Fifteen minutes later, Phoebe cracked the door to see one of the maids busying herself with a flower arrangement on a table a little way down the hallway. The girl disappeared into the room beside the table and Phoebe glimpsed the edge of a bed in the room. The second maid entered the room. For the next few minutes, Phoebe waited for the girls to leave or close the door, but they moved from within the room to the hallways so that she dared not step from her hiding place. Thankfully, she hadn't heard the men leave the duke's study, which meant Kiernan and her uncle hadn't yet missed her.
A door opened and she heard the duke's voice. Her uncle answered, but his words were cut off when the door closed. Alarm jumpstarted Phoebe's pulse. That had to be Kiernan who left the meeting. Once he returned to the ballroom, he would quickly discover her absence. She forced a slow breath and watched for him. The pad of boots on carpet approached the stairs opposite his bedroom. She waited see him descend the stairs, but he didn't come into view. An instant later, Phoebe realized he was headed for his bedroom.
She took a faltering step back from the door and turned, wildly searching for a hiding place. The armoire was too small. Damn him for not sharing the vanity of so many men of his position who kept more clothes than they could possibly wear in a lifetime. There was no changing closet in this room. The balcony might offer a hiding place—the footsteps were near. Too late. Phoebe lunged for the bed.
When the door opened and the marquess stopped dead, his eyes on her, Phoebe didn't break the connection. His gaze slid down her face to her breasts, which were bared beyond even the sensibilities of the demimonde. She had yanked one gown strap off her shoulder and the comb from her hair, then flung herself onto the mattress. Phoebe lay, one hand thrown over her head, her hair in disarray across the quilt. She couldn't stop the slow release of the breath she held or the slow intake of breath to refill her lungs. In the light of the low fire, his gaze sharpened the instant before he closed the door softly behind him and clicked the lock into place. She stifled a gasp, but was sure he couldn't miss the rise and fall of her breasts caused by the thud of her heart against her chest.
Kiernan leaned his shoulders against the door, crossed his arms over his chest, and lifted a lazy brow. "I'm wondering how you got past the girls out there."
"That is what you have to say at a moment like this?"
"Forgive me, my dear, but you've been so concerned about your reputation that I'm a little surprised you would take such a chance."
"No worries, my lord, when I sneaked into your room they weren't on this floor."
"Indeed?"
The bemused note in his voice was unexpected. Phoebe started to push into a sitting position. "If you are worried—"
"I'm not the least bit worried," he cut in, and she stilled.
She was sure he wasn't, damn him. Phoebe relaxed back onto the bed, her arm draped across her midsection. His eyes flicked onto the action, then came back to her face.
"Is something wrong, my lord?" she asked. "Are you upset I'm here? You did tell me to try out the goods." By heavens, those had been the duchess' words, not his.
"That is certainly one way of putting it," he replied.
Kiernan pushed off the door and her heart beat faster as he drew closer. He reached the bed, stopped, and stared down at her. Heat rose to her cheeks and she fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. Thankfully—or perhaps not so thankfully—he lowered himself to sit on the mattress beside her. Phoebe had expected something more direct, like yanking up her skirts, unbuttoning his pants, then lying on top of her and—she released a shaky breath.
"Are you all right, my dear?"
"Fine, my lord. You?"
"Better than I can remember."
She wanted to throttle him.
"I like this dress."
"The duchess' choice," Phoebe replied.
A corner of his mouth twitched. He lifted a thick lock of her hair and rubbed the tress between his fingers, then dropped it and slipped a warm finger beneath the strap still on her shoulder. Phoebe flinched and his eyes shifted onto her face. She lay still as a mouse and thought perhaps he was going to call a halt to the seduction—heaven help her, she had no idea where that would leave her. Instead, he slid the strap down her shoulder so that both breasts were exposed nearly to her nipples. She couldn't say where this left her, either.
He trailed the finger down her shoulder past her collar bone and over the rise of one breast. She shivered. His finger moved closer to the edge of her bodice. He dipped down into the valley between her breasts and up the other. Warmth centered in her stomach and worked its way downward in a radiating wave. His finger slid inside her bodice and the wave peaked when he caressed a nipple. The juncture between her legs tightened and a dizzying current brought with it an unfamiliar energy.