The Seduction of Lady Phoebe (19 page)

Phoebe scrunched her face. “Probably not.”

“Harrumph. I’m also not stupid.”

She peeped at him as he glanced over. “No, you’re not stupid. Not in the slightest.”

Perhaps they were finally getting somewhere, and he could be married before he was forty.

Marcus had received a note from Caldecott that he and his wife would chaperone Phoebe at the Covington ball, that evening. Upon entering the ballroom, Marcus saw Phoebe’s sister Hester conversing with another lady. Sticking to the sides of the ballroom, he searched for Phoebe and found her already surrounded by her court.

Maneuvering his way through the crowd—for the Little Season was well and truly underway—Marcus adroitly edged out the man standing to Phoebe’s left. He bowed, took the hand she’d absently offered, kissed it, and placed her hand on his arm.

Deep in a discussion with a gentleman and lady on her right, Phoebe acknowledged him without thought and didn’t seem to notice her hand was no longer free.

Standing across from Marcus, Rutherford raised a brow as his lips curved up. Marcus slightly inclined his head and tried, but failed, to keep from grinning.

When she finished her conversation, Phoebe glanced from her hand on Marcus’s arm to his face in bemusement.

Marcus refused to respond, acting as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Well it would be if he had his way.

She seemed a little surprised but, in the end, didn’t object and turned to converse with another lady who had come upon their circle.

The violins readied themselves for a waltz and he cursed the person, probably a bitter old spinster, who decided he couldn’t dance with her more than twice.

Speaking in a low voice, he asked, “Milady, may I call this waltz mine?”

Before Phoebe could answer, Lord Travenor came rushing up. “Lady Phoebe, I believe this is my set.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to answer in a bored drawl, “You are quite out, Travenor. Lady Phoebe is promised to me for this waltz and the next.”

Hatred flashed for a bare second in Travenor’s eyes.

Marcus covered Phoebe’s hand on his arm and strolled off with her to take their places on the dance floor.

His sense of protectiveness over her had taken control when Travenor appeared, but Marcus realized he didn’t know how Phoebe would respond to his high-handed answer. “I apologize if you didn’t like my speaking for you. Travenor is such a bore and his manners don’t bear thinking of.”

Phoebe smiled shyly. “What is the point of a lady having her own knight-errant, if not to protect her? I thought it was very well done, my lord. Very well done indeed. I have no wish to stand up with Lord Travenor.”

They took their places and the music began. “I would wish to always be able to protect you.”

Phoebe lifted her gaze to meet his, searching deeply for he knew not what, but said nothing.

Marcus held her tighter and just a little closer than he had before. The need to guard her from Travenor overcame every other thought.

As Marcus brought them to a stop, he glanced around. “Travenor is coming this way. I’ve saved you from the next waltz with him. Help me think of a way to save you from the other sets, when I’m only allowed to dance twice with you.”

Phoebe tightened her hand on Marcus’s arm. “We can take a stroll on the terrace. It’s still warm enough.”

He moved her away from the direction Travenor was coming. Near the terrace doors, Marcus stopped to look back. Travenor was glancing around confused, as if he didn’t understand how Phoebe had escaped him. A cruel scowl darkened his face before he schooled his countenance. A chill of foreboding rippled up Marcus’s spine. The man would bear watching.

“John, did you see their expressions?” Hester asked as her husband led her out of the turn.

“Whose?” he responded.

“Phoebe and Lord Marcus.” His wife tightened her grip on his arm. “They seem to have eyes for no one but each other.”

Time for evasive actions. John retorted, “How nice, I wish
my
dance partner had eyes for no one but me.”

Hester’s tone was impatient. “But, John . . .”

“No buts, my dear. Just what do you think they can do on the dance floor?”

When the waltz ended, Hester quickly moved to follow Phoebe and Marcus and walked into John, bouncing off his chest as he blocked her way. He took her hand and led her back to take their places in the next set.

“John, you don’t understand. I cannot dance now,” Hester said as they came together in the Roger de Coverley. “Phoebe has just walked onto the terrace with Lord Marcus.”

The steps separated John and Hester and brought them together again.

“My dear, what I understand is that I wish to dance with you. Phoebe will be twenty-four in less than two weeks. She is well able to take care of herself.”

“Only when she wants to,” muttered his wife.

John smiled. With any luck, Lord Marcus would make even more progress with Phoebe this evening and a betrothal would be in the offing soon.

Marcus and Phoebe were one of very few couples on the terrace. Once again, he took her to a darkened area, half expecting her to protest. When she didn’t, he leaned back against the stone wall of the house, cautioning himself to go slowly as he gradually tightened his arms around her.

When Phoebe’s body was lightly touching his, he bent his lips to her already upturned face, kissing her softly at first. As she responded, he made his kiss more demanding, and Phoebe’s ardor grew. “Phoebe, sweetheart, open your lips.”

She opened them a little. He tantalizingly ran the tip of his tongue between them. Teasing her mouth, playing with her senses, caressing her lips, breaching her walls. He entered. She tasted like sweet nectar. Languidly, he caressed her tongue with his, waiting for her response.

Marcus’s knees almost buckled when she reached up to put her arms around his neck, pulling him nearer. The feel of her generous breasts against his chest, her body completely pressed against his, was almost more than he could take.

He was fully aroused and she was, unwittingly, rubbing against his erection.
Dolt, concentrate on the kiss. Don’t scare her.

Canting his head, Marcus explored the sweet cavern of her mouth and stroked Phoebe’s back from her nape down to her waist. She shivered under his touch. He needed to stop this before he did something that would frighten her, and they’d been gone long enough. He had no doubt her sister would know exactly how long Phoebe had been alone with him.

Gradually moving back from the kiss, Marcus began to lift his head. Her eyes were glazed, desire stirring their depths.
Desire for him.

The sudden consciousness that her yearning was for him, and only him, almost undid him, but he wanted more. He needed her love.

When their bodies parted, she asked, “Is kissing, always so—so intense?”

Marcus’s voice was deep and gravelly. “No.” He wanted to leave it at that, but she needed to know what he felt. “Only with you.”

Her breath quickened and her eyes widened. “It is because you love me?”

Marcus groaned. Why were they having this conversation? “Yes, because I love you, my reactions are deeper, more profound.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Hmm, I have no one with whom to compare.”

That was too much. The thought of her kissing anyone else pushed him over the edge. Marcus hauled her roughly into his arms and brought his mouth down hard on hers. When Phoebe opened her lips, he invaded, laying claim to her. This time one of his hands cupped her bottom, bringing her closer.

He could tell the moment Phoebe stopped thinking and gave herself to him. That was part of their problem. The
Damn Woman
thought too much. If he could only stop her from thinking long enough, he’d be married or at the very least betrothed.

A small kernel of an idea began to take form in his mind as he reluctantly set her feet back on the stone pavers of the terrace. He’d seduce Lady Phoebe into loving him. His lips lingered on hers, unwilling to give her up.

She opened her eyes and searched his face. “Of course, what I was going to say was I haven’t wanted to kiss anyone else.”

Marcus slumped back against the wall, taking her with him. As he laughed silently, his shoulders shook. He’d make damn sure she never would.

Phoebe rested her head on his chest. His deep laughter rumbled inside him, and his heartbeat was fast but steady. She’d been thrilled to be treated so passionately. Once, she’d seen her father kiss her mother like Marcus kissed her. The taste of his tongue, the feel of his palms stroking her back, sent shivers of sensation sliding through her body and stoked her flames higher. She hadn’t wanted him to stop. She’d wanted more.

When he’d lifted his head, she’d felt bereft.

Meeting his eyes, Phoebe saw the heat smoldering in them and saw his desire for her flare. She suddenly knew how much control, how much strength he had exercised when he’d ended their kiss. Far more than she could have mustered, lost as she was in him.

She’d known, in an abstract sort of fashion, that he was physically powerful. His muscles, the animal-like grace in his movements and the way he’d lifted her like she weighed nothing proved his strength. But to her, strength of mind was even more important.

Phoebe remembered the hard tone of his voice when he’d removed the young man at the inn. He really was used to being in command. But with her, he was always warm, gentle, and patient, except for that passionate kiss.

He rested his cheek against hers. “We should go. I hear the next waltz beginning.”

Phoebe sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

His voice was a soft whisper against her ear. “My dance, I believe, my lady.”

Trembling, she replied, “Yes, your dance, my lord.”

After entering the ballroom they made their way to where the other couples were taking their places for the waltz.

Marcus’s hand firmly held her waist, and his fingers clasped hers, spreading his warmth through her. This time he held her even tighter as if in an attempt to preserve the heat they’d felt during their kiss, and to her surprise, she did not pull away. He captured her gaze, holding her in his web.

“How long do you think it will be,” she asked, their eyes still locked, “before people notice that we don’t talk whilst waltzing?”

“We are talking.” He smiled. “Do you care if they notice?”

“No, but my sister will.” Strange, Phoebe had always observed the proprieties, now she did not worry so much.

“We can talk,” he said so softly only Phoebe could hear him. “I can tell you that, more than anything else, I’d like to kiss you again.”

“And I,” Phoebe said, and licked her lips. “I can tell you that I want to wrap my arms around your neck so that my body is . . . pressed against yours.”

Remembering the feel of her soft frame and voluptuous breasts pressed into him, he responded to her, hardening. Marcus nearly tripped, his blood pounded, and his breathing quickened. “Milady.” She quivered under his hand.

“My darling, Phoebe,” he said softly, “I think we need to stop talking.”

Instead, in a low sultry voice, she whispered, “No, we shall make it a game. I can tell you I want to feel your hands stroke my back.”

“Phoebe, do you know what you’re doing? What you’re asking?”

She brought her brows together. “Not entirely, but please don’t stop. I feel an excitement and wonder I’ve never felt before.”

Marcus didn’t quite know what had changed, but clearly something had. Holding himself tightly in control he answered, “Very well. We’ll play the game. I want to feel your tongue tangling with mine.”

The fire between them flared hot.

By the time the dance ended, Marcus was ravaged. He’d known for a long time she was the only woman he could love or who would understand him. Now he knew she was the only woman who could satisfy his raging passions. He needed to convince her to marry him soon.

Supper was starting and Marcus looked for and found John. Their eyes met. By unspoken agreement they made their way down the stairs and sat at the same table.

Rutherford and his dance partner, Miss Anna Marsh, joined them as well. The ladies knew each other and immediately began chatting whilst the gentlemen fetched their champagne and selected from the delicacies on offer.

Marcus glanced at John and Rutherford. “Travenor is going to be a problem.”

“I’ll grant you he’s an irritation,” Rutherford drawled, selecting a canapé for Miss Marsh. “A problem is carrying it maybe a bit too far.”

“Phoebe is well able to take care of herself. All the sisters are,” John said dismissively.

“Travenor has accosted Phoebe once this evening and will do it again. The look I saw in his face when he was thwarted means trouble.” Marcus’s jaw tightened. “I’ve not a doubt he’ll try to get Lady Phoebe alone somehow. All I ask is that for the time you’re here this evening, you dance with her or keep her with you, if I cannot. You know she’ll not wish to make a scene by refusing to stand up with him.”

John frowned, but said, “Of course.”

Rutherford followed suit and added, “Finley, if you’re correct, the threat is not just for this evening.”