A Wife Worth Investing In

by Marguerite Kaye

  Their eyes met, and suddenly Phoebe couldn’t breathe. She wanted everything to change, and she could see in his eyes that Owen wanted it too. Though he would not ask. So she pulled his face back towards her and kissed him again, a long, languorous kiss whose meaning could not be mistaken.

  Owen was panting when this kiss finished, his eyes dark with desire. ‘Phoebe?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She didn’t hesitate. ‘I’m sure.’

  * * *

  The fire in Phoebe’s room was burning brightly. She hastily pulled the screen over it, confirming, as he had suspected, that she knew it was his orders which kept the other fires in the town house burning low, though she had never once commented on the fact. Owen pretended not to notice, locking the door, and as she turned back to face him, he forgot everything else.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he could feel her trembling. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind,’ he said.

  ‘I’m nervous. I don’t want to dis...’ She bit her lip. ‘I won’t say it.’

  Owen laughed softly. ‘If one of us should be worrying about disappointing the other, don’t you think it should be me?’

  ‘I didn’t think! Perhaps we shouldn’t...’

  ‘Phoebe, I’m teasing you.’ Though he wasn’t, not completely. He was nervous. He kissed her softly. ‘You are so lovely.’ He kissed her again. Kisses were definitely an excellent remedy for nerves. ‘I want you so much.’

  This kiss was deeper. Blood rushed back to his groin. He needed to be patient, there was no rush. He had waited more than two years for this, he could wait a few minutes longer. He dragged his mouth away from hers, scattering kisses down her neck, across the swell of her breasts. Turning her around he tugged at the laces of her gown, kissing the nape of her neck, her shoulders, the knot of her spine, as he eased the dress down her body and she shivered.

  The laces of her corsets were tightly tied, but his fingers were much more nimble these days, from practising—ironically—tying knots. Dropping the stays to the ground, he pulled her back against him, his erection pressed against the plump curve of her bottom, cupping her breasts. She moaned, a guttural sound that made him harder. Her nipples were erect. He circled them through her chemise, and she wriggled against him. This time it was he who moaned.

  As Phoebe twisted around in his arms, her mouth sought his, and he surrendered to the clamouring need to kiss her again, shrugging out of his coat. More kisses, while her hands tugged at the buttons of his waistcoat, and he pulled the pins from her hair, until it rippled down her back, over her shoulders in a glorious wave of burnished gold.

  He ran his hands down her back to cup her bottom, then back up again. Her hands were yanking his shirt free of his trousers, smoothing over his back, making his muscles clench, the sensations she was arousing in him making him shudder. His waistcoat fell to the floor. She pulled his shirt over his head, but when he would have kissed her again, she shook her head. A sensual smile curved her delicious mouth as she touched him, stroking his chest, his shoulders, back to his chest down to his belly, her eyes widening as his muscles flexed, her delight in his muscled body so patently obvious.

  ‘You are so lovely,’ she said, sounding awed, and his engorged shaft throbbed in response.

  Not yet, he cautioned himself, not yet. He kissed her again—he could kiss her for ever and never tire of her—and undid the ties of her petticoat, leaving her in her chemise, drawers and stockings, a sight that temporarily deprived him of the ability to breathe. The chemise went next. He lost long, delightful minutes kissing her breasts, taking her nipples into his mouth in turn, becoming ever more aroused by her response, the way she moaned, clutched at his shoulders, shuddered against him. His self-control was pushed to the limits.

  One more kiss, and Owen scooped her up, making her cry out in surprise, making for the bed, setting her down on it before he’d had time to consider whether or not he was even capable of such a feat. Tearing off the rest of his clothes, he lay beside her on the bed, pulling her tight against him, skin melded to skin. Their kisses were feverish now. He rolled between her legs and she arched under him. He eased himself into her. She was slick, hot, and dear God in heaven he was hard. He pushed higher, feeling her clench around him, and he thrust. Pain seared through his hip, drawing a hoarse cry from him.

  ‘Owen.’

  ‘Wait.’ He breathed deeply, shaking his head when she made to move, kissing her again, deeply, until it eased. ‘This way,’ he said, rolling on to his back, still inside her, the surprise on her face telling him that this was a novel experience for her.

  She moved, carefully, tentatively at first, but the way she clenched around him, the visible shivers that ran through her as he pushed higher, made her bolder. She needed no urging to go faster, to rock backwards and forward, crying out as she reached a juddering climax, sending him over the edge so quickly that he only just managed to free himself, before his own release ripped through him.

  * * *

  ‘Phoebe?’ Owen shuffled over in the bed, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her hair, heaving a deep sigh that was unmistakably satisfied ‘Oh, Phoebe.’

  She curled into him, pressing her cheek to his chest. ‘Oh, Owen.’

  She felt the rumble of his laughter, and thought that her cup might brim over with happiness. Everything about what had just happened felt so new and so perfect. The kissing. The delicious, delightful kissing that went on and on, as if they were starving and couldn’t get enough of each other. And the way Owen had looked at her, devouring her with his eyes, leaving her in no doubt about what he thought of her, how much he wanted her. And even right at the end, the way he had thought of her, of protecting her—when it was her responsibility to take care of such details. Or so Pascal said.

  No, she wouldn’t think of him. She had not once thought of him, she realised now with quiet satisfaction, pressing a kiss to Owen’s chest, breathing in the scent of him, clean sweat and soap. Nothing that Owen had done had reminded her. Nor anything she’d felt either. It wasn’t like the first time—now that was something she really didn’t want to think of—but it felt new. Delightfully new.

  Owen trailed his hand down her back, to rest on her bottom. She wriggled closer, resting her hand on his flank, encountered a hard ridge of scarring and his hand, which had been drawing little circles on her bottom, froze. ‘Is it painful?’

  ‘Not the scar.’

  Phoebe lifted her head. ‘May I look?’

  He shrugged, which was what he often did when he was embarrassed, and rolled on to his stomach. She sat up, pushing back the sheet he had pulled over them. The scar ran in a jagged line from halfway up his thigh, all the way up his flank to end at the top of his hip. ‘How did you get this?’

  ‘Not in the accident. It was afterwards. An operation to piece together the shattered bone.’

  ‘Dear heavens, Owen, that must have been an agony.’

  ‘I barely remember. I think they poured a bottle of cognac down my throat.’

  ‘Did it make it better or worse?’

  He laughed grimly. ‘The big question. I will never know.’

  Phoebe traced the line of the scar with her fingers. ‘Can you feel that?’

  ‘Not really.’

  She leaned over, pressing a line of little kisses along it. ‘Can you feel that?’

  ‘A little. Perhaps if you tried again.’

  She did, this time with more lingering kisses, using her tongue and her lips. Owen gave a muffled groan. ‘Did you feel that?’

  ‘I definitely felt that.’

  There was laughter in his voice. Something else that was entirely new. Phoebe kissed her way along his scar again, then carried on, kissing up his back, sliding down the bed to lie by his side again, pressing a last kiss to his ear. ‘Did you feel that?’ she whispered.r />
  He rolled over, wrapping his arms around her, his eyes alight with laughter and desire. ‘What do you think?’

  His erection was pressing into her stomach. Her breasts were pressed against his chest. Her body was already starting to clamour for more in a way that astonished her. Another novel development, she thought, answering him with a kiss.

  They made love for the second time that night, more slowly this time, savouring each other. Their kisses were languorous. Owen devoted long, exquisite minutes to her breasts, licking, kissing, sucking, so that she thought she might have fainted with the bliss of it. And he wanted her to touch him, to wrap her fingers around the thick, silky length of his erection, to stroke him, his pleasure at what she was doing written so clearly on his face that she gained confidence. And then he touched her too, slow strokes, without urgency, aiming not for completion but only to draw out the pleasure—dear heavens, such pleasure. And all the time, their eyes locked, between kisses, communicating silently.

  Their lips met again, and of one accord their kiss deepened, and with a speed that left her breathless, Phoebe went from floating on a cloud of delight to a swooping, shuddering climax, and Owen pushed inside her, hitching her leg over his, and his slow, deep thrusts stretched the pleasure out further, making her cry out with each one, clutching at him to pull him deeper inside her, murmuring his name over and over, until he pulled free with a hoarse cry.

  And afterwards, once more wrapped tightly together, her back to his chest, he nuzzled her ear. ‘I have never felt like this, Phoebe. Never.’

  * * *

  Owen left for his own room, leaving her alone in the dishevelled bed. She would have preferred him to stay with her, but had not said so. In this new world order, she had no idea what the rules were. Tonight had been perfect beyond her wildest dreams already, she didn’t want to spoil it. She wanted to wake in Owen’s arms, but he was accustomed to sleeping on his own, so she must not read anything into his leaving her. And besides, she told herself sternly, she had always preferred to have her bed to herself too. She liked to stretch out, didn’t she?

  She normally did, but not tonight. Instead, she curled up into the warm space that Owen had left, and nestled her cheek on the pillow where he had lain. She could not compare tonight with any other night, because there was simply no comparison. She hadn’t realised until tonight that Pascal was a selfish lover. She hadn’t known that making love was a conversation as well as an act. She certainly hadn’t known that desire could be rekindled so easily by shared laughter. She hadn’t had to think, when she was making love with Owen, about whether she was pleasing him, because she could see it writ large in his face, in his reactions.

  Had she been too bold? She had been so carried away, entranced by the effortlessness of it, and the depth of the pleasure, and the sheer delight of it, but what if Owen thought differently? What if he thought her confidence came from her experience? The idea was like a dousing of cold water. Ought she to have pretended ignorance? But tonight had shown her she was much more ignorant than she’d realised. And she was in danger of spoiling it, with her insecure doubts.

  So she would cast her doubts away, confine those to the past, and enjoy the present. Well, she might just think about the most recent past again, just until she fell asleep. ‘I have never felt like this, Phoebe. Never.’ Owen’s words. Phoebe could only echo them.

  Chapter Nine

  Phoebe gazed around the vast space that was earmarked for the main dining room of her new restaurant. The ceilings were picked out in white and gold to match the wall panelling. The windows were tall, French-style. The basement kitchen needed a lot of work, but it had running water and more importantly, the passageway to the dining room was wide and short. There were even a number of small rooms which could be converted for private dining. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said, ‘if I want to compete with Monsieur Ude. We could easily seat fifty people in here—double that if we put the tables closer together.’

  ‘I never did go to La Grande Taverne,’ Owen said, ‘but I’m assuming it looked something like this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He watched her, pacing out the floor, and when she departed to take another look at the basement space, Owen occupied himself with rereading the lease. There was a great deal of leeway, he reckoned, for renegotiating the terms, but the many clauses and sub-clauses failed to hold his attention. It was over a week since that night at Crockford’s changed everything for him. And, he hoped, for Phoebe too.

  It had borne fruit in a different way too. The Town Crier had stopped digging into Phoebe’s past and was now breathlessly speculating about the unconventional couple’s possible assault on London’s gourmands. All excellent advance publicity as far as Owen was concerned.

  They hadn’t discussed their feelings, but every time they made love, their bodies spoke for them. He had never felt like this before. It might be a cliché, to say that the two of them became one, but it was also true. He shook his head wryly. Who would have thought it!

  He was in love with Phoebe. Bloody hell! Owen stuffed the documents back into the leather portfolio, and headed for the window. The glass was icy on his forehead as he leaned against it. Outside, the leaden sky looked ominous, heralding a dusting of snow. Was he really in love? His foolish smile was answer enough, but he still couldn’t quite believe it. He wasn’t only in love, he was well. Love had cured him, Owen thought, mocking his own mawkishness, but once again, the cliché seemed to be true. He hadn’t lost a second to those peculiar lapses for some time. He was still haunted by the asylum nightmare, as he now referred to it in his head, but each time it occurred, the dream moved further on. He had now located the source of the high-pitched wailing, when he opened a door and found himself not in the usual empty room but some sort of crèche. Though as far as he knew, the asylum where he had first come to his senses after his accident had not been a lying-in hospital, his memory of those agonising days was hazy to say the least. He had decided that this nightmare was in fact based on some vague memory. Though he still couldn’t understand why he awoke feeling so racked with guilt and sorrow, he believed he was making progress and hoped that one day he’d have progressed far enough to be able to spend the night sleeping in Phoebe’s arms. Not yet, but soon. What mattered is that he wanted it, that it was an ambition he believed he could one day realise. His appetite for life had returned, thanks to her.

  And here she was, his lovely, funny, brave wife, with dust on her nose and a worried frown. Now was not the time for a declaration. She knew, she couldn’t doubt the depth of his feelings, but he wanted the first time he told her to be special. And though he was pretty certain she was in love with him, he wasn’t sure that she realised it quite yet. It was too fragile and too new for them to talk about. And besides, she was distracted by her restaurant. So he’d wait until after the opening night—however long away that might be. It would be worth it. There was no rush. They had the rest of their lives to spend together.

  * * *

  Owen had been staring out of the window, but as she came back into the dining room, he turned and smiled, and Phoebe forgot her worries for a moment, stepping into his embrace, resting her cheek against the rough wool of his greatcoat. Every day, she came to care more for him. Every time she saw him, her heart did a little leap and she felt as if the sun came out inside her. She had never been so happy, but she was determined to look no further ahead than today, and then tomorrow and the next day, to enjoy and relish every moment. She was terrified it might end, and so she would not tempt fate by putting a name to her feelings. She wrapped her arms around her husband’s waist, reassured by his now familiar shape, then let him go.

  ‘You’ve got dust on your nose,’ he said, wiping it with his kerchief.

  ‘The kitchens haven’t been used for some months.’

  ‘It was a town house. When the last lease expired, it was parcelled up into smaller premises. I think this must
have been the drawing room. What do you think?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. If you’d asked me back in October, when we were first married, I’d probably have said it was perfect. But now...’

  ‘What has changed?’

  She smiled at him, suddenly quite sure. ‘Everything.’

  Owen laughed. ‘I think you need to explain.’

  ‘That visit to Crockford’s, it was the turning point for me. The food was superlative, exactly what I expected. Even the mackerel roe dish that he is most famous for lived up to my high expectations, and as for the boudin de cerises a là Bentinck—who would have thought that cherry pudding could taste so heavenly.’

  ‘You don’t think you can compete with that? I can’t say I share your enthusiasm for the mackerel concoction, there was so much butter and cream it gave me indigestion just looking at it, but I am not a gourmand.’

  ‘No, but you do like to eat, don’t you, Owen?’

  ‘I like to have dinner with you, but the company is far more important than the food—forgive me, I know that’s tantamount to heresy for you.’

  ‘But it’s not!’ Phoebe clapped her hands together, beaming at him. ‘You have hit the nail exactly on the head.’

  ‘If I have, it was an accident. What nail?’

  ‘I don’t want people to come to our restaurant to worship the food—I want them to enjoy it, but I don’t want it to dominate. I can see from your expression that I’m still not explaining it very well. Bear with me.’ Phoebe wrapped her cloak more tightly around her, shivering. ‘Do you remember the first meal I cooked for you?’

  ‘Of course I do. Venison stew.’

  ‘And when I asked you what was in it, you didn’t much care, did you? As far as you were concerned, it was delicious, and that was all that mattered. At La Grande Taverne each ingredient would have been dissected and discussed endlessly. The diners would not have commented on how delicious it was, but how extraordinary or unusual it was, whether it was the amuse-bouche, the entrée or the dessert. Honestly, Owen, when they were presented with Pascal’s rôti sans pareil, they were expected to swoon.’