by Merry Farmer
“Apparently, I’m no better than a street urchin now as well,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“Come now, sweetheart. You’re much better than that.” He shouldn’t have, but he leered at her just a little to prove his point. In his experience, a woman liked feeling appreciated by a man, no matter how high-born they were. “You’ve got gainful employment,” he pointed out. “You look as though you take care of yourself. And if you’re living in one of those places in Marylebone, you’ve obviously maintained your respectability. I’d say you’re quite a catch.”
He held his breath, waiting to see if she’d be soothed or offended.
She smiled weakly, sending him a shy look that had his trousers tightening in the best possible way. “Thank you. I think you’re the first person to see all of my efforts as a good thing instead of an embarrassment to my former class and standing.”
Her words and the sadness with which they were spoken made Danny want to punch someone. He hated the upper classes and their stodgy rules and prejudices. Poor Phoebe had obviously been cast off by that set, but aside from the handful of gentlemen he knew and welcomed into his pub with open arms whenever they came to visit, she was the finest example of that barmy class that he’d ever seen.
“Here you are,” Bess said, sidling over to the table with a tray laden with treats. She set the tray down and proceeded to unload two delicious-looking sausage pies and two pints of beer for him and Phoebe. “Have a care with the pies. They’ve just come out of the oven.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—” Phoebe reached up to refuse the refreshments just as Bess moved the pint in front of her. Their hands collided, and a generous splash of beer spilled across Phoebe’s skirt.
“Oh, dear,” Danny said, leaning suddenly forward. “We can’t have that.”
He snagged the towel tucked into Bess’s apron and proceeded to dab at the wet spot on Phoebe’s skirt. Bess grinned knowingly and hurried away from the table.
“I’m sorry,” Phoebe said, distressed, but not at the way Danny more or less manhandled her. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I’ve become so clumsy of late. Nothing seems to go my way anymore.”
She was near tears, which tugged at something deep within Danny. Something beyond lust or teasing. Something that seemed to fit right into that emptiness inside of him.
“It’s nothing to worry about, love,” he said, finishing cleaning her skirt and tossing the towel on the empty table next to them. “Here. Eat up. Drink some beer. It’ll make you feel much better.”
“I’m afraid I don’t consume alcohol,” she said, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.
“Whyever not?” he laughed, sliding her pint in front of her, then picking up his own and taking a swig. “This is the good stuff.”
She peeked mournfully up at him. “I’m afraid the boarding house where Mama and I live has a strict temperance policy.”
“Bloody hell,” Danny growled, then downed a large swig of beer. “That’s no way to live.”
“I’m afraid it’s the best we can do right now,” Phoebe sighed.
The sound and the sight of her looking so defeated made him want to wrap her in his arms and never let her go. “Where did you say you work again?” he asked, the light of an idea in his eyes.
“Harrods,” she said. “Selling gloves, not knickers.” The ghost of a grin flitted across her face. It was the most beautiful thing Danny had seen all day.
“Harrods,” he repeated. “Well, if you can’t drink this very fine beer, at least you can eat some of this delicious pie.” He picked up one of the forks Bess had brought along with the food and handed it to her.
Phoebe’s beautiful face turned red all over again. “I’m afraid I cannot pay for it.”
Danny snorted. “There’s no money between friends, and we’ve established that we’re friends. Consider this my treat. Now eat up. You look famished, and I won’t have any of my friends looking famished.”
Phoebe smiled and took the fork from him. The simple expression and gesture did amazing things to his heart and to his cock. He wasn’t too proud to admit that he wanted her. A man would be a fool not to want a woman as magnificent as Lady Phoebe Darlington. But he wasn’t a brute, in spite of his background. He would look, but he wouldn’t dare to touch.
“You really are too kind, Mr. Long,” she said, cracking the crust of her pie with the side of her fork.
“It’s Danny, remember?” he told her, taking up his own fork and breaking into the pie Bess had set in front of him. He’d need to put something in his mouth in order to stop himself from leaning into her and stealing a kiss. Phoebe deserved more than a bounder like him taking liberties.
Truthfully, he suspected that what she probably deserved was a long night of thorough love-making that left her breathless and floating on a cloud of satisfaction. If she’d been any other woman, he’d have offered it all to her right then and there. But there was something more about Phoebe, something he would have to investigate as carefully as he did any of his new investments. He had a feeling that she was as precious as any land and just as ripe for development. But she was a lady, and if he wanted her, he would have to woo her.
He loved the idea.
Chapter 3
It was nearly dark by the time Phoebe left The Watchman pub and the kindness of Mr. Long to scurry home. The very last thing she’d expected when taking shelter in a pub was to have the owner offer her food and drink, a place to dry off by the fire, and a shoulder to cry on. Even though she didn’t actually cry. It embarrassed her to think about it as she ducked and dodged her way through foot traffic made up of businessmen returning home from The City for the night, but she had spilled out more of her tragic story to Mr. Long than she’d intended to. In spite of his rough ways, too-wide smiles, and clear lack of breeding, he’d exhibited more kindness toward her than anyone had for years.
Thoughts of Mr. Long’s kindness—as well as his mischievous, blue eyes, dark hair that curled wildly in a startlingly unfashionable way, and expressive mouth—were at the forefront of her mind as she stepped into the foyer of Mrs. Jones’s boarding house only to find Mrs. Jones herself standing with her arms crossed, a deep frown creasing her brow.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Jones,” Phoebe said in a rush. “There was an accident on Oxford Street that necessitated a detour, and then the rain began to pour down.”
“It is after six o’clock, Miss Darlington,” Mrs. Jones snapped. In spite of her mother’s protests, Phoebe had insisted that Mrs. Jones address her as “Miss” instead of “Lady”, the same as she had with Mr. Waters. And like Mr. Waters, Phoebe cringed every time the fussy old matron referred to her that way. But that was the price she paid to give herself the mental distance from her old, dead life that she needed to carry on. “You know the rules about curfew,” Mrs. Jones continued.
“Yes, madam, I do, and again, I am so sorry,” Phoebe said in a rush, unbuttoning her long coat and shaking the last of the rain from it.
Mrs. Jones wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “What is that horrid smell?”
“It’s—” Phoebe paused, her mouth open. It was beer from where the barmaid had spilled on her skirt, and likely cigar smoke as well, as a few of the patrons who had come into The Watchman as she finished her complimentary supper had been smoking.
Understanding dawned in Mrs. Jones’s eyes. She pulled herself up to her full height and tilted her head so that she could look down her nose at Phoebe. “You smell like a pub,” she said through clenched teeth.
“As I said,” Phoebe began in a wary voice, “the rain began to pour before I could reach home. I was forced to wait out the storm in a pub.”
“Miss Darlington,” Mrs. Jones snapped. “You know my rules about illicit entertainment.”
“I only took shelter in the pub for an hour or so, madam.”
“Consumption of alcohol of any sort by my boarders is strictly prohibited.”
“I didn’t consume anything. I had bee
r spilled on my skirt.” Phoebe turned to show Mrs. Jones the stain on her skirt—a stain she would have to figure out how to wash out, as she only had three skirts total to her name.
“Carousing with rough crowds, such as the sort of men who frequent pubs, is expressly forbidden as well,” Mrs. Jones went on, crossing her arms.
“I know, Mrs. Jones, and believe me, if there had been any other options—”
“I do not allow loose women to board with me, Miss Darlington.”
Phoebe could see the writing on the wall and gave up the fight. Her shoulders sagged and she lowered her head and said, “Yes, Mrs. Jones.”
“Profligate manners and low morals have no place under my roof,” Mrs. Jones said with a sniff.
“Yes, madam.” Phoebe lowered her head farther, knowing only absolute humility would get her out of the situation.
“I would expect more from a daughter of the aristocracy,” Mrs. Jones said in her most superior tone, her lip curling into a self-righteous sneer.
“Yes, madam.”
“Or perhaps not,” Mrs. Jones went on. “You nobs think you’re so much better than the rest of us, but my, how the mighty have fallen.”
Phoebe could do nothing but bow her head and clench her jaw. If the associates of her former life only knew how much the middle classes resented them—even as they tried to emulate them in every way—they might think twice about their lofty attitudes and dismissive ways.
“I will let this pass,” Mrs. Jones continued. “But only this once. If I catch you misbehaving again, there will be consequences.”
A flutter of desperation in Phoebe’s stomach made her wish she hadn’t eaten the entire pie Mr. Long had offered her, or that she’d had some of the beer after all. “I understand, madam,” she said. “It won’t happen again.”
“Good.” Mrs. Jones nodded sharply. “You’ve missed supper.”
She said nothing else before turning and marching off to the back part of the house.
Phoebe let out a shaky breath, rubbing her temples for a moment before removing her hat. Aside from her interlude at The Watchman, the day had been about as miserable as could be. All she wanted to do was go up to her room, remove her boots, and—
“Phoebe! Oh, Phoebe, there you are.” Her mother slid open the door to a small side parlor and stepped into the hall. She peeked toward the back of the house, the way Mrs. Jones had gone, then gestured to Phoebe to follow her into the side parlor. “I’ve a surprise for you, my dear.”
Dread pooled in Phoebe’s stomach as she stepped toward the parlor. “Mama, why on earth do you have the door closed? What could you possibly have in here that you don’t want Mrs. Jones to—”
Her question died on her lips as she entered the parlor only to find Lord Cosgrove standing by the fireplace. The odious man wore a victorious grin, as though he’d accomplished a feat Phoebe should be proud of.
“Lady Phoebe,” he said with a toothy grin. “I told you we would meet again soon.”
Phoebe rounded on her mother. “Mama! What have you done? You know we are not allowed to have male guests.”
“Lord Cosgrove couldn’t possibly be seen as an indiscretion,” her mother said, waving away Phoebe’s protest. “He’s a viscount, for pity’s sake.”
“He’s still a man, Mama.” Phoebe shot Lord Cosgrove a disapproving look, then stared hard at her mother. “The boarding house has rules. You cannot break them.”
“Rules are for the middle class,” her mother sniffed. For a moment, she looked imperious. Then her expression changed to mischief and delight. “I’ll just leave the two of you alone.” She grabbed Phoebe’s overcoat and hat from her arms.
“Mama!” Phoebe called after her in alarm as her mother fled the room. “You cannot leave me alone in here with him.”
Her mother ignored her, giggling as she slid the parlor door shut.
Phoebe whipped back to face Lord Cosgrove.
“Your mother is right,” he said with a predatory sort of grace, striding away from the fireplace. “The mistress of the boarding house couldn’t possibly object to a man of my status speaking with you, especially as I have come to speak about a particularly delicate matter.”
Phoebe thought she might be sick. She moved around the perimeter of the room, deliberately putting a settee and end table between her and Lord Cosgrove. “I will not pretend to be ignorant of your mission here, Lord Cosgrove,” she began. “But I can tell you before you ask, my answer is no.”
Rather than being put off, Lord Cosgrove chuckled as though she couldn’t possibly be serious. “You haven’t heard what I have to offer yet, my dear.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but there is little you could offer that would entice me.” Phoebe continued to move around the room, keeping as much furniture between her and Lord Cosgrove as possible.
“I was friends with your father, my dear,” Lord Cosgrove pushed on.
“That is not a piece of information that would endear you to me,” Phoebe muttered, likely too softly for Lord Cosgrove to hear.
“He used to speak fondly of you to me,” he went on.
“I highly doubt that,” Phoebe continued to mutter.
“I believe it was his wish that I take care of you in his absence.”
“I have done an adequate job of taking care of myself and Mama,” Phoebe said, tilting her chin up proudly. And she was proud of everything she’d managed to do to keep herself afloat.
“You cannot possibly enjoy living this sort of diminished life,” Lord Cosgrove went on.
“It is good enough for me,” Phoebe insisted, skirting an overstuffed chair as Lord Cosgrove circled closer to her.
“But I could offer you so much more, my dear,” he said. “I have an estate of my own in Hampshire. Wouldn’t it be much nicer to live there, or in my London townhouse, than in a place like this?”
“I would say it depends greatly on the conditions under which I would live there,” Phoebe said, voice hoarse, face heating. She wasn’t so much of an innocent that she didn’t know the way of things between men and women. In fact, with her father’s proclivities constantly thrown in her face as a reason why not a soul in society would raise a finger to help her or her mother, she knew a great deal more about relations between men and women than most ladies of her former station.
“True,” Lord Cosgrove said as though it were inconsequential. “I would expect you to give me an heir or two, as well as keeping me happy.”
Phoebe tried not to look physically repulsed by the suggestion.
“But I would make it worth your while,” Lord Cosgrove went on. “In fact, I could offer you a life of luxury and ease, as soon as my investments pay off.”
“Investments?” Phoebe arched one eyebrow and continued to move away from him. Any noblemen who spoke of investments was more or less admitting that his traditional means of income were failing. Which meant he could be lying about the lifestyle he promised.
“I have begun engaging in land development speculations,” he said. “London has a terrible housing shortage these days. Men are making fortunes building houses on what was once farmland west of the city.”
“Yes, I have heard.”
“Have you?” Lord Cosgrove looked surprised, as if Phoebe didn’t do things as simple as reading the newspaper or engaging her customers at Harrods in conversation. “Then you must know that I stand to make some woman very happy,” he went on.
“That woman will not be me, my lord,” she insisted.
Lord Cosgrove chuckled. The sound chilled Phoebe’s blood. “I think you might be made to see reason,” he said, his tone turning threatening.
Twin feelings of fear and helplessness gripped Phoebe as she darted around a chair to avoid Lord Cosgrove’s continued pursuit. The sudden comparison between Lord Cosgrove and Mr. Long shot to her mind. Lord Cosgrove was well-born, titled, and accepted by society. Mr. Long was rough, crude, and owned a pub. Yet, Mr. Long had showed her utmost kindness and consideration. Not once
had she felt threatened or in danger in his presence, in spite of the fact that he was a well-formed man who likely could have bent her to his will with ease. Kindness shone in his eyes, whereas nothing but malice and greed shone in Lord Cosgrove’s. And Lord Cosgrove was the one that acquaintances of her former life would have considered the better man. It was madness.
“Lord Cosgrove.” Phoebe stopped dodging him, moving to stand in the center of the parlor and putting her foot down, proverbially, if not actually. “I will not marry you. I simply am not interested. Please go.”
“I am not inclined to take no for an answer.” Lord Cosgrove made a sudden move toward her. “There are other ways to secure a favorable answer to a proposal. Ways favored by the Vikings and other marauders.”
“You couldn’t possibly—oh!” Phoebe shouted before she could stop herself as Lord Cosgrove grabbed her around the waist and pulled her flush against him. “Let me go, let me go!” She pushed against him.
“Never,” Lord Cosgrove said, leaning into her and attempting to kiss her. “You are mine.”
“Oh, stop, stop!” Phoebe shoved against his shoulders as hard as he could, but the man was surprisingly strong. He brought his lips closer to hers, but she twisted her head this way and that to avoid his kiss.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mrs. Jones’s voice boomed from the doorway.
Instantly, Lord Cosgrove let Phoebe go. Phoebe leapt to the side, gasping for breath and shaking with fear.
“Do we have an answer yet?” her mother said cheerfully, skipping into the parlor to stand by Mrs. Jones’s side.
Phoebe was so overcome with terror that she could only shake her head and move as far away from Lord Cosgrove as possible.
“That is it,” Mrs. Jones shouted, glaring at Phoebe as though she were the one in the wrong. “You know the rules about gentlemen callers. And what did I say to you not fifteen minutes before?”
