“My lord,” she said carefully, glancing over his dark eyes and drawn-down eyebrows, the hard glint and obstinate jaw. “You don’t understand. Anna Listerton, Charles’s sister, is a widow. She has nothing, no means to live apart from what Charles allows her. And the dowager baroness truly is sickly. The poor thing is barely able to stand the sunlight on her face! To be ejected from her home—” Words failed Phaedra. Simplicity was best, she thought. “It would kill her, without exaggeration.”
“My dear,” Hardcastle said, his eyes kinder. “Please, don’t distress yourself over this.” He took up her hands and caressed them, rubbing his thumbs over them.
Phaedra watched him, gratitude in her heart. She sagged against his knees, relieved. Thank a benevolent Lord for causing Hardcastle to pause in his way—even if he had to suffer, it would be worth it in the end for all concerned—and for showing her the way to him. He would let Charles Fossey free from his debt. He would say that of course, he never would cast a widow—two widows—out into the cruel world.
“My dear,” he said gently, squeezing her hands and raising one to his lips. “It is none of your concern, so please, do not distress yourself. Charles Fossey should have thought of that before he wagered his estate. I am heartily sorry for the widowed Mrs. Listerton and the dowager baroness, but they are not my concern. I made a wager in good faith, and the very fabric of our great nation would crumble around us if wagers were not seen as a sacred trust. What of honor? What of honesty? I cannot and will not let that young whelp cheat me, for he would be cheating himself and every other gentleman by reneging on his debt. No, Charles Fossey must pay up, and the moment I am able, I will be on Pegasus and on my way to Thwicke House to demand my rightful debt.”
Chapter Twelve
“Is there anything you want before I retire, my lord?”
Hardcastle lay on the narrow bed and brooded. Phaedra’s demeanor toward him had frozen into abhorrence since the new information that he was set on beggaring her neighbor and friend. And yet that was not true! He was not set on beggaring them, just on claiming what was rightfully his. He was doing nothing wrong, and he wouldn’t let a little snippet of a country parson’s daughter make him feel otherwise.
“Come here, Phaedra,” he said. The room was dark, and she glowed like a phantom in her virginal white night rail. She moved toward him, her candle held in front of her so he could not quite see her face. She put it on the table and looked down at him. “Yes, my lord?”
Damn and blast! Against all of his intentions, against every instinct, he heard his voice, harsh in the quiet room, grind out, “I wish to claim my wager from you.”
“Yes, you always do claim your wager, don’t you? No matter what.” Her voice was thick with unshed tears.
“I do,” he said, quelling a sensation akin to pain. “I claim what is mine, by rights. And you owe me one kiss. I demand it now.”
She sat stiffly on the side of the bed, and he thought miserably that this would be the death of any hope of enticing her into his bed. She would never put herself in any position of vulnerability again, for she would be cautious next time. And this kiss would be a cold, hard little peck on the cheek, no doubt.
But not if he could help it.
He sat up on the bed, thankful that now his limbs were beginning to respond to his will. She closed her eyes as he took her slim shoulders in his hands and pulled her toward him. He studied her face up close in the candlelight for a moment, memorizing the soft slopes and downy texture, the pale pink blush that sat like two circlets of felt on her cheekbones. Then he claimed her lips and was entranced at the soft, moist dewiness against his mouth. Hungrily he suckled the soft flesh of her lip, feeling a mad desire to nip at her like a hungry wolf nips at a tender lamb. His body throbbed to life, a heavy, hot pulse in his nether regions urging him to lay her down and pin her to the bed and kiss her until she admitted what was between them, admitted that she was hungry for his love, as he was for hers.
He released her lips so he could ask her to stay, the madness in his soul making him forget everything but his need for her.
“Is the wager satisfied, my lord?” Her voice was cool and calm in the dimness.
Damnation. “It is,” he said, his voice hoarse. She was untouched. How demeaning to find that the kiss that had so moved him had left her cold. He released her shoulders with an effort.
“Then I have maintained my honor, is that right, my lord?” Her voice trembled on the edge of tears.
His heart thudded. “Phaedra,” he said gently. “My dear, did I—did I hurt you in any way, or was I too rough?”
“Not on me,” she said. She would not meet his eyes. “How could you be so hard, so cruel to poor Anna and Lady Fossey and Charles? What have they ever done to hurt you?” She caught back a sob.
Tears. By God there were tears in her voice. Hardcastle swallowed. She had begun to like him, he thought, had warmed toward him and was vulnerable to him, and now that was in danger of being forfeit because of that damned wager. “They have done nothing to hurt me, my dear.” He reached out for her hand, but she pulled it away from him. “Phaedra, I’m not doing this to punish them.” He tried to ignore the soft, still voice in his soul that reminded him that punishment had been very much on his mind where Charles Fossey was concerned. “But I cannot and will not let that young man renege on his wager. There would be no honor left in this world if we did not enforce our bargains. Surely you see that?”
“Honor? You would force an older lady and a widow into the poorhouse, and yet you speak of honor?”
Hardcastle pushed himself up against his pillows. “Act me no Cheltenham tragedies, if you please. You know damned well they will not go to the poorhouse. There will be some relative willing to take them in for the dignity of the family name, and the young man may have to work for his living. It’ll do him good. He may be more cautious next time he challenges a man to a card game.”
“How hard you are.”
“I’ve learned to be hard. Do you not think that young Baron Fossey should have thought of his dependent family before he wagered all for my stables? I would have paid him that moment if he had won, and he would have expected it! He would have had the deed and the keys before the sun came up the next morning. Do you think he would have told me to keep my stables? Why should I not expect the same compliance from him? Should he not have thought of the possibility of losing before he bet with me?”
“Yes,” Phaedra said, her voice as soft as the dusky darkness of the room.
Taken aback, Hardcastle said, “What?”
“Yes, he should have thought of the consequences before he wagered with you. But he’s young; now he will have learned his lesson. And you have the opportunity to do something truly noble. You have the chance to give him and his family a second chance.” She clasped her small hands together in an expression of supplication and leaned toward him so that he could feel the warmth of her, could smell her intoxicating scent. “Oh, please, my lord, be noble. Be good. Be the man that I believe you to be.”
Her words and tone were bewitching. How grateful would she be if he did as she asked? Grateful enough that all of her resolve would melt and she would come into his arms? Be the man that I believe you to be. Oh, to hear her whisper her thank-yous in his ear as they made love. But then his heart hardened against her entreaties. She didn’t know what she asked. He was once young, too, and if he had learned anything from his father, it was that there was no second chance. Life was hard. The sooner Charles Fossey learned that, the better for him.
“It’s not noble to just let someone free from a wager they made in good faith. What is the point in wagering if one does not pay up an honest loss? Did you refuse to honor your wager? No. You kissed me just now, though I’m sure you didn’t want to.”
She gave a little gasp, but then shook her head. “Surely common compassion—”
“Why do you think I have any compassion at all?” he said hoarsely, driven to bald honesty by the bewit
ching force of her tear-filled eyes and trembling voice. If he was not blunt and forceful this moment he would promise her anything, only to regret it in the daylight hours. “Even if I was weak enough to think of letting that young man off the hook, I wouldn’t, not for him. He reneged. He’s a cheat, and there is nothing more filthy in this world than a cheat. A cheat tears at the very fabric of our society. How many things and people and principles depend on all of us keeping our word? I have an estate, and the people I employ depend upon me keeping my word that I will pay them what I say I will. I do not gamble more than I can afford to lose. I always keep my word. No, my dear, I am sorry, but honor must be satisfied.”
Phaedra stood. “Very well.” There were no tears in her voice now, only fury. “I hope you will be happy with your honor, knowing that you have cost decent folk any hope of comfort or independence with your talk of honor.” With that she whirled and left the room.
Long into the dark night Hardcastle tussled with the dilemma. He could afford to let the young man go. Phaedra would be grateful; he would be a hero to her. He might even win in his effort to seduce her. He recoiled from that thought. If he won her, he wanted it to be because she wanted him, not out of some mistaken gratitude or misunderstanding of who he was. No woman had ever succumbed to him out of gratitude.
No, he couldn’t do it. Fossey had lost and then had reneged; unthinkable and unforgivable. The sooner Hardcastle regained his strength and went after the young man, the better. And he had best do it before he weakened in the face of Phaedra’s soft entreaties. As he drifted off to sleep he remembered her submission, the way she offered herself to him, paying her debt in full when she could have only given him a peck on the cheek. The memory flooded his body with heat and desire. Wouldn’t his friends laugh to see Hardhearted Hardcastle in thrall to a country vicar’s daughter? Perhaps not, though. More likely, given this particular vicar’s daughter’s soft curves and winsome expression, they would all be entering the competition to seduce her and make her their mistress.
He turned over and stared through the dimness at the ceiling. Was that all he was doing? Was she the ultimate challenge, a virtuous maiden to be led down a dark trail of seduction and lust until she betrayed her moral upbringing? He shifted uncomfortably onto his side and pummeled his pillow. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself crossly. He was not going to set her up as some Haymarket doxy. He just wanted her to offer him her lovely body. He wanted to sample her charms, to make love to her in a mutual giving and taking of pleasure. She was very much a woman, he thought, remembering how perfectly she fit into his arms, and the sensation of small, perfectly shaped breasts brushing against his chest—
Augh! He turned over onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. If he entertained any more thoughts like that he would toss and turn all night. Willing his body to behave in a more appropriate fashion, Hardcastle finally won sleep in a close battle with a clutch-fisted Morpheus.
• • •
But Phaedra did not sleep. Tossing and turning, giving poor Sally a restless night at the same time, she finally got up before daybreak and made the dough for bread, punching it down with angry vigor, shaping it into loaves and setting it aside to let it proof for later. She stood in the door and drank a glass of buttermilk while she watched the morning sun rise over the horizon. She was gazing off to the east. In that direction was Baron Fossey’s estate, and poor Anna Listerton. What was she going to do? The new knowledge that the whole family was about to lose its home left her distraught and overwhelmed.
And how could she justify, in the light of her new knowledge, that she still felt a tenderness and desire for Lord Hardcastle that was completely out of keeping with the coldness of his own heart?
He had thought she acquiesced to the kiss the night before because of the wager, and that had been how she rationalized it to herself. But she was ever honest, and she knew that what she wanted from him had nothing to do with their wager. She wanted him in the way a woman wanted a man. Perhaps she was innocent in the ways of the flesh, but she was a country woman. Male and female mating habits were no mystery. And one could not listen to the women of the village without learning that human male and female habits were not so very different, except that occasionally, if one was very lucky, one received love, God’s gift to humanity.
No, her response to him had nothing to do with paying off a debt, and everything to do with the mesmerizing force of his black eyes, and the thrilling feel of his arms around her, caressing her. She had entered the kiss eagerly, and had had to will her voice into a cool, collected calmness after, when she asked him if she had satisfied her wager. With the touch of his lips and his arms he had changed her from a rational woman into a trembling, quivering girl experiencing desire for the first time and helpless in the face of it. It had been all she could do to gaze at him icily when she wanted to throw herself back into his arms and kiss him again. But that was over. He was a cold, cold man, and she had no desire to lose herself in the black pit of his soul. That way lay madness. She pushed away from the door frame and set about her morning tasks with a saddened heart.
• • •
“Well, me lord, seems to me that you’ve got something—or should I say someone—on yer mind,” Mrs. Lovett said, lifting the covers and peering under them. She snickered and winked.
“I can take care of my own personal needs now, Mrs. Lovett,” Hardcastle said, snatching the covers away from her. She had come upon him unexpectedly, awakening him from a tender dream of Phaedra, a dream of sweet surrender, soft skin, murmured words of love.
“I’ll bet you just can, me lord,” the woman said with a salacious grin. “But if I can help you in any way . . .” She let the words trail off, leaving it to the imagination what kind of help she meant.
“I shall be all right, Mrs. Lovett. Is Miss Gillian about?”
“Aye, she is. She and her da are at morning prayers in the library.”
“Morning pra—oh, yes. Tell me, Mrs. Lovett, why has Miss Gillian never married?”
The woman paused in the act of emptying his chamber pot into the slops basin and frowned. “I’ve always wondered that meself. Don’t think she’s ever been asked. Mayhap it’s just that there’s no one suitable in these parts. There’s been those who have fallen for her—there is not a soul in Ainstoun who has an unkind word to say about Miss Gillian, and she’s a pretty gel, no mistake about that—but not a one would have dared court her.”
“Why? She’s not—she doesn’t seem cold-natured to me.” Hardcastle grimaced at the depths to which he had plunged, interrogating the serving staff to learn more about Phaedra. How he would have derided such actions a mere week before!
Mr. Lovett did not seem to find it strange though. She rinsed the chamber pot and tucked it away, then sat down on the end of the bed. “No, she’s not cold, just—ah, what’s the word I’m lookin’ for? She knows how to keep the fellas from makin’ a cake of themselves before they even start.”
“She is aloof?”
The woman looked doubtful. “Mayhap that be the word. If you say so, me lord. Not much material in the way of beaux around these parts for a young lady like Miss Gillian.”
“Mrs. Lovett, are you done here?” Phaedra came in at that moment, carrying a pile of clothing in her hands.
“Just now,” Mrs. Lovett said, jumping up from her relaxed seat on the end of the bed.
“Good.” Phaedra turned toward Hardcastle but did not meet his eyes. “I have mended and laundered your clothing, my lord. And the Simondsons have sent over the bag they found with Pegasus. It was somewhat mangled—they think the horse spent some time in the woods—but there is still your own nightshirt and a few other things that I will launder, as they seem a bit the worse for wear. After your venture yesterday, I thought you might like to go outside today, into the garden. It promises to be the warmest day we have had yet.”
“I would like that immensely,” he replied. Her voice, her presence was enough to send his mind tu
mbling back to his dream, and further, to their kiss the night before.
“We do not have a jacket that will fit you, though; those dreadful robbers took yours and there was not another one in your bag—” She bit her lip and glanced up. “But I think it will be warm enough that you will not need one, and if you do not mind going without—”
“I don’t need a jacket, Phaedra. And thank you for mending and laundering my clothing.” He held her gaze with his own, trying to express without words how sorry he was that they had quarreled. He was rewarded by a thawing of her blue eyes and a softening of her expression.
“It is nothing, really. I was glad to do it.”
There was silence for a moment. Hardcastle could not tear his gaze from her and she seemed uncertain, almost. Mrs. Lovett cleared her throat. “Yes, well, if yer well enough to dress yerself, me lord, then we may as well leave you to it.” She took the stack of clothes from Phaedra and dumped them on the bed. “But if you need my help to get into yer breeches, you just give a holler,” she added, winking.
“I don’t think I will need any help,” Hardcastle said dryly, noting Phaedra’s quick turn away and the mantling of pink on her cheeks. Maybe there was still hope. That one long look between them had shown him she was still susceptible to him, so perhaps there was still a chance for them.
• • •
Phaedra knelt by the edge of her herb garden and pulled out a couple of vigorous weeds that had taken root just within days, it seemed. She had been spending far too much time alone with Lord Hardcastle and not nearly enough time tending her duties, and her garden was becoming neglected. She dusted off her hands and sat back on her heels, surveying her work with satisfaction. It was only May, but already the borage cutting she had planted the previous summer was showing encouraging signs of growth and the savory and thyme were well on their way. Bay and oregano, mint and sage, all were doing well thanks to her careful preparation of the soil and Bessy’s invaluable contribution.
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