Almost a Gentleman (19 page)

Phoebe.

So
that
was her name
.

Hesitating at the door of his carriage, Lord Linseley dismissed his coachman. He needed to walk; he craved some good fresh air after the stuffy Assembly Rooms. If Dickerson would be so kind as to drive back to the stable alone…

Dickerson nodded respectfully, though the way he pulled down his hat and hugged his greatcoat around himself suggested that he thought his master quite daft. It was a dank, freezing night, the air saturated with poisonous fog.

But he's been suspicious of my mental state ever since the storm at Rowen-on-Close, David thought, grinning ruefully at the absurdity of choosing to walk in such weather.

He took a deep draft of the night's malodorous vapors. It did taste rather awful, he thought, trudging off into the turgid, gaslit darkness. And then he forgot the air entirely, losing himself in delicious imagining.

Odd that it mattered so much, his finally learning her name. Just two little syllables, but the intimacy of it made him giddy.

Perhaps it was Lady Kate's evident love for her, or the sweet stories she'd told of their girlhood. Whatever had turned the trick, though, somehow she was no longer a mystery. She was his future.

Have you seen my slippers, Phoebe?

Will you ride out with me this morning, Phoebe? I have a long day in the fields planned and want you with me for at least a part of it.

No, Phoebe, there's nothing the slightest bit wrong. I'm simply staring at you, dear, because you're so lovely in the lamplight.

Yes, Phoebe, I suppose it is late. What say we go to bed, my love?

My love, my lady.

Phoebe dear.

Phoebe darling.

He walked briskly, breathing the filthy air as though it were new-mown hay.

Phoebe
. It chimed like soft musical accompaniment to the images wafting through his mind.

Her back and shoulders: gracefully arched and widely spread, held in perfect equipoise as she guided her friend about the dance floor.

Her neck: high and proud beneath the purity of her white cravat. Two weeks ago time had stood still while he'd watched her unwind that length of snowy linen. She'd offered him her graceful woman's neck, all vulnerable hollows and poignant shorn nape. She'd revealed herself to him in mute, eloquent prelude to the naked passion she'd shown later that afternoon.

Their last half hour together had been an astonishment; she must, he thought, have astonished herself as well. He thought of the princess in the fairy tale, the beauty trapped in hundred-year-long slumber. Cold ivory flesh turned warm and rosy, awakened by a kiss from the one man brave and steadfast enough to cut through the thorns and briars that kept her prisoner.

In his reimaginings of it these past weeks, he'd indulged himself in the fantasy that she'd been as protected, as hidden away, as the princess in the story. It was absurd, of course: no sheltered virgin would have been capable of the lascivious looks she'd directed at him, not to speak of those extravagant caresses. Still, he'd desperately wanted to believe that it had simply been her desire for him that had made her so passionate, so preternaturally knowing in the ways of the body. Of course, now that he'd learned the truth from Lady Kate, he wasn't really surprised by it. After all, she was too beautiful not to have been married before.

David hadn't known Lord Claringworth personally—certainly the man hadn't spoken very often in parliamentary debate. His voting record, as far as David could recall it, was spotty but ultimately fiercely Tory. But that wasn't something to hold against him; every gentleman had the right to an opinion, after all.

He called to mind his only clear memory of Phoebe's husband: tall and fine-boned, a handsome, laughing presence apologetically waving an expensively gloved hand to his friends when he'd arrived too late for some vote or other. He'd made David feel stodgy, older than his years. David felt a sad twinge of jealousy: Claringworth's young wife must have adored him. How tragic to be widowed as she'd been. And, dear God, to lose a child as well. His heart flooded with sympathy for her, followed by a determination to make it all right in every way he could.

Certainly to give her other children.

Phoebe, countess of Linseley
. He'd fall asleep tonight with its sound in his ears and its taste on his lips. And with his desire warming his loins and spurring him onward to success.

For if his plans went as they should—if he were as good and faithful, as clever and patient, as the princes who scaled fairy tale towers—David was sure that he'd earn his reward. The immensity of the undertaking, the richness of the outcome, made him dizzy; he staggered a bit in the yellow fog.
Hold on
, he counseled himself.
There's work to be done. There are challenges to meet, monsters and demons to vanquish before you can call her your own
.

But maybe he'd be lucky. Maybe the monster would be Smythe-Cochrane, who'd be coming to dinner tomorrow. He balled up his fists, hoping for a quick fight, a decisive victory. Unlikely, though. He was quite sure that the moment of truth would occur after Twelfth Night, at his meeting with Grashaw.

He stood still for a moment, steadying himself before he continued his swift, firm steps. His desire for her would sustain him in his battles. He'd bear it, draw nourishment from it. Having her in his bed would be a lifelong adventure—far more wondrous than the memory of one afternoon, richer and more multifaceted than any passing fantasy he could summon up. She would reveal herself to him in the fullness of time; she would open herself (but here he shuddered, almost losing control despite his best intentions) more and more deeply, as their love grew and their destinies intertwined. A lifetime of discovery awaited them. Life would unwind as inevitably and sinuously as her neck cloth, one long busy day, one gorgeous languorous night, at a time.

Well done
, he congratulated himself (for he hadn't lost control after all).
Patience
, he repeated.
For now, I must content myself with the promise of spending every night with my arm around her waist, her head resting beside mine on the pillow
.

Patience
! The word seemed to hiss accusingly in Phoebe's ears as she hugged her heavy woolen cloak about her and marched furiously toward Brunswick Square.

It was all very well for Kate to counsel patience, she told herself. But had Kate had to be patient this evening? No, she had merely to look up and there had been the admiral, paying her all the attention a woman might wish.

Phoebe could see quite well how unfair she was being. After all, Kate had waited many lonely years for this evening and Phoebe was happy that it had unfolded so beautifully for her. As happy, at any rate, as a woman might be who has not been able to share a glance—or a dance or even a touch of the hand!—with the only man in the world who mattered to her.

She stamped her feet against the cold. It had been foolish not to come by carriage, but the plan had been for Marston to leave the ball early for a night of gambling, gossip, and carousing with his friends. The plan had
not
been for Marston to stumble around that benighted pleasure dome while Kate and the Admiral made eyes at each other for what had seemed like bloody hours.

And the plan had
certainly
not been to haunt the crowd like a pathetic mooncalf, helplessly coveting Lord Linseley's forbidden attentions and hating every woman—even silly Lady Jersey!—with whom he danced.

She could still see his hands, gently leading a lady to the dance floor or exerting deft pressure at the small of her back. He had only danced a few times, but she felt as though he'd paid court to every simpering female in the room. Every one but herself, of course.

I shall wait patiently
, Kate had said.
As must you
.

Oh indeed
. Phoebe's eyes flashed in Marston's immobile face.

Women always waited, she thought angrily: they waited to be asked to dance, they waited to be asked to marry; they waited stupidly and passively at home while men went out and
did
things.

Most
women waited, that was.

"But damn me if
I
will."

The half-frozen beggar standing with his hand outstretched blinked with surprise as the fancy young gentleman hurled this sudden, perhaps drunken, imprecation into the darkness.

Phoebe blinked back at him as she dug into her pocket for a coin. Two coins. The beggar hurried off to buy a bed—and a bottle—to warm himself through the remainder of the night. Despite her anger, Phoebe discovered that she was grinning. Mr. Simms was right; she did need to be more careful of her language.

And as for the sentiment she'd expressed so precipitously: crudely phrased as it was, Phoebe found herself in total accord with its substance. She wouldn't—she
couldn't
—wait passively for the earl of Linseley to rescue her from her mysterious adversary. Three years as Marston had accustomed her to doing things for herself. Three years of educating herself about her own tastes and passionate desires had made her aggressive—a taker of pleasure rather than its humble recipient.

But what to do?

For she had to admit that Lord Linseley's plan was a sound one. The only trouble with it was that contained had no role for her. She should have demanded one, she thought, rather than demanding that "highly improper kiss."

Her lips curved. No, she should have demanded both the kiss
and an
active role in the plan.

Her eyes softened at the memory of those last moments with him. For she'd risen to his challenge—to kiss him as she was capable of kissing him. ("As I imagine you're capable," he'd said; she hoped that she'd far surpassed his imaginings.)

She'd been cool, unhurried at first. She'd explored his mouth with her tongue, nibbled gently at his lips with her teeth. She'd gone as slowly possible, tasting and sampling (oh Lord he'd tasted good—sweet as toffee, heady as tobacco, dark as earth), allowing her lust to coil within her like the muscles of a tiger before it strikes. Finally, when she could bear it no longer, she'd clasped him to herself with all her strength, breathing him in as a drowning person might inhale a deep, delicious, life-giving draft of air. She'd thrust her hands beneath his coat, tracing the lines of his powerful back and shoulders, nearly rending the linen that separated his skin from hers.

How selfish, how brazen she'd been. And he'd been man enough to delight in it. His belly had rippled with subtle inner laughter; she'd felt it against her own as he leaned into her embrace, his hands cradling her buttocks through her closely-fitting trousers.

What, she wondered, would have happened if he hadn't pushed her away from him a few delirious moments later? No wonder she'd been able to slap him so convincingly, to storm about the room shouting curses and overturning furniture. She'd been enraged when the kiss had ended, furious to find her arms bereft of him. The embrace should have continued, it should have built and crested, rising to its natural, beautiful conclusion, ebbing toward perfect satisfaction.

Of course he'd been right to put a stop to it. There had been no possibility of going any further that afternoon. But she'd been imagining it ever since. She could see it before her in the livid gaslight as though David were with her right now in her bedchamber. (She'd never called him "David" before, but daring to do so seemed in keeping with her defiant mood tonight.)

His eyes would be bright with concentration, his face intent upon the business at hand. His expression would be serious, his smile only revealing itself at the crinkled corners of those bright eyes. Smoothly, deliberately, he'd peel the trousers from her legs while she unwound his cravat and unbuttoned his shirt. She giggled, thinking of how quick, how impatient she'd be. With all her experience of men's garments, she'd have him naked in a trice. Or naked enough, anyway, to drag into bed on top of her.

Later, of course, there would be time for more leisurely, creative love play. She'd undress for him; she'd even be bold enough to demand that he undress for her, as once, a thousand years ago, she'd demanded of Billy.

Billy.

She stopped walking, the nasty chill night air entirely forgotten.

Billy was her answer—her solution to the problem of how she might participate in the plan to find and unmask her adversaries. How she might put an end to this unbearable separation and bring David back into her arms as quickly as possible.

Odd that she hadn't considered this possibility before. Or perhaps not so odd. For it wasn't easy for Phoebe to organize her thoughts about these matters. At bottom, though, she knew without quite understanding it that she kept her thoughts about Billy locked up in a separate compartment from her feelings for Lord Linseley.

But that was silly, she told herself now. There was no call to be so excessively fastidious about these things. She hadn't made love to Billy since Lord Linseley had entered her life. She couldn't have done so even if she'd wanted to; her body wouldn't have allowed it. And surely
that
was the important thing: that she'd followed her body's honest dictates. She wanted no one but David and would do nothing to sully that desire.