In the Widow’s Bed (13 page)

Warminster’s mouth fell open. After perhaps a minute, he snapped it closed. “Yes, I remembered you saying that the ladies loved that once. And when she discovered the truth?”

“I got the reaction I expected.”

Warminster winced. But sympathy wasn’t required. After the initial shock had worn off, he’d gotten Phoebe in his arms again and again since then. But he needed to clear the way to keep her there.

“I want to marry her, Warminster. I want your blessing.”

His friend appeared shocked. “An affair is one thing, but marriage? What if she is incapable of providing you with an heir? My father never came close to siring one with her.”

“I was not terribly surprised that she didn’t conceive.” Jonathan tilted his head to one side, considering his friend. Warminster fidgeted. “I figured it out, why all the paintings of your father disappeared into the attic. You don’t take after him at all, do you?”

Warminster’s jaw clenched tight. After a very long moment he turned his head to stare at his friend. “No.”

Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t get your hackles up. It’s quite common. But I do remember the painting from the morning room where we used to meet so often. He was about your age in that if I remember correctly.”

Warminster let out a deep sigh. “Should have known you’d notice. But will you treat my stepmother any better than he did if she doesn’t reproduce?”

Annoyed that Warminster thought him so shallow, Jonathan crossed his arms over his chest. “I have accepted the possibility, but I love her enough that it simply doesn’t matter. Your own mother, through design or accident, found a way to produce the needed heir, but not a second son. Phoebe had more morals than to cuckold her husband to do it. I admire her highly for resisting the temptation to please the bastard.”

“Lady Warminster is unusually high minded.”

Jonathan let his arms drop. “Was that a compliment?”

Warminster picked at some grass seeds stuck to his sleeve. “I’ve never said I hated the woman. Just didn’t care for her snooping about.” Warminster sighed. “Besides, it’s better that the world at large thinks us at odds. Far safer for her given my line of occupation.”

“She’ll be safe with me.”

“Well, one less to worry over.” Warminster glanced up at the cloudy sky. “She fooled me. The Clifford chit fooled me. Damn it, I’m slipping.”
 

For a man in the spy trade that could be a very bad thing to believe. Warminster relied upon his instincts to survive. Cautiously, so as not to startle, Jonathan set his hand to Warminster’s shoulder and squeezed. “Perhaps you should consider a change of career, my friend?”

Another sigh rattled out of Warminster’s chest and Jonathan dropped his arm. “I must admit, the thrill of the chase has lost its allure somewhat of late. The most fun I’ve had this last year is when you joined me in Paris.”

Unlike Warminster, Jonathan remembered those few days with horror. They’d been hiding from their pursuers in every low place imaginable. Desperate, hungry beyond words, and without a single credential to prove them English should they be intercepted by either French or English forces. After that nightmare assignment, Jonathan had declined further involvement. “You need a partner.”

“A partner?” Warminster’s frown deepened as he gazed off into the distance. He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and turned to meet Jonathan’s gaze. “Perhaps. I’ll consider it. The trouble will be convincing the right one.”

“I’m sure you can be persuasive. I take it you have someone in mind?”

“Yes, perhaps I do.” A sudden grin broke over Warminster’s face, a smile reminiscent of simpler times. “Come. We should return to the hall and clean up. We have guests to entertain.”

Since all was settled between them for Jonathan to propose to Phoebe, the trek to Moreton Hall was conducted in friendly silence. Once Warminster had disappeared from sight, Jonathan wandered to his bedchamber door, opened it, and slipped inside. Empty.

Thank god.

Wearily, Jonathan rang the bell. After trekking through the woods all day he was ripe enough to repel even himself. But he wanted everything to be perfect for tonight when he proposed. Fantasies and fears for the future brought alternate smiles and frowns to his face over the course of his bath.

They would be happy together. He was determined to put her first before all other concerns, yet there was still a very real fear in him that Phoebe would reject him in favor of maintaining her respectability. He hoped he’d done a good enough job of making her last rule inconvenient to her.

Dressed and refreshed to face the evening gathering, Jonathan strolled down the main staircase and along to the billiard room. He received some odd looks from the few gentlemen in the chamber, but they kept to themselves and their game.
 

Jonathan turned away to pour himself a drink.

“I’ll have one too, Selwood,” Warminster requested as he swept into the room. Jonathan poured it and then turned. The glass slipped through his fingers a bit. He tightened his grip and crossed to his friend.

Warminster had outdone himself on this last day. Pearl encrusted waistcoat, buckles on his shoes. The brilliant white satin blinded. No one could possibly take him seriously after this. While the man entertained his guests, jovially dragging Jonathan into the group and proving that the morning’s gossip wholly unsubstantiated. He laughed along with the jokes. But his mind stayed fixed on Phoebe until they were summoned for dinner.

Unfortunately tonight, Warminster had placed him further along the table than he’d like, but he only occasionally caught Phoebe’s eye. He sat between Lady Weston and Lady Beecham, two of the elder guests in attendance who gossiped around his head as if he wasn’t there. When the dinner ended, they all trooped toward the ballroom to await the local guests.
 

Jonathan seized the moment to pull Phoebe from the room, and out into the moonlit garden. “I thought that meal would never end,” he whispered as he curled his arm around her waist to draw her deeper into the shadows of a large tree.

“Warminster must entertain lavishly.” Phoebe wriggled against him provocatively, encouraging his hands to travel her back and then swoop low.
 

“I missed you today.”

Instead of answering, his lover turned, captured his face between the palms of her hands and drew his head down. The first touch of their lips pulled a contented sigh from her, so Jonathan set about pleasuring her mouth. As usual, Phoebe clung to his arms, and then wound hers tight about his neck, pressing against the thickening length of his erection.

Jonathan broke the kiss and buried his face in the crook of her neck. They swayed like that for quite some time, and then he moved Phoebe so her back was to the tree and captured her fingers. She never wore rings. The smooth skin was unmarked by any man’s gift.

“I had a pretty speech prepared for this moment, but the long and somewhat flowery words seem to have frozen on my tongue. Marry me, Phoebe. Say yes and be my bride.”

Phoebe tugged her fingers from his grip. “No!” She moved away from the tree and him before he could recapture her fingers. “Absolutely not!”

No matter how hard he’d prepared himself, her outraged refusal cut. What was so wrong with the idea of marriage to him? She would be adored, included in his whole life, not pushed to the side with no consideration as she was now.
 

As Phoebe backed further away, glancing left and right nervously, his temper rose.
Good enough to fuck but not good enough to be seen with as an equal
. Was she that embarrassed of what they’d shared? “This cannot come as too big a shock. I’m in love with you. Can you not see that?”

Phoebe shook her head violently. “It’s just lust. Nothing more. A man your age shouldn’t tie himself to an old woman.”

Jonathan cut off her words with a sharp hand movement. “Enough about your age.
 
You are a beautiful intelligent woman. Can you not see that the numbers are meaningless where there is love?”

“I never said I loved you,” she whispered.

Jonathan’s heart stopped. She didn’t love him? Not at all?

As he watched her fidget, his unease grew. He had poured all his love into those stolen moments, determined to show her how much he cared. She hadn’t allowed anything else. He should have realized that his affection wasn’t returned by the furtive way she had kept their burgeoning relationship. Jonathan looked away, insides curling in knots.

“I am sorry Jonathan. I never meant to mislead you about the future, but you belong with someone much younger.”

Pain tightened his chest unbearably. He forced air into his lungs, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.
 

Phoebe stepped closer. “Jonathan?”

“Do you imagine I’ll be happy with someone like the Clifford chit? They’re all like that. Never a care for the man, only after a title to elevate them in society.” Jonathan’s hands curled into fists as he fought to contain his emotions. “Madam, I suggest you return to the house. Someone might wonder where you are. We simply can’t have that can we, Lady Warminster?”

At that, Jonathan’s composure threatened to break. He strode away, around the house and off into the night without a backward glance for his fractured future.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A dull ache had spread to every part of Phoebe’s body, draining the last of her composure away. Her gloomy chamber mocked her with its emptiness and tantalizing memories of delicious pleasure.
 

Daybreak was lightening the horizon, but at a snail’s pace to ensure she suffered enough. Phoebe welcomed the discomfort because she deserved every bit of pain for what she’d done to Jonathan Oliver. He’d wanted far more than possible. He’d wanted everything and more. Yet in time he would learn that a young man deserved better than a barren old woman to wed.

He deserved someone unafraid to love him in return.

Phoebe turned her gaze to the gardens, not really appreciating the view. The maze was wreathed in clinging shadows, making it seem sinister and evil to her eye. At least the maze held no memories of Jonathan. Perhaps she’d be able to go there to forget the memories of his determined seduction—a seduction that had claimed her heart.

She’d lied to him, of course.
 

In truth, that was the only choice she had. Although the pain of denying her love for him had twisted her insides in knots, a clean break would set him free and in time he’d forget all about her. But she wouldn’t forget him.

The sound of movement carried from the next room.

Phoebe’s breath caught at the creaks and bumps from the adjoining bedchamber. Her spine stiffened. Last night she hadn’t dared crawl into bed to sleep the night alone. The pristine bedding mocked her as she sat where she’d rested since she’d stumbled into the room last night, wounded by her own decision to refuse Jonathan’s astonishing offer of marriage.

But there was no rest possible on this horrible morning because in a few short hours, minutes perhaps, Jonathan would leave his bedchamber and she would quite likely never see him again.

During the night she’d made the decision to leave Moreton Hall.
 

Although her plan was more cowardly than kind, he would be spared any further discomfort of meeting with her again. Perhaps he would appreciate that she took herself away, yet her relocation would spare her pain too.

In the next room Jonathan moved about restlessly, and the ache of longing pricked her conscience. She’d wounded them both last night in order to save herself later. Any woman he married needed to supply him with an heir. And for a brief moment yesterday she’d dreamed conceiving might be possible.

Yet she’d never birthed or even come close to carrying a child in the six years of her marriage. And it was not as if her husband hadn’t attended her enough either. Five years of such constant attention should have been ample to make her belly swell. But in the sixth year, when the nursery finery had been returned to the attic, Warminster had shunned her bed, resigned to her barren state. The memories of those horrid last months, when he’d turned elsewhere for his pleasure had returned to haunt her last night. How cruel men could be when thwarted.

The walls rattled with the slamming of a door and then the chamber next door fell silent. Panicked that Jonathan moved further away, Phoebe stood on shaky legs. But movement within the maze caught her eye and she turned to see two figures running for the house. Curious, she pressed her hand to the hazy glass to determine which furtive lovers they might be.

Yet her mind could not believe the sight at all. It stuck fast on the absurdity and drove away her pain. The gentleman in white silk glowed bright against the dark garden, the woman blended in with her dark green gown. But there was no mistaking her coltish tendencies as she kept pace with Warminster. No misunderstanding of the young woman’s clinging regard as they disappeared from sight beneath her window.

Lizzy and Warminster!

Phoebe pressed her hand to her mouth to cover a moan.

She squeezed her eyes and saw those smiling faces once more in her mind, turned to each other with joy. Pain sliced through her chest. Jealousy beat at her composure. So Lizzy would get a husband after all. But Warminster’s gaudy manners and form at her side for all to see was not what Lizzy had originally planned. She was brave to take on Warminster, much braver than Phoebe had ever been. She pushed the envy aside, embarrassed that she could be jealous of her friend’s happiness. She’d chosen her path herself, a life of her own choosing. She’d make her own rules.