A Wife Worth Investing In

by Marguerite Kaye

  * * *

  Phoebe’s meagre wardrobe did not run to evening gowns. She’d had no time in Paris for shopping and scant opportunity to dress up. The dress she wore tonight dated from her one and only visit to Eloise and Alexander in London in the first year of their marriage. Eloise had designed it, and Madame LeClerc, the famous modiste had made it up. Copper-coloured organza silk was embellished with full sleeves of chiffon, puffed at the shoulders, tied tight with satin ribbons at the wrists. The décolleté was plunging, and Phoebe’s curves were generous, but Madame LeClerc had cleverly satisfied both current fashion and modesty by using chiffon to create the illusion of a high neckline. A wide sash drew attention to Phoebe’s waist, and a broad-hemmed border of ruched ribbon that reminded Phoebe of waves, weighted the gown, giving it a satisfying swish when she walked.

  She sat down at her dressing table to tackle her coiffure. The prevailing fashion for regimented ringlets suited neither her hair nor her temperament. She gathered her rebellious tangle of curls into a loose knot, fixing it in place with a satin ribbon and allowing a few stray curls to soften the effect, knowing that many more would follow soon enough.

  She had been married—she checked her watch—for the grand total of four hours, and resident in this town house for just over five. It had taken less than half an hour for the simple ceremony to transform her life. Not that she felt transformed, precisely. She felt, frankly, terrified. She had the means to achieve her dream now, but precisely how she was to set about achieving it, she had absolutely no idea. She hoped that Owen would know where to start, though how a man who didn’t leave the house could help, she was at a loss to understand.

  Jasper assumed that marriage would change Owen. Phoebe sincerely hoped so too though not in the manner Jasper suggested. She wished for Owen’s sake that he hadn’t become such a recluse, but she was grateful for her own sake that he was, since the idea of playing any sort of role as a London society hostess was anathema to her. As to what London society would make of such a hostess, if they discovered how she had lived in Paris—Phoebe shuddered at the very thought.

  She studied the plain band of gold that Owen had placed on her finger. She was no longer Phoebe Brannagh, she was Mrs Owen Harrington and her husband was a virtual stranger whom she had met a total of four times before today. Once in Paris. Twice a week ago, when her arrival at his door prompted his proposal. And then yesterday, briefly, to agree the final arrangements.

  The drawing room where the ceremony had taken place, thanks to the special licence Owen had obtained, had been cold, and though it was perfectly clean, it smelled musty, with the slightly forlorn air of a room only just brought out of hibernation. Now his town house was her home. His servants were hers to command. Tonight, she would sleep in this bedchamber, which had clearly not been in use for just as long as the drawing room. But before that, she was about to have dinner with her husband.

  Gloves! She rummaged in her trunk, which she had not had time to unpack yet. The household appeared to be bereft of female staff, she had discovered with surprise when Bremner, clearly embarrassed, had arrived in response to her ringing her bedchamber bell. Did one wear gloves to dine at home? Owen certainly would be wearing gloves. He had even kept them on when signing their marriage certificate. Did he wear them when he was alone? When he slept?

  What would their life together be like? She had absolutely no idea, and that, Phoebe realised, was actually a very liberating thought. Owen had no expectations of her as a wife, but he believed wholeheartedly in her as a chef, even though he had never tasted her food.

  Her new husband’s confidence in her was a huge antidote to the damage Pascal had inflicted. Though it made her toes curl in her evening slippers to think of him, she forced herself to do so, just to test how well the scars had healed. On reflection, her falling in love with the man was inevitable. He had from the moment she stepped into his kitchen been the very centre of her world, a bright, blinding sun for her to worship, whose attention she craved, whose admiration she would do almost anything to win. She had handed him her heart on a plate. And it had been a dish, she thought whimsically, that Pascal had found distinctly unpalatable, though he’d put up a good show of pretending otherwise! She had been from the first his most fervent admirer. One word of praise from him would keep her going for hours, days on end. One word of censure would set her back for much longer. When he paid no heed to her at all it was, quite literally, as if the sun had departed from her world, and she never doubted that it had been her own fault for failing to hold his attention.

  Was it her fault? Was she simply not very interesting? Phoebe gave herself a shake. This morbid musing was serving no purpose. Pascal was in the past. Owen was her future, and her future started today. A future happily, as far as she was concerned, free of the messy complications of love and passion which, albeit for very different reasons, both she and her husband had forsworn. She twisted the wedding ring around on her finger. She wouldn’t let him down, she vowed to herself. She would be a brilliant success, and all of London would vie for a table at her restaurant. Then finally Estelle would be forced to eat her words.

  The thought of her twin brought a familiar pain to her heart, but tomorrow, Phoebe reminded herself, she would be able to share her news with both her sisters and with Aunt Kate too. They’d be shocked, but she hoped they’d be pleased for her too. She would tell them—what? The truth would bring at least one of them hotfoot to London, sure that she’d leapt out of the frying pan—ha, how apt!—and into the fire. No, she couldn’t tell them the truth—but a version of it, such as the one Owen had evidently told Jasper? Smiling, Phoebe recalled the story that Eloise and Alexander had concocted to explain their marriage to the world. Why shouldn’t she take a leaf out of her sister’s very successful book and spare herself and Owen too, from her family’s overly protective enquiries? She resolved to discuss it with him over dinner.

  Talking of which, she was in danger of being late. With a sigh of relief she finally found a pair of long evening gloves and quickly pulled them on before giving her hair a final check. Heart thudding, she blew out the candles and headed down the stairs in search of her husband.

  * * *

  The dining room was far too grand for two people, Owen thought as he opened the double doors to inspect the room, but it was too late to change the arrangements now, and Bremner, unable to disguise his delight at having a mistress to breathe new life into the household, had gone to great efforts to make it welcoming. The leaves of the table had been removed to make it smaller, the curtains drawn against the dank October day, and the places set nearest the fire, though it was still screened. The crystal glasses gleamed, the wine Owen had carefully selected was decanted, and there were flowers on the table.

  He made his way through to the morning room, which he’d decided to use for aperitifs instead of the vast acreage of the drawing room. It had been a mistake to have their ceremony there, for the room had a sad air of neglect, its cavernous nature emphasising the paltriness of their wedding party. Poor Phoebe, without either of her sisters or even her aunt by her side, had looked quite overwhelmed, though the decision not to have them there had been her own. He hoped fervently that she wasn’t crying her eyes out in her bedchamber, already regretting her decision. While he was still slightly stunned by the speed at which his circumstances had changed, his overwhelming emotion was one of relief. And gratitude. Something else he’d not expressed nearly enough.

  He would try to make amends tonight. He would wine her and dine her. He would do what he could to put her at ease, to make her forget that she was in a strange house married to a virtual stranger. Tonight he would forget the man he had become, the self-pitying hermit, and try to remember the man he had once been, the man she had met in Paris, charming and excellent company. Surely he could manage that, for a few hours? He certainly owed it to his new wife to try his damnedest.

  He really was married! The proof
was currently upstairs and about to join him for dinner, putting an end to his not-so-splendid isolation. This house was no longer a male bastion, but the implications of that hadn’t even occurred to him until this moment. There wasn’t a single female servant, so that would have to change. He’d assumed that life would go on as it had for the last two years, his world bounded by his own suite of rooms, while Phoebe did—what? He had no idea. He knew next to nothing about her. And vice versa. Yet here they were, starting out as a married couple and—and he had no idea what that meant.

  Whatever happened, it meant change, and any alteration to the stifled, oppressive life he’d been living could only be a good thing. He’d been thinking of himself as the catalyst for Phoebe’s success, but could his wife be the unwitting catalyst for changes in him? He wouldn’t be able to hide away in his rooms any more. He wouldn’t be able to take to his bed for no other reason than that he couldn’t bear to get up. He would have to put on more of a show. They’d work together on the plans for the restaurant. They’d eat together—dinner at the very least. He’d not be spending his entire day in a chair or at his desk any more. He’d have to find a way to manage his pain. Return to those wretched exercises? The very idea made him want to scream with boredom, but when he pictured himself limping about the house in Phoebe’s wake—damned if he would! So a return to the exercise regime it must be, he resolved, starting tomorrow morning.

  He had the oddest feeling. Thinking at first it was hunger pangs, for he’d eaten next to nothing all day, as Bremner arrived, hovering in the doorway with a tray, Owen realised it was nervous anticipation.

  ‘The champagne you ordered, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. If you will set the tray down there. No need to open it, I will do that, but please put a few more bottles on ice for the staff,’ Owen said, smiling.

  His butler blinked, returning the smile with a watery one of his own. ‘Thank you, Mr Harrington, that is most kind of you. We will be pleased to toast this most auspicious day.’ Bremner permitted himself a wider smile. ‘We were hoping—that is I expect there will be changes in the household, now that the house has a mistress.’

  ‘I expect there will be,’ Owen said. ‘In fact I’m sure of it.’

  * * *

  Owen had dressed up for dinner, in a fashionable black tailcoat with a broad shawl collar and deep cuffs, and fitted grey trousers. His waistcoat was double-breasted, dark grey silk with silver buttons, his neckcloth white, his only adornment a plain gold fob watch. His coat was not quite so tight-fitting as fashion decreed, but it was clearly new, presumably made by his tailor to previous measurements. Though her heart was now and for ever well and truly her own, her passion reserved for cooking, Phoebe was not blind. Whatever Owen thought of himself, however he might have changed since she had first encountered him, at an elemental level he was still a dangerously attractive man.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘did I keep you waiting?’

  ‘You did not, but even if you had, the wait would have been worth it. You look ravishing.’

  She blushed at the unexpected compliment. ‘Eloise designed this gown. She has an excellent eye. I’ve only worn it a couple of times. I wasn’t sure whether it was too much for tonight, but I am glad I put it on now, for you are all dressed up—I mean, you also look very well.’

  ‘Like you, I don’t have much call for evening dress these days. Will you take another glass of champagne?’

  ‘Yes, please. I was too nervous to enjoy the one I had earlier.’

  She watched Owen from under her lashes as he set about expertly opening the bottle, turning the cork carefully so that it came off with a quiet hiss and not a showy pop that spoilt the bubbles.

  ‘To new beginnings,’ he said, handing her a frothing glass.

  ‘New beginnings.’ She clinked her glass to his and took a sip.

  ‘I was very remiss earlier,’ Owen said, indicating that she take a seat on the sofa by the fire, easing himself into a chair opposite. ‘I didn’t tell you how very grateful I am.’

  ‘That implies that I am doing you a favour. I thought we had agreed that our marriage benefitted both of us. Don’t be grateful, be—I don’t know, relieved?’

  ‘I am very relieved. Jasper has offered to hand-deliver my letters to Olivia and her parents.’

  ‘Is he acquainted with Miss Braidwood?’

  ‘His sister was at school with her, but if you’re worried that Jasper thinks that I’ve done Olivia anything other than an enormously good turn, you’re quite wrong. He knows better than anyone other than Olivia herself, how miserable I’d make her. He took to you, I could tell.’

  ‘He doesn’t know me, Owen. What he’ll think of me when he finds out about our plans...’

  Owen gave a bark of laughter. ‘I’ll make sure to have a large brandy on hand when I tell him. For all he likes to kick over the traces, Jasper’s a bit of a traditionalist.’

  Phoebe’s eyes widened. ‘His approval of me is going to be very short-lived.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll come round. All you have to do is offer him a table at the opening night. Jasper likes to be at the forefront of fashion. You don’t regret what we’ve done, do you, Phoebe?’

  ‘Already! Hardly. I’ve no real idea what it entails—I mean aside from the restaurant—but I’m excited by the uncertainty, if that makes any sense? I don’t suppose it does.’

  ‘You can’t imagine what the future holds, but anything is possible?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’ She beamed. ‘By marrying you, I’ve wiped the slate clean. Now I can start again. And no doubt make a whole lot of brand new mistakes,’ she added, wincing. ‘But I will have you to advise me on the financial and business aspects, to ensure that I don’t make a disaster of the whole enterprise, won’t I? There is little point in a restaurant that serves lovely food but doesn’t make a profit. I’m a chef, I know nothing of commerce. I think—I hope our skills will complement one another. But let’s not talk business tonight.’

  ‘Very well. Tell me instead, if your room is comfortable?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Owen raised his brows. ‘You’re not a very good liar.’

  ‘It is rather cold from being unused, that is all.’

  ‘You are free to make whatever changes you see fit to the house, provided you leave my rooms as they are—I have my own suite on the ground floor. Bremner will be delighted to help, I am sure.’

  Owen finished his champagne and made to rise, but Phoebe pre-empted him, jumping to her feet and topping up both glasses. ‘Force of habit,’ she said apologetically. ‘I like to feed and water people. I don’t just mean professionally, I mean it’s what I’ve done all my life—but you don’t want to hear about that.’

  ‘But I do. We’re married, and I know almost nothing about you.’

  ‘Nor I you. It’s very strange, isn’t it?’

  ‘Then in the interests of becoming better acquainted, tell me where your passion for cooking stems from.’

  ‘Necessity, in the first instance. I cooked for my sisters—but you know, I don’t really want to look back on those days, Owen. My parents had what you might call a tempestuous relationship, which meant we didn’t see much of them. Eloise said that Mama was a social butterfly, trailing my father in her wake. I don’t agree, I don’t think she understood Mama, but I can see why she thought it and even I would admit that we were—oh, it doesn’t matter. Today is about the future, not the past.’

  ‘You’re quite right. We have just toasted new beginnings. Let us live up to that and consign the past to ancient history, where it belongs. I am more than happy to look forward, but I think we should do so over dinner. Shall we?’

  * * *

  Phoebe preceded Owen, intuiting that he preferred his impaired gait to go unobserved, along the hall to the double doors where the eponymous Mr Bremner stood waiting for them. She took he
r seat at the table as her husband made his way into the room. Like the drawing room it was cold, but it was also very beautiful in precisely the kind of understated way she preferred, with pale green walls and white cornicing unadorned by gilt or gold leaf. The table had a highly polished walnut veneer, a matching sideboard where their dinner was set out on heated trays, and long curtains of dark green velvet drawn against the winter evening. Bremner poured the wine and served the soup, before retiring.

  ‘Chestnut soup,’ Phoebe said, savouring the delicious smell, then taking a spoonful. ‘It is quite delicious. In Paris, they set up braziers on all the street corners and roast the chestnuts. I love the taste of them, piping hot and fresh out of their shells.’

  ‘They have such vendors in London too. I take it that you are not well acquainted with the capital?’

  ‘I have spent very little time here. I shall have to buy a guide book to help me find my way around.’

  ‘Are you keen to see the sights?’

  Phoebe chuckled. ‘Not the kind which most people come to London to see. I want to explore the markets, to see the range and quality of fresh produce available. In Paris, we were very spoiled.’

  ‘London has Smithfield for meat, Billingsgate for fish and Covent Garden for fruit and vegetables, so I don’t think you’ll lack for ingredients.’

  ‘Good, then I can start to think about compiling my menus. Though before that I’ll need to decide what kind of food our restaurant is going to serve. And after that—or perhaps at the same time—I’ll need to think about who I’m going to serve it to. And where. That is one of my biggest worries, because I don’t know London, and I don’t even know who I’ll be competing with—if anyone at all. You can probably understand now, why I would never in a thousand years have found anyone to invest in me. You are probably already thinking you have thrown your money away.’