The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount by Julia London Page B

how to satisfy her. I suspect you have not forgotten the difference between a man and a gentleman in your bed.”
    All right, then, no man had ever spoken to her so boldly, and certainly no man had ever caused something to fire so deep inside her and spread its damp heat to her arms and legs. It felt as if a part of her, deeply submerged, had broken off and was rising to the surface, a piece of unbridled desire bobbing about, seeking its way out.
    Still, Phoebe held her ground. “Do you think you are the only man to speak so suggestively, my lord? That I am ignorant of the many ways a man might attempt to seduce me? Do you think I will tremble and wilt to your will?”
    “Quite the contrary. I think you will blossom.”
    A white-hot shiver shot through her. “A blossom picked from the vine will dry up and blow away with the slightest wind once it has seen its glory.”
    He cocked a brow and smiled. “Not,” he said, “if it is properly tended.”
    The abrupt sound of the door opening caused her heart to leap in her chest, and she instantly lurched backward, away from Summerfield. She heard Frieda’s gasp of surprise, and then, “I beg your pardon, my lord!”
    For a moment, Phoebe feared she would collapse of sheer mortification. As it was, she could scarcely make herself look at the girl.
    But when she did, Frieda was gaping at the two of them.
    Summerfield merely smiled. “It’s quite all right, Frieda.” His hot gaze raked over Phoebe once more before he turned from her and walked to the door. “Madame Dupree needs your assistance.”
    “Yes, sir,” Frieda said, dipping a curtsy.
    Summerfield walked past Frieda without looking back.
    The moment he’d left the workroom, Phoebe whirled around and stepped behind the screen. Frieda shut the door behind Summerfield and ran to the screen. She pushed it aside and gaped at Phoebe, bright-eyed and smiling broadly. “What in heaven?” she squealed.
    “Just…just put it on the table,” Phoebe said irritably as she handed Jane’s gown to her. “And whatever you may think, it was not my choosing to don it.”
    “No, of course not,” Frieda said with a snort. She took the gown from Phoebe and held it up to her own body, admiring it in a mirror. “Would that he’d look at me like that. Makes a lass want to fall on her back and cock her heels to the ceiling, eh? You’re awful pretty,” she added thoughtfully. “Pretty as a picture. I’m not the least surprised he’s taken a shine to you.” She put Jane’s gown onto the table and smoothed it out. “But I daresay Lady Jane would be fit for Bedlam if she knew you’d worn her gown. I’d have a care, were I you.”
    Phoebe thought better advice had never been spoken.

Nine
    T he strange pressure Summerfield had caused in her did not abate; Phoebe felt tense and tingly and on the brink of a breathtaking madness long after he’d gone.
    Summerfield was no different from dozens of other gentlemen she’d met, yet she’d never been so drawn to a man as she was to him. Granted, she’d rarely been as direct with a man as she had been with Summerfield—it was not a luxury she could afford.
    Lord Stanhope, her brother-in-law’s dear friend, had made her laugh one night over whist, for he was delightfully charming when he was of a mind, and the very next morning, Ava had, rather indiscreetly, blurted that she and Middleton thought Phoebe and Stanhope would make an excellent match.
    As a result, Phoebe avoided flirtations with gentlemen. And when Lord Stanhope or any other gentleman looked at her with hunger in his eyes, it made her feel queasy. But when Summerfield looked at her like that, it was almost as if she could feel the waves of his desire breaking on her, that feeling of sand giving way beneath her feet, as if she were in danger of being swept away by it.
    She was extremely titillated by this odd twist of fate that allowed her to be blissfully free and whoever she wanted to be. No one here would try and