To Distraction by Stephanie Laurens Page A

up not far from here. My father’s Lord Martindale—Martindale Hall is about twenty miles away, over there.” She pointed to the east.
    He looked, then asked, “Do you spend much time there?”
    Her lips twisted wryly. “Not since I was eight. My mother died when I was seven. My father became a recluse—he rarely leaves the hall. When I came out of mourning, I was sent to stay with my aunts—I have eleven of them. I moved around between them, but I’ve spent most time with Edith. Her husband had died and she was alone, and so was I.”
    He said nothing. After a moment, she glanced at him. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
    He shook his head. “Like you, my mother died when I was young. My father passed away while I was overseas. I’ve uncles and aunts, but no cousins on the paternal side.”
    “Thus your need to marry.”
    He nodded.
    Before she could probe further—although she wasn’t at all sure why she wanted to know more—Georgina and Heather joined them.
    “We’re going to stage the croquet tournament when we get back. Both of you must play, of course.”
    Phoebe raised her brows; Georgina’s comment had been couched far too dictatorially. “I fear that after the exigencies of this picnic, I won’t have sufficient energy to make an adequate showing. You must count me out.”
    “Oh.” Georgina blinked at her, considered, then patently decided they didn’t need her anyway. She turned her bright eyes on Deverell. “But you’ll play, won’t you, my lord? You certainly won’t be too fatigued.”
    Phoebe looked too, only to find Deverell’s green eyes, slightly narrowed, fixed on her face.
    Without shifting his gaze, he said, “I’ll play only on one condition—that Miss Malleson be my partner.”
    She looked into his eyes and had to struggle not to laugh. They’d pushed too far; he’d retaliated with a demand that left Georgina no choice but to turn to her and plead, “Phoebe? You will play, won’t you?”
    She held his gaze—he was a devil, no doubt, for he’d trapped her, too. “If Lord Paignton will lend me his undoubted expertise, then yes, very well, I’ll marshal enough energy to compete.”
    Thus it was that three hours later they found themselves standing side by side at the edge of the croquet lawn.
    “I haven’t played in years,” Deverell informed her.
    Despite that, Phoebe quickly discovered he hadn’t forgotten how, but the game as he played it differed subtly from the one she knew.
    In his version, there was a great deal more touching between partners, at least between them. She hadn’t previously considered croquet a sport with much, if any, contact, but his version was filled with little touches, brushes, the gentle pressure of his hand at the back of her waist, the tantalizing glide of his leg clad in tight buckskin breeches and glossy boot against her skirts.
    The lightest brush of his fingers over the bright curls caressing her warm nape.
    She knew from the first that he was doing it deliberately; oddly, from the first, she didn’t truly mind. To her continuing surprise, she didn’t mind being touched by him; indeed, she quite enjoyed the occasional frisson when supposedly unintentionally skin met skin.
    Or when his hand passed lightly over a curve he really shouldn’t touch.
    At least not in public. No one saw, of course.
    Those fleeting, private touches added another dimension to their play. Although defeated in the final round by Peter and Heather, both keen players who concentrated fiercely, she was prepared to wager that of them all, she and Deverell had gained the most enjoyment from the tournament.
    She parted from him, leaving him with the other men to tidy the hoops and mallets away. Trooping inside with the other ladies to get ready for the ball, she decided the afternoon hadn’t, after all, been entirely wasted.
     
    Except…
    It didn’t strike her until she was in her room that all those little touches had had a cumulative, inevitable