by Renee Rose
Phoebe’s jaw tightened, but she dropped a curtsy. “As you say, my lord.”
“Never mind, Phoebe. I can provide anything you might desire,” he said, leveling a challenging look at Reddington, whose eyes narrowed.
“Thank you, my lord,” Phoebe said with a deep curtsy. “I will return presently.” She drew herself up to walk past her brother-in-law.
It was a full half-hour before Phoebe returned, her maid carrying a few small bags behind her, which appeared to be mostly books.
“I’m ready,” she said, her face pale and pinched. Maud made a big show of crying as she kissed her goodbye, but he noticed Phoebe did not shed any tears, though she did not appear happy, either.
When they climbed in the carriage, he picked up her little gloved hand. “That was a very gallant thing you did last night. It’s quite possible you saved my life.”
* * *
Phoebe ducked her head, feeling a flush creep up her chest and spread to her neck. She could think of no suitable reply. Fenton put a finger under her chin and turned her face to the side, examining the bruise left where Reddington had struck her. Her belly tightened as his face turned dark, but he said nothing, instead lightening the mood by teasing, “Did you forget it’s the knight who rescues the damsel in distress, and not the other way around?” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I’m utterly mortified,” he claimed, though she doubted he’d ever been mortified by anything in this entire life. He was the most self-possessed, cocksure man she’d ever met, a fact which she unfortunately found extremely attractive.
She took a deep breath to launch into the speech she’d been practicing all morning. “My lord. Thank you for agreeing to marry me. Considering it is a marriage neither of us wanted or intended, I have a proposal to make.”
He arched his eyebrows, not allowing her to retrieve her hand from his grasp when she tried.
“I—er… It is well-known you have a very active, ah…” She stopped, her face flushing. This was not the way she’d rehearsed it. For some reason, all words had left her. Fenton turned her hand palm up and absently massaged the heel of it with his thumbs, scattering her thoughts and sending a prickle of warmth across her skin. Miss Fenton looked pointedly out the carriage window, as if to give them privacy.
“You may speak frankly, Miss Fletcher,” he prompted.
“I know you see a lot of women,” she blurted, inwardly cursing at how three years of finishing school charm seemed to have left her. “And I do not wish to stop you from your… er, activities. So I propose a marriage in name only—with separate bedrooms, you know.” Her cheeks were flaming now, but Fenton appeared completely unruffled.
“If that is your wish, I will oblige,” he said easily. “You sacrificed your freedom to ensure my safety. I am indebted to you, little dove.”
His gratitude came as a surprise, and she lifted her eyes to meet his.
“I intend to give you the best life I possibly can.”
She stared at him, doubting he was sincere. This must be part of his charm. He could not be sincere, because in her experience, people did not look after anyone’s lives but their own. She blinked rapidly, unsure how to reply and he lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers and causing a riotous quiver between her legs. Dear Lord. She remembered the overheard conversation with his sister, a shadow of confusion creeping into her mind. Could it be Fenton was not shallow and self-absorbed as most believed him? Or was he so well-practiced with his charm that such assurances simply rolled off his tongue?
* * *
After marrying before the magistrate, he took the ladies to tea at a little café and then to the Bond Street Bazaar to purchase Phoebe’s trousseau. They stopped first for gloves and hosiery, where he took active part in the discussion with the ladies about which were the best.
“You don’t have a say, Teddy, even if you are a dandy,” Wynn scolded.
“I most certainly do. I’m buying them, and they will be worn by my wife, so I should think I have even more of a say than you, dear sister.” He held up a beautiful pair of pink silk hose for their examination.
“Oh!” Wynn exclaimed at the color.
“I didn’t know they made them in colors,” Phoebe breathed, the look of longing on her face making him want to buy her one hundred pair.
He took an appraising glance at her long legs, imagining them bared to him. She caught his look and turned as pink as the hose, which only furthered the rise of heat under his collar. Appreciating her blush, he gave a slow smile, holding her blue-eyed gaze and watching the rapid movement of her lifted breasts as she struggled to breathe. Her rosebud lips parted, but no sound emerged. He waited a moment before having mercy and releasing her from the gaze with a wink. She turned even more pink, blinking rapidly as she drew herself up and squared her shoulders.
“We’ll take two pair of these,” he said to the salesman, holding up the pink hose, “and whichever pair of gloves the lady chooses.”
He continued to torment his young bride, insisting on choosing her hat at the milliner, and the color of her ball gown (a deep violet, to bring out her eyes), making a show out of sizing up her features for the best choice. As uncomfortable as he made her, he could also tell she was growing giddy with the large amount of money he was spending on her, confirming his suspicion that Reddington had not allowed her much freedom. The best part of the afternoon was seeing the way her face lit up when he took the ladies to Lackington Allen & Co at Finsbury Square. It was a large, multi-storied bookstore, filled with every sort of book imaginable.
“The books here are quite affordable, so choose as many as you like,” he told her.
Her jaw dropped as her face shone with rapture. “As many as I like? You will buy them? To own? I mean, it’s not a subscription library?”
He smiled at her excitement. “I will buy them. Just let me see them first, because Wynn and I have already amassed a large collection at home.”
She smiled. It was the first genuine smile he had seen from her, and it caused an unnerving sensation in the center of his chest—a curious fluttering, along with a warmth and a sense of expansion. It was not the beauty of the smile itself, which was admittedly lovely, but rather the joy behind it, as if he were given a glimpse right into her soul where she hid a passion brighter than the sun.
Sweet Phoebe.
And she belonged to him now. It was a stunning thought—one he never thought he would appreciate.
He had originally thought her proposal of a marriage in name only was ideal. He would be careful not to embarrass her with gossip about his mistresses, and she could not be hurt when she’d given her explicit permission. They would grow comfortable with one another in a platonic way, much like he had with his sister, or his childhood friend, Kitty Westerfield. Now, though, the idea irked him. Try as he might, he could not seem to put Phoebe into the same category as Kitty and Wynn. He wanted her in his bedroom, to feel the touch of her velvet skin beneath his hands, the slope of her shoulder beneath his lips, the curve of her waist beneath his hands. He wanted that brilliant smile in his bedroom, directed at him on a nightly basis.
After a late supper at home that evening, he entered his bedroom with a sigh, removing his jacket and waistcoat and dismissing his valet. He must face the nagging issue of consummation. Whether they intended to keep separate bedrooms or not, a marriage was not legal until the couple had lain together as husband and wife. And as beautiful as he found his bride, he had a hard rule against taking an unwilling woman to his bed. In fact, there was nothing more distasteful to him.
Tapping lightly on the connecting door, he did not wait for an answer before he pushed it open. The look of fear on her face as she whirled around pained him, but he entered casually, as if they were perfectly comfortable with one another. She wore the same nightdress she’d worn the night before, but this time without the robe, and he could see the curve of her breasts, which moved under the thin linen.
“Come, little wife,” he said, holding out h
is arm. When she did not move, he took a step and caught her hand, tugging her gently to the bed where he sat and pulled her onto his knee. He wrapped one arm around her waist and rested the other on her thigh. She sat stiffly, her fingers twisting together in an anxious knot. He covered the nervous hands, stilling them. She smelled fresh and clean with a hint of roses and he had the sense of her fitting perfectly on his lap—her legs the right length to still reach the floor with her feet, her bottom soft and wide enough to settle firmly on his thigh.
“Did you,” she began breathlessly, “intend to exercise your conjugal rights after all?” She blinked rapidly and appeared to be holding her breath. Her voice held no trace of the high pitch of youth—it was rich and throaty, somehow both sweet and worldly at the same time.
“Well, that is why I am here. But I do not intend to do anything against your wishes,” he assured her.
Her breath began again, moving her breastbone up and down in short intervals.
He picked up one of the blond waves that had fallen over her shoulder and twirled it in his fingers. It was as fine as spun silk, so much softer than he had imagined. “What I’m wondering is whether we ought to lie together—just once—to consummate the marriage.”
Her innocence showed in her blush, but the tips of her nipples protruded from under her nightdress, making his breath catch. He retracted his hand from her hair, lest he be tempted to fondle what lay below and shifted his weight on the bed to alleviate the discomfort of his rapidly hardening cock.
She swallowed and parted her lips, but no answer came forth.
“If we don’t, we leave the possibility of annulling it later, if one of us wishes to do so.”
Her eyes met his for the first time, widening. “Do you wish it?”
He grinned. “Wish what? To lie with you or to annul the marriage?”
His jest eased some of her rigidity and her eyes narrowed. “Knowing your reputation, you probably wish for both.”
He threw back his head and laughed, delighted to see the return of the courage he’d glimpsed the night before.
She softened further at his laughter.
“I’m quite sure I would enjoy the first, though I have not defiled an innocent since I was a much younger man.”
“Indeed, everyone knows your preference is for married women.”
He grinned at her. “Yes, yet this is the first time I have been faced with a lady who is both.”
Flustered, she tried to stand up. He tightened his grasp around her waist and held her fast. “Where do you think you’re going, little dove? We are not finished talking. I will not force you into my bed, but you are my wife now, so you have to mind me. I have no compunction about turning a lady over my knee.” In fact, the idea of turning his pretty wife over his knee made his heart beat erratically for a moment.
She went rigid and stared at him as if to gauge whether he was serious. He allowed one corner of his mouth to turn up and she blew out her breath and smiled. Lifting her hand, she brushed a lock of hair from his eyes and for one moment he truly felt like a married man—glimpsing how it felt to receive simple wifely endearments like straightening his collar or brushing his hair from his face. The idea surprised him with a sense of longing for something he’d not known he’d been missing.
“What do you expect of me as your wife?” she asked softly.
“Your absolute love and devotion,” he said immediately, calling forth a low laugh from her lips. He stroked up her thigh and back, admiring the firm muscle of her elegant leg and ignoring the stiffening his touch incited. “Yes, let’s discuss my expectations. First of all, you must always look pleased to be with me, no matter what you may really feel. And I want you to always be dressed in the latest fashion, with the most expensive sort of shoes. You should be a suitable chaperone for Wynn, and I’ll expect you to find her a husband by the end of the season, and… let’s see… what else do wives do?”
She laughed.
He touched her cheek. “I’ll tell you what I expect of you, little dove. You must speak frankly with me if we’re to somehow make the best out of this rather… unusual… situation. As much as I adore your blushes and lowered eyes, I would very much prefer we were comfortable and honest with one another. I cannot make you happy if I don’t understand you, and I’d prefer not to make guesses that might be wrong. So my question to you now is: do you, or do you not, wish to consummate this marriage?”
Phoebe’s chest heaved, the tips of her nipples protruding even farther and heat dampening his trousers where she sat upon his leg.
But her knees snapped together and her buttocks tightened upon his knee. “I do not.”
Chapter Two
A narrow escape.
How on earth could she live with the charming Lord Fenton—as his wife—and not give in to his advances? The easy way he managed her—the way he held her captive on his knee, not releasing her until he wished—had been dominating, yet not controlling. So different from the way Reddington had repeatedly forced himself on her. She shuddered.
She climbed into her bed, still feeling the heat he’d incited in her core. What would it be like to lie with a man like him? With an irrational flare of jealousy, she thought of her sister and the noises she’d heard from her room. She’d certainly sounded like she’d enjoyed it. But she could not—even if she were willing to give her heart to a unscrupulous rake, she could not bring herself to… she shuddered. Not after Reddington.
The next two days were spent getting to know Wynn, with whom she found an instant rapport. She had spent the three years after her parents’ untimely carriage accident (which resulted in their death) in a finishing school financed by Reddington. Though she was nineteen, well past her ‘coming out,’ he had kept her from attending many social occasions where she might have the opportunity to meet a husband—most likely to keep her for his own sickening use. She’d had little social contact apart from Maud and her callers since she’d finished school and their talk had consisted entirely of gossip. With Wynn, she found a friend who could discuss her favorite topics—poetry and literature—as well as give her the particulars of London Society news.
Wynn’s best friend, Lady Westerfield, came to call on the second afternoon and she found herself nervous, remembering talk of the ‘Westerfield affair’ which seemed to have involved Lord Fenton. Had they been lovers? What would the lady think of her?
“I sent her a note inviting her to come and meet the new Lady Fenton, but that’s all, so she’ll be eager to hear the details,” Wynn said as they walked to the sitting room.
Her heart sank into her belly, and she felt as if Wynn were throwing her to the lions. Did she expect her to air her scandal to Lady Westerfield?
“Hello, dear Kitty!” Wynn exclaimed when they entered, kissing her pretty friend on the cheek. “May I introduce the new Lady Fenton!” She extended her hand toward Phoebe, her eyes dancing with mischief.
Lady Westerfield was lovely, appearing to be around the same age as she and Wynn. Her belly protruded with pregnancy—Phoebe guessed she must be four or five months along. She curtsied, feeling nervous. “Phoebe,” she said.
“Call me Kitty.” Kitty looked from Wynn to her with an expectant look. “Well,” she prompted. “Are you going to tell me how this came about?”
“Come, do sit down,” Wynn said, gesturing toward the settee and chairs.
“Well, I married Lord Fenton on Thursday,” Phoebe found herself saying inanely.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry for you!” Kitty said. When she only blinked in reply, Kitty went on, “Forgive me, I’m only teasing. We are childhood friends and we still behave like squabbling siblings at times.”
Like siblings. Some part of her rejoiced to hear those words.
“So, was it for love or by some other arrangement?” Kitty asked, her directness startling Phoebe. But the lady’s smile was so warm and engaging that she could not take offense.
“Some other arrangement,” she admitted.
&nbs
p; “Oh, do tell her—Kitty can be trusted completely,” Wynn said. “If you will not tell her, I will.”
“Yes, perhaps you should,” she mumbled.
“Very well,” Wynn began and launched into the tale. Phoebe enjoyed hearing it from Wynn’s perspective, finding her story recast as one of bravery and heroism, rather than one rash lie followed by an opportunistic seizing upon the chance to get out of her brother-in-law’s keeping. Wynn ended by declaring Phoebe had already informed Teddy it was to be a marriage in name only.
Kitty regarded her with an intelligent gaze. “And that effectively solves the problem of Teddy’s questionable capacity for fidelity.”
“Yes,” Wynn said.
To have her marriage and its issues spoken of so frankly was like having her chest cavity opened wide to bare her organs. Worse still was having the women closest to Fenton confirm he could not hold sacred a marriage vow. She realized, somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d held a small hope that perhaps someday a real marriage might develop between the two of them.
When Fenton arrived home from Parliament, Lady Westerfield was still there, the ladies having spent the entire afternoon chatting and taking tea.
“Ah, my three favorite ladies,” Fenton exclaimed. “I hope you have not been regaling my new bride with stories of my reproachable behavior.”
He said it lightly, but something must have shown in her face, because he added, “I see you have.” He crossed the room and sat in the armchair near the hearth, his legs sprawling casually, looking as debonair as ever. “It’s probably all true, little dove, and I’m sorry.”
Oddly, he did look genuinely regretful, as if his behavior was a plague he could not help.
“We told her nothing,” Lady Westerfield countered. “But you’d best treat her well, as the poor lady has to spend the rest of her life enduring your company.”
