A Dark and Brooding Gentleman by Margaret McPhee Page A

a hand to her arm, and felt her jump beneath his touch. ‘Only fifteen minutes, Phoebe, what are a few minutes more?’
    ‘You were timing me?’
    ‘In my eagerness to see you.’ And it was only half a lie.
    ‘Mr Hunter!’ She sounded breathless.
    ‘Sebastian,’ he insisted, and told himself he was doing this for the sake of his mother’s safety, and not because he had wanted Miss Allardyce since first setting eyes on her. Not that he would allow matters to progress anywhere near as far as taking her; unlike last night, now he was prepared. Hell, but the kiss had shaken him enough; he could not doubt what it had done to Phoebe Allardyce. What the hell was she looking for in the rooms of Blackloch? A little more pressure and she would reveal the truth in one way or another.
    ‘Really, I must go.’
    But Hunter slid his hand down her arm to take her hand in his. ‘Are you forgetting our arrangement, Phoebe?’
    ‘Arrangement?’ Her expression was innocent and artless, her eyes filled with wariness she could not quite disguise.
    ‘Surely you have not forgotten last night?’ he murmured.
    Her blush intensified. ‘Last night …’ And just for a moment something of the strength in her eyes faltered. Her hand slipped out of his and she backed away untilthe wall blocked her retreat. She dropped her gaze, hiding beneath the sweep of those tawny-red lashes so that he thought she would cease her pretence.
    ‘Phoebe?’ he said more gently.
    She looked up at him then and he saw that he was wrong. They stared at one another across the width of the passageway and in her eyes was nothing of capitulation, only caution and, beneath it, a steadfast resolve that bordered on defiance. He wondered what she would do if he took her in his arms and kissed her as hard and thoroughly as he wanted to. What would it take to make her confess the truth of what she had been doing in his bedchamber last night, of what she had been searching for in his mother’s rooms just now? Would she let him carry her into his bedchamber, throw her on bed and bury himself inside her? He made not one move, but something of his thoughts must have shown in his face for she paled, but she still did not back down.
    ‘Sebastian …’ The sound of his name upon her lips made his pulse kick. ‘We will speak of this later. But for now I must not keep your mother waiting.’ Her voice was all calmness and control. She turned to leave, but he caught hold of her elbow, preventing her departure. He felt her start beneath his touch, heard the slight catch of her breath, saw the frenzied leap of the pulse in her neck, and he knew she was not so unaffected as she was feigning. Her eyes locked with his, and in their depths he thought he saw the flash of guilt and fear and desire.
    ‘I have already told you—’
    He said not one word, just pressed the pale green thread into her hand and walked away.
    Over the next few days Phoebe found it impossible to continue her search of Blackloch. Hunter was always around, brooding, silent and yet present. For all the animosity that existed between him and his mother, since the night she had gone to his bedchamber he had been spending more and more time in Mrs Hunter’s company. And in his presence Phoebe felt a constant awareness of their ‘arrangement’ as he had called it. Every time their eyes met the memory of that night was between them, of his mouth possessing hers. The feel of his arms holding her close, of being pressed against the long hard length of his body. She denied the thoughts, pushed them away, knowing that she could not afford to let herself weaken, feeling a guilt at this unbidden attraction. Responsibility sat heavy on her shoulders. And the fear for her papa drove her on.
    Beneath the shade of a crab apple tree in the walled garden Phoebe and Mrs Hunter sat reading.
    ‘This was always my favourite spot,’ Mrs Hunter told Phoebe, ‘for it is nicely tucked away out of the wind.’
    ‘Mother.’