In the Widow’s Bed (14 page)

Determined to cease her wallowing, Phoebe snatched open a draw, hunting for fresh clothes for the day. But instead she found Jonathan’s cravat where she’d hidden it just yesterday, before the mischief Lady Jocelyn had tried to create.
 

Hands shaking, breath churning erratically, she lifted the linen to hold it to her face. That scent, clean, warm and distinctly Jonathan brought her pain rushing back. She fell to her knees in agony just as footsteps rumbled beyond her doors. Servants, by the sound, coming for Jonathan’s things to speed his return to Dalemain Court. Phoebe held the cravat tight to her chest, rocking on her knees as his trunks were collected and taken away.
 

After the silence of long minutes, a tear trailed down her cheek. Determined not to appear any more foolish for weeping on her knees, Phoebe clambered to her feet before her maid found her sitting in this dramatic, foolhardy way.
 

So she’d had rules for taking a lover? Jonathan had met all with ease. Clean, experienced, discreet and not adverse to a clandestine tryst. Yet that last one niggled because she’d been proud to be on his arm. Was it really so bad to be adored by a younger man? Was it unforgivable to find what might be true love after all this time?

~ * ~

“So this is quite a surprise,” Jonathan replied, trying his best to appear happy. Before him stood his sister and his best friend, Warminster, each slightly rumpled with small twigs and leaves stuck to their hair.
 

“With your permission, we’d like to marry. I’ve convinced Elizabeth that it must be St. George’s Church and no where else.” Warminster lifted Lizzy’s knuckles to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss there. “I want the whole world to see who captured me and encouraged me into more sober habits. By the way, I’m retiring.”

Warminster’s infatuated smile and declaration turned the knife in Jonathan’s heart. He wanted so much to be happy for them, yet his own disappointment dampened his reactions. His face ached with the strain to smile. “Congratulations again.”

Lizzy peered at him, probably wondering at his awkward flat tone. To conceal his pain, he gathered her in his arms and hugged her tight, hiding his face and hopefully conveying without words his consent for the match.

“Je vous remercie beaucoup, frère.”
 

“Juste être heureux, enfant,” he whispered in return.
 

When he let her go, Warminster quickly recaptured her attention, carefully plucking out the small leaf matter from her hair and pressing them into Lizzy’s palm with a laugh. Jonathan turned his back on their obvious affection, breathless with the need to scream out his agony.

A door creaked behind him, but he didn’t need to turn to see who entered. Lizzy’s delighted shriek to Phoebe stilled his heart. He willed himself to turn, to join the merriment and ignore the pain of Phoebe’s refusal to love him in return. Yet his feet wouldn’t move. He took steadying breaths as yet more voices joined in congratulating the happy couple, the noise of the conversations rising steadily. Phoebe sounded happy over the engagement. Far happier than he. A knot of cold dread swept over his skin. Would she laugh off his declaration of love now as if it mattered little? He couldn’t bear that and, knowing he must, he spun on the spot to face the room. And her.

But Phoebe was already watching him, standing between him and the house guests crammed into Warminster’s study to gawk at the newly betrothed couple. His fingers curled into tight fists as she approached and despite his best intentions, he drank in her presence.
 

The dark demure gown and severe coiffure didn’t dampen her affect on his senses. When she drew close, he inhaled sharply to imprint her scent on his soul, noticing as he did the dark circles beneath her eyes. Her hands lifted to his chest, and then slid slowly upwards toward his shoulders. She rose to her toes, lifting so their faces were closer, and his hands automatically curled over her hips to steady her.

The small gasp she uttered skimmed across his lips and he swallowed at the tension between them, the tightening of every pore as desire licked up his spine.
 

“I lied,” she whispered, and then pressed her lips tight together.

Jonathan’s heart clattered in his chest as he brushed his thumbs over her waist. Hope, that foolish emotion, gripped him. “Why?”

“Afraid,” Phoebe whispered as her gaze dropped. “You’ll cast me aside one day for someone more youthful. My husband flaunted his mistress before me when I failed to conceive. It hurt.”

Surprised by that bit of information, by the cruelty her husband had inflicted by not loving Phoebe as she deserved, Jonathan drew her closer, forcing her to take one more step into his arms.
 

Slowly, he spread his fingers over her back, cradling her tight against him. “Perhaps I should be afraid that someday you might replace me with a younger man, one with more stamina than a bull. I’ll get old too. And the men in my family have a sad tendency to lose their hair.”

As he’d hoped, a small laugh escaped her over his last confession, breaking the tension altogether. A mischievous smile lifted her lips. “Well then, I’d better enjoy my hold while I can—seeing as how it’s merely temporary.”

Like the sun rising on the horizon, Phoebe rose again to capture his lips, hands sliding through his hair, nails scratching across his skull to hold his head close for her kisses. His heart that just moments before had felt battered and bruised relaxed as Phoebe claimed him before witnesses, pronouncing an end to their discreet liaison.

“Should I plan for a double wedding, Selwood?” Warminster asked cheekily.
 

Wild applause drowned out Jonathan’s less than friendly response.

THE END

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About the Author

Bestselling historical author Heather Boyd believes every character she creates deserves their own happily-ever-after, no matter how much trouble she puts them through. With that goal in mind, she weaves sizzling English set love stories that push the boundaries of regency era propriety to keep readers enthralled until the wee hours of the morning. Brimming with new ideas, she frequently wishes she could type as fast as she conjures new storylines. While writing full time north of Sydney, Australia, Heather collects dust bunnies in all corners of the house and does her best to wrangle her testosterone-fuelled family into submission.

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www.heather-boyd.com

Also by Heather Boyd

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Guarding the Spoils

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Miss Mayhem Series:

Miss Watson’s First Scandal

Miss George’s Second Chance

The Hunt Club Chronicles:

Almost an Equal

Barely a Master

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Novella/Short stories:

One Wicked Night

Wicked Mourning

In the Widow’s Bed

Love Me Tender

Love Me True

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