The Dangers Of Deceiving A Viscount (30 page)

Phoebe instinctively, impulsively pressed her fingers to his lips to keep him from saying more.

But Will pulled them away and drew her to him, as if he’d done it one hundred times before. “Had I understood, Phoebe, I would have loved you carefully,” he whispered, and kissed her temple. “Like this,” he said, and moved to kiss her other temple. “And this,” he murmured as he kissed the bridge of her nose. “And this…” He pressed his lips to hers, kissing her tenderly as his hand slipped to her breast, and he quietly pushed her back, into her bed.

He made love to her with great deliberation this time, taking the time to touch every part of her with his hands and mouth, his manner as gentle as a summer rain. Where he stroked her, her skin tingled. Where he tasted her flesh, she felt heat rising up and pushing through her skin. And when he moved between her legs, stroking and tasting there, too, she felt herself being lifted to another plane, floating away from earth, unbound from all her chains.

His tongue and lips were everywhere, on her body, even inside her. A white-hot heat began to build in her belly as he laved her, pulsing toward a violent finish as his tongue flicked in and out of her before taking the most sensitive part of her in his mouth. He buried his face in the valley, drawing from her the intense pressure reverberating in her body. When she thought she could not bear it another moment, he rose up and carefully entered her, moving tenderly inside her as he kissed her. Smoothly, gently, he provoked her with his rhythm, pausing when she was on the brink of losing herself, then starting the whole, extraordinary experience again, all the while touching her in the most intimate way imaginable.

When she finally whimpered for mercy, he took her to the pinnacle of fulfillment, whispering her name again and again as the pressure flowed out of her, groaning low when he found his own release.

Phoebe didn’t remember when she drifted off to sleep, but when she awoke the next morning, he was gone, and Frieda was bustling about in the workroom.

For a moment she thought she had dreamt it. But the indentation of his head in the second pillow of her bed told her she hadn’t dreamt it at all.

Yes, she thought as she rose and felt the soreness between her legs. Yes, this was love.

The following day flew—the entire house was in a frenzy as everyone worked on final preparations in advance of the houseguests. Rooms needed to be aired and dusted, linens ironed and laid out, floors swept and carpets cleaned.

There was a final fitting for the ball gowns, too, as well as a fitting for the morning gowns.

Phoebe realized, as she measured the arms of Jane’s morning gown once more and Jane’s complaints were drowned out by Phoebe’s own private thoughts, that when she finished the morning gowns, her work here would be done.

She couldn’t think of it. She wouldn’t think of it.

Phoebe kept working, drawing from a surprisingly deep well of determination not to think. In those moments when she wasn’t sewing, she was reviewing the performance of a proper curtsy with Alice and Jane, reminding them of the proper etiquette for tea, and in those moments she could, she stole away with Will.

They met in the gazebo after luncheon. Will brought her a bouquet of flowers taken from the gardens on his way through, and whispered a few words of esteem before continuing on to the stables and his horse so that he might attend a meeting in the village with his father’s secretary. Phoebe saw him again before supper, when she contrived to go out for a bit of air, knowing full well he’d be wheeling his father out onto the lawn.

She saw him again after supper, when he assembled the entire staff and family to review the plans for the fortnight. Phoebe stood in the back, in the shadows, aware that her expression might reveal her true feelings for Lord Summerfield. But Will caught her eye and smiled in her direction on more than one occasion.

And that night, Will came to her again, slipping into her bed after the clock chimed two, and lifting her to sensual heights she had never imagined possible.

Yet the next morning, she awoke alone.

By the time Frieda appeared for work, Phoebe was dressed and standing at the open window, hoping for a glimpse of him. With an ebullient smile, she turned toward the door at the sound of Frieda entering—but her smile quickly faded when she saw that Frieda was crying.

“Frieda!” Phoebe exclaimed, hurrying through the debris in the room to Frieda’s side. “What on earth has you so wrought?”

“It’s been almost a week,” Frieda said tearfully. “I can no longer deny what must be true—I am with child.”

“Oh no,” Phoebe whispered, and embraced her friend. She was at a loss as to what to say or do other than to hold Frieda while she cried and blathered about how she’d be dismissed and tossed out into the world with no one to turn to.

“I can’t even turn to me own mother,” she sobbed, pausing occasionally to blow her nose. “She’ll not have me, not with my younger sisters still in the house. I’ve got no place to go.”

“Summerfield won’t toss you out,” Phoebe said adamantly. “I don’t believe it for a moment. He is a good man.”

“Aye, but he will! He told us all when we was brought on that he’d not tolerate any tomfoolery or indecency under his roof.”

“But what of Charles? Surely he will be held to the same standard. Surely he will do the right thing by you, Frieda.”

“Aye, he should, shouldn’t he? But he accused me of trickery and claims I could be carrying the babe of any number of men,” she added solemnly as she wiped her eyes with the hem of her work apron. “He will not lose his position or risk a brat clinging to his boots. But I cannot hide, can I?” She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, and her bottom lip began to tremble. “No one will give me work with a belly the size of a melon and no husband to support it!”

“You mustn’t think that way—”

“You don’t understand at all!” Frieda snapped, and pushed away from Phoebe. “And why should you, really? You’re as fair as any I’ve ever seen. Were it you Charles had put his seed into, he would have offered for you then and there.”

Phoebe shuddered and refused to think of her own situation.

“Not me,” Frieda continued. “I’m a doxy, a mere portal for his putrid flesh.”

“Frieda!” Phoebe exclaimed. She tried very hard to think of an argument, but nothing came to mind. Frieda was right. Poor girls who became servants and had nothing to recommend them—not even good looks—had a much harder life than most.

For the first time since she’d begun this charade, Phoebe prayed her brothers-in-law would be successful in enacting reforms for women in Parliament.

Ashamed that she could think of nothing that would soothe Frieda, Phoebe asked timidly, “What do you intend to do?”

With a shrug and a rough wipe of her nose, Frieda said morosely, “Can’t rightly say.” And that was the last she would say. She took her seat at the table and said little else for the remainder of the day, her thoughts obviously in faraway places, her dark head bent over her work, her jaw tightly clenched.

They both worked through the afternoon, until they were startled by Jane and Alice’s abrupt and loud arrival into the workroom, clad in day gowns Phoebe had made, their faces uncharacteristically bright with big smiles.

“They’ve come!” Jane exclaimed excitedly as she sailed to the open window and leaned out.

“Who has come?” Phoebe asked.

“The first guests to arrive—Lord and Lady Fremont and their sons,” Alice said breathlessly as she joined Jane at the window. Both of them leaned forward so far that Phoebe could see the hems of their chemises. Alice turned around to Phoebe and gestured impatiently for her to join them. “Come, come!”

Phoebe smiled at their exuberance, remembering a time when she would have been just as excited by the prospect of houseguests, and joined them at the window.

She squeezed in beside Alice and Jane and leaned forward to look out. Below them, a sleek black traveling chaise pulled by four grays had arrived, boasting fluted gold finials at each corner and an embossed crest on the lacquered door of the coach. Three Summerfield footmen, dressed in formal livery, were helping a woman from the interior. Just behind the footmen, Will was flanked by Farley and another footman.

As Alice and Jane giggled about one of the Fremonts, Phoebe looked at Will. His darkly golden hair was combed and trimmed, his collar flawless and his neckcloth perfectly knotted and matching his brown and gold striped waistcoat. He greeted the woman warmly, bending low over her hand, graciously helping her up from her curtsy, and smiling so beautifully that Phoebe could feel her insides fluttering.

“Oh—there he is!” Jane whispered frantically, nudging Alice so hard that she bumped into Phoebe.

“Is that him?” Alice asked, frowning. “I thought he’d be…bigger somehow.”

“Who is he?” Phoebe asked, looking at a young, spindly man who had come out after the woman. His coat dwarfed him, and his collar made his neck look even thinner than it was.

“Lord Canham,” Jane said with a sigh of longing. “I grant you, he is young yet—but he will one day be the Earl of Fremont and inhabit a fabulously large estate and have fifty thousand a year.”

“Aha,” Phoebe said. “I see his attraction quite plainly now.”

That elicited giggles from both of the young women.

Will bowed to the young Lord Canham, who returned it with an awkward bob of his head. But then Lord Canham happened to look up. The three women gasped at once and surged backward, out of sight.

“Good Lord, did he see us?” Jane asked frantically.

“Look, Phoebe,” Alice hissed, pushing her forward.

Phoebe carefully leaned forward. Another young man—a boy, really—had come out of the coach, and they were all engaged in conversation. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I am certain they did not see us.”

That prompted Alice and Jane to surge forward again.

“That’s his younger brother, Master Paul,” Jane said. “Pity that he’s not a bit older, Alice—perhaps he might offer for you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Alice said. But she was smiling.

The three of them watched until the full party—including Lord Fremont, the last to step out of the coach—had entered the house, then turned as one away from the window.

“I can scarcely wait to be properly introduced,” Jane said gleefully, and stepped away from the window before sinking into a very deep and proper curtsy.

“Very good!” Phoebe praised her. “And when shall you be introduced?”

“Not until supper is announced,” Alice said. “We’re to remain quite out of sight until then like poor relations.”

“I cannot bear such a long wait,” Jane complained.

“You may not be able to bear it today, but come the end of a fortnight, you will be very glad to see them all gone, I assure you,” Alice said with a snort as she picked up a reticule Phoebe had made. “May I have it?” she asked Phoebe.

“I will not!” Jane vowed as Phoebe nodded at Alice. Jane danced her way to the door. “I adore house parties, and particularly those that end in grand balls, and I will not be the least bit glad to see them gone.”

“You will!” Alice argued as she followed Jane out, the reticule in her hand. “Mark me, you will!”

It wasn’t until they’d quit the room that Phoebe realized Frieda was gone.

A fortnight of guests, of hunting and games and dining and dancing until the early hours of the morning, had seemed like a grand idea weeks ago. Now the idea seemed unbearable to Will.

His idea to see his siblings properly introduced into society and to acquaint himself with all the eligible young misses in Bedfordshire could not possibly have come at a worse time. Will’s mind was filled with Phoebe. He could think of scarcely anything else but seeing her again, but unfortunately, Lords Fremont and Daughtry and their respective broods had arrived, and he was now fully immersed in his role as host.

Not to mention that Lord Daughtry’s daughter, Lady Candace, was quite keen to engage him in conversation.

They dined as three families that first night. But the night was hot, and the formal dining room was stifling. He suggested they take their evening entertainment on the terrace, a suggestion that seemed to come as a relief to almost all of them.

On the terrace, Will was pleased to see that Alice and Jane were behaving perfectly, and even Roger and Joshua—engaged in a game of billiards just inside from the terrace—had managed to pass the evening without causing offense to anyone.

He was perfectly content to admire his siblings for once, but Lord Daughtry suggested Will show his daughter the parterres for which Wentworth Hall was renowned. The shrubbery was whimsical, cut and pruned in figure eights, curlicues, and various animal shapes.

But as Will led Lady Candace through the parterres in that time where day meets night and the day’s last rosy gasp of light was cast across the earth, he saw Phoebe walking at the far end of the gardens. Her shawl had slipped from her shoulders and was draped loosely over her forearms. Her hair, a ghostly white in the waning light, was gathered carelessly and held in place with one long pin. Wisps of long curls had worked themselves free and fell down her back. She carried her sketchbook and moved purposefully forward.

As Lady Candace talked about her family’s trip from the village of Keysoe, Will watched Phoebe move deeper into the shadows. When Lady Candace mentioned the lack of rain the last weeks, a pair of footmen moved into the gardens and began to light the rush torches. Phoebe appeared in the midst of them, walking up from the end of the gardens, and paused to speak to both of them, her smile brilliant. He noticed the way both men looked at her, and felt his blood rush hot in his veins. Of course they would look at her as they did—she was a beautiful woman, and they were men. He had no right to feelings of jealousy.

“Have you been to London recently, my lord?” Lady Candace asked, forcing his attention away from Phoebe.

“No,” he said with a smile, and offered his arm, ready to deposit Lady Candace with her family. “Have you?”

“For the Season, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I should like to return for the Little Season. It will be upon us soon.”