by Jane Feather
* * *
Rufus Decatur’s sons careened into Cato as he crossed the hall. “Where’s Portia? Do you know where she went?” they clamored in chorus.
“I have no idea. When did you see her last?” He regarded them with a faint smile, thinking that for all their unruly grubbiness they were a very attractive pair of tykes.
“Oh, ages ago,” Luke informed him. “She went out with Phoebe and Olivia on horses and said she’d be back soon. But she isn’t.”
“Riding? They went riding?” Phoebe voluntarily on horseback? Cato’s eyebrows lifted. “Did they say where they were going?”
Toby shook his head. “An‘ we forgot to ask.”
“Well, they can’t be too long.” Cato glanced out of the window beside the front door. The afternoon was drawing in. “I’ll go to the stables and see if they told anyone where they were going.”
He moved to the door, the two boys trotting at his heels, Juno exuberantly bounding ahead. “We’ll all come too,” Toby informed him unnecessarily.
They reached the stables just as the small cavalcade trotted in. He saw with approval that the three Decatur men accompanying them were well armed, but he wondered why they hadn’t taken an escort of his own men.
“Where have you been? The boys were growing anxious.”
Phoebe was clinging to Portia’s waist, and when Portia dismounted, she gave a little squeal of dismay and grabbed for the pommel. “Don’t leave me up here, Portia! This beast’ll run away with me!”
“Don’t be absurd, Phoebe,” Cato chided, reaching up to loosen her death grip. “Let go now.”
Phoebe did so and instantly tumbled into his arms, so suddenly he staggered back before he regained his balance.
“Oh, thank you for catching me,” she said.
“I didn’t have much choice,” he observed, aware of her rounded arms encircling his neck and her swift breath rustling against his cheek.
He set her on her feet, but kept a hand on her shoulder for a moment. He looked down at her with a quizzical gleam in his eye.
He was close enough for Phoebe to see the little creases around his eyes, white against the weathered tan, and she could smell leather and wood smoke on his skin.
Portia said cheerfully above the excited barks of Juno and the insistent clamor of the boys, “I wanted to see some of the surrounding villages, sir. I don’t know this part of the world and once it stopped raining it seemed a good opportunity.”
The Decatur men were not about to contradict her.
Cato’s hand dropped from Phoebe’s shoulder and he moved away.
“How long will you be staying, my lord?” Phoebe found her voice again.
He paused and glanced back at her. “A while,” he said. “Now that Basing House has yielded, I’ll be working with Cromwell in headquarters for some time. There’ll be no need for me to spend too much time from home in the next weeks.”
Phoebe’s heart leaped. There was nothing stopping her now from implementing Portia’s advice. Her eyes darted to the package still fastened to Portia’s saddle.
Then she caught Portia’s eye. Portia winked as if she could read her thoughts, and Phoebe lifted her chin in answer. Dare all to win all.
“You need to do something with your hair” Portia said later, prowling around Phoebe like a tiger on the scent of prey. “It looks too demure and innocent in that ribbon. It doesn’t go with the gown.”
Phoebe caught the thick mass at the nape of her head and lifted it on top, twisting it into a knot. “Like this?”
“Yes, precisely.” Portia rummaged through the little box on the dresser. “There’s only pins in here. What you really need are some combs to hold it in place. Silver ones, if you’ve got them.”
“Oh, I have some,” Olivia said. “They were my mother’s. I’ve never worn them. I wonder if I can find them.”
“Well, go and look, duckie.”
Olivia hurried off and when the door shut behind her, Phoebe said, “Portia, I’m scared. Diana never wore a dress like this. She was always so elegant. This isn’t very elegant, is it?”
Portia considered this, her head on one side. “Diana couldn’t have worn it,” she pronounced finally. “It’s a different kind of elegance, and only someone with your shape could wear it.”
Phoebe wasn’t sure that this did much for her confidence, but Olivia’s return with two silver combs studded with tiny sapphires distracted her.
“I forgot they had sapphires,” Olivia said. “They’ll pick up the c-color of the gown. Isn’t that good?”
“Perfect,” Portia agreed, taking them from her. “D’you want me to do it, Phoebe?”
“Oh, yes, if you would. I’m no good with my hair. I can never get it to stay in place whatever I do with it.”
“I’m not exactly expert myself. But I’ll try.” Frowning in concentration, Portia positioned the combs in the thick knot, then she stood back. “That should do. How does it feel?”
Phoebe moved her head gingerly. “As if it’s going to come tumbling down at any minute.”
“Well, don’t move your head too much,” Olivia suggested.
“I can’t sit like a stuffed dummy all through supper. I have to move my head to eat… not that I think I’m going to be able to eat a thing,” she added. Her stomach felt as if a field of butterflies had taken up residence there.
Portia added a few pins to her handiwork, then said, “That’ll have to do. I’m sure it’ll hold.”
“We’d b-better go down.” Olivia went to the door. “It’s close to six o’clock.”
The clock was striking six when Cato emerged from his study. As he crossed the great hall he glanced up at the stairs and stopped dead. Portia, for once in female attire, his daughter, and someone else were descending the stairs. His first thought was that this was some unknown guest about to be sprung upon him, and then he stared.
“Phoebe?” He stepped to the foot of the stairs.
Phoebe’s heart pattered, her knees trembled, but she kept on down the stairs. “We haven’t kept you waiting for supper, I trust, my lord.”
“Phoebe?” repeated Cato, stunned.
His wife was wearing the most unsuitable gown. He had never seen one like it… no, that was not true. He had seen women of the court dressed with such blatant sensuality. But never a wife of his.
He shot an outraged look at his niece. It had to be Portia’s fault. Phoebe could never have chosen such a gown for herself.
Before he could gather his thoughts, even begin to express himself, a servant crossed the hall to the dining parlor with a laden tray and the butler, husband to the formidable Mistress Bisset, emerged from the kitchen regions.
“My lord, supper is served.”
Cato could say nothing in front of the servants. “Thank you, Bisset.” He strode toward the dining parlor and opened the door, holding it for Phoebe, Portia, and Olivia to pass through.
Phoebe’s midnight blue skirts brushed against him in a fluid ripple of velvet. His eye fell on the deep cleft of her breasts. He could see the faint shadow of her nipples just below the neckline.
Portia took her seat with a demure air so out of character Olivia almost choked into her napkin. She glanced covertly at her father, wondering what he was thinking. It was hard to tell. His features were as well schooled as always, but there was something remarkably like shock in his dark eyes as he pulled out Phoebe’s chair at the foot of the table before taking his own place at the head.
Phoebe’s gown had certainly surprised him, Olivia reckoned. Not that it could have failed to. It was difficult to tell whether he liked it or not. She glanced at Portia, who gave her a lazy wink before solicitously offering Lord Granville the wine decanter. It was obvious to Portia that despite the even facade, the marquis was in sore need of fortification.
It was also obvious that the servants were fascinated by Lady Granville’s new incarnation.
“You may leave us,” Cato said curtly to the butler. “We’ll ser
ve ourselves.”
The butler bowed and hustled his minions from the room. Cato regarded Phoebe over the lip of his goblet. He couldn’t help noticing how the candlelight threw a rosy glow over the creamy white flesh of her bosom. The high collar at the back accentuated the smooth column of her throat. The sleeves of the gown were puffed, and banded in paler blue velvet. They ended just below the elbow in three layers of white ruffles.
He noticed her shoulders in the gown. They were prettily rounded, and her forearms emerging from the ruffles had a very graceful line. She seemed to be holding herself differently. Instead of hunching over as if to shield as much of herself as possible from observation, she sat with her shoulders back, her head up, her back very straight.
Phoebe was aware of Cato’s eyes on her throughout the meal. Even when he was addressing some innocuous remark to Portia or to Olivia, his gaze would dart to Phoebe, a speculative gleam in the dark depths. She’d wanted his attention, and she certainly had it.
Phoebe was concentrating so hard on not spilling anything on her gown that she didn’t notice at first when her hair started to come down. It trickled in little wisps at first, then she felt one of the heavy loops in the knot beginning to slip out of the comb. She put a tentative hand up and tried to push the comb back in, but her hair as always had a springy life and strength of its own. The more she touched it, the looser it became.
She blushed, picked up her goblet, took an overhasty sip of wine and choked. Coughing and spluttering into her napkin, she cursed her clumsiness. It always let her down in the end.
Cato threw down his napkin, pushed back his chair, and came around the table. He patted her back until the coughing fit subsided and then held her goblet to her lips.
“Take a slow sip this time.”
Phoebe was so furious with herself she almost snatched the goblet from him. Her hair under the violence of her coughing was now tumbling unrestrained down the back of her neck, and she felt like screaming with annoyance.
“Keep still a minute,” Cato instructed softly, and with swift and deft fingers he twisted the knot securely again and inserted the silver, sapphire-studded combs. They seemed familiar and he paused in his work with a slight frown. Then he remembered. They were Nan’s. Olivia must have lent them to Phoebe. Nan, of course, had always been neat as a new pin, never a hair out of place.
As his hands moved intimately through her hair, Phoebe seemed to catch fire and her breath stopped in her lungs. Only when he took his hands away and returned to his seat could she breathe again.
Never had he touched her with such intimacy before. One could not call the swift and distant act of their marriage bed intimate. She glanced at Portia, who raised an eyebrow even as she blithely continued deboning a river trout.
Cato rang the bell for the second course. He was impatient to have Phoebe to himself. Before he told her exactly what he thought about the unsuitability of her attire, he wanted a few explanations. Not least how she’d paid for the gown. He’d assessed the quality of the velvet and the lace and could make a fair guess at what it had cost her. It was also, for all its daring cut, a very fashionable garment, and fashion did not come cheap.
He sat back in his carved chair, tapping his fingernails on the glowing cherrywood of the table while the servants cleared platters and placed a raised venison pie, an apple tart, a compote of plums, and a basket of mushroom tarts on the table.
His impatience throughout the second course grew more obvious, and it was a relief to all when he decided it was time to bring this interminable meal to a close. He pushed back his chair with a scrape on the parquet and stood up. It was the signal for the rest to lay down their spoons and forks, whether they’d finished or no.
“Forgive me, but I have work to do,” he said. “If you wish to continue with supper, please do so.”
He turned to his wife. “A word with you, Phoebe, if you please.”
“Yes… yes, of course, my lord.” Phoebe stood up in a rush.
Cato bowed in acknowledgment and moved to the door. He held it for her, saying quietly as she passed through, “Let us go abovestairs for this.”
Phoebe felt a little tremor of alarm. He looked remarkably like a judge about to don the black cap.
Chapter 7
Cato ushered Phoebe up the stairs. She could sense the tightly coiled impatience in his body as he walked just behind her. Her skin tingled as he laid a hand on her arm, turning her into the corridor at the head of the stairs that led to the east wing and the bedchamber that Phoebe still thought of as belonging only to Cato… a place where she was only a guest.
He leaned over her shoulder to open the door, and she felt his breath on her cheek as he raised the latch and pushed open the door. The fine hairs along her spine lifted. The room was candlelit, the fire a bright glow, the curtains at the windows drawn against the night. The handle of a warming pan stuck out from the foot of the bed. The maids would come in and remove it soon.
Phoebe thought this as she took in the familiar details of the chamber as if from some distant plane. Her body seemed to be oddly separate from her mind.
Cato closed the door quietly. He stood with his back to it, regarding Phoebe in frowning silence for what seemed to her an eternity. Without realizing how provocative was the posture, she put her shoulders back and rested her hands lightly on her hips, facing him across the length of the room.
It drew Cato’s attention to the curve of her hip beneath the sensuous folds of the gown. Absently he massaged the back of his neck. It was a damnable garment!
“You don’t care for my gown, my lord?” Phoebe broke the silence when she could no longer bear it.
Cato said brusquely, “At the moment, I’m more interested in where you acquired it, and how you paid for it. Assuming you did pay for it.” He raised an eyebrow.
It was the tone and gesture Phoebe hated. Purely sardonic. She’d rather have anger any day.
She felt herself flushing, which she also hated, and said with an almost unconscious hauteur, “I paid for it myself, sir.”
“How?” he demanded. “You have never asked me for money. All your wants and needs are taken care of within the household. Apart from ribbons and pins… peddler’s wares.” He gestured dismissively.
“If you have need of money, you have only to ask. But since you didn’t, you must forgive my curiosity.” The sardonic note was more pronounced.
“I couldn’t ask you for money or you’d have wanted to know what it was for,” Phoebe pointed out. “I wished to surprise you.”
“Hell and the devil!” Distractedly Cato ran his hands through his hair. “Why am I to be subjected to surprises? I don’t like surprises!”
“Oh,” said Phoebe, somewhat nonplussed. “Most people like them… at least pleasant ones.”
“Just answer the question please!”
“Oh… well… well, I had money of my own,” she offered. “From my father.” Such a possibility was laughable, but it was still an oblique shot at the truth.
Cato frowned at her. It didn’t sound likely. Lord Carlton, traditional father that he was, would have informed the husband if he’d given his daughter a financial wedding present before he’d left her under her husband’s roof. Another explanation came to mind.
“Did Portia give you the money?” He would not have his wife taking Decatur charity. His dark eyes were suddenly ablaze, a tiny pulse beating in his temple.
Phoebe shook her head hastily. “No… no, indeed not, my lord.”
“Do not fob me off with tales of your father’s generosity,” he said curtly. “The truth if you please.”
It seemed there was nothing for it. “I pawned some rings of my mother’s.”
Cato stared at her. “You had dealings with a pawnbroker?”
“It was very easy and discreet,” she said in what she hoped was reassurance. “No one saw us in Witney. It only took a minute.”
“In God’s name, Phoebe! If you needed a new gown, why didn’t you ha
ve one made here?”
“But I couldn’t have had one like this made here.” Phoebe had the air of one stating the obvious. “Ellen doesn’t know anything about high fashion. And why would I want another countrified gown?”
“Why wouldn’t you?” Cato demanded. “What could have possessed you to purchase a gown best suited to a courtesan at the king’s court? You don’t seem to have the slightest notion of propriety.”
“So you really don’t care for it, my lord?” Instinctively Phoebe turned slowly, her hands still on her hips, allowing the skirts to flow fluidly around her, the luxuriant darkness shimmering in the candlelight.
Cato passed a hand over his mouth. Completely without volition he muttered, “It’s growing on me.” Instantly he regretted the admission.
Phoebe spun round to face him, her face aglow. “I knew it! It was a good surprise, admit it, my lord.”
Cato realized that this infuriating, unpredictable muddle of a girl had swept the ground from beneath his feet. If she hadn’t looked so triumphant, so smugly jubilant, he could almost have been beguiled, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of seeing him crack a smile. It struck him as a fairly demented response anyway. The girl had visited a pawnbroker, for God’s sake.
So he said in what he hoped were cutting accents, “It is not… repeat not… a suitable gown for you. And it’s quite inappropriate for the quiet country life we lead here. You have no need to dress as if you’re going to court.”
He turned on his heel and went to the door. “I have work to do… dispatches to send to headquarters. I’ll come to bed later.”
Phoebe stood still in the middle of the room after the door had closed. At last he had truly noticed her. For once he had seen her clearly as a woman. It had angered him, but that was a small price to pay.
“I feel just like the proverbial square peg being hammered into the round hole,” Phoebe complained to her friend Meg, the herbalist, the next day as she stripped branches of fresh thyme for drying. “Why would Cato be so determined to keep me in some mold he’s designed for me when it’s obvious to a blind man that I don’t fit it?”
