The Accidental Bride (16 page)

He had, of course. The reminder didn’t please him but it caused him to moderate his tone.

“I commend your generosity, Phoebe, but it won’t do. I will ensure that there is no miscarriage of justice. From here on, you must let matters take their course.”

“You are asking me to abandon my friend?” Phoebe shook her head. “Indeed, I cannot, sir.”

Cato’s lips thinned. “Even you . . . even
you
must see how inappropriate it is for my wife to consort with someone of such unsavory reputation.”

Phoebe’s jaw dropped. “Unsavory!” she said. “Meg is a healer. She has done so much good in the countryside. It is not her fault that the child died, or the cows at Shipley have the murrain.”

“Child . . . cows?” Cato was for a minute mystified. He drank down the contents of his goblet and enlightenment came. “The evil eye! So that’s what this is all about.”

“Yes, but Meg wasn’t walking in the field in the dark of the moon. And she certainly didn’t put a curse on the child.”

“Such nonsense!” Cato exclaimed. “I have no time for such ignorant stupidity. You will keep away from all such talk, if you please.”

“You will excuse me, sir,” Phoebe said through compressed
lips. “I must get ready for supper.” She offered him a stiff curtsy and marched from the room.

She closed the door at her back and stood fiercely frowning in the passage. Her thick fair eyebrows almost met across the bridge of her snub nose as she chewed her bottom lip. Obviously nothing would be gained by further protest. Her husband, for all his many wonderful qualities, was clearly very stubborn even when he was wrong. She had no choice but to ignore him on such occasions.

“Stubborn, pompous man!” she said aloud.

“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” A soft voice spoke from the shadow of the stairs. Brian Morse stepped into the golden glow of the candles sconced on either side of Cato’s study door. “Trouble, Lady Granville?” He raised an eyebrow with an air of complicity.

“Oh, call me Phoebe,” she said with a touch of impatience. “Everyone does and I usually forget to answer to anything more formal.”

“Then, Phoebe . . .” Brian bowed. “Forgive the impertinence, but I know well what it is to run up against Lord Granville. However just and reasonable one’s arguments, if he doesn’t agree, nothing will move him.”

Phoebe’s chin lifted. “In general he’s right in his views,” she stated.

“In general, yes,” Brian said with a slight smile. “But in the particular. . .?” He left the question mark in the air.

“Not always,” Phoebe admitted. She twisted a lock of hair around her finger, still frowning. Then she shrugged. “I have to get ready for supper. Excuse me.”

Brian followed her into the brighter light of the hall. She was wearing the gown he’d first seen on her. Too small, straining across her deep bosom, the sleeves too short, the hem dipping, and an ugly color to boot. And yet when he looked at her closely, to his surprise he could see the potential. It gave him an idea.

“Have you thought of coiling your hair over your ears?” he asked suddenly. “I believe such a style would frame your face very prettily.”

Phoebe spun round to look at him in some astonishment. “I always wear it like this.” She put her hands to the loose knot on top of her head. Of course, it’s always coming down,” she added.

“If you’ll permit. . .” Brian put his hands on her head, deftly unpinning the knot. He divided it into two and then took two swatches and twisted them around her ears. “Yes, I’m right,” he said nodding. “You should try it.”

“Do you know much about fashion and such?” Phoebe asked with a surge of interest. It seemed likely, judging by his clothes.

“I used to advise your sister,” he responded. “I have frequented the court for close on five years, and I believe I’m considered something of an arbiter. Many women ask my opinion on such matters.” He offered a deprecating smile that concealed the flash of calculation in his hard eyes.

“I’m something of a lost cause,” Phoebe said dubiously. “I try but it often doesn’t work out right.”

“Oh, but you have so much potential,” he said warmly. “If you’d permit me to advise you on your wardrobe . . . that gown, for instance . . .”

“It’s a very old one,” Phoebe said, a mite defensively. “I didn’t wish to wear one of my best gowns out in the snow.”

“Quite so,” he agreed with a smooth smile. “But must you wear something so
very
old? Could you not have the seamstress make up some gowns for everyday? More hard-wearing materials than silks and velvets, but with a more fashionable cut?”

Phoebe looked rueful. “I suppose I could. This one is really too small, isn’t it?”

“It is.” He smiled again. “I hope you don’t consider me impertinent.”

“No,” Phoebe said after a second’s hesitation. “I need all the help I can get.”

“I will draw some sketches for you to give the seamstress, if you’ll permit. Styles that will look well in wool and linen.”

“Yes . . . yes, thank you.” Phoebe shook down her loosened hair again, feeling somewhat stunned. She hurried away, leaving Brian looking after her.

“A
h, there you are, Phoebe. I’ve been looking all over for
you. I assumed you’d be in the parlor, but Olivia said you’d be in here for some reason.”

Startled, Phoebe looked up from her perch on the linen shelf in the stillroom. She’d been so absorbed in her writing that the sound of a voice, even Cato’s voice, was for a moment almost an unpleasant surprise.

“Sometimes I like to write in the stillroom, my lord,” she explained, nibbling the tip of her quill pen. “It’s very quiet and the scent of the herbs seems to aid the muse. At the moment the meter keeps escaping from me. It’s not exactly classical to change meter in the middle, but iambic pentameter feels awkward . . .” She stopped. “But why should that interest you?”

“I certainly know little of poetry,” Cato agreed. It was fragrant and very warm in the stillroom, and tendrils of hair clung damply to Phoebe’s forehead. Cato was suddenly vividly aware of how desirable she was looking. She’d done something different with her hair, and her breasts were soft creamy mounds, bared almost to the nipples in that outrageously sensual blue gown. Pure seductive sophistication and her youthful innocence offered an irresistible paradox.

“It doesn’t go with soldiering, I suppose,” Phoebe said. Her gaze drifted back to the vellum. “I wonder if maybe hexameter or perhaps sapphic would work here,” she mused, scratching out a line and scribbling rapidly.

It seemed she had little time for her husband while in the throes of composition. The light in her round blue eyes, the
light of pure desire and promise that he was growing accustomed to seeing whenever she looked at him, was conspicuous by its absence. Cato missed it.

“I would think it must be a more than daunting subject,” he suggested, leaning casually against the closed door. “A pageant of such scope.”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it,” Phoebe said with a sigh. She looked up. “I’m just beginning to think about costumes. Can you imagine what a headache they’re going to be?”

She shook her head mournfully. “I don’t know why I didn’t come up with something simpler. Something with the Greeks and the Romans . . . togas and laurel wreaths would be so much easier to contrive than ruffs and farthingales, don’t you think?”

“Without a doubt,” he agreed.

“Maybe Caesar and Pompey . . . or Tiberius, perhaps . . . but then he was such an unpleasant man; and of course if you do Rome you’d have to find lions from somewhere because you couldn’t ignore the Games, could you?”

“I suppose not.” Cato regarded her with fascination as she pursued her train of thought, a little frown drawing her eyebrows together over her smidgeon of a nose.

“And then, of course, you’d have the problem with the minnows, wouldn’t you?”

“Minnows?” He stared at her.

“Yes, Olivia and I were reading about it just the other day. Tiberius had these little boys trained to swim in the pool and pretend to be minnows. They had to nibble—” Phoebe stopped short in confusion as she saw his astounded expression. “Well, you know what I mean.”

“Dear God!” Cato exclaimed. “You and Olivia have been reading about the depravities of the Roman empire!”

“Well, they’re hard to miss if you’re reading the classics,” Phoebe offered. “But there’s a lot more of it in Greek. They didn’t seem to think it was depraved, just part of normal life.
But, I was wondering . . . what exactly did they do, sir? I can’t quite imagine how they. . .” She paused and shrugged, searching his expression for enlightenment.

“You can’t imagine
what?”
he demanded.

“What they did,” Phoebe said simply and when he merely stared at her, expanded, “how?”

Suddenly it was too much. Cato threw back his head and laughed.

“Get off that linen shelf and come here,” he commanded.

Phoebe did so somewhat hesitantly. He took her shoulders in a firm grasp. “I will answer your question. Don’t interrupt, and when I’m finished I want no further questions. Just hear it, accept it, and then it would very much please me if you would forget it. Understand?”

Phoebe nodded, her eyes wide. They grew wider as she listened to the explanation delivered in measured tones.

“Oh,” she said when he fell silent. “How uncomfortable it sounds.”

Cato’s lips twitched. “Each to his own,” he said.

Phoebe looked up at him and now the familiar little shiver of pleasure ran down her spine. He was dressed in leather britches and doublet, with a plain linen shirt and stock, sword and dagger at his belt. It was a gusty day and his hair was ruffled by the wind, and she noticed how even his strong dark eyebrows were askew, as if the wind had caught them too. She had the urge to lick her finger and smooth them down. He’d been to a horse fair in Bicester and had risen well before dawn, so she hadn’t seen him since the previous night. It was too long. All his absences were too long.

“Did you want me for something, my lord?” she asked as her thoughts took her along a pleasant road.

“Oh, yes, I did.” Cato remembered what he’d come for. “I’d like you to accompany me to the stables.”

“The stables!” Phoebe exclaimed. “Why would I wish to go there?”

“Because I have bought you a horse. A very quiet, docile
little mare.” Cato was pleased with his purchase and it showed. Phoebe, however, was horrified.

“I don’t wish for a horse.”

“I am going to teach you to ride, Phoebe.”

Phoebe shook her head and said firmly, “No thank you. Indeed, I’m sure it’s very kind of you, but no thank you, I really don’t wish to do any such thing.”

Cato sighed. “I promise you that the mare is as well mannered and as gentle as a horse could be. You will enjoy riding her.”

“No,” Phoebe said. “No, I will not. I know I will not.”

“Oh, don’t be silly.” Cato grew impatient. “It’s absurd to be afeared. How can you get about without being able to ride?”

“I walk,” Phoebe said simply. “I like to walk.”

Cato surveyed her in some frustration. “You’ve never been taught properly . . . if at all,” he said. “I assure you that when you know how, you’ll find it as easy as writing your poetry.”

Phoebe’s eyes flashed. “Writing poetry is not easy, my lord,” she stated. “I am no mere rhymester.”

“Your pardon,” Cato apologized with a careless gesture. “But you have nothing to fear, Phoebe. I’ll not let you come to harm. And it’s a beautiful day,” he added.

“I have no clothes for riding,” Phoebe pointed out with an air of finality, as if that would put an end to the matter.

“The dressmaker in Witney could perhaps be persuaded to make up a riding habit . . . a fashionable riding habit,” he added deliberately. “I believe such a garment might suit you well.”

“Oh!” Phoebe cried. “I take leave to tell you that that is the most devious, shameless trick, sir. Just because you know that I’ve discovered high fashion, it’s most dishonorable to use it to try to manipulate me.”

Cato couldn’t help chuckling. “Come, a riding habit for a riding lesson. How’s that for a bargain?”

“A truly fashionable riding habit?”

“The most fashionable that can be found in the whole Thames valley,” he declared extravagantly.

“Well, I suppose I could try,” she muttered but still doubtfully.

Cato turned to open the door. “Come. I will show you that you have nothing to fear.”

Phoebe reluctantly gathered up her quill and paper. “If I don’t like it, you will not insist I go on?”

“I will undertake to ensure that you do like it,” he said with conviction, ushering her into the corridor. “Go and change that gown to something a little less suited to a palace drawing room . . . oh, and don’t forget britches. You cannot ride astride without them. Borrow Olivia’s if you have none of your own”

“Olivia’s a different shape,” Phoebe pointed out. “Her legs are longer and she has no hips.”

Cato dismissed this irrelevance with a wave, and Phoebe went off in search of Olivia with something less than enthusiasm.

Cato was waiting for her in the hall, tapping his riding whip against his boots, when she trailed downstairs again twenty minutes later, her expression martyred. Olivia’s britches were a disaster; she’d had to roll them up at the waist and leave all the buttons undone. The muddle wasn’t visible beneath her old gown, but she felt like a particularly ill wrapped parcel nevertheless.

“What took you so long?” Cato turned to the front door impatiently.

Phoebe ignored the question. She tugged uncomfortably at her bunched-up waist. “Why must I do this? I’ve managed perfectly well until now.” She hesitated on the bottom step. “I ride pillion if I must ride.”

“Trust me.” Cato turned back and took her hand. He led her firmly to the stable.

Phoebe was relieved to see that the mare was quite small and had a reassuringly broad back. The horse stood docilely
at the mounting block, her bridle held by a groom. She turned her head in an incurious stare as Phoebe, still firmly led by her husband, approached across the straw-strewn cobbles.

“Touch her nose,” Cato instructed.

Obediently Phoebe darted a finger, brushed the velvety tip of the mare’s nose, and then retracted her hand with the air of one who has done a job well.

“Stroke her neck . . . here.” In demonstration, Cato drew his hand down the hollow of the mare’s neck. The animal raised her head and whickered.

Phoebe jumped back.

“Don’t be silly, Phoebe!” Cato took her hand and placed it on the hollow. “Now, she’s called Sorrel. Just speak to her. Call her by name so she gets to know your voice.”

“I don’t see any point talking to horses. It isn’t as if they can talk back,” Phoebe said, trying to pull her hand free. Cato’s fingers closed more tightly over her wrist and kept her hand where it was. Phoebe eyed the little ripples running along the mare’s withers. The smell of horseflesh filled her nostrils and Phoebe’s nose wrinkled. She was very conscious of the heat of the mare’s skin beneath her hand. She tried again to pull it free and this time Cato released his hold.

But the reprieve was only momentary.

“Mount up now,” Cato instructed. “Use the block.”

There seemed nothing for it. Phoebe lifted her leg onto the block and stepped onto the hem of her full skirt. There was a rending sound as the hem tore.

“Now look what’s happened!” She glared at Cato. “It’s ruined. I can’t do this in an ordinary gown. Why don’t I wait until I have a proper habit?”

The hopeful suggestion fell on stony ground. “You go around looking like a scarecrow most of the time as it is,” he said without a flicker of sympathy. “Just get on with it, we don’t have all day.” He put both hands beneath her rear and shoved her unceremoniously upward onto the mounting block.

“Put your foot in the stirrup, hold the pommel, and pull yourself up and over . . . surely you’ve mounted a horse before.”

“Why won’t she run away with me?” Phoebe demanded. “Every other horse I’ve ever mounted has done so. Why’s this one going to be any different?”

“Because I’m going to be holding her,” Cato said, taking the bridle from the groom. “She’s not going anywhere. Just hitch up your skirts; the britches will ensure decency.”

“That’s what you think,” Phoebe muttered. She hitched up her skirts, thrust her foot into the stirrup, grabbed the pommel, and heaved herself up, swinging her leg over the saddle and thumping down. The horse shifted on the cobbles as it felt her weight. Phoebe gave a cry of alarm and clung to the pommel.

“Relax,” Cato said, which struck Phoebe as a senseless command. Cato attached a long leading rein to the mare’s bridle and led her across the stable yard towards the home paddock, Phoebe muttering to herself and hanging on for dear life.

In the paddock, Cato stepped away from the mare, paying out the leading rein. Phoebe gazed at him in alarm. “Where are you going?”

“I’m still holding her. Let go the pommel and take up the reins.”

“This is such a bad idea,” Phoebe complained, doing as she was told. “I can’t tell you what a bad idea this is.”

“On the contrary, it’s an excellent idea.”

Cato instructed the mare to walk on, and she started forward placidly around the paddock at the end of the long rein while Cato remained standing in the center of the field.

There seemed nothing for it but to grit her teeth and endure. Phoebe clung grimly to the reins, closed her eyes, and prayed for it soon to be over.

“You’re sitting like a sack of potatoes,” Cato chided. “Sit
up straight . . . put your shoulders back. There’s no need to grip the reins so tightly . . .. For God’s sake, Phoebe,
open your eyes!”

Phoebe opened them. There didn’t seem anything of the least interest to see. She closed them again and jounced in the saddle, her jaw aching with the effort to keep her teeth from clattering under the unstable motion of the horse.

“Oh, this is ridiculous.” Cato signaled to the horse to stop. He came across the paddock, reeling in the leading rein. “I have never seen anything so pathetic, Phoebe! I am losing patience.”

“Well, what do you expect me to do?” Phoebe exclaimed.

“I expect you to keep your eyes open, your hands off the pommel.” Cato spoke with exaggerated patience. “I expect you to sit up straight, grip the saddle with your knees, and for God’s sake, girl,
relax!”