Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I t rained for three whole days .
Charles looked out the window, bitterly watching the thick raindrops pelting against the glass. Behind him stood Huxley and O’Malley, both wearing worried expressions on their faces.
Phoebe must be feeling dreadful by now, he thought to himself in disgust. She must be so anxious being trapped indoors all this time.
Already, he had the library fitted out for her comfort. He had gone to the kitchens and ordered them to make all her favorite food and to make sure that they came up with a great many more that would appeal to his wife’s tastes.
“My Lord, the skies will be clearing soon,” Huxley reassured him. “Possibly tomorrow morning.”
Charles nodded stiffly. “Perhaps.”
They said the same thing three days ago, when the rain started out as a drizzle, only for it to evolve into a veritable downpour in a matter of hours. Perhaps the heavens intended to carry on for another good week. Besides, even if it did stop raining by tomorrow morning, the ground would have been rendered mushy and muddy—extremely unfavorable conditions for any sort of picnic.
“You will have to clean up the area once the rain stops,” he instructed them both.
The footman and the butler nodded in unison.
“You have to make sure it is safe.” He did not want Phoebe slipping and injuring herself.
Both men nodded again.
“And tell the kitchens we will be having fish tonight.”
He caught O’Malley turning towards Huxley with a look of utter confusion, before directing his bewilderment back to Charles.
“Fish, milord?” he stammered. “You want fish served for dinner tonight?”
“Yes. Fish.”
“But, My Lord,” Huxley told him politely. “You have had fish for the past two nights already.”
“Does it matter if I still want it tonight?” He turned to them with a raised eyebrow. “Besides, the Marchioness told me she had a particular fondness for it.”
“Oh.”
“As you wish, My Lord,” Huxley bowed. “I shall inform the kitchens of your preference for dinner.”
His footman and butler shared a look, and Charles had the distinct idea that he could get away with almost anything as long as he told his staff that Phoebe desired it. Everyone in the estate simply adored her—from the butler and the housekeeper, down to the smallest stable boy. She had managed to charm every maid and footman within Wentworth Park and he would have it no other way.
“If there is nothing else, you may both leave,” he curtly dismissed the two men.
Moments later, after Huxley and O’Malley had left him to his own thoughts, he turned towards the window once more, frowning at the rain that pelted the glass.
He really wished the rain would stop soon.
Phoebe crouched in the shed just outside the kitchen, balancing a bowl of warm milk and some leftover fish from last night’s dinner while struggling to keep her umbrella over her head. She looked up at the angry clouds overhead and sighed.
It would seem that the rain was not about to stop anytime soon.
She knew that such dismal weather was necessary—crops needed the water to grow and all. However, she also knew for a fact that cats absolutely hated water and she feared that Whiteson might have been caught in the downpour.
Or the rain could have restricted his rodent-catching exploits.
I hope he managed to find shelter before the downpour started , she thought to herself. And if he did, then I hope nobody shoos him away.
She sighed as she set the bowls down and began to quietly call for the cat. She doubted he could hear her or if he would even come to her at all, in spite of the dismal weather.
However, moments later, she heard a plaintive meow coming from outside, just before a wet and unhappy Whiteson ambled over to her. He walked over to her and affectionately nudged her hand, his luminous eyes lighting up at the sight of the two bowls she had set down for him. He immediately went over and began to attack the shredded fish, and when he was done with that, he proceeded to delicately lap at the milk.
“Oh, you poor dear!” she crooned as she petted him. “Where have you been? I do hope that it has not been so hard for you these past few days.”
Whiteson let out a loud meow of complaint and rubbed his furry body into her skirts.
“You poor thing, it must have been so very cold outside,” she murmured, scooping him up into her arms.
This time, he did not protest being coddled and even nestled into her warmth. When he began to purr, she knew there was no way she was going to just turn her back on him and send him on his way out into the rain.
“Charles does not seem to be overly fond of animals,” she sighed. “But he never said anything about me not being allowed to have a pet…”
Whiteson mewled pitifully and raised his eyes to hers. Phoebe felt the corners of her mouth tip into a smile.
“You must promise to be very quiet, though,” she warned him. “And no wandering about—I know how you tend to go gallivanting where you are not supposed to.”
She thought of how she had gone after him that one fateful night, following him right under the trapdoor of Wentworth Park. She smiled when she recalled just how frightened she had been when Charles found her there. It could be said that it was truly Whiteson who led them both to each other.
“In any case,” she continued, “he is not as bad as they say he is. He is just…different, I suppose. But then again, so am I, so I should understand very well how it feels.”
She tucked him into the folds of her shawl and carried him back up to her main quarters, setting him right before the fire to keep him warm.
“That feels better, does it not?” she beamed at her new roommate. “Now, you wait here and don’t go running off to my bedchamber.”
She fetched a towel and began to help Whiteson dry himself off more rapidly. When he was finally back to his fluffier self, he let out a soft meow in gratitude, before lithely bounding up into her chaise and curling up amidst the soft pillows before the fireplace.
“You certainly know where to make yourself comfortable, hmm?” she remarked in amusement. “I do hope that you do not mind me talking to you like this. There is hardly anyone I can talk to at all in this great manor…”
She stroked the soft fur on his head just a little longer before she walked on over to her writing desk. She had gotten a new journal bound in luxurious leather. This time, however, she was determined to keep it in her drawer at all times.
I most certainly cannot risk having someone find it and maliciously divulging its contents once more!
Her last mistake made her the Marchioness of Wentworth. Fortunately, things turned out for the best. Charles was proving to be a better husband than most gentlemen in the ton, although he did have his idiosyncrasies.
Of course, it also helped that he was devastatingly handsome, with a virility that put Greek statues to shame. Michelangelo’s David paled in comparison to his physique.
And his hands! Oh, the wonder of those hands! They incited a thrill and pleasure in her that she had never imagined. Not even in her wildest fantasies…
She flushed when she realized where her train of thought was headed. Her cheeks heated up even more when she looked down and saw that she had noted all of it in her journal.
“It would seem that my pen is certainly up to the task of keeping up with my thoughts,” she muttered to herself with a slight grimace. “In any case, nobody else is going to find out about this except…”
She turned towards the other occupant in the room and let out a surprised shriek when her eyes fell on the open doorway. Standing there with one broad shoulder propped up against the frame, with a wry grin on his lips and an arched eyebrow, was…
“Do go on, my dear,” Charles drawled. “I was just curious who else you were willing to divulge your deepest, darkest secrets to.”
He looked so dangerously handsome that Phoebe was once again flabbergasted at how he had not caused a stir amongst the young ladies in London. Heaven only knew he possessed the looks for it, not to mention that he was heir to a Dukedom and was an accomplished gentleman in his own right.
“It is polite to knock before entering a room, you know,” she admonished him, her cheeks flaming as his eyes roved from her head down to her toes. When they reached the muddied hem of her dress, his lips quirked into a curious smile.
“I knocked,” he clarified. “But you were not paying attention. If your door had been locked, I would have broken it down.”
She gaped at him. “Why would you do that?”
“To make sure you are safe, of course,” he told her gravely. “You are my wife, Phoebe, and as such, your safety is paramount.”
She let out a nervous chuckle. “How much danger could I possibly be in when I am right here at Wentworth Park?”
“You do not know how danger could lurk even where you feel the safest,” he warned her.
A chill ran down her spine at his words. He spoke as if he was one who had seen it. Lived it.
It was then that she realized just how very little she truly knew about her husband. It was true that one could learn a lot from living with someone, but Wentworth Park in itself was shrouded in just as much mystery as its master. None of the servants were ever forthcoming when she asked them anything, and as much as she strained against the endless rules that Charles had imposed upon them all, she felt that there had to be a reason behind all of that.
But would he ever tell her why? Phoebe felt that it was better that she did not pry it out of him.
“I know that there are many things you want to ask me,” he said softly, shutting the door behind him. “My life is… far more complicated.”
She smiled tremulously at that. “I sort of figured that out.”
He acknowledged that with a slight smile. “That is because you have a better head on your shoulders than most of the vapid débutantes filling the ballrooms of London.”
“You forget that I was already quite on the shelf when we married,” she pointed out to him with a jaunty smile.
“To my great fortune, most of these so-called eligible bachelors were not as discerning. And to think they were the best that London could offer,” he scoffed with barely concealed distaste.
She looked up at him in surprise. Was he actually flirting with her?
Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest. This was the longest and most pleasant conversation they had ever had and Phoebe felt as if she never wanted it to end.
Well, she wanted that almost as much as she wanted him to kiss her once more.
“Fortunately, we managed to find each other,” she told him simply.
“Fortunately.” He walked over to her and reached for her hand. He led her to the small chaise by the hearth and raised an eyebrow when he saw that it was already occupied.
It was only then that she realized that Whiteson was still quite comfortably curled up in the pillows.
“I did not have the heart to leave him out in the rain,” she admitted, biting on her lower lip. “He looked so miserable when I came out to feed him earlier.”
“You have been feeding him?” he asked her, surprise written over his handsome features.
She nodded. “Every single day.”
“Well, no wonder he has gotten so humongous,” Charles muttered, pulling her to sit beside him on the sofa while carefully avoiding Whiteson.
Phoebe looked up at him. “What do you mean?”
“I meant,” he enunciated, “that I have been feeding him every single day as well.”
“You… have?”
“Well, he would not have gotten so plump from catching mice all day, my dear.”
At that point, she could not help but burst out in laughter, drawing an incensed glare from the feline on her chaise.
“You are right!” she agreed, laughing heartily still. “He is looking rather like a stuffed pillow right now!”
She found herself leaning into her husband as his arm draped over her shoulders. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“Can I keep him, then?”
“Who?”
“Whiteson,” she looked up at him hopefully. “With the downpour and everything, I must admit that I am loath to let him go. And look at him! He looks to have adapted rather well, don’t you think?”
Charles regarded the feline thoughtfully for a moment, before saying, “You are an awfully fortunate creature that you have found a powerful benefactor.”
Warmth bloomed in her chest at his words. “I am not powerful. Not at all.”
“If you can make me do things that I have never before considered doing,” he told her huskily, “…then, there are many who would say that you are extremely powerful…”
She flushed and shyly raised her eyes at him. “And what if I ask you to kiss me? Like the way you did—”
Before she could finish, his lips crashed into hers, claiming her with an urgency that took her breath away. His hand tangled in her hair, holding her close as his mouth devoured hers. Phoebe melted into the kiss, the heat of his body pressing against her, but she didn’t have time to catch her breath before his hands were moving again, this time with a boldness that made her heart race.
Charles’ fingers trailed down her back, then deftly found the buttons of her gown. The sound of the fabric parting filled the room as he slowly undid each one, his fingers grazing her skin, sending shivers down her spine. He slipped the material down over her shoulders, revealing the thin chemise beneath. His hands didn’t stop there; they roved over the sheer fabric, molding to the curves of her body.
“Charles…” she breathed, her voice a mix of anticipation and a warning she wasn’t entirely sure she meant.
His lips left hers, trailing down her jaw to the delicate skin of her throat. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her there, his voice dark and low.
“Ooh,” she gasped as his hands slipped beneath the thin fabric of her chemise, one hand splaying over her bare back while the other found the soft curve of her breast. The sensation was electrifying and her body arched to his touch.
“Shall I stop?” he murmured. His tone was almost teasing as his thumb brushed over the hardened peak of her nipple, eliciting another breathless moan from her.
“Don’t you dare,” Phoebe whispered, surprising herself with the boldness of her own words.
He chuckled softly as his fingers tugged at her chemise, pulling it down further until her breasts were bare before him. He lowered his mouth to the exposed swell of her breasts, kissing her with a tenderness that belied the hunger in his touch. The sensation of the cool air against her heated skin only heightened the intensity of the moment. Every nerve in her body was alive with anticipation.
His lips found her nipple, his tongue flicking over it before he took it into his mouth, drawing a sharp cry from her lips. Her own hands, trembling with desire, fumbled at the fastenings of his coat, desperate to feel more of him, to match his daring with her own.
“Charles…” she gasped, her voice catching in her throat as his hands roved lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her gown, resting just above the curve of her derriére. “What… what are we doing… oh!”
Before she could finish her sentence, his hand came down sharply on her bottom, the sound of the smack echoing through the room. Phoebe gasped, more in surprise than pain, her body jolting at the unexpected sting. But there was something else too, a thrill that shot through her, making her pulse quicken.
“Whatever we want,” he murmured, before pulling her closer until she was flush against him.
She could feel the hard length of him through his breeches, and the sensation sent a rush of heat through her body. Her own hands moved with a mind of their own, tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin against hers. But just as her fingers brushed the bare skin of his chest, a sharp rap came at the door and shattered the moment.
They both froze, breathless and wide-eyed. The knock came again, followed by the sound of a maid’s voice. “My lady, evening tea has been prepared. Shall I bring it in?”
Charles shot up as though he’d been burned, his hands fumbling wildly with his coat as he tried to step back from her in a tangle of limbs and fabric. “ Evening tea?” he sputtered, his voice low but a pitch higher than usual. “Yes, of course, tea! Tea is important.”
Phoebe could hardly keep from laughing, biting down on her lip as she quickly pulled her gown back into place, smoothing out the fabric with trembling hands. “Yes, tea is… vital,” she managed to say, though her voice was quivering with suppressed mirth.
Charles was desperately trying to button his coat, but his fingers seemed to have forgotten how to work. “I should… I should leave. Yes, that’s… that’s probably best.” He gave up on his coat entirely, his hands flapping awkwardly at his sides as he backed away from her, his face flushed redder than she had ever seen it.
“Yes, you really should,” Phoebe agreed, her voice wavering between seriousness and the urge to burst into laughter. “It would be terribly improper for you to be found here, would it not?”
“Terribly,” Charles echoed, nodding so vigorously that a lock of his hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it back with a hand. “I’m a marquess, after all. Must maintain appearances.”
“Of course,” she said, her lips twitching as she fought to keep a straight face. “And I, as your dutiful wife, must not be found in a… compromising position.”
“Compromising position. Of course,” he repeated, his eyes darting around the room as if he expected someone to burst in at any moment.
“Absolutely not,” Phoebe agreed, though she couldn’t help the playful glint in her eyes. “But if I had, I might have enjoyed it.”
Charles finally managed to get one button fastened and glanced at her, his expression somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “You are not helping, my dear.”
She grinned, unable to resist teasing him further. “And here I thought you liked a challenge.”