quite lovely, short perhaps, but a pocket Venus, the sort gentlemen described as a ripe armful. With Lord Moffat’s propensities, hiring such a maid was simply asking for trouble.
Irritated, Phoebe wondered whether, later, it might be prudent for her, or better still Edith, to drop a word in Lady Moffat’s ear. Now she’d seen the girl…
Regardless, she’d done all she could for the moment, despite her impatience to get on and make things happen. The bright sunshine outside beckoned. Her gown was suitable for walking; the sun wasn’t strong enough to make a hat or parasol necessary.
A sound came from behind her; she turned as Stripes came into the room.
“Oh—I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t know you were in here.”
“That’s perfectly all right, Stripes—I’m about to go out. If my aunt inquires, please tell her I’ve gone for a walk to the folly.” Phoebe hesitated, then asked, “Did all the gentlemen go riding?”
“I’m not sure, miss, but there’s no one in the library or the other downstairs rooms.”
Phoebe smiled. “Thank you, Stripes.” Turning, she walked to the open French doors and confidently stepped through.
From his seat under the apple trees close by the stream, Deverell watched Phoebe walk toward him. Safe at this distance, he let his gaze roam, over her curves and the long lines of her legs, the evocative sweep of her thighs clearly outlined beneath her light skirts as, looking down, she steadily crossed the lawn.
Crying off from the riding party, he’d taken refuge there; the rustic bench set near the bridge over the stream gave an unimpeded view of the back of the house and the walks leading to the stables and shrubbery on one side, and to the woods on the other. It was the perfect spot to lie in wait.
His quarry looked pensive, absorbed; while he might hope her thoughts were of him, of them, he doubted that was so. Her revelations last night had brought one puzzling aspect of her to the forefront of his brain.
She’d stated unequivocally that she had some occupation that demanded her full attention, something that absorbed the energies normally devoted to a husband and family. Yet when he’d later interrogated Audrey, she’d had no idea of Phoebe’s consuming interest; both she and Edith had given him the impression Phoebe was largely at loose ends—reading, writing, visiting, in general living the customary life of a fashionable lady with no commitments.
But that wasn’t how Phoebe had painted herself, and he would swear she hadn’t been lying. Moreover the existence of some absorbing occupation fitted better with her character; she was vibrant, vital, and actively alive—doing nothing was not an option. Just as he’d been chafing at the bit because he’d had no finite goal to pursue, so, too, with her; she couldn’t possibly not be actively involved in something,some scheme, some project, some real activity to engage her mind and absorb her considerable energies.
The more he thought of it—her secret occupation—the more convinced of its existence he became. Whatever it was, she was, at least in part, concealing it. He’d seen enough of her to suspect it wouldn’t be anything mundane.
He needed to know what it was—what interested and absorbed her, what endeavor filled her time and occupied her mind. There might be something in it he could use in pursuing her. He also needed to confirm that said occupation would prove no hurdle to her being his bride.
Phoebe didn’t see him until she stepped into the cool shade beneath the trees, and by then it was too late to retreat. Inwardly cursing, she halted, watching him swing his long legs to the ground and slowly stand.
He met her eyes. He didn’t grin wolfishly but simply said, “Not even a twenty-five-year-old lady should go walking alone.”
Her first impulse was to sniff and at least try to dismiss him, but insisting she was in no danger with him standing before her was patently absurd. Elevating her
Irritated, Phoebe wondered whether, later, it might be prudent for her, or better still Edith, to drop a word in Lady Moffat’s ear. Now she’d seen the girl…
Regardless, she’d done all she could for the moment, despite her impatience to get on and make things happen. The bright sunshine outside beckoned. Her gown was suitable for walking; the sun wasn’t strong enough to make a hat or parasol necessary.
A sound came from behind her; she turned as Stripes came into the room.
“Oh—I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t know you were in here.”
“That’s perfectly all right, Stripes—I’m about to go out. If my aunt inquires, please tell her I’ve gone for a walk to the folly.” Phoebe hesitated, then asked, “Did all the gentlemen go riding?”
“I’m not sure, miss, but there’s no one in the library or the other downstairs rooms.”
Phoebe smiled. “Thank you, Stripes.” Turning, she walked to the open French doors and confidently stepped through.
From his seat under the apple trees close by the stream, Deverell watched Phoebe walk toward him. Safe at this distance, he let his gaze roam, over her curves and the long lines of her legs, the evocative sweep of her thighs clearly outlined beneath her light skirts as, looking down, she steadily crossed the lawn.
Crying off from the riding party, he’d taken refuge there; the rustic bench set near the bridge over the stream gave an unimpeded view of the back of the house and the walks leading to the stables and shrubbery on one side, and to the woods on the other. It was the perfect spot to lie in wait.
His quarry looked pensive, absorbed; while he might hope her thoughts were of him, of them, he doubted that was so. Her revelations last night had brought one puzzling aspect of her to the forefront of his brain.
She’d stated unequivocally that she had some occupation that demanded her full attention, something that absorbed the energies normally devoted to a husband and family. Yet when he’d later interrogated Audrey, she’d had no idea of Phoebe’s consuming interest; both she and Edith had given him the impression Phoebe was largely at loose ends—reading, writing, visiting, in general living the customary life of a fashionable lady with no commitments.
But that wasn’t how Phoebe had painted herself, and he would swear she hadn’t been lying. Moreover the existence of some absorbing occupation fitted better with her character; she was vibrant, vital, and actively alive—doing nothing was not an option. Just as he’d been chafing at the bit because he’d had no finite goal to pursue, so, too, with her; she couldn’t possibly not be actively involved in something,some scheme, some project, some real activity to engage her mind and absorb her considerable energies.
The more he thought of it—her secret occupation—the more convinced of its existence he became. Whatever it was, she was, at least in part, concealing it. He’d seen enough of her to suspect it wouldn’t be anything mundane.
He needed to know what it was—what interested and absorbed her, what endeavor filled her time and occupied her mind. There might be something in it he could use in pursuing her. He also needed to confirm that said occupation would prove no hurdle to her being his bride.
Phoebe didn’t see him until she stepped into the cool shade beneath the trees, and by then it was too late to retreat. Inwardly cursing, she halted, watching him swing his long legs to the ground and slowly stand.
He met her eyes. He didn’t grin wolfishly but simply said, “Not even a twenty-five-year-old lady should go walking alone.”
Her first impulse was to sniff and at least try to dismiss him, but insisting she was in no danger with him standing before her was patently absurd. Elevating her
Similar Books
