A Wife Worth Investing In

by Marguerite Kaye

  ‘Your money, not mine. Stop thinking about how much you have to do, Phoebe, the prospect is bound to be overwhelming. It’s not one big leap you have to take, it’s a whole series of small steps.’

  ‘That is a much more sensible way to approach it.’

  ‘Although that’s easier said than done, when you are desperate to achieve your objective.’

  He was staring down at his almost untouched soup, a grim look on his face. Phoebe set her own spoon down, tentatively putting her hand over his. ‘But you’ve kept going,’ she said. ‘If I falter, then I’ll have you as an example to follow.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m a particularly good role model. I certainly haven’t been lately.’ Owen slipped his hand from under hers and picked up his wine glass, taking a large sip. ‘But that’s something else I plan to change. Is the wine to your liking?’

  ‘White burgundy,’ Phoebe said, taking a sip. ‘It is excellent.’

  ‘It is from the Chateau Montendre, the Duc de Montendre’s estate.’

  ‘You know the Duke?’

  ‘No, but my father did, back when he was plain Monsieur Bauduin, wine merchant. These days, he spends most of his time on his estates, where he produces his own vintages, but he continues to supply to a select few customers, including myself. I consume very little of it,’ Owen added with a wry smile. ‘I have a very full, and probably very valuable cellar as a result.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll appropriate it and populate the restaurant wine list with it,’ Phoebe teased.

  Bremner arrived to clear the plates, making no comment on his master’s lack of appetite, but granting her one of his grimacing smiles when she asked him to pass on her compliments to the chef.

  ‘Oysters grilled with parsley and shallots,’ she said appreciatively, picking up her fork for the next course, hoping to set an example with her own appetite. ‘I adore oysters.’

  Owen shuddered. ‘I’m afraid I don’t share your enthusiasm for them. I am ashamed to say that I once, for reasons I cannot now fathom, took part in an oyster-eating competition for a wager. It was more than ten years ago, but I haven’t been able to face one since.’

  ‘I assume you won?’

  ‘Of course, but it all but did for me!’

  ‘The ones you ate were most likely brined. These are very different. Won’t you try one? They really are quite delicious.’

  ‘I thank you, but no. Is there any food you don’t enjoy?’

  ‘I’m not particularly fond of turnip or parsnip. They are not even improved by being made into a cake.’

  ‘You are teasing me, surely. I may be a philistine when it comes to food but that sounds just plain wrong.’

  Phoebe giggled. ‘Oh, no, I’ve made cakes with almost every vegetable you can name. I even once made one with grass.’

  ‘Now I know you’re joking.’

  ‘I like to experiment with unusual flavours. I make excellent lavender biscuits—though Aunt Kate says they taste a little too much of furniture polish for her liking. And I’ve made ices flavoured with herbs—thyme, rosemary, camomile.’

  ‘And will your customers be able to taste any of these delights?’

  ‘Who knows? I do know these oysters are delightful. And the vol-au-vent look delicious. They are called bouchée à la reine in France. The filling in these is chicken and mushroom, though you can put anything you like in them.’

  ‘Including grass?’

  ‘Perhaps not quite anything. Would you like one?’

  ‘I’ll save myself for the main course. And while I remember, I’ll have a word with Bremner about hiring some female staff. I should have thought of it earlier.’

  ‘Thank you. What about our—our domestic arrangements, Owen? Shall we dine together? I would like to, but I don’t want to disrupt your—your routine.’

  He laughed shortly. ‘You will be a very welcome interruption. My routine has become quite tedious.’

  ‘When I was working gruelling shifts in the kitchens, I used to long for a few days of idleness, but these last few months, doing nothing—save for the fruitless task of trying to find new employment—has been chastening. And very lonely. To be perfectly honest, Pascal wasn’t exactly riveting company. He could be fascinating when he talked about cooking, but he wasn’t interested in much else, and he certainly wasn’t interested in me.’ Looking up, she smiled. ‘In fact, I have been quite starved of conversation since our Elmswood Coven broke up. Let that be a warning to you—you’ll be sick and tired of my endless chatter before the week is out.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Owen surprised her by touching her hand. ‘Perhaps it’s because you don’t know me and have no expectations of me, but I find I’m enjoying your company.’

  ‘Thank you. The feeling is mutual.’

  Bremner appeared once more, and Owen released her hand while the braised beef and spinach ragout was served. He took a small bite before setting his cutlery down. ‘You must speak to Murray, my—our cook about menus, he’ll be delighted to be consulted.’

  ‘Shall I be expected to—will there be callers, Owen? I don’t even know if our marriage will be formally announced.’

  ‘I’ll put a notice in the press, but I thought you’d want to inform your family first.’

  ‘I do. I was thinking though, I am not sure that I want to tell them the truth. Not yet.’

  ‘You think they’ll disapprove?’

  ‘I think they’ll worry, and I don’t want that.’

  ‘So what will you tell them?’

  ‘What did you tell Jasper? Not the truth, I don’t think. He was far too—enthusiastic,’ Phoebe said. ‘He seems to be under the impression that I will launch you back into society.’

  Owen laughed harshly. ‘Jasper thinks that a few nights on the town will cure me of my doldrums. Not that he put it quite like that.’

  ‘He obviously cares about you a great deal.’

  ‘I told him that we’d met in Paris, which is the truth. I implied that my accident had prevented me from wooing you, and you had come in search of me,’ Owen said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but he does care, and I am tired of disappointing him. He thought it very romantic.’

  ‘You mean he thinks that we are in love?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, but he leapt to that conclusion, obviously. I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you.’

  ‘You haven’t. In fact the same story might suffice for my sisters,’ Phoebe said. ‘If you don’t mind?’

  ‘Why should I? Do you think they’ll believe you?’

  ‘Owen, despite what you think, you are a very attractive man. And more importantly, you have faith in me, which I shall be sure to tell my sisters. I’ll reassure them that you are rich enough to invest in a dozen failed restaurants and not even notice the losses.’

  ‘I’m only investing in one, and what is more I know that it won’t fail.’ Owen picked up his glass of burgundy. ‘They will be toasting our future health and happiness below stairs as we speak. I’d like to propose a toast too. To Phoebe. For being brave enough to take me on, and for continuing to dream her dream. I thank you, and I wish you every success.’

  Touched, she had to swallow a lump in her throat. ‘I will need all your best wishes and more.’ She lifted her glass. ‘To Owen. For being brave enough to take me on, and for allowing me to dare to hope that I might one day realise my dream. Here’s to making a success of this—this convenient marriage of ours.’

  ‘Fortuitous,’ Owen said. ‘I prefer to think of it as fortuitous.’

  ‘Very well then, here is to our fortuitous marriage.’

  They touched glasses, their eyes meeting as they each took a sip, remaining locked as they set their glasses down. Owen took her hand in his. He lifted it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her gloved fingertips. Something crackled between them, an awareness of themselves as husband and wi
fe on their wedding night, and the ghost of themselves in Paris over two years ago, looking into each other’s eyes in just this way. Then like now, knowing that nothing could come of it. Experiencing again that brief moment of inexplicable, but unmistakable sense of longing. Owen’s fingers tightened on hers. And then he let her go.

  ‘I’m afraid I keep early hours these days,’ he said.

  ‘No, of course, I mean please don’t let me—I’m very tired, anyway.’

  Phoebe got to her feet at the same time as he did, and then they both stood, hesitating, as if unwilling to part after all. ‘Goodnight, Owen.’

  He reached out, as if he would touch her cheek, then dropped his hand. ‘Goodnight, Phoebe.’ He opened the door, and she brushed past him into the hallway, picking up her candle from the table and lighting it. She was aware of him watching her as she climbed the stairs, and it was only as she turned to climb the second flight that she heard the dining-room door close softly, and the slight dragging sound of her husband’s footstep as he made his way slowly to the opposite end of the house and his own bed.

  Chapter Five

  Owen jerked back into consciousness with a start, his sheets a tangled knot around his legs, his body clammy, a sheen of sweat making his nightshirt cling to him. The room was pitch black. The muscles in his shoulders and his arms ached, which meant he’d been having what he called his reaching dream. He had no memory of what it was he was reaching for, no idea how he came to be reaching for it in the first place, but he always woke at the same point, when it became hopelessly clear that he would not succeed, no matter how hard he strove, and the high-pitched wailing which accompanied his desperate attempts to stretch those vital inches further came to an abrupt halt.

  Hands shaking, heart pounding, Owen struggled to sit up, fighting the overwhelming sense of despair and terrible sorrow, the enormous weight of guilt at his failure, which made his chest heave as he suppressed a violent sob. Forcing himself to breathe deeply, he counted each breath in, held it, breathed out, several times before his hands had stopped trembling enough to light his candle and check the time on his watch. Three minutes past three. The night was only halfway through, but he couldn’t face yet another failed attempt at sleep, knowing from bitter experience that the nightmare was lurking like a lone wolf tracking its prey, waiting to claim him again.

  Shivering, he pulled on his dressing gown and headed for his workroom where, unlike the cold ashes in the grate of his bedroom, the fire would still be smouldering behind the screen, ready to be rekindled. He threw on a few coals before replacing the screen, settling himself in his chair with his leg on the footstool. His violent tossing and turning had caused him to wrench his damaged hip. The constant, grating ache which he sometimes thought was his shattered body’s way of punishing him for the trauma he had put it through, was now a sharp stabbing pain. In the past, he had turned to opium to help him endure such torrid nights. Only when he caught himself deliberately inducing oblivion to prevent such nights occurring, had he realised how reliant he had become on the drug. He couldn’t give in to that temptation even if he wanted to now, for he had had the presence of mind to ensure his resolve was not tested by the simple expedient of refusing to give it house room.

  Why had it happened on this night of all nights? His wedding night! The first night in a very long time when he was not burdened with thoughts of Olivia, when he had surely earned a peaceful night’s sleep. And yet here he was, shivering, aching, the hazy memory of his nightmare taunting him, the details as always just tantalisingly out of reach.

  Closing his eyes and resting his head against the chair-back, Owen sighed with frustration. He was heartily sick of himself, of the front he was forced to put on for the benefit of his staff and now his wife, of being inured to his injuries, of accepting that his recuperation had gone as far as it could go.

  He was far from content with his lot. Seeing his stern butler begin to thaw, basking in the warmth of Phoebe’s smile over the course of the day, made Owen realise, guiltily, how much his own mood had affected the household, how dour he had become. And in Jasper’s eyes there had been hope that perhaps Owen was finally on the road to recovery.

  Was there hope? Tonight, he had made conversation, he’d even laughed, over dinner with Phoebe. He had forgotten what it felt like to enjoy the simple pleasure of being in another person’s company. He had been reminded tonight, but the memory was bittersweet because although there had been moments that could be mistaken for spontaneity on his part, looking back over the evening, maintaining his side of the conversation had been an effort. He’d had to imagine how the old Owen would have responded, taking his previous self as his role model. He had pulled it off, by and large, although there had been a couple of occasions when Phoebe’s smile froze as she studied him carefully. They had passed, and she had probably put it down to the strangeness of the situation.

  But there had been a moment when he had stopped being self-conscious. Saying goodnight to his beautiful wife, taking her hand in his, he had fleetingly remembered what desire felt like. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to recapture that elusive moment, the simple pleasure of proximity, the sweet, dragging tug of attraction, the anticipation as their eyes met, and the possibility of a kiss hung between them. He ached with the bittersweet delight of it, yearned to experience it again, longed to be able to touch her, skin on skin, wanting that even more than the kiss they had not shared.

  Owen dropped his head into his hands. What was he doing, torturing himself like this, imagining what he knew to be simple fantasy? Just a few hours ago, he had toasted new beginnings. So why not turn his mind to actually thinking about a fresh start instead of looking over his shoulder regretfully at the past and what he had lost for ever. He could not be the man he had once been, but he could try to make the best of the one he was now.

  For a start, he could do a damned sight better than blithely wave Phoebe off to explore London’s fresh produce markets unaccompanied. London was not Paris. The areas around Smithfield and Billingsgate were not safe, especially in the early hours when market trading was at its peak. He wasn’t fit enough to wander around on foot with her, but he could get Jasper to purchase some fresh horses on his behalf since his stables had lain empty for years. He’d have his town coach or the barouche cleaned up, and he could give her the grand tour of London himself.

  The heavy, black cloud that permanently hung over him began to lift. Something like a flicker of excitement kindled in his belly. What’s more, if he did resume his exercises as he’d planned, he could conceivably escort her to one of those damned markets she was so keen on. It wasn’t as if he’d need to worry about meeting anyone he knew there. All he had to do was work on his strength and his stamina—and if he worked hard, he could be ready in as little as a few weeks.

  Almost immediately, his enthusiasm flagged. He had followed the prescribed exercise regime diligently for a while, but he’d reached the point where it made no difference, he reminded himself. His doctors, who already thought Owen had worked a small miracle by getting back on to his feet, told him to lower his expectations. But his doctors had only ever known him after his accident. Owen had been an athlete. The rush of pleasure came not from besting anyone, but from challenging himself to run faster and longer to push himself to new limits, the more taxing the better, because what was the point in achieving an easy victory! That was what he’d loved so much about gymnastics. He smiled, remembering the Russian acrobat who had sparked his interest telling him, in that condescending way of his, that it took dedication to master even the most basic of moves. He’d been right, it had taken months, but he’d been wrong in imagining that Owen would give up. He never had, managing to practice even when he was on his travels, rarely missing a day. Until that day.

  He missed it. He missed the complete control he’d had over his body. It was bloody hard work, but worth it, when he finally held a position, when his muscles, which had resiste
d and resisted a particular move, suddenly found the knack. God, he missed that. Once, and only once, a tentative enquiry of his doctors had produced astonished looks followed by vehement admonitions that he must never attempt anything so taxing. He must accept that there were some things he would never do again.

  But what if they were wrong? Instead of focusing on what he couldn’t do, why not try to explore what might be possible? Owen got to his feet, rolling back his shoulders. He could not control his sick mind, but he could try to reclaim his damaged body. It was an appealing idea. It would at least give him a purpose, and a goal. But he mustn’t look too far ahead, nor expect the impossible of himself. Small steps, as he’d said to Phoebe. Though not too small. He’d had his fill of the tedious exercises his physician had prescribed, he needed to do something he enjoyed. He couldn’t contemplate going back to the public gymnasium in his condition, but it might be possible to have a small gymnasium constructed here.

  To hell with the doctor’s regime, he was going to try his own. Casting off his dressing gown, he cleared a space in the middle of the floor and began the slow process of warming up his neglected muscles.

  * * *

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Phoebe asked.

  ‘We are going for a carriage ride, I’m not setting out to scale Ben Nevis,’ Owen retorted, making for the front door.

  ‘Oh, you’ve had the hood put up,’ she said, disappointed, thinking it would spoil the view, then realising almost immediately why. ‘Excellent idea,’ she amended.

  ‘It is, because I think it might rain at some point,’ Owen said testily, ‘not because I am not worried someone might recognise me. Now, shall we go?’

  ‘Please.’ She preceded him down the front steps into the dank October air. She had not been outside in the six days since they had been married, occupying herself with putting the few rooms in the town house which she wished to use to rights, and establishing herself with Mr Murray, the cook. Owen was carefully making his way down the steps, wearing a greatcoat, a hat and a look of grim determination. She eyed the waiting barouche, wondering how on earth he was going to get up the steep steps and into the carriage, sick with nerves lest he fall and deciding the best course of action would be to accept the coachman’s invitation to climb in first. But Owen, as she observed while pretending very hard not to, got in with surprising ease.