by Eva Devon
For a moment, he thought of Hades and Persephone. Was that an apt representation of the two of them?
Perhaps it was, for Philippa did seem like springtime to him with her blonde hair, her blue eyes, her smooth skin, and the way she viewed the world as if the most awful things could be molded into something beautiful.
And then there was himself, dark, in pain, angry at the world.
Yet, she seemed unwilling to let him linger in that. He was grateful to her, he supposed. How could he not be? She was willing to take a chance on him, to believe that some part of him that had been alive and well before that final battle still existed inside him.
And beside her, he could believe it was true too.
She stirred and rolled over. She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said.
“Now, don't call me that,” he insisted, his breath catching at the sight of her languid and free in his bed. “You mustn't, for we are to have no such formalities about us now.”
“Are we not?” she asked playfully.
“No,” he replied stroking his fingers along her arm. “You must always call me Anthony.”
She gave him a teasing look, and he recalled that just two days before he had insisted that they were not to be so intimate.
It was amazing how quickly things could change when one allowed them to. Did it mean that he was so weak in his resolve? Perhaps it did, but deep in his heart of hearts, deep in his soul, he had always wanted her. He had always felt connected to her, close to her. And now that they were so near? He'd been unable to resist his soul’s yearning.
It was galling, really, that his willpower was so ineffectual. Even so, in that moment, he was glad. He was glad that he had given into this decision of theirs.
Gently, he leaned down and kissed her lips. “And how was your sleep?” he asked.
“My sleep was divine,” she said against his mouth. “How was yours?”
He did not tell her the truth.
He had slept little.
He rarely did sleep a great deal these days. Often, he had to roll from side to side to alleviate the agony that pressure caused on his scarring and the action caused him a great deal of pain.
Still, the act of being with her had somehow made the night more bearable, just knowing that he was not alone, that someone who cared so greatly about him was beside him.
It had given him a succor that he had not known in his entire life. He’d not known such unrestrained care in his life.
“What shall we do today?” she asked.
“First,” he said, “we should start with breakfast. And then I always take my morning constitutional.”
“Will you allow me to join you?” she asked, nibbling her already pink lower lip.
“Of course, you may join me,” he said. “As long as you are comfortable with the fact that we will go at a snail's pace.”
“Oh, I do not mind,” she cheerfully. “As we discussed yesterday, a snail’s pace allows me to hold your hand, and holding your hand gives me the greatest of pleasure.”
“The greatest?” he teased, thinking her face in the throes of passion the night before.
She blushed, her cheeks turning red. “Well, perhaps not the greatest now that I know the range of possible pleasures ahead of me.”
He laughed. “There are a great many possibilities,” he assured.
“And we shall explore them together?” she asked.
“Indeed. If you like,” he said softly, amazed that she had chosen him to be so intimate with.
“I do like,” she emphasized before she frowned. “It is really quite a shame that ladies are kept in such ignorance about the possibilities.”
“I agree,” he breathed, stroking his fingers along her furrowed brow. “Ladies should know a great deal more, but if you must know, gentlemen are largely kept in ignorance too until the day they are suddenly thrust into the sinful world. And then they have no idea how to behave. It’s all trial and error and sometimes a good deal of error.”
She blinked, clearly astonished by his admission. “Why would you call it a sinful world? Why is it called a sinful world at all?” she demanded. “It makes no sense, given how much pleasure it causes.”
He stared down at her, reveling in her earnestness and her clear wish to free young ladies and men from ignorance and unneeded trials. “You are quite right,” he said. “I don't understand it myself, but that is generally how it is thought.”
He hesitated, struggling to explain it. “I suppose it is considered to be sin because it is so much pleasure, and our society generally seems to think that pleasure is not acquainted with goodness.”
“Bah,” she retorted. “A pox on it.”
A deep laugh boomed past his lips. “Indeed.”
“I think we spend too much time attempting to be good in foolish ways,” she said, folding her arms across her chest, then nodding to emphasize her point. “When we should really just enjoy the life that we've been given. It is so terribly short and so terribly fragile,” she added.
That was certainly true. “You are very wise, Philippa,” he replied softly.
She cocked her head to the side, contemplating him. “You didn't always seem to think so.”
“Now, now,” he said, groaning. “You cannot chastise me for foolish comments made.”
“Of course, I can,” she said, quirking a brow at him. “You made them, after all.”
He groaned and pulled the sheet over his head. “Oh,” he exclaimed. “Are we to constantly bicker then?”
“No,” she laughed, tugging the sheet back down. “Though I do find it interesting that our conversations are so very different from those that we had with letters.”
He shoved a hand through his wild hair and thought about her comment. At last, he surmised, “That’s because in letters we must read the entirety of a person’s thoughts or comments. I couldn't interrupt you in the middle of what you were telling me,” he said. “Instead, I took it all in, listening to all your thoughts before I carefully could create my response. Which then you had to read without a chance of interrupting.”
“Hmmm.” She pursed the lips he adored so well. “How true?” Her lips twitched. “Perhaps we should only communicate with letters.”
He laughed. “What an interesting idea. I think it certainly makes it easier to be honest,” he said. “But we probably wouldn't be able to laugh nearly as much. Or revel in the morning after lovemaking.”
“True,” she agreed. “And all this? It is a glorious thing indeed.”
He smiled down at her, his heart aching with his current good fortune. Had he suffered enough that he’d be allowed at least a few moments of sheer joy? “I'm glad you think so. Should we have breakfast then? I can send for it.”
“Yes, I would like that very much. But why don't we go down?”
Suddenly, he frowned. “Oh dear.”
“What?” she asked.
“We have not considered what Clara might say,” he mused. He hadn’t given that the thought he should, given that he was meant to be a responsible and caring older brother.
“Clara knows how much I care about you,” Phillipa replied easily. “She shall say nothing at all about the subject matter.”
“I do not know about that,” he warned. “I never thought I would expose my sister to—”
“To what?” Phillipa demanded, her eyes narrowing. “To love?”
“Fair point,” he said. “But I shouldn't necessarily wish Clara to run after a gentleman in a similar fashion.”
“Careful now,” she said, her eyes narrowing even more. “You're on very dangerous ground with what you are asserting.”
“That is not at all what I mean,” he exclaimed, realizing he was about to give insult. “I am a trustworthy individual. I cannot trust that Clara would pick someone so—”
“Dramatic?” she cut in, eyeing him up and down, not with anger but with a clear point to cut through his hypocrisy. “So changeab
le?”
“I am not changeable,” he ground out, even as he realized he was in respect to Phillipa. Though not in the way Phillipa likely thought. The way he felt about her? It had never changed. It never would. It was what he was going to do about it that changed.
“You are,” she said evenly. “But we shall not talk about that further, for I see it upsets you greatly.”
She winked at him. “Clara is a sensible person. She'll see that we are making the best decision for ourselves. Besides, society's full of scandal. Your sister is aware of it.”
“Are we a scandal then?” he teased, leaning in and kissing the curve of her neck.
She smiled up at him. “Oh, indeed I think we are. But the very best kind, for we are a scandal that hurts no one. We have chosen each other and that is a very good thing indeed.”
He gazed down at her, amazed anew.
Chosen each other, he thought.
It was an interesting statement, and it was accurate.
Out of the entire world of individuals and strange circumstances, they had been thrust together and they had indeed chosen each other.
So many people might have stood in the way of their closeness at one point. They had seemed like a terrible mismatch when he had been just an officer with little wealth and she the younger daughter of an earl with no fortune to bring to a marriage.
Granted, he'd been the brother of a duke, but there'd been no assurance that he would have any particular position to offer her. No. By society’s ideals, they’d both needed to marry someone with money.
As a second son, he had not inherited a great fortune,
His brother had, and Anthony would have had to live on his pay or the kindness of his eldest brother.
But now, fate had changed things, and he could take care of her. Perhaps, even if they couldn’t stay together, he could assure her financial freedom forever, if she would allow him.
He shook the thought away. It was a dangerous one.
“Come,” he said. “To breakfast.”
And with that, he began the painful process of hoisting himself out of bed.
Long hours laying down always left him horribly stiff, and he winced at the movement.
Phillipa on the other hand? She bounded out of bed, joyfully, easily, as if it was so simple.
Once upon a time it had been simple for him too.
In fact, he had been full of life, able to leap and run and take on any physical challenge. Now, walking to the table from the bed would be a feat.
Still, he slowly managed to swing himself up into a seated position, prop his legs over the side of the bed, and plant his feet down on the wood floor. He paused as the cold surface met his bare skin. It sent a spike of unpleasantness up his bones.
He did not like that at all. It was always a shock. He looked forward to the long days of summer ahead when he wouldn’t have this first moment when getting up.
And finally, he pushed his hands down into the mattress and launched himself forward.
She gasped at the sight of his leg.
He froze as that sound filled the room and wrapped around him like a condemnation. He swallowed, unable to speak for several seconds. He knew how he looked. But it was always difficult hearing people’s first reaction to his transformation. “It’s really quite ghastly, isn't it?” he drawled, trying not to sound too affected.
“Yes,” she confirmed softly but without judgement or disgust. Her voice was a gentle caress. “I didn't quite get a good view of it last night, not truly. Now, in the full light of day, I—”
“You see that I am a beast,” he observed, trying to maintain a droll sense of humor. And failing.
“Cease that,” she instructed rather forcefully. “You're not a beast at all. You're a man. Your body has just been. . . tortured a bit.”
“Tortured,” he said flatly before he sighed. He knew she was doing her best. There really was no proper response. And she was reacting far better than he could have hoped for. But it was hard to forget how he’d once looked. “That's a nice way of putting it. I was nearly torn apart by a cannon.”
She contemplated the linen sheet as if she was considering covering her nakedness, like a protective armor under the pain of the moment. “I can only imagine how harrowing that was.”
“I shall not entertain you with stories of it,” he said, his jaw tightening. He did not wish to be sent back into that moment. Not here. Not with her. “I don't wish you to have sleepless nights.”
“Do you often have sleepless nights?” she asked gently, her gaze soft with sympathy.
He nodded succinctly and hobbled to the leather chair beside the fire, each step slow and precarious. He picked up his dressing gown and pulled it over his shoulders, trying to warm his body, for the warmer he was, the easier it was to make progress.
“Come, Philippa,” he urged, tying the belt with a jerk. “I don't wish to speak of that with you. I only wish to think of pleasant things with you.”
“Pleasant,” she repeated, her face strained with sorrow for him. “I understand,” she said. “But sometimes out of pain comes the greatest conversation, the most deep—”
“No,” he cut in, determined not to open that particular door. “I do not wish to discuss it.”
She nodded. “Then we shall not.”
She left the sheet untouched and strode towards him, apparently unashamed and unbothered by her nakedness.
He adored that about her. He loved it. She felt so free with him. It was a condition that he wished more people could experience. He pulled her gently towards him, careful not to totter, and he leaned down and looked into her eyes.
“So we shall have breakfast with Clara and act as if nothing shocking has occurred,” he teased, determined to leave the darkness behind. At least for now.
“Oh, but something shocking has occurred,” she corrected, her eyes alight as she pressed against his silk dressing gown.
“And what is that?” he asked, uncertain.
“We've chosen each other without marriage. That is shocking,” she declared as if it was the most delicious thing in the world. Then she grew more serious. “And Clara will be shocked, but that doesn't mean that we should hide it from her. After all, she’s not silly.”
“Fair point,” he agreed with a sigh.
Society was so interested in exteriors. But not his Phillipa. She cared far more about that which was beneath the surface. It was both glorious and awful. For it meant she loved without artifice. It also meant it was almost impossible to hide one’s true pain from her.
“And Merrill, of course,” she piped abruptly. She bit her lower lip, then asked, “Shall we hide it from Merrill?”
He groaned.
Good God, he hadn't even thought of Merrill.
Merrill might murder him for what he'd done.
After all, Merrill was a gentleman through and through, and he would not easily accept his ruining of Lady Philippa. What the devil was he going to say to his friend? Perhaps his friend would murder him as quickly as Captain Adams no doubt wished to do.
It was a harrowing thought.
Somehow, he’d make him understand. Even when he, himself, did not.
Chapter 12
Clara drank her tea happily and quietly as she snuck smug glances at her brother and friend.
Phillipa ate her toast, relieved her friend wasn’t making any difficult discourse. She’d been certain she wouldn’t, after all.
And as it was? Phillipa was absolutely overwhelmed by the events of last evening. It had been an experience to which she had no reference point—the joy of it, the pleasure of it, the physical experience?
There was nothing like it that she could describe or relate it to.
And. . .there had been one point that had stunned and empowered her.
She had not been a passive participant. Oh no. In fact, her strength had made the whole affair possible, and she loved that she had taken so much into her control. That he had urged it and liked it.
>
It had made her feel powerful and strong.
Society always seemed to insinuate the lady was the vine clinging to the oak. That she was passive, waiting for the man’s strength. As if lovemaking was something that happened to a young lady not with.
That was not what had transpired.
Though he was more experienced, their coming together had felt more like two equals, at last meeting and entwining into one.
As they sat together in the breakfast room with Clara, all being rather quiet as they spread their butter and jam upon their toast, ate rashers of bacon, drank dark tea, sugared and laced with milk, she thought that she had found a rather perfect existence.
Of course, it was impossible to know how long it would last.
But that, in itself, couldn’t matter. She couldn’t let it.
She had to savor this moment. For this? This was thrilling. This was what she had longed for, for months. Perhaps not exactly, but it would do. At least now she was going to get to be close to him for a period of time.
No, she wouldn't think too far into the future. That was a foolish thing to do. After all, one never knew what could happen ahead. The last year had taught her that.
In one single day, everything could change.
Look what had happened to Grey's own older brother.
He had died most unexpectedly, which had completely changed Anthony's life. And her own.
Just as Anthony was about to speak, Merrill charged into the breakfast room, paper in his hand.
“Anthony,” Merrill declared. “I have news.”
But then Merrill stopped, and he looked from Anthony to Clara to Phillipa, and then Anthony again and then to Phillipa.
It would have been funny except she did not know if Merrill would be able to deduce what had transpired during the night. And if he could, how would he react?
Merrill looked bemused as if something was not quite right. Anthony gave Phillipa a conspiratorial look, but it was clear and strong, and it definitely suggested that she was, well, his.
It was a look of sheer longing and intimacy, and it was so blatant that she wondered that Anthony had been able to be a soldier at all, for his face was completely transparent.
