Page 72 of Almost A Scoundrel
Her pulse leaped.
*
Deerhurst waited forPhaedra in the purple drawing room—the one and only—with her crumbled missive in hand. He hadn’t wanted to leave her bed this morning. He’d badly wanted to snuggle in closer and stay. She had looked so peaceful, so beautiful in her sleep.
He had stared at her soft, delicate features for what felt like hours before dawn had beckoned and with it the need to leave before they were caught together by her maid.
He had planned to take her on a late afternoon picnic. He had the whole scene planned out in his mind. The perfect spot in Hyde Park. Public. The spread of food. A bit of wine. Footman to keep guard. He wanted every last man to understand—back off. Whether his plan would work remained to be seen, but it would be worth it to try. In truth, as he had admitted the night before, he just couldn’t stay away.
Then her note had arrived.
Deerhurst,
Thank you for always protecting me and ensuring that I arrive safely home. I shall take the day, maybe two, to rest.
Yours faithfully,
Phaedra
Nothing untoward or out of place with the note, nothing to suggest that Phaedra was anything but fine, and yet Deerhurst’s gut had told him otherwise.
He was not fooled by her words.
Phaedra Sharp planned to avoid him. Cast him aside. Hide in her home.
After all that happened in the span of the night before, he couldn’t blame her. And a part of him urged him to leave her be, respect her wishes—the wise part. He’d gotten too close. Too involved. Best to take a step away to catch his footing once more. But confound it. Would his heart listen to that sage voice?
No.
Deerhurst didn’t want to catch his footing.
Which was why he found himself in the very drawing room that would probably put a blush on her face when entered—if she received him at all.
Then she appeared. A vision of swirling blue and, as predicted, soft strokes of pink glazing her cheeks. “Deerhurst?”
He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He took in all of her. She appeared a bit tired, but she was still the most captivating woman in all of London.
“I received your note. I thought I would not be seeing you today.”
Yes, he had sent her a reply. But that was before he’d gone into a spiral of resistance. “I wanted to make sure you’ve recovered from last night.” He sounded like a madman.
A short silence followed.
“My mother found one of my slippers on the stairwell.”
Deerhurst inwardly swore. “Did she suspect anything?”
“No,” her lips twitched. “Puck got all the blame.”
“I didn’t even realize.” Deerhurst inwardly cursed his negligence. She’d kicked off her slippers—or slipper—when she’d dropped onto her bed. He hadn’t noticed there was only one. His eyes had been on her face, not her feet.
“It’s my fault,” he said softly, almost apologetically, because it felt like something he could have prevented. “I should have taken better care.”
She waived his comment aside with a small smile. “You are not to blame, Deerhurst. At any part of the night, I could have said no. There is no need for you to take responsibility for my actions.”
His gut resisted, but he said, “No one suspects you snuck out?”
“No, they believe Puck has an undergarment obsession, though I do not know how well they believe it.”
