The rest of the musical offerings were as boring as she’d expected. Worse, after their performance and with Deverell so near, her restlessness and impatience did nothing but grow. But there was nothing to be done, no way to escape, nothing to do but endure. Two young ladies gave creditable performances, but too many had demonstrably no real flair.
She glanced at Deverell. Stoic, he gave no sign whatever of impatience, but when he met her eyes, she sensed he was finding the evening as frustrating as she.
They’d stepped onto a new path that afternoon, one she wished to further explore. While their shared ballad had whetted her appetite, it hadn’t satisfied her craving to learn more. She positively itched with impatience but could think of no way to advance her cause.
By the time the tea trolley was wheeled in, later than usual to accommodate the performances, she was resigned to making no headway that night.
As soon as she’d finished her tea, Edith rose to retire. Setting aside her cup, Phoebe was about to go to her when Deverell laid a hand on her arm.
She turned to him.
He took her hand, briefly scanned the room, then met her eyes. “Later—the temple by the lake?”
She hesitated. He arched a brow and lifted her hand to lightly touch his lips to the backs of her fingers.
The light caress was enough to bring her nerves alive. Through his grip on her fingers, she sensed that, if anything, he was even more determined than she to forge ahead.
“Yes. All right,” she whispered back. “When all’s quiet.”
With a nod, he released her. She turned and went to Edith, then assisted her from the room, all the while conscious of Deverell’s gaze on her back, equally conscious of her focus on him.
It was close to midnight when she left the house by the side door near the music room. She’d had to wait until all the guests had been abed before meeting with Jessica, Lady Moffat’s recently hired lady’s maid.
Phoebe had explained to Jessica how they planned to rescue her, and how their little business operated; Jessica had all but fallen on her neck in gratitude. The poor girl was frantic at the prospect of returning to the Moffats’ country house, where lecherous Lord Moffat lurked.
After reassuring Jessica that she would be whisked away after the ball the following night, Phoebe parted from her and slipped outside. Rounding the house, she made for the small classical temple that stood by the side of the ornamental lake.
Lounging against one of the temple’s marble pillars, Deverell saw her coming, but not from the direction he’d expected. After parting from her that afternoon, he’d gone to the stables to look in on his grays and instruct Grainger to find out what he could about Miss Phoebe Malleson, only to discover the lad had acted on his own initiative. Deverell now knew that Phoebe had a maid called Skinner, a strict and severe sort but with a kind heart, who had been with her since childhood, that Edith’s coachman, a Scotsman by name McKenna, was also Phoebe’s groom, and that the chamber Phoebe had been given was beside Edith’s in the central wing overlooking the terrace at the rear of the house.
His room was above the library, facing the front of the house. If Phoebe had left from her room, the most direct route to the temple would have been the way he’d come, via the library.
He’d discovered the temple after leaving the stables, while he’d been walking off the frustration caused by instincts he knew he couldn’t indulge. He’d noted the structure but hadn’t had any plans for it—not until the evening had unfolded and his frustration had reached new heights.
After their duet, he’d known he’d get no sleep, not unless he kissed Phoebe again, not until he’d taken advantage of the impatience he’d sensed in her to steer her through at least one more step.
One more step on her long road to seduction.
She slowed as she neared, peering through the shadows; the temple was screened from the house by a stand of trees. Pushing away from the column, he moved to stand in the archway closest to her. She saw him; even through the dimness he caught her quick smile. Lifting her skirts, she came on more quickly.
Looking down, she climbed the steps. “I didn’t know if you were here—”
He reached for her and stepped back, pulling her into the temple’s shadows. His impulse was to haul her fully against him; her small gasp reminded him—he stopped before he did.
Instead, he caught her face, tipped it up, and kissed her.
But this time, he wasn’t stopping there.
He drew her into the kiss; she followed willingly. Her hands came to rest, first one palm, then the other, on his chest. Her touch was light, yet he felt it to his bones.
Gently, slowly, he eased one hand from her face. She’d given him her mouth freely; her tongue flirted with his, innocent, inexperienced, yet learning. Learning to give and take, to receive pleasure, and return pleasure to him.
It was a heady sensation and a simple, yet real, sign of her interest. But it wasn’t enough.
Slowly, he slid his arm around her waist. He let it rest there, let her feel the weight, let her grow accustomed to it, to being within his control. Only gradually, oh-so-gradually as he continued to kiss her, continued to lead her, to show her what more a kiss could be, did he draw her to him, ease her inch by inch closer, until at last the silk of her bodice brushed his coat.
And she noticed.
Phoebe felt that first contact like a spear of sensation striking through her, tightening the peaks of her breasts. She hesitated, wondering, but with his lips on hers, his tongue languidly stroking hers, no panic awoke, no fear raised its head. She knew his arm was around her, knew it would feel like steel if she stepped back, but it—he—wasn’t forcing her forward, wasn’t seizing or trapping. His hand, resting lightly at the side of her back, wasn’t even grasping.