Scandalous Innocent

by Juliet Landon

  Turning the corner of the high wall, she pushed open the door to the kitchen garden into the secluded place that picked up the last of the light on the glass of cold-frames and cloches. Beans climbed up tall cane steeples, and the feathery fennel swayed as she walked towards the glasshouse that leaned against the south-facing wall. The perfume of plants still damp from the gardener’s watering can filled the evening air with mint and lavender, the green earthy scent of life. She stood still to breathe it in, noting the pattern of espaliered apricot and peach trees on the nearest wall, the waxy fig tree with its green nubs of fruit. Tomorrow was one of the days on which they sent most produce to the inns, when the men would be busily loading up the orders by dawn, having prepared them the night before.

  The storage room was a specially built thatched shed for the preparation of the produce with sinks for washing, tables and bins for sorting, bunching and trimming, ready to be laid in baskets and boxes. Though she knew everything would be in order, Phoebe liked to see for herself who was buying it, and how much. Entering the dark warmth of the shed, she left the door open to let in just enough light to see the tables stacked with labelled containers, each one overflowing with vegetables, herbs and early strawberries. The scent was almost overpowering as she passed along the rows, touching the cool leaves of rhubarb and beetroot, turning in alarm as the light suddenly dimmed.

  His bulk filled the doorframe, making her heart lurch with recognition and excitement. ‘You!’ she whispered. ‘You came back!’

  She had no need to ask why or what for, when even before she’d finished speaking he was stripping off his coat and flinging it on to the nearest basket, pulling at his neckcloth, unbuttoning his waistcoat, advancing, wordless, reaching out to her with one hand, draping melons, cucumbers and cauliflowers with discarded clothing with the other.

  To Phoebe, the act of love had been a bedroom experience, carefully choreographed within certain spaces and with controlled guidelines, devoid of any spontaneity and seeding it in her memory with pain and sadness. A garden shed had never seemed to her like a possible alternative. But, if she had to admit it, Ransome’s unconventional manners were infectious and more in keeping with her own way of living, these days. He knew how to shake her dormant emotions. She was already aflame. Raising her arms to receive him, she was gathered hard against his chest, her mouth being sought hungrily for the main course, the first of which had been at Ham House, cut short by a squabble. The craving for more had stayed with them both.

  With a cry, she took his head between her hands like a great loving-cup, drawing it down to her with fingers deep in his thick hair, tasting the night air on his skin, the scent of his haste in her nostrils. The maleness of his powerful body was like a drug. Desire and need flared once again as his lips closed on hers, slanting hard across her, compelling her to forget, to go with him, to let him lead.

  Breathlessly, willingly, she submitted to a world of sensation, of unreason, of a control that was not hers to direct, but his. Between the boxes and baskets their bodies bent and swayed in that first blaze of rapture, clinging, hardly pausing for breath. Pressed against the bench, she let his mouth move down her throat and felt the warm brush of his hair against her face, his skin on her lips.

  More. She wanted more.

  ‘Here,’ she whispered. ‘Look…under there, a pile of…’

  Knowing instantly what she meant, he stooped, hauling out a pile of folded blankets used for laying over the cold-frames in winter, spreading them along the wooden floor between baskets, watering-cans, pots and canes, taking her back into his arms as soon as it was done, gently pulling her down into a dark oblivion scented with earth and the tang of male vigour. Held captive by his weight, feeling the solid muscle of his chest and shoulders through his shirt, she moaned through his kiss and felt the excitement churn and flip inside her deepest parts as his hand moved over her, tenderly, like an evening breeze.

  Under his exploring fingertips, the buttons of her bodice gave way easily against the strain of her aching breasts. She had borne a child and nursed her, and her figure had taken on the full roundness of a mother, her breasts still firm but no longer those of a girl. His touch set her skin alight, circling, weighing, stroking, telling him what his eyes couldn’t see, making her cry out as he reached the firm peaks, readying them for his mouth. ‘Beautiful earth-woman,’ he whispered, teasing her skin with his tongue. ‘Moon-goddess. Fruitful Phoebe. You said no man would take you. Isn’t that what you said?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, Buck. You know what I meant, don’t you?’

  Raising his head, he looked at her in the darkness so that she felt his breath upon her face, felt the smile, the silent laughter of triumph. ‘Yes, I know what you meant, proud woman. You were afraid. Afraid that your fires were burning out of control. With me, the man you’ve tried to dislike for so many years. Eh? Don’t think I couldn’t see how you felt about me, my beauty.’

  ‘I didn’t. I didn’t want you at all.’

  ‘You didn’t dare admit it. And now? Now I have you like this? Soft, and still argumentative? What is it you don’t want from me, woman?’

  ‘Nothing…you great…arrogant brute. Noth—’

  There was no telling who moved first to quench the lie in mid-flow, but there was the smallest gurgle of laughter between them before their mouths forgot all words, seeking moistly, hungrily, promising, giving and demanding. She pushed his hands away from her breasts in an impatience to assuage the yearning, the emptiness that craved to be filled, then wildly, without thinking, she lifted her hips, writhing against the hardness that pressed upon her. Without more delay, he pulled at one side of her gown while she pulled at the other, easing it up around her waist, baring herself to his hand. With Claude Donville, this part had never gone well, his impatience having quite the opposite effect from the purpose, the pain of his entry completely overlooked in his selfish haste.

  This time, however, the hand that caressed and fondled did so to the accompaniment of soft kisses over face, neck and breasts that scattered her mind until her sighs became cries for him to take what she was offering, quickly. She had waited years for this moment. She felt herself opening, aching, giving herself without fear of humiliation. Compliant at last. Quivering with anticipation.

  Holding himself above her, he flicked open the buttons of his breeches and moved into the space she’d made for him, seeking her moistness with a gentle urgency that responded to her cries, pulsing with a mutual need. He had known Donville, his boasting, his amours, his disrespect of women, his profligacy. What Phoebe had told him would account for much of her resistance to another marriage. But now he had witnessed for himself her innocent wonder at the ways of lovemaking, even an experience as basic as this one, telling him what he’d only suspected, that she was every bit as unconventional and spontaneous as himself. She was a creature of impulse, passionate and untamed, for all her housewifely skills.

  So this time it was he who did the thinking, who moved each exciting phase on according to her panting cries of ecstasy, her slow sighs that followed his rhythm, her hands that searched under his shirt over his moist skin. It was he who watched carefully for each sign, who discovered a fiercer passion within her than he’d supposed, who quickened the pace long before he thought she’d be ready, reacting with astonishing speed to his deep thrusts that rocked her on their earthy bed. She tried to stifle a growing wail of exhilaration, and he knew then that the explosion of tension that followed, and the cry, were an experience about which she had known nothing until now.

  Euphoric, he released the unbearable assertive force he’d been holding on a tight rein for so long, groaning with an energy that shook them both, leaving them speechless with wonder as stars showered them. ‘Oh, my beauty,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, my nymph. All these years. What have we been missing?’

  Phoebe smiled, stroking her hand across his temple and feeling the light pulse of him deep inside her. ‘If I’d known,’ she said to his jawline.
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  ‘If you’d known…what?’

  ‘Mm…mm, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s as well that I didn’t. Then this wouldn’t have happened, would it? I would not have done this with anyone else. Only Buck Ransome would walk into a woman’s garden at night to make violent love to her.’

  He stirred, kissed her and pulled away, drawing her close to him with her midnight hair strewed across his arm. ‘Unfinished business,’ he said.

  ‘You planned it.’

  ‘Spontaneously planned it. That’s much the best way with difficult widows.’ ‘What difficult widows?’

  ‘Beautiful wild ones called Phoebe, that a man doesn’t have time to take his boots off for, before he makes love to her. That kind of difficult widow.’

  She smiled again, sleepily, stealing a hand beneath his shirt to discover a soft fuzz of hair around his navel. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said.

  It was not easy, after that, for Phoebe to return to her room without being noticed and without looking as if something momentous had happened to her, physically and emotionally. After a hard and masterful kiss, Lord Ransome had mounted his black horse and clattered away into the night with no more than a sympathetic ‘Tch!’ at her rumpled state and a comment that her household might have to start getting used to seeing it. Which was tantamount to saying that she might have to, too. Still, she could not complain that he’d left the shed in a mess, for they’d been careful to leave no trace of their activities behind them. The morning packers would find nothing amiss.

  But as Phoebe lay soaking in a warm bath early next morning with the scent of myrtle and elder steaming into her hair, she had time to ponder over that amazing day and to agree with Lord Ransome when he’d said that the recent events might be the best thing that had ever happened to her brother Leon, who they hoped would be with them by the afternoon. It might also, she thought, be the best thing that had happened to her, too. So when Claudette came in to share her mama’s bath, it was as well that the pretty child had plenty to say about her forthcoming visit to Aunt Mimi at Twickenham, for that way she hardly noticed her mama’s drowsiness or the secret smile that would not wash off. Miss Evie Cowling, however, certainly had noticed the swollen lips, amongst other things, as she patted her mistress dry. Sensibly keeping her thoughts to herself, she chose a day gown with a pie-frill neckline, a choice that Phoebe accepted without demur.

  If she had been in the habit of indulging herself she would no doubt have spent the day in a daze, picking flowers, staring at the flowing river and its cargoes and wondering about the meaning of life. She had, whether she liked it or not, entered a new phase, well…not so much entered it as been hauled into it with barely a nod towards her objections. But she could not indulge herself, having things to organise such as the produce orders, Claudette’s harp lessons, the preparation of rooms for her guest. Consequently, there was little time for reflection, only for a strange fluttering sensation whenever she recalled how it felt to be stormed and sweetly conquered by the only man ever to disconcert her simply by being in the same room.

  There had been no agreed time for Leon’s arrival, since no one could be certain how Ransome would find him, or where, or in what state. So when suppertime came and went, then Claudette’s bedtime, Phoebe was not unduly disturbed, only anxious for his safety. She had expected to hear the rumble of a carriage and an unloading of trunks, at least, not the single rider on the big black horse whose lone arrival brought instant images of the worst sort where Leon clung to life by a thread.

  ‘Go inside, sweetheart, and I’ll tell you about it. Yes… yes, I have him safe.’

  ‘Safe? Where is he, then?’

  Ransome smiled at the ‘then’, placing an arm about her shoulders and pulling her gently to his side as they entered the parlour. Candles had already been lit. Bowls of flowers covered the window sills. ‘He’s at my house,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have brought him here, Phoebe. Not until he’s more recovered.’

  Searching his face, she saw the tiredness in the line of his brow and a longing for her understanding in his eyes, and she knew he would have known better than she how to handle the uprooting of a man in Leon’s state. She took a deep breath and led him to a wing chair beside the window where a soft breeze stirred a bowl of sweet williams and cranesbill. ‘Is he very ill?’ she whispered, watching him sink back with closed eyes until a sigh opened them again.

  He shook his head. ‘No, not very ill, but certainly not in a state to be brought to a lady’s house.’

  ‘Not even his sister’s?’

  ‘No. He made rather a nasty mess of my carriage. I thought it best to take him straight to Mortlake, sweetheart. Just to recover. Then he can come to you.’

  ‘Oh!’ Hands covered her face, stopping the tears on a tide of concern.

  He was beside her on the window-seat, drawing her against his chest, his lips to her forehead above the fingertips. ‘He’ll be all right, I promise.’

  She wailed into his shirt-front, ‘But it’s not, is it? Who’s there to look after him at Mortlake? He can’t stay there, can he?’ Visions of the mistress came and went.

  ‘He’s not going to stay there, nymph. I have two men, my valet and my steward, who know exactly what he needs. They’ll tend him, watch over him, bathe him, clean him up, shave him, doctor him…’

  ‘And is there a woman there?’

  It was easy, and natural, to mistake the querulous voice. ‘No, sweetheart, but a woman is the last thing he needs at the moment. He’s feeling very sorry for himself. Men know how to deal with this kind of thing best.’

  She sniffed. ‘What kind of thing?’ she said, adjusting herself in his arms.

  ‘Are you going to offer me some refreshment, Madame Donville?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m so sorry. Let me send for some food. I wasn’t sure…’

  ‘Burgundy? Claret?’

  She blinked, touching the tip of her nose with a knuckle in a gesture that bewitched him. ‘This is where this mistress business is going to fall apart, my lord. I have only damson, gooseberry, elderflower and—’

  ‘Oh, good lord, woman,’ he groaned. ‘I can see I shall—’

  The door opened before his criticism reached its finale, with a rattle, and a flash of silver, and dear Hetty holding it all together on a lace-covered tray. After her came a maid bearing a plate of sandwiches, garnished with parsley and radishes in one hand and a large fruit cake in the other. Hetty and Lord Ransome had met many years ago in London, so she was pleased to accept Phoebe’s invitation to stay with them while the food and tea was consumed and the story of Leon’s discovery, between mouthfuls, was told, all spectres of Mortlake mistresses pushed aside for the time being.

  Poor Leon, it transpired, having discovered what he had done with his sister’s home, had then drunk himself into oblivion in order to forget, since there was no question of regaining it. When Ransome found him, none of his family had called to see him, either to offer support or to discuss the implications, his mother being in the throes of organising a dinner party for her husband at the time. Leon was at home being tended by his valet, who had begun to despair of his master’s health, for he had not eaten since last weekend. Physically weakened, he was in no state to protest, therefore, when Ransome took his carriage to Harley Street and, with the help of the valet, proceeded to pack Leon’s bags, wrap him in blankets with accompanying bowls and bottles, and carry him off to Mortlake. Without the two men to help him, his lordship told them, the journey might have taken twice as long, but to hand him over to a houseful of women would have been unkind while Leon was so ashamed of himself. After which both Phoebe and Hetty agreed that Leon would need time in which to recover, and their own desires to mother him must wait. Whether the phantom-like Mortlake family would get a chance to mother him before she did, Phoebe could not hope to find out unless, of course, she were to go there herself.

  The most astonishing part of this episode, Hetty later volunteered, was Lord Ransome’s part in all this, for how many
gamesters, having won an estate from a man, would go and rescue that same man from such wretchedness, bring him all that way in his own vehicle, house him in his own house, and tend him like a brother?

  Certainly not their other brother, Phoebe agreed, wryly.

  So, said Hetty, whether he had a woman at Mortlake or not, Lord Ransome was a most remarkable man who must be inordinately fond of her to wish to win her approval in such a manner. And if she were Phoebe, she would not fret too much about who he did or did not house there, when it was clear that the man had more than a smattering of the Good Samaritan about him.

  It was at this point that Phoebe, her lips still tingling from Ransome’s parting kiss, felt obliged to tell dear Hetty how things had moved on from intense dislike to something more akin to… well…love, she supposed, if that’s what this sick feeling was that churned her insides whenever she thought of him. Nothing like that had happened with Claude Donville, only an awareness of success, a settled future and her mother pleased, for once.

  Oh, said Hetty, was that why she’d poured the tea-slops into the sugar basin? She had thought something was not quite right.

  ‘But I don’t want to be in love with him, Hetty,’ Phoebe explained. ‘He’s not the kind of man I should be involved with, is he? You’ve seen for yourself what he’s like, and he’s still insisting there’s no woman at Mortlake. What am I to believe?’

  ‘We didn’t see a woman, love.’

  ‘And what kind of a man can take over a woman’s home, just like that, whether she likes it or not? If that’s not ruthlessness, then I don’t know what is. He says he always knew I was attracted to him, but that’s sheer arrogance. I wasn’t.’