Free Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841) by Gail Eastwood Page A

very personal. “It is a combination of rosemary and lemon verbena,” Phoebe said in a flat, matter-of-fact voice. How ridiculous that such a small comment from him had set her pulse racing! She could feel it in her breast, her throat, and the palms of her hands.
    â€œIt lingers very pleasantly,” he said. “I can smell it on the writing paper after you are finished each day and sometimes on other things as well. Yet it is very delicate, very light.” His voice was suddenly warm, and Phoebe realized with alarm that his gaze was, as well.
    I mustn’t appear flustered
, she told herself firmly. Truly, the idea of him sniffing the paper after she left the room each day, of him
haunted
by her scent, was very unsettling indeed. “I—I make it myself.” She felt a response was necessary and did not know what else to say.
    â€œIt is very seductive.”
    He was pushing her for a reaction, she knew. He must be very bored to be playing games with her after his promise to behave. “It isn’t meant to be,” she snapped. She reached for the rolled copy of the
Times
that lay on the tea tray and opened it with a loud rustling of pages. She scanned quickly for something that would distract him from this line of conversation.
    â€œDid your husband like it?”
    Her head jerked up at that. She couldn’t help showing a reaction. “That is certainly none of your business!”
    His voice was gentle, in contrast to her sharp tone. “I am not toying with you, Lady Brodfield. I only ask because I am interested in you. I want to know you, to understand you. You never speak about your late husband. It seems curious.”
    The pages of the newspaper were shaking. “I find it painful to talk about the past. Like most human beings, I prefer to avoid pain.”
    He was looking at her with sympathy now, and Phoebe was not sure she liked that any better than the hunger she had detected in his eyes just before.
    â€œI am sure you must have some very happy memories of your husband,” he said. “Sometimes it helps to share those with a caring friend.”
    Phoebe raised the pages of the newspaper like a barrier between herself and the inquisitive earl. He had managed to touch a chord in her—to reach through some infinitesimal crack in the wall she had built around her heart, to some loneliness and longing she did not want to admit existed there. She could not, would not acknowledge it.
    â€œHis Royal Highness, the Duke of York, has broken his arm,” she announced, studying the small print and swallowing the lump in her throat. “It seems he slipped on the oilcloth while taking a showerbath at Oatlands.”
    Devenham sighed, and Phoebe took it as a sign of capitulation. After a pause he commented dryly, “How undignified, and how embarrassing to have it reported in the
Times.
His poor Highness, although certainly it is nothing compared to a juicy scandal. Will he be all right?”
    She was relieved that he had accepted the change of topic. “It says his doctors have seen to him.”
    â€œI suppose that will keep him at home for several weeks to come. As far as I am concerned, that is all to the good. I should like to be mobile again before my presence is required at one of his military levees.”
    Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Maddocks, bearing mail for Phoebe.
    â€œYou look astonished,” Devenham said as Phoebe broke the seal on the letter.
    â€œI seldom receive mail,” she answered absently, intent upon reading it. Her face cleared as she saw the note was from Lucinda Follett. “As it happens, however, I was told to expect this.”
    She smiled as she refolded Lucy’s letter. There was a certain note of satisfaction in her voice as she informed him, “I am afraid you will have to do without me tomorrow afternoon, my lord. I am invited to take tea with an old friend.”
    ***
    It was Judith