He groaned his appreciation before mumbling his answer. “It would only strain those lovely brown eyes, and I can’t have my wife squinting at me now, can I?” He pulled her into his lap, eliciting a surprised squeal, and planted a kiss to her lips. She was so beautiful, and he still found it difficult to believe he had found her and married her all within a week.
“Take me to bed,” she whispered. Her breath feathered against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.
“You needn’t ask me twice, my love.” He stood from the chair, keeping her firmly cradled in his arms. Together they blew out the few candles that were lit on the desk and in sconces on the walls, and then made their way to the bedroom.
***
Phoebe woke the next morning to find her husband already gone from the bed. It wasn’t a surprise—he had only remained in bed with her for the first couple of mornings after their nuptials. Once his father passed, everything changed. Benjamin wasn’t sleeping well at all, and she knew it was more from stress than grief, though she was sure he missed his father tremendously. She saw the look in his eyes sometimes, as if he might go mad thinking of what needed to be accomplished.
He met daily with the steward, the many tenants, the solicitor—for the last will and testament needed to be fulfilled, and his father’s wishes had been many. Lady Eastleigh helped where she could, but she was so overcome with grief she tended to keep company with Phoebe’s mother more than anyone. If anyone could help the dowager marchioness through this, it was Lady Grimsby.
Phoebe hated this horrible feeling of helplessness. She wanted to do something—needed to do something productive. She tried to keep occupied, walking with Kat through the gardens or playing the piano or embroidering, which she continued to be absolutely dreadful at. But the thought of her husband pouring over piles of documents while she lazed about the estate didn’t sit well with her. It didn’t seem fair, and she couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t let her help. She could at least answer his correspondence for him. Sharing the load might mean spending more leisure time together, rather than Phoebe spending it alone.
Deciding that she would talk him into letting her help if it was the last thing she did, Phoebe swung her legs over the edge of the bed, rang for Becky, and began to ready herself for the day. It didn’t take long, and within the hour she was at the breakfast table, devouring her poached eggs and buttered toast. No one else was there, so she didn’t have to make small talk or even mind her manners. When she was done, she darted off to Benjamin’s study, excited to get to work.
But the study was empty, with no sign of her husband anywhere.
She started back down the hall, hoping to run into someone who might know where he’d gone off to, but it seemed the entire house had emptied out. Finally, she found Sikes, the butler, overseeing a pair of chambermaids as they dusted down the library furniture.
“Lady Eastleigh,” he said in time with a deferent bow.
“Oh, good morning, Sikes,” she greeted the man. “Have you seen his lordship this morning?”
“His lordship left hours ago with his steward. Something about a leaky roof on one of the tenant’s cottages.”
Well, that was disappointing. Phoebe’s spirits deflated at once, knowing Benjamin might be gone all day if he was visiting tenants. So much for helping him sort through the mess of papers on his desk.
Phoebe paused once she was in the hall, an idea coming to her. Why couldn’t she help him still? He didn’t have to be present for her to organize the mess or reply to a few social invitations, did he? Anything that seemed of elevated import, she would simply put to the side for him, but everything else . . .
Excited again at the prospect of making herself useful, Phoebe marched right back to his study and plopped herself down in the large armchair behind the desk. She felt rather dwarfed by all the large furniture and the mound in front of her. But she would not be deterred.
She decided she would divide everything into categories on the desk, so she moved all the papers to the outer edges in order to make room. The first letter she picked up was an invitation, so she purposely placed it on the desk to her left. That was a pile she would read through later herself.
The process went rather quickly, and before she knew it, she had six neat little stacks in front of her, a result of the first large stack of papers. She hummed to herself as she moved on to the next pile, standing so she could reach it on the far side of the desk. But as she reached for the letter on top, she lost her balance and sent the entire stack scattering to the floor.
“Oh, bother,” she mumbled as she rounded the desk and bent to re-form the pile.
As she gathered the envelopes, one in particular caught her eye. Where all the others she’d gone through had been obvious as letters of business or invitations, this one was not, and it bore no return address.
Phoebe stared at the letter, noting it had certainly been written in a woman’s hand. Either that, or a man with quite a feminine flourish. And it was addressed not to the Marquess of Eastleigh, or even the Earl of Glastonbury, but simply to Benjamin Wetherby. She wondered if it was from someone whose intent was disrespect, or perhaps somewhere where titles were not common.
She sighed as she looked about the room, then blew her breath between her lips as she looked back at the envelope. What if it was important? And time sensitive? It could take Benjamin weeks to get through all these letters, but this one possibly needed immediate attention. Would it be so awful if she just took a peek to make sure there was nothing urgent enclosed?
Her heart raced and her palms began to sweat at the thought of actually opening something that looked so very personal. Did she really want to know what was inside this letter? And would Benjamin ever forgive her if she read something that wasn’t meant for her eyes?
Of course he would! They were married and he loved her, didn’t he? He hadn’t said it in so many words, but certainly he had shown it over the last few weeks.
Besides, how could he be mad at her for merely trying to help? He would be a complete boar if he did, and one thing Benjamin was not was a boar.
Though she had reasoned her way to the opening of the letter, her hands still trembled as she broke the seal and unfolded the foolscap.
And then she immediately wished she had let well enough alone and not opened the blasted letter.
***
Benjamin arrived home with little time to bathe and change for dinner. He had spent most of the day helping a tenant repair a leaky roof. He supposed he could have waited to send one of his many workers there to fix it, but with the dark clouds that loomed overhead, he wasn’t certain there was time to wait. Especially when the crofter had a wife and three small children who needed a dry home.
After that, his solicitor had taken him on a tour of the cattle pastures, not far from the cottage he had repaired, and by the time they were finished, the sun hung low in the sky.
He didn’t see his lovely wife upon his arrival back home, for which he was rather grateful. He was sure he didn’t smell very appealing, and it would have been difficult to keep his filthy hands off her pure, creamy skin.
It wasn’t until he went to the drawing room, clean and dressed appropriately for dinner, that he saw her. His heart still skipped a beat whenever his eyes landed on her. Tonight, she wore a charcoal gown made of muted satin. The style was simple, the dress almost plain. A single strand of pearls dangled from her neck, and her hair was piled loosely on her head, some of it falling to frame her face.
Good Lord, even in mourning colors, she was a vision.
She sat next to his sister on the far side of the room, a glass of claret in her hand. She hadn’t seen him come in, and it was Katherine who noticed him first.
His sister gave him a serene smile, but when Phoebe’s eyes met with his, there was nothing serene about them. And her lips certainly did not form a smile.
Benjamin’s stomach twisted with worry. Had he done something wrong? Was she angry that he hadn’t w
oken her that morning? What could possibly be the matter?
She held his gaze for only a moment before looking away, almost as if she hated to treat him thus, but had no choice. It didn’t make much sense to Benjamin, but he had long ago stopped trying to analyze the female brain. He would simply have to endure her strange behavior until later, when they had a chance to talk privately.
As it turned out, it was much, much later by the time they made it to their chamber. Phoebe had insisted on several rounds of whist after dinner, so it was nearly midnight when they finally were alone.
Benjamin had spent the evening pretending as if everything were fine. He gave no indication that he noticed her strange behavior. He was sure Phoebe didn’t think he was so addle-brained not to notice, but she hadn’t said anything to him yet, so he continued to act in their normal manner.
He shut the door to their chamber and followed her across the room to the vanity, where he always helped her with the buttons down the back of her dress while she removed her jewels and unpinned her hair.
“You don’t have to do that tonight,” she finally said as he reached for the first button.
“Have you grown extendable arms to do it for yourself?” he asked, hoping to perhaps incite a smile. He had no such luck.
“No, I have not.” She removed her pearls and her bracelet, then turned to face him, not a hint of humor anywhere in her countenance. Good God, what the devil had he done? “We have to talk, and then I’m going to my own room. Becky will help me undress tonight.”
“Like hell she will,” he countered. His blood began to boil. It was one thing for her to ignore him all night, but quite another for her to decide they would sleep in separate rooms. She hadn’t even told him what was wrong. He had been given no chance to defend himself yet. How was she so sure they wouldn’t work out whatever differences she had found between them this evening?
“Yes, she will . . . ” Phoebe pulled a folded-up piece of paper from the bodice of her gown and held it out to him. “Unless you can explain why your mistress is still being supported and cared for in America while you have a wife here.”
Chapter 15
Benjamin stood there, staring at his wife, unable to find words. Anything would have been better than the stammering and stuttering he demonstrated, but no singular thought had an opportunity to form completely, and therefore none made it to his mouth. Lamely, he reached for the letter she still held out to him. It felt heavier in his hand than a simple piece of paper should have.
It bore his given name, no title, written in Lillian’s hand. She’d never seen reason to refer to him by his title; they were far too intimate for such formalities, she always said. Damn her! Her informality had clearly raised suspicions with his wife.
At that thought, his mind shifted. What was Phoebe doing reading his correspondence? He had told her he didn’t need help with the mound of papers that were his responsibility—not hers—and it appeared she had gone behind his back to “help,” anyway.
If Ben had found the letter on his own, he would have opened it to make sure none of his friends in New York had died, and then used it for kindling. He didn’t care what Lillian had to say. He didn’t care if she missed him or wanted him to come back. She meant nothing to him; Phoebe meant everything.
However, his helpful little wife had clearly read the letter and now he had to answer to her.
A sudden headache began to throb between his eyes. What was he to say? Would she believe him if he told her the truth? He was about to open his mouth to venture an explanation, but Phoebe spoke first.
“You might want to read it before you try to comment upon it.”
He blew out a long breath and stared her right in the eyes. “I don’t want to read it.”
“Really?” Her tone was ice, but her eyes burned with fury. “I think I would want to know if a woman had carried my child and miscarried. Perhaps you want to know that she misses you and loves you. That she wants you to come back and marry her and let her bear your children.”
“Stop!” he shouted, unable to hear anymore. His head was swimming now, as if he were drowning, in the deepest and most turbulent of seas, with no foreseeable way out.
“Oh, but there’s so much more,” Phoebe said, the light sarcasm in her tone belied by the rigidity in her stance.
“I don’t care!” This time he roared at her. He hated this side of her. This hard, cold exterior and cool, sarcastic voice made him want to shake her until she turned back into the beautiful, vulnerable woman he loved.
He loved her, dammit! Didn’t she know that? What was it going to take for her to understand the depths of his devotion to her? He had no idea. All he knew was that he couldn’t let her go on believing he held any feelings for Lillian whatsoever.
“Phoebe,” he said, softening his tone and moving towards her. “You must listen to me. I have had no contact, other than this letter that she sent to me, since I left America. I told her she could stay in my townhouse until she found another protector, but that is as far as my relationship or financial support with her goes.”
Phoebe didn’t move away from him, but neither did she soften when he put his hands on her shoulders. She stood still as a statue, staring at him with furious black eyes.
“She carried your child,” she said, her voice low.
“You don’t know Lillian. She will do anything—say anything—to get her way.”
“But she loves you!”
And I love you! He should have said it to her, but it wasn’t the way he pictured telling her. They should be making love, not screaming at one another about his former mistress when he told her he loved her for the first time.
“But I. Don’t. Love. Her.” He accented every word and pleaded with his eyes for Phoebe to hear the meaning in his voice.
She did not. At least, he didn’t think so when she dissolved into tears and pushed past him. Dammit!
He spun to see her stomping across the room, one hand to her face to hide her tears. “Phoebe, please—”
“No! Don’t say anything. You have no idea what it was like for me, finding that letter today, reading such intimate things from another woman . . . a woman who knows you far better than I.”
“What the hell does that matter?” This was really getting out of hand, and he had to put a stop to it now. She was letting her female sensibilities run away with her, and he was getting the brunt of it.
“It matters tremendously! How can I compete with her?”
“You don’t have to compete with her. I-I don’t care about Lillian—”
“But she cares about you!”
Good God, they were talking in circles now, and the bottom line was that she never should have been going through his post in the first place. He couldn’t say that to her, though. He would have to find another way to put a stop to this conversation.
“Phoebe,” he said, a slight warning in his tone. “Do I not demonstrate my desire for you on a nightly basis? Did I not demonstrate it by marrying you, for Christ’s sake?”
“You married me because you had to!”
Her accusation cut right to his heart and stopped him cold. “What the hell are you talking about?” His voice was a dangerous growl now, and he saw her cower slightly before straightening up and re-assuming her hellcat persona.
“You needed a wife. Or, rather, your father thought you needed a wife,” she amended. “You married me in an effort to gain his approval before he died, did you not?”
Now she was treading on dangerous territory. “You know nothing of my relationship with my father.”
“I know that you must feel guilty for being gone for the last year of his life—”
“Silence,” he growled.
“Why? Because it’s true?”
He said nothing, only stared at her, seething, wondering how the hell a bloody letter from Lillian had resulted in this.
“Well?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows as she crossed her arms over her chest like an insolen
t child.
“You will never do this again.”
She looked at him askance, as if she were suddenly unclear as to what they were talking about. She maintained a challenging look, though, as she asked, “Do what?”
“You will never go through my letters again unless I give you explicit permission to do so. Is that understood?”
Phoebe’s nostrils flared. “Why? Are you expecting more letters from your mistress?” The acerbic tone she used on “mistress” made him scoff.
“I’ve done far worse things than keep a mistress, Phoebe.”
“Is that meant to make me feel better? That this Lillian person is the least of your transgressions? Because it doesn’t.”
“I don’t give a Goddamn, Phoebe. Give your word that you will stay away from my papers!”
“Don’t curse at me, Benjamin Wetherby.”
“I will curse at you until I am blue in the face or until you bloody well understand that if you had never gone snooping about my things, we wouldn’t be having this ridiculous argument right now.”
“I wasn’t snooping, I was helping, God forbid! And I never realized my husband had so many secrets he wished to keep from me.”
“Lillian was not a secret I meant to keep. I didn’t think she was important enough to bring up. Plenty of gentlemen keep mistresses before they’re married, and many of them after!”
“Like you,” she accused.
“Not. Like. Me.”
“You are paying for her to live in your home, Benjamin. If that’s not keeping, then what would you call it?”
Dammit, he was letting her talk him in circles again. “Enough of this, Phoebe. I’m going to tell you one last time. I care nothing for Lillian. I’ve had no contact with her since I left America, and I have no intentions of contacting her in the future. I had no control over her writing to me, and I really do not appreciate this attack you have launched on my character.”
Gentleman Never Tells (Regency Historical Romance) Page 12