do—why I’m here. They’re going to be far more disappointed if we don’t disappear for a half hour or so than if we do.”
She had a sneaking suspicion he was right. She met his eyes. “Why do they think you’re here?”
“To seduce you, of course.” The look he bent on her suggested she was being willfully obtuse. “You’re twenty-five, well born and well dowered. In their eyes, it’s past time someone did.”
She held his gaze, knowing that he might well be right—in one sense. Her aunt, her godmother, and the others might indeed hope a gentleman like Deverell would sweep her off her feet—even through seduction—but they would, of course, assume that the end result would be wedding bells.
But she’d said no to marriage and had meant it; she was certain he hadn’t forgotten. He’d accepted her stance and offered a liaison instead. What if…? What would they, and the ton, think later?
Did she care?
More to the point, what was the alternative? To endure another night racked with the same restless longing as the last?
Her gaze locked in the green of his, she cleared her throat. Nodded. “All right.” She glanced at the assembled guests. “But how?”
Her life was her own to live as she saw fit.
“Simple.” His hand trapping hers on his sleeve, he turned her away from the lawn. “This way.”
He steered her to where a path led between thick borders backed by dense shrubbery. “Allow me to conduct you on a tour of the delights to be found in such a pleasantly sculpted landscape. Did you know these gardens were originally laid out by Capability Brown?”
“No.” She glanced at him. “Were they?”
He nodded. “Luckily for us, less so for Mr. Brown, the Lady Fleming of the time developed an irrational dislike of his open spaces. So she filled them in—with trees and flowerbeds and shrubs, with streams and gardens of this type and that, all interconnecting.” He caught her gaze. “The perfect landscape for seduction.”