Improper (The Phoenix Club #1) - Darcy Burke Page 0,55

from his fingers. “Shit. They’re opening those ballroom doors too.”

“I’ll find my way,” Fiona said, determined not to cause him any more trouble. “I’m so sorry. This was ill-advised.”

His gaze met hers once more with the same fire and intensity of a moment ago. “You’re damned right it was. We’ll discuss it later. How the hell are you going to get home? You should wait for me, and I’ll take you.”

“Should I just find a place to hide in the garden then?”

He swore again, more violently than before. “Don’t get caught.”

“I won’t.” She stood on her toes. “I really am sorry.” To punctuate her statement, she pressed her lips to his without thinking about the consequences of such an act.

The moment their mouths met, he pulled back, surprise flashing across his features. It was a brief pause, for in the next instant, he curled his arm around her waist and tugged her to his chest as he lowered his mouth to hers.

The sensation of his lips on hers was a wondrous delight. At first, the touch was fleeting, but then he cupped her face with his other hand. She felt as if she might melt against him.

A low groan vibrated from his throat as he angled his head and brushed his mouth against hers. His lips parted, prompting her to do the same. She clutched at his arm and waist, desperate for more of…everything.

“Well, this is most improper.”

Chapter 11

The woman’s voice pierced the enraptured haze surrounding Fiona as she stood in Overton’s embrace. Lifting his lips from hers in the most terrible interruption ever, Overton turned Fiona about so her back was to the woman who’d spoken.

“Ah, Lady Hargrove,” he said a bit stiltedly. “I was just consoling this maid.”

Despite the awfulness of the situation, Fiona nearly laughed. She quickly sobered, however, as she felt him stiffen behind her. His body was rock-hard with tension.

Panic began to build inside Fiona. Was she ruined?

“You sought to console her by kissing her?” Lady Hargrove demanded.

Fiona wanted to correct the woman—it was she who’d kissed him. And why on earth had she done that? He would certainly send her back to Shropshire now.

“She’s a maid here, Lord Overton,” Lady Hargrove said with considerable disdain. Though Fiona couldn’t see her, she imagined a middle-aged woman with an austere, judgmental expression.

“Allow me,” another woman said, her voice less outraged than Lady Hargrove’s. Actually, she didn’t sound angry at all, only concerned. “I’ll just take her inside.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Renshaw. I’m sure she could do with some tea. Or something.” He guided Fiona toward a young woman, perhaps in her middle or late twenties, with glossy brown hair and a kind expression. There was an intangible grace about her, an air of confidence and capability that was instantly soothing.

Fiona had the sense Mrs. Renshaw took care of things and people, but then she did oversee the ladies’ side of the club, so perhaps that was her nature. Careful to keep her head down, Fiona went eagerly to the woman’s care. Mrs. Renshaw guided her toward the house, keeping them away from the small group of people who’d gathered outside. Fiona could only see them from the corner of her eye. She didn’t dare turn her head.

When they reached the door to the house—that led into the ivory and gold sitting room in the corner—Fiona gave in to temptation. She turned her head and spied Overton walking back toward the ballroom. His body was still rigid, his head high, and his features inscrutable.

This was such a disaster.

As Mrs. Renshaw ushered her into the sitting room, Fiona thought of Cassandra. Where was she? Hopefully, she was hidden.

“I’m Mrs. Renshaw, and I oversee the Ladies’ Phoenix Club. We’ll take the backstairs up to my office.”

Fiona hesitated, wondering if she should tell her about Cassandra. But Mrs. Renshaw was already moving into the narrow servants’ cupboard that also contained the stairs down to the lower floor—the origination of this excursion that was not turning out to be the adventure Fiona had planned.

However, it was, whether expected or not, an adventure.

They went up instead of down, and Mrs. Renshaw led her into yet another gorgeously decorated room that was directly above the sitting room they’d just left. Bookshelves lined half of one wall, and tall windows looked out to the garden and Duke Street below. Between the two windows overlooking the garden stood a beautiful desk with turned legs and drawer pulls shaped like flowers. A small landscape painting that looked