Chapter 3
“I have been waiting here for ages, hoping you would pass by, and I could explain myself,” whispered Mr. Winwood. “You must know that I would never have approached Miss Ashbrook had I known you would be there.”
With a heaving sigh, Mr. Winwood’s shoulders fell, though he did not loosen his hold on her. “I wish… You know I cannot… Were things different…”
His hand raised to her cheek, his fingers sending a shiver through her as they caressed her skin.
“Truly?” she asked, the question slipping from her lips, pulled from the deepest recesses of her heart. But Phoebe waved it away with a shake of her head. “I understand. We both must have an income to live and will do what we must to secure it.”
“I am sorry for it. ‘If only’ are two words that will haunt me for the rest of my life.” His voice faltered, his words drifting into oblivion as his eyes held hers; those dark depths, usually bright with mischief and a laugh, drew her in, and their warmth enveloped her far more effectively than the light pouring from the heavens.
Mr. Winwood’s touch stilled, and his lips moved as though to speak, though no words emerged.
Standing so close, Phoebe felt every rise and fall of his breath, and she found it difficult to manage her own. Encircled in his arms, his strength and scent filled her.
“Miss Voss,” he whispered, his eyes falling to her lips. “Phoebe…”
And before she knew what he was doing, his lips claimed hers.
The world tilted, her senses lagging behind the suddenness of it, and Phoebe stood rigid in his grasp, her mind desperate to comprehend what her body had already registered.
Hearing him speak her given name was a shock in and of its own right, and her mind struggled to grasp this additional surprise.
Of course, her insides fluttered at Mr. Winwood’s touch, but the feel of his lips on hers was more an oddity than a revelation.
It was bewildering—too close, too swift—his mouth warm against hers, and her hands remained at her sides, fingers curled uselessly, as though she had forgotten how they were meant to move.
Then the realization truly settled into her thoughts—Mr. Winwood was kissing her!
Jerking back, Phoebe stared at the man.
“I apologize,” he whispered, his breath heaving. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“But we cannot,” she said, pushing against his chest, though his hold didn’t loosen. “There is no future for us. We are only torturing ourselves.”
Mr. Winwood’s mouth twisted up with a crooked grin. “If this is torture, I welcome it.”
Not giving her time to reconsider, the gentleman pressed his lips to hers once more, and for the briefest instant, Phoebe remained caught between impulse and sense, the familiar arguments lining up even as the warmth of him pressed close and insistent.
Then something in her loosened: the future was already spoken for, but this moment was hers. And she would make the most of it.
Phoebe lifted her hands at last, fingers curling into his hair and anchoring herself as she yielded to the kiss. Though a tremor in her heart left her wondering if she was doing it properly, Phoebe refused to allow herself to think about what was to come. There was only the here and now.
This was just a moment of bliss, and Phoebe allowed herself the small, defiant pleasure of the stolen breath, the intimacy, and the knowledge that for this heartbeat, she was wanted.
Chosen. Desired. If she had to surrender to the realities of life, then Phoebe would claim this kiss to warm herself during the cold days to come.
Sinking into his embrace, Phoebe allowed the world around her to fade to nothing.
It mattered not one jot that they stood in another’s garden or that others were just out of hearing; all Phoebe knew was the feel of his lips and the heady heat that filled her as Mr. Winwood pressed closer, his hand drifting up her ribs—
“Mr. Winwood!” Phoebe gasped, pushing at his chest as she jerked away. “That is enough.”
That face, which was meant for smiling and laughter, crumpled, and Mr. Winwood straightened, clearing his throat. “I got carried away in the moment, Miss Voss. I find it impossible to keep myself in check when you are near.”
Phoebe’s breath hitched at that, her brows twisting as she considered the gentleman, and despite seeing his every move, she wasn’t certain how he encircled her in his arms once more.
“If only my father had a fortune,” he whispered, his breath tickling her cheek.
“If only my father hadn’t squandered his,” she replied, her weak chuckle more bitter than wry.
Mr. Winwood’s arms enfolded her once more. “If only…”
His hands rubbed along her back, his thumb brushing slow patterns that did more to reassure than rush, and Phoebe leaned into it, her body answering before her thoughts could marshal a defense.
“If only we could be together,” he murmured in her ear, his velvety tone wrapping around her like a thick blanket on a winter’s eve. “I spent years looking for a woman like you, Phoebe.”
The words slipped neatly into the hollow places she had guarded for months.
Joy felt foreign now, like a word from another language she had once spoken fluently and forgotten through disuse.
Phoebe’s breath hitched, her thoughts scattering as the warmth of him pressed close, his presence filling the narrow space until it seemed there was no room left for reason at all.
Mr. Winwood shifted until his forehead rested against hers. “You are not a creature made for drudgery, doomed to fade quietly into the background of another’s life. You deserve passion and pleasure. To be adored and worshipped.”
Hands tightening around her waist, it felt as though Mr. Winwood were attempting to etch those words into her skin, and Phoebe’s breath hitched.
To be wanted without her prospects weighed and tallied, her usefulness assessed.
The thought sent a tremor through her that had naught to do with his touch and everything to do with the weariness Phoebe had been carrying in silence for far too long.
To be something other than a burden.
“This is simply two broken hearts finding solace with one another,” he whispered.
“No promises. No consequences. Simply a moment for ourselves. Surely we deserve that when the world has stolen so much.” His lips brushed her temple, and her eyes closed despite herself.
“Let the rest of the world make its demands tomorrow, but let us enjoy this moment.”
Tomorrow. The word loomed, heavy and inevitable, even as the present threatened to sweep her deeper into his embrace.
Phoebe’s fingers tightened around his lapels, clinging as much to the here and now as to the man himself.
Heaven help her, his words wove their way into every bit of her fractured heart, finding those little sparks of hope and fanning them into proper flames.
“Why must it be all or nothing? One or the other?” murmured Mr. Winwood. “Why must we marry for money and subject ourselves to loneliness when life is meant to be cherished? We may have our cake and eat it, too.”
Phoebe’s breath caught, her resolve wavering as his nearness crowded out everything else.
“We are not doing anything wrong,” he whispered into her ear as his thumb traced a slow line along her ribs, the touch deliberate, persuasive. “No one will know, and what does it matter if they do? Your family is struggling, and all they offer is gossip and judgment. Come with me to my rooms—”
Stiffening, Phoebe tried to step away, but his arms held her in place. “I think I may have misunderstood what you are proposing, Mr. Winwood.”
“Luther, please,” he said with a hint of a smile.
“Mr. Winwood,” she insisted. “I cannot be enticed into your bed, sir.”
Heaving a heavy sigh, the gentleman’s brows rose at that. “Do not tell me you are some silly prude who believes love has boundaries. You are more intelligent than that. Besides, we are commanded to love our neighbor. It says so in the Bible.”
“You are speaking of pleasure, not love.”
Mr. Winwood leaned close, the heavenly scent of his cologne filling her nose as his breath tickled her ear. “I am speaking of us, my dear Phoebe. Can we not seize this little happiness here and now?”
His lips feathered her neck, and Phoebe’s eyes closed of their own accord as her heart thumped hard against her chest. The traitor. Temptation shimmered before her, bright and intoxicating, and for one long moment, Phoebe considered the possibility before her.
Would it truly be so terrible? What harm would it do?
But beneath the warmth, something pressed back. Quiet. Relentless. A feeling she could not name, though it grew insistent, pestering her as she turned her attention to it.
This was not love. Not even the hopeful imitation she allowed herself to imagine. This was an escape without shelter. Fleeting gratification that would only add to her regrets and sorrows when the fervor faded into memory.
Was she her father’s daughter? Eager to seize what she desired in the present, ignoring the costs that would eventually come due?
Costs that others might have to pay? Consequences were indiscriminate things, often reaching far beyond the offender or ignoring them in favor of punishing the innocent.
Even assuming she wished to cast aside her values and beliefs, was she willing to risk that as well?
Phoebe drew a breath, steadying herself, and placed her hands against his chest.
“No,” she said at last, the word soft but unyielding as she pushed him away. “Do not make this more difficult by pretending what you ask means less than it does. This is a line I cannot cross. I will not.”
Mr. Winwood stilled. For a moment, disappointment flickered across his face, naked and unguarded, before charm smoothed it away.
“I hadn’t thought you so priggish,” he said quietly, a rueful smile tugging at his lips as he released her.
The word lodged in her heart, catching and scraping the most tender bits as it settled, bringing with it the sharp recollection of her own voice wielding that same judgment mere moments ago.
“Oh, do not be offended,” said Mr. Winwood with a faltering chuckle. “I simply hadn’t thought you so devout to deny yourself a little harmless pleasure.”
It felt like a challenge, but Phoebe’s brow furrowed as she stared at the man. It wasn’t as though she wore her beliefs on her sleeve or expounded upon virtue at every turn (as a certain priggish parson did), but that did not mean she was without feeling. How could he not see it?
“I admire your strength,” he added. “Though I am cursing it as well.”
Throat tightening, Phoebe nodded whilst desperately clinging to the hope that this was the proper course. The better choice. The right path was usually the more difficult one, and she clung to that assurance as her heart twisted this way and that.
Mr. Winwood lifted her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “I shall miss you terribly, Phoebe. More than is wise.”
And with that, he stepped back, leaving a cold space between them. “Should you change your mind, you can find me at The Fiddler’s Green. The innkeeper is an understanding fellow and quite discreet, so you needn’t fear. There is nothing wrong with embracing love—even temporarily.”
Bowing with courtly formality, Mr. Winwood turned away, his footsteps soft and unhurried, the sound fading into nothing.
Phoebe stood where he left her, nails biting into her palm as his remnant warmth leached into the cold emptiness he’d left behind. Her heart thudded hard and uneven, caught between relief and loss, as though it could not decide which feeling deserved dominion.
Closing her eyes, Phoebe steadied her breath before opening them again.
Picking up her drawing board and satchel, she settled them into place before emerging from the bushes and returning to the world outside their sanctuary.
Though bleak, the path ahead lay clear enough, and Phoebe forced her feet down it.