‘But the point of this exercise isn’t only to allow you to see what our competition may be.’
Phoebe pushed her plate of untouched cheese and half-finished apple aside. ‘We’ll be giving them exactly what they want, you mean—playing up to what they expect of us—a scandalous couple, daring to thumb our noses at society’s conventions.’
His eyes gleamed. His smile was mischievous and quite irresistible. ‘I have to admit, it’s an enticing idea,’ Phoebe said. ‘Monsieur Ude will know from the recent revelations in the press that I am contemplating setting up in competition.’
‘That will only serve to put him even more on his mettle. How dare an English person presume that they can cook as well as a Frenchman,’ Owen said in a preposterous accent, ‘It is an outrage. That a woman think such a thing is a sacrilege. It is unnatural.’
Phoebe collapsed in a fit of giggles. ‘You are mocking one of my heroes.’
‘He certainly has an inflated opinion of himself. I’ve heard that if his diners fail to be appreciative enough, he emerges from the kitchens to chastise them.’
Just as Pascal had, Phoebe thought. Though he would never admit it, Pascal had revered Monsieur Ude and been extremely envious of his success, but she’d had no idea he took his admiration to the point of emulation. It made Pascal seem rather pathetic, but she decided not to mention the fact. She did not want him, even as a subject of derision, to pollute the conversation. ‘When will we go?’
‘You think it’s a good idea then?’
‘I think it’s outrageous. Will it work, do you think?’
‘At the very least, you’ll get to eat dinner prepared by your food hero.’
‘A dinner made by my food hero, eaten with my husband hero. I hope I won’t be too nervous to enjoy it.’
‘In all seriousness, Phoebe, if it’s too much...’
‘Don’t forget that this will be a big step for you too, Owen.’
‘I’ll have you by my side to prop me up.’
‘And I’ll have you, to prop me up.’
‘It will probably take a week, perhaps ten days to make the necessary arrangements with Crockford and Wellington. You’ll need to order a new gown. Expensive. Chic. Something that treads the line between à la mode and oh, là-là. You know the kind of thing.’
‘I don’t. Pray tell me.’
‘For a start, nothing pale. It should be bright, vibrant, emerald or sapphire or ruby, the colour of a jewel, drawing attention to the jewel wearing it.’
‘Mama always said that redheads should never wear red,’ Phoebe said, entranced by this new, charming, flirtatious version of Owen. ‘That’s why it is Eloise’s favourite colour. A scarlet woman. Why not give them exactly what they expect?’
‘Tempting, but a bit too obvious, don’t you think?’
‘Which is why I’ve not to dress demurely in white, yes?’
‘And why you should make the most of your quite delightful figure, but by hints and allusions rather than brazen display.’
‘Can a dress hint and allude? How do you know such things—no, don’t answer that I don’t want to know. I know there have been other woman. I didn’t mean I wanted to pretend there haven’t been, I meant that I really don’t want to know. Or to think about—any more than I wish to think about my own past, to be perfectly frank.’
‘Do you wish it undone?’
‘No, but I’m not that Phoebe any more.’
‘I like the new Phoebe.’
‘Do you? There’s certainly more of me! I’ve been eating too much.’
‘No. When you left Paris, you’d been eating too little.’
‘Mama always said that Estelle and I would run to fat.’
Owen rolled his eyes. ‘You once told me that your mother was the kind of person who drew every eye in the room when she walked into it. That’s what you do. It’s not just the way you look—you are undoubtedly a very beautiful woman—it’s something in you. You are captivating. I suspect that your mother recognised that and I’m sorry to say that a woman as vain as she was, would not have wanted her daughters to outshine her.’
‘Oh, we didn’t.’
‘Perhaps not then, you were too young. But if she could see you now—’ He broke off, shaking his head. ‘She’s not here to defend herself, and she’s your mother. It’s not for me to tarnish your memories of her.’
‘I’m beginning to think that my memories of her were—oh, never mind. We were talking about my gown for Crockford’s.’
‘You could walk in wearing a flour sack tied around the waist and every man in the room would still know the moment they clapped eyes on you why I married you. I’ve embarrassed you,’ he added, seeing her blush. ‘I’m sorry. I enjoy your company, I just sometimes forget that I shouldn’t be enjoying it quite so much.’
‘Don’t be sorry. I feel exactly the same.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I don’t know. Would it be so wrong for us to enjoy each other’s company a little bit more?’
Owen set down his wine glass. ‘Not if you don’t think it’s wrong. And not if you’re absolutely sure. I don’t expect...’
‘That’s why I’m sure,’ Phoebe said. ‘Because you don’t expect. That’s why I’m sure.’
He laughed, pushed back his chair and pulled her into his arms. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you.’
‘That’s the other reason.’ She smiled shyly up at him. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you either.’
Owen fluttered his fingers over the nape of her neck. ‘You’ve no idea how good it feels, just to touch your skin. Lovely Phoebe.’ He dipped his head to kiss the hollow of her collar bone. ‘Delightful Phoebe.’ He trailed kisses up the column of her neck. ‘Delicious Phoebe.’
Their lips met. Heart thudding, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the sweet, drugging pleasure of their kisses, twining her arms around his neck, opening her mouth to him, melting, slowly melting. They kissed, and kissed, and kissed some more, breaking off to breathe, to stare wide-eyed with wonder, and then falling back into each other’s arms to kiss and kiss and kiss again. They kissed as if they had only just discovered kissing, finding new ways for their mouths to taste and to tease, small fluttering kisses and long, deep kisses. He ran his fingers through her hair, smoothed his hands over the exposed skin at the back of her evening gown, and all the time they kissed. She felt as if she could float away on a cloud of delight, as if she would melt, as if she had turned into something molten and hot and sweet.
And then there came a point when their kisses could have changed. When they hovered on the brink of delight and desire. And they stopped of one accord, silently agreeing that it was enough. For now it was more than enough. And that’s when Phoebe knew she’d been right to trust him. That he really was different.
‘Goodnight,’ Owen said, kissing her gently one more time.
‘Goodnight,’ Phoebe said, pulling his face down for one last kiss. ‘Sleep well, husband of mine.’
* * *
For Mr and Mrs Harrington’s somewhat unconventional London debut, Phoebe wore an evening gown of bronze silk with a black-net overdress, and a black-velvet bodice edged with bronze-satin ribbon. The sleeves were full but not so full as to require the newly fashionable plumpers, and the décolleté was low enough to accentuate the curve of her bosom but not nearly low enough to show off her cleavage. The hem of the overdress was edged with black-satin leaves embroidered with bugle beads to weight it down, the skirts were full, tightly pleated, and swished alluringly when she walked. It was not a dress Phoebe would ever have chosen for herself, but it was, she thought, exactly what Owen had requested, treading the line between à la mode and oh, là-là. Talking of which! She unfurled the fan of black ostrich feathers and after peeping over the top of it coquettishly at her reflection, burst into a fit of giggles.
‘I think this might be a step too far,’ she muttered to herself.
‘Oh, no, madam, it works beautifully with the gown.’
She still wasn’t used to having a maid, and often dispensed with Jennifer’s services altogether, but the undergarments that had been delivered with this gown were impossible to deal with single-handed. ‘If you’re sure,’ Phoebe said, a little dubiously.
‘Let me fasten your gloves.’
They were long, white, very tight and brand new, Phoebe was already worried about spilling her dinner on them. Owen had insisted that she didn’t ask the price of anything when shopping, but she could guess, and the number made her eyes water. A velvet stole completed the outfit. She gave herself a little curtsy in the mirror and made her way down the stairs, her heart fluttering with anticipation.
Owen was waiting for her in parlour, dressed in black evening clothes with an embroidered silver waistcoat. His hair had been cut short, and looked fairer against the high black collar of his coat. He had filled out in the two months of their marriage, and no longer looked gaunt, but it was the way he held himself that had changed the most. He was confident, comfortable in himself, and though he still walked with a slight limp, which was more pronounced when he was tired, there was an agility in his movement and a supple strength that could only be attributed to his gymnastics. Beneath the stylish evening clothes, his body was hard-packed muscle.
‘You look absolutely divine,’ Owen said, breaking into Phoebe’s reverie to kiss her softly. ‘I’m glad you decided not to be a scarlet woman. This suits you perfectly—you are a bronzed goddess.’
She giggled, opening out her fan and fluttering her eyelashes. ‘A scandalous, bronzed goddess.’
‘A seductive one. I beg you not to look at me like that in Crockford’s or we’ll cause an even bigger scandal than the one we’ve already planned, because I won’t be able to resist kissing you in public.’
Phoebe waved her fan slowly in front of her face. ‘We’re not at Crockford’s yet.’
Owen pulled her into his arms and the fan fell to the floor as he kissed her swiftly. ‘If we don’t leave now, we’ll miss dinner. It is served strictly from half past four until six, and it’s already after four.’ He picked up the fan and handed it to her. ‘Ready?’
She was immediately serious. ‘As ready as I’ll ever be. What about you, Owen—this is a very big step for you?’ She scanned his face. ‘Are you sure you’ll be able to cope?’
He visibly braced himself. ‘I’m about to find out.’
* * *
It was already dark when the town coach deposited them outside Crockford’s. The impressive red-sandstone building with its portico frontage dubbed Fishmonger’s Hall by those whose fortune was insufficient to gain them entrance, was opposite White’s Club and right in the heart of St James’s. Phoebe was creating a scandal by her simple presence in this male enclave, though Owen refrained from reminding her. In the carriage, she had been unusually silent, but her hand had trembled in his.
Two months ago, even a few weeks ago, he’d have considered this an ordeal—or more likely he wouldn’t have contemplated being here at all! Would it trigger one of his episodes? Was he asking too much of himself? Though he’d been out of the house regularly of late, traipsing around London’s markets, exploring commercial properties or taking Phoebe on sightseeing drives was very different from mingling with society. He was about to walk into the lion’s den now. If something went wrong, then the gossip in tomorrow’s rags would be very different from what Phoebe and he had planned.
He had a moment’s panic, but taking several covert, deep breaths, he reminded himself of how well he’d been over the last few weeks, without a single nightmare for more than two. Thanks to the woman sitting beside him, who was depending on him now, to support her through this ordeal.
‘Remember,’ she said, as the coachman let down the steps, ‘I’ll be right by your side.’
He preceded her out of the carriage and helped her down. ‘And I’ll be right by yours,’ Owen said. ‘Every small step of the way.’
A blaze of light emanated from the beacons in the club’s entranceway. Crockford’s thugs stood aside to allow them to pass into the massive entrance hall which was randomly peppered, it seemed to Owen, with Doric and Ionic columns. It was quiet at this time of day, the real business of the club would not get underway until much later, but beneath the smell of burning oil from the huge chandeliers Crockford was so proud of, the lingering smell of sweat, stale perfume and defeat could be detected. ‘Crockford has spared no expense on his decor,’ he said to Phoebe, who was gazing up at the domed ceiling.
‘It is like a palace,’ she whispered, ‘though a rather tawdry one. Versailles on a budget.’
Owen bit back a laugh as a servant approached them, informing him that they were expected. Which explained the deserted entrance hall, he thought. Everyone else was already seated and awaiting their arrival. He took Phoebe’s arm as they ascended the stairs to the dining room, smiling down at her in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. The steps were shallow and wide, an easy climb, but none the less one he’d have struggled with a few short weeks ago.
‘Brace yourself for a baptism of fire,’ he said, keeping a firm hold of her arm as the double doors were thrown open and Phoebe obediently took a deep breath.
The dining room was long and rather narrow, with the look of a ballroom. The ornately corniced ceiling was painted in muted tones, as were the walls, which were panelled well above head height, then decorated with rows of yet more interspersed Doric and Ionic columns rising to meet the ceiling. There were no windows but the room was very brightly lit, with a central chandelier and any number of sconces burning, making it stiflingly hot. Tables were set in three regimented rows, far too close together. There was only one free, in the very centre of the room.
Phoebe’s fingers were digging into his arm. The eyes of every single person in the room was upon them. What on earth had he done! But it was too late to back out now, and Phoebe, bold Phoebe, was rising to the occasion, her head held high, a faint smile curving her lips which only he could tell was rigidly held in place.
‘This way, Mr Harrington,’ the major-domo said, leading them needlessly to the table. The silence was dagger-sharp. He could hear the rustle of Phoebe’s dress as she sat down, but when his own chair was pulled out, Owen stood his ground, taking his time to survey the other diners. He recognised many but none were among his friends, most from an older generation—presumably Wellington’s cronies. Some looked away from his gaze, some met it. A very few nodded. Owen made a flourishing bow, then took his seat.
‘That’s the worst part over,’ he said softly to Phoebe, ‘forget the audience, and let’s see what Monsieur Ude has to offer us.’
‘Every one is watching.’
‘That was rather the point, but it won’t last. If they don’t turn their attention to their food, Monsieur Ude will have something to say. Try to forget they are here. I’ll order the wine, you concentrate on memorising the menu. Order whatever takes your fancy and as many dishes as you want to sample.’
‘It is eye-wateringly expensive, even compared to La Taverne.’
‘As is the wine,’ Owen said, scanning the huge leather-bound tome he had been handed. ‘“Our cellars boast more than three hundred thousand bottles of the best that France has to offer,”’ he read. ‘Presumably so that Crockford’s diners are well lubricated before they try their luck at the tables later. We should start with champagne, I feel our audience expects it of us.’
A bottle appeared with impressive speed, with two glasses. As soon as they were poured, Owen raised his glass, first to the room, and then, theatrically, to his wife. ‘Well done,’ he said as she copied him. ‘Now, why don’t you try really hard to forget our audience, and try to make the most of this unique, never-to-be-repeated experience.’
* * *
/> ‘We did it!’ Phoebe danced into the parlour, casting off her wrap. ‘We braved the lion’s den and lived to tell the tale. Owen, you were magnificent.’
He laughed, following in her wake and closing the door. ‘Thank you, though I’m not sure what I did to merit such fulsome praise.’
‘You mean aside from gaining us unprecedented access to London’s most exclusive restaurant.’
‘Yes, apart from that,’ he said, pulling off his gloves and pulling her into his arms.
‘I know that can’t have been easy for you,’ Phoebe said, ‘though no one would have guessed since you looked so perfectly at home, as if you had never been away. And the way you raised your glass to everyone at the start of the meal with such—such panache! While I took one look into that dining room and would happily have turned tail.’
‘You carried it off every bit as well as I did.’
‘I didn’t want to let you down.’
‘More importantly, you didn’t let yourself down. Was it worth it?’
‘Yes. It was invaluable. Though it’s not an experience I’d ever want to repeat.’
‘The main thing is we’ve achieved what we set out to do. You have run the rule over the competition and we have given the ton something new to tittle-tattle about other than your Parisian past. And here we are, unscathed.’
‘Are you? Really?’
‘I am. You gave me a reason to get better, Phoebe. Tonight—I really think that tonight was proof that I can.’
‘Owen! I can’t believe it.’ With a muffled cry, she threw her arms around his neck, covering his face with kisses.
Laughing, he pulled her tighter, and their lips met. And then they kissed, as they had kissed every night since the night they had planned this Crockford’s coup, slow kisses, deepening until they were verging on the frantic, before they forced themselves to stop. This was where Owen would say goodnight. This was the point where they always stopped, because if they didn’t it would change everything.
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