by Amanda Quick
Chapter 15
The gray light of dawn was reflecting off the sea and pouring in through the window when Gabriel woke. He instinctively tightened his arm around Phoebe, assuring himself that she was still safely tucked against him.
She was exactly where she was supposed to be. The sweet, ripe curve of her bottom was cuddled against his hip and her small, shapely foot was lying alongside his leg. His fingers cupped her gently rounded breast.
Gabriel savored the simple, newfound pleasure of awakening in the early morning light with his wife in his arms. The unfamiliar sense of intimacy was deeply satisfying.
She was truly his at last, he thought. In the middle of the night she had given him the surrender he had been seeking. Her response had been complete and uninhibited. Except for one niggling little detail, Gabriel realized, he finally had everything he wanted.
The tiny, unimportant detail was that she had not told him she loved him. Even in the heat of her passion when she had shivered mindlessly in his arms and cried out his name, she had not said the words.
Not that it mattered, Gabriel assured himself. After all, she had confessed her love in a thousand different ways last night. He remembered how she had touched him, tentatively at first, and then with growing confidence. She had stroked him gently as she learned the shape and feel of him. He felt himself growing hard again at the memory.
“Gabriel?”
“Mmm?” He turned on his side and tugged the quilt down until her rose-tipped breasts peaked up at him.
Phoebe wriggled impatiently and yanked at the quilt. “I’m cold.”
“I’ll keep you warm.” He kissed one soft breast and then the other.
She looked up at him, wide-eyed now. “This is very strange, is it not?”
“What?” He was preoccupied with the taste of her nipple.
“Waking up in the morning with someone else in one’s bed.”
Gabriel raised his head. “’Tis your husband in your bed, madam, not just someone.”
“Yes, I know, but all the same, it seems odd. Not unpleasant, mind you, just rather odd.”
“You’ll soon grow accustomed to the sensation,” Gabriel vowed.
“Perhaps,” she agreed, sounding unconvinced.
“Trust me. You most definitely will get used to it.” He rolled onto his back and pulled her across his chest. His fully erect shaft pressed against her thigh.
“Good heavens, Gabriel.” Phoebe’s brows drew together in a disapproving frown as she glanced down at his heavy arousal. “Do you always wake up in this condition?”
“Are you always this chatty in the mornings?” He grasped her leg and drew it across his hips so that she was astride him.
“I don’t know. As I said, I am not accustomed to waking up with someone else…. Gabriel, what are you doing?” Phoebe gasped as he found her softness with his fingers and began to stroke gently.
He felt the warm honey start to flow almost at once. He grinned. “I am learning to manage my managing little wife. You must admit I am an excellent student.”
He guided himself to the humid entrance of her feminine passage, clamped his hands around her hips, and eased her firmly downward.
“Gabriel.”
“I am right here, my sweet.”
Some time later Gabriel reluctantly tossed aside the covers and got to his feet.
“It is still very early,” Phoebe observed in a drowsy voice. “Where are you going, my lord?”
“I am going to get dressed.” He leaned over the bed and gave her a gentle, thoroughly proprietary pat on her bare buttock. “And so are you. We shall be leaving for London directly after breakfast.”
“London?” Phoebe sat up abruptly. “Why on earth are we going back to London? We have only been here a few days.”
“I have business to attend to in Town, Phoebe. You may recall that our wedding took place in a rather unplanned fashion.”
“Yes, I know, but surely there is no need to rush back.”
“I was obliged to drop several important matters in order to chase off after you, madam wife.” He picked up his dressing gown. “I can no longer ignore those matters.”
“What can be so important that we must rush off like this? I like it here at Devil’s Mist.”
He smiled ruefully. “I’m glad you like your new home. But I must insist we leave today.”
Phoebe lifted her chin. “My lord, I believe we should discuss this further over breakfast before making a decision.”
Gabriel cocked a brow. “Phoebe, you are a wife now. My wife. That means you will be guided by my decisions in matters such as this. We leave for London in two hours.”
“The devil I will.” Phoebe scrambled out of bed and grabbed her chintz wrapper. “Gabriel, I must warn you that if we are to enjoy a peaceful marriage, you will have to learn to discuss things with me before you make sweeping decisions. I am twenty-four years old, not a green girl who can be ordered about at your whim.”
He turned in the doorway that connected her bedchamber to his, propped one shoulder against the frame, and folded his arms. “We leave for London in two hours. If you are not dressed and packed, you will be put into the carriage just as you are. Is that quite clear?”
Phoebe’s soft mouth tightened mutinously and her eyes narrowed. “I will not be dragged across the landscape just because you are in the mood to do so.”
“Would you care to make a wager on that?”
She started to fire back a response and then she hesitated. Gabriel groaned inwardly as he saw realization dawn in her eyes. He had known all along there were drawbacks to having an intelligent, strong-minded female as a wife.
“Wait a minute,” Phoebe said slowly. “You are doing this because of what happened yesterday, are you not?”
Gabriel exhaled wearily. There was no longer any point in trying to convince her he was merely being arbitrary. “I think it’s for the best, Phoebe. I want you away from Devil’s Mist for a while.”
Phoebe hurried forward, her expression anxious. “But Gabriel, it was an accident.”
“Was it?”
She shook her head, bemused. “What else could it have been?”
“I’m not certain. All I know is that this mysterious Alice deliberately committed a grave act of mischief. One that could have gotten you killed. I will talk to the local magistrate before we leave and tell him what has happened. He may very well know who Alice is. But until she is found, I want you safely away from here.”
Phoebe frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps the poor woman is mad.”
“Then she must be locked up in a hospital for lunatics. I certainly do not want her running about the countryside around here,” Gabriel said. “Two hours, Phoebe.”
He straightened and walked into his own bedchamber. It struck him that he was not accustomed to explaining himself. Out in the South Seas, the only thing that had been required was the ability to enforce his own orders. He had been quite capable of doing that.
Having a wife who questioned every reasonable command was going to be trying.
Meredith winced at the sight of the bolt of scarlet silk. “Phoebe, that is positively the most unfashionable color I have ever seen. Please, I beg you, don’t have it made up into a gown.”
“Are you certain you don’t care for it? I thought it rather attractive.” Phoebe touched the brilliant silk, captivated by its fiery color.
“It is totally unsuitable.”
“Well, if you are absolutely certain.”
“I am absolutely positive it will look perfectly outrageous on you.”
Phoebe sighed reluctantly and looked at the shopkeeper. “I suppose I shall have to select another color. Perhaps something in purple or yellow?”
“Certainly, madam.” The mercer reached for another bolt. “I have some wonderful purple satin and there is this rather striking yellow Italian silk.”
Meredith shuddered. “Phoebe, I do wish you would consider the pale blue muslin or the pink satin.�
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“I prefer bright colors. You know that.”
“I know, but you are a countess now.”
“What difference does that make?” Phoebe asked in surprise.
“For your husband’s sake, you must begin to pay more attention to fashion. Try that pink and white sprigged muslin,” Meredith suggested. “Pastels are all the rage.”
“I do not care for pastels. I have never cared for pastels.”
Meredith sighed. “I am only trying to guide you, Phoebe. Why must you always be so stubborn?”
“Perhaps I am stubborn because people have been trying to guide me all of my life.” Phoebe fingered a brilliant purple velvet. “This is rather interesting.”
“For a ball gown? You cannot be serious,” Meredith exclaimed.
“I was thinking of it for a medieval costume.” Phoebe draped a piece of yellow silk over the purple to study the effect. “I have decided to give a house party at Devil’s Mist during the summer.”
“Wonderful. Now that you are the Countess of Wylde, you must start entertaining. But what is this about a costume?”
Phoebe smiled. “I want the theme to be that of a medieval tournament.”
“A tournament? You mean with men dressed in armor and dashing about on horseback?” Meredith looked seriously alarmed.
“Devil’s Mist is the perfect place for such an affair. We shall see that no one will get hurt. We will have archery contests and a grand ball. I shall hire actors who will play the parts of jesters and troubadours. Everyone will wear appropriate costumes, of course.”
“Phoebe, that will be a massive undertaking,” Meredith said carefully. “You have never given so much as a small soiree. Are you certain you want to take on this sort of project?”
“It will be great fun. I think Wylde will enjoy it.”
Meredith eyed her closely. “Forgive me for asking, but have you actually discussed this with Wylde?”
“Not yet.” Phoebe chuckled. “But I am certain he will approve. It is just the sort of thing that will appeal to him.”
“You are certain of that?”
“Quite certain.”
Twenty minutes later Phoebe and Meredith left the shop. The footman they had brought with them carried two lengths of fine cloth, one purple, the other bright yellow. Phoebe was quite satisfied with her purchases. Meredith appeared resigned to the inevitable.
“We must stop in at Lacey’s Bookshop while we are in the vicinity,” Phoebe said to Meredith. “It is only a short distance from here.”
“Very well.” Meredith was quiet for a moment as they walked toward the bookshop. Then she moved a bit closer to Phoebe. “There is something I must ask you.”
“Yes?” Phoebe could not wait to get to Lacey’s. Gabriel had casually mentioned at breakfast that he had sent his newest manuscript off to his publisher that morning.
Phoebe had almost confessed to Gabriel that she was his publisher. She had tested the waters cautiously by suggesting that she should read his manuscript first.
“Absolutely not,” Gabriel had said. “I have a very firm policy on that subject. No one reads my manuscripts except myself and my publisher.” Then he had smiled with infuriating condescension. “Besides, what would you know of judging modern novels? Your expertise is in much older works, madam.”
Phoebe had been so annoyed that she had brushed aside the guilt she felt about not having confided her secret activities as an editor and publisher to Gabriel.
Meredith hesitated. “Phoebe, dear, are you happy in your marriage?”
Phoebe looked at her in surprise. Meredith’s lovely eyes were filled with anxiety. “For heaven’s sake, Meredith. Whatever makes you ask that?”
“I know you felt rushed into this alliance. I am well aware that you wanted time for Wylde to get to know you.” Meredith flushed. “The thing is, everyone was extremely upset the day you ran off.”
“Were they, indeed?”
“Yes. We were all quite dispirited except for Wylde. He was in a cold rage. I worried that when he caught up with you he would still be angry. I was not certain what he would do, if you see what I mean.”
“No, Meredith, I do not see what you mean. What are you trying to say?”
Meredith’s flush deepened. “The thing is, because of my experience with Wylde eight years ago I know something of his temperament. Phoebe, I have worried so that he was not kind or patient with you.”
Phoebe frowned. “He has not taken to beating me, if that is what concerns you.”
“Not exactly.” Meredith glanced quickly around and apparently decided the footman was not within hearing distance. “What I am trying to say is that I know he has probably not been, strictly speaking, a gentleman in the bedchamber. He always was somewhat rough around the edges, and I feared that if he were angry he would not be considerate of a lady’s natural sensibilities.”
Phoebe stared at her in amazement. “Good lord, Meredith. If it is Wylde’s performance as a lover that concerns you, set your mind at ease. It is one of the few things he has got right thus far.”
At Lacey’s Bookshop, Phoebe told her sister that she wanted to view a special volume that was being held for her in the back of the shop. Neither the clerk nor Meredith were surprised. Phoebe frequently viewed “special volumes” that were being held for her at Lacey’s.
“I’ll browse out here while you see to your old books,” Meredith said. “But do hurry, Phoebe. I want to visit the glovemaker’s this afternoon.”
“I won’t be long.”
Lacey, an oily rag in his hand, was hovering over his big printing press with the attentiveness of a lover. He looked up, squinting, as Phoebe let herself into the back room.
“Is it here, Mr. Lacey?”
“Over there on the desk. Came about an hour ago.” Lacey pulled his gin bottle out of his apron pocket and took a swallow. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and regarded her with greedy speculation. “Reckon we’ll make a tidy sum on it, do ye?”
“I am sure of it, Mr. Lacey. I shall see you later.”
Phoebe snatched up the bundle on the desk and breezed out of the back room.
Meredith glanced at the parcel in her arm and made a tut-tutting sound. “You decided to buy another book, I see.”
“This one is very unique,” Phoebe assured her.
Three nights later at a huge ball given by longtime friends of the Earl and Countess of Clarington, Phoebe ran into her mother.
Lydia peered at her. “There you are, my dear. I’ve been looking for you. Where is your husband?”
“Wylde said he would arrive later. You know he is not particularly fond of balls and soirees.”
“Yes, I know.” Lydia smiled blandly. “Speaking of Wylde, I suppose it is rather too soon to be asking him for a small loan to cover some of my recent losses? Ran into a bit of a bad patch yesterday at Lady Rantley’s card party. I’ll soon come about, of course, but in the meantime I’m rather short of funds to cover my little debt of honor.”
“Ask Wylde for anything you like, Mama. Just do not ask me to ask him for you.”
“Really, Phoebe, I hardly think that it would be appropriate for me to go directly to him.”
“I don’t see why not. How did you happen to lose a large sum at Lady Rantley’s? I thought you generally won when you played at her house.”
“And so I do,” Lydia said, not without a touch of pride. “But yesterday the gossip was just too delicious and I wound up concentrating on it rather than my cards. Always a mistake.”
“What gossip?”
Lydia leaned closer. “It seems that Lord Prudstone has been seen rather frequently of late in a fashionable brothel known as the Velvet Hell. His wife has found out about his visits there and she is furious. Word has it she may be plotting revenge.”
“And so she should,” Phoebe declared. “What is this Velvet Hell place? I have never heard of it.”
“I should think not,” Lydia murmured. “But now that you
are a married woman, it is time you learned a bit more of the world. The Velvet Hell is said to be one of the most exclusive brothels in London. Patronized only by very tonnish gentlemen.”
“If I ever hear of Wylde stepping foot in the place, I shall throttle him.”
Lydia started to respond to that but stopped short, her mouth open in shock. “Good lord. Phoebe, look behind you. Quickly. I do not have my spectacles on, but there is something very familiar about that gentleman.”
“Which gentleman, Mama?” Phoebe glanced over her shoulder. The sight of the sandy-haired, hazel-eyed man moving toward her through the throng hit her like a blow in the stomach. “My God. It’s Neil.”
“I was afraid of that.” Lydia grimaced. “He is supposed to be dead. Your father was quite right about him. Baxter has no consideration for others.”
Phoebe was not listening. Still in shock, she took a step forward. She could hardly speak. “Neil?”
“Good evening, my beautiful Lady Phoebe.” Neil took her gloved hand and bent over it with grave gallantry. His smile was sadly rueful. “I understand I must say Lady Wylde now.”
“Neil, you’re alive. We thought you were dead.”
“I assure you, I am no ghost, Phoebe.”
“My God, I cannot believe this.” Phoebe was still too dazed to think clearly. She stared at him, shocked to see the physical changes in him. The Neil she had known three years ago had been a much softer-looking man. Now there was a bitterness in his eyes and in the lines around his mouth that had not been there before. In addition, he looked stronger. There was an indefinable coarseness about him that she did not recall from the past.
“Will you dance with me, my lady? It has been too long since I have known the pleasure of having my beloved Phoebe so near.”
Without waiting for a response, Neil took her hand and led her out onto the floor. Phoebe went into his arms as the strains of a slow, dignified waltz filled the room. She danced mechanically, her mind whirling with questions.
“Neil, this is incredible. I cannot tell you how happy I am to see that you are alive and well. You must tell me what happened.” She remembered what Gabriel had told her about Neil’s activities in the South Seas. “There have been dreadful rumors.”
