Skinner fastened Phoebe’s single strand of pearls about her throat. “I’d have thought you’d want to wait ’til the last night.”
Phoebe shook her head. “No, the small hours of the morning after the ball will be perfect. Everyone will be guaranteed to be snoring, and with any luck Lady Moffat won’t miss her maid until noon or later the next day. That way, even if something untoward occurs, the others will have plenty of time to overcome any hurdle and disappear into London.”
“Aye, well—there is that.”
“Indeed. But the first thing I must do is convince Deverell that when it comes to marriage, he has no chance whatever of changing my mind—that’s the only thing that will make him stop looking my way.”
Skinner snorted.
Interpreting that as a comment on the temerity of the man, Phoebe patted her pearls into place and considered her reflection.
The amber silk of her gown deepened the dark red of her hair and lent a subtle glow to her complexion, underscored by the sheen of the pearls about her throat. Her eyes appeared more violet in candlelight, her lips a deeper red.
She looked well enough, she supposed, although if looks were all, then he should have fastened on Deidre or Leonora. Regardless, his comment that introducing him to the best of the eligible ladies had only confirmed him in his pursuit of her, while doubtless complimentary in its way, suggested that any further attempts in that direction would be doomed to continuing failure.
She narrowed her eyes. “If I can’t distract him with any other lady, how else can I make him stop focusing on me?”
She’d muttered the words to herself, but Skinner had heard.
“Tell him the truth.” Skinner spoke from the wardrobe, where she was hanging Phoebe’s day gown. “If the man is anything like the master, then straight-talking will serve you best.”
“I’ve already told him I’m not interested in marriage.”
“No doubt, but did you tell him why? Men, logical creatures that they are, like reasons. I’m thinking you might have greater success if you give him a reason or two for why you’re unlikely to change your mind.”
Phoebe met her own eyes in the mirror and wrinkled her nose.
In the distance a gong sounded, summoning all downstairs. She was as ready as she’d ever be; with a sigh, she rose. “I’d better go.”
She was waiting for him when he walked into the drawing room.
Deverell saw her instantly, standing to one side with Peter Mellors and two others. Her gaze equally instantly locked on him. Given the way they had parted, he wondered what new tack she had in mind to discourage him from pursuing her; if the set of her jaw was any guide, she was impatient to try it.
He nodded to Lady Cranbrook and Audrey, then moved into the growing crowd of guests standing and talking in small groups. He didn’t head directly for Phoebe; instead, he took a circuitous route, stopping here and there to exchange a few words, simultaneously assessing his target.
She was well gowned, but not in the latest style. In her style, once again feminine yet aloof. Even as he studied her, he was aware other gentlemen did too; regardless of her disinterest in the opposite sex, she had that indefinable something that caught men’s eyes.
Making her an even more attractive target; the notion of succeeding where others had failed greatly appealed to his competitive nature.
He steadily circled the room toward her. Unfortunately Lady Cranbrook had been correct in predicting that he, his presence, would create a stir; regardless of his already demonstrated fixation with Phoebe, various matrons couldn’t resist trying their—or, more precisely, their daughters’ or nieces’—hands with him. He dealt with them with courtesy and patience, that last aided by the observation that their interference was irritating Phoebe, feeding her impatience.
In the end, she left those she’d been chatting with and strolled his way.
Glibly excusing himself from Lady Riley and her daughter, Georgina, he turned and, in a few long steps, intercepted Phoebe before a pair of long windows.
“Miss Malleson.” He reached for her hand.
For one second she considered not letting him have it, but then she surrendered it. He bowed easily; he held onto her slim fingers as he straightened, lightly caressing her knuckles with his thumb before, with clear reluctance, releasing her.
She shifted to fully face him, her back to the rest of the gathering. Her narrowed, violet-blue eyes met his. “I had hoped you would take the hint—the large hint I dropped this afternoon—and turn your attention to other ladies, but you haven’t, have you?”
He smiled at her. “Of course not.” He studied her eyes, then more quietly said, “You didn’t really believe I would.”
No, she hadn’t. Still battling the effects of that gentle, far too seductive touch on her fingers, Phoebe drew a deep breath and carefully enunciated, “This has to stop. There is no point. I am not interested in marrying, not you or any gentleman, because, put simply, I have no inclination whatever in that direction.”
He held her gaze, seemingly not the least put out by her declaration. “Why?”
Skinner had been right. “Because there are only three reasons any female contemplates matrimony. One, because she needs financial security. Two, because she wishes for a family to fill her time. Or three, because she desires that degree of male…companionship that marriage affords.”