Perhaps sometime between now and getting her naked, he would recapture his free will.
God, I hope so. If not, he was in for a bit of embarrassment. Lilah was more woman than most men had in a lifetime. If she couldn’t liberate him, no one could.
“Lilah wants,” she whispered throatily.
And whatever Lilah wants, Lilah gets.
He opened his mouth to give the customary response, a playful bit of sexual banter they had created between them … but the words would not come. She was pressed practically knee to chest with him, ready to play out his darkest secret fantasies—if there were any left they hadn’t already done—and he couldn’t do it.
Are you mad, man? Grab her hand and drag her to the nearest broom closet to play “Master and the Virgin Chambermaid!”
I don’t want the chambermaid. I want the vicar’s daughter.
She can likely play that, too! Just go!
He closed his eyes and concentrated. Lilah naked. Lilah on her knees. Lilah on top—
Would Phoebe like it on top? He could allow her to set her own pace, to find her own way to orgasm while he supported her, hands about her waist—
She would toss her rebellious honey-gold hair and cry out in surprise, and then her blue gaze would lock on his as the pleasure flooded through her …
“That’s the lad,” Lilah cooed in his ear. Her hip nudged his growing erection. “For a moment I thought you’d forgotten me again.”
For a moment, he had. “You always did talk too much,” he said gruffly. He reached one hand to grasp her rounded bottom and pull her tighter against his groin, holding on to the image of Phoebe in his head. Phoebe in his arms, Phoebe in his bed, Phoebe—
A startled gasp brought him back with a jolt. He opened his eyes.
Phoebe in the hall, staring at him groping the most diligent whore in Mayfair. He dropped his hands as if Lilah had turned into a slimy insect.
Phoebe’s gaze locked with his, just as in his fantasy, but the only thing flooding through her seemed to be revulsion.
And hurt.
Which was ridiculous. What had she to be hurt about? She was engaged to marry another man! It would be best for them both if she never looked at him that way again.
Rafe wrapped a purposeful arm about Lilah’s waist and forced an irritated glare at the interruption. “Do you mind?”
Phoebe’s slack jaw snapped shut. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Damn it, she saw through him, even now!
“I have been assured of the validity of your reputation, my lord,” she said primly. “You did not need to prove it to me.” Then she turned away as if she’d seen something no lady ought to sully her vision with.
Lilah looked over her shoulder and giggled. “Who’s the Puritan?”
Phoebe heard her, for her shoulders jerked slightly. She didn’t turn back, but only raised that bloody stubborn chin higher and increased her pace.
“No one,” Rafe said, unable to take his eyes from every injured and furious inch of her as she disappeared around the corner. “Just my sanctimonious brother’s sanctimonious fiancée.”
Lilah laughed, a tinkling scornful sound. “Then they deserve each other, I think.” She turned back to nuzzle his neck. “Now, where were we?”
It was no use. “We were done.” Rafe stepped back. “Sorry. I guess this time Lilah doesn’t get what Lilah wants.”
Her silver eyes flashed a warning that would have brought another man to his knees. “Take care, my lord. I never offer twice.”
Rafe bowed slightly. “Then I hope you never run out of men, my lady.” With that he turned and walked away from the most beautiful woman in London—and never looked back.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“I’m in love with Lord Raphael Marbrook!”
Oh, bother. The secret had barely made it home from the concert and up the stairs to Sophie’s room. Phoebe clapped one hand over her mouth and waited for Sophie’s reaction. Her cousin merely raised her eyebrows slightly.
“Well, that does pose a pickle, doesn’t it?” Sophie turned to look at her properly. “Does he love you in return?”
Phoebe felt her cheeks color. Does he love you in return?
She sat abruptly on the bed, wrapping her arms about her middle. The quivers in her stomach were only half caused by unfulfilled desire. Some of the largest were coming from a darker place of fear. Was it only desire on his part? Was he the rake he claimed to be? Was she being a fool?
Again?
“I think he wants me,” she said tightly. “But he has not spoken of love.” She could not put her faith in what might merely be hot blood. The vicar had warned her many times that such impulses were not real. Hot blood was a lie and sensible girls would want nothing to do with it.
Sophie sat across from her. “I see.” She regarded Phoebe for a long moment. “Cousin, are you sure … you have made a very advantageous match with his brother. You would be giving up a great deal if you broke the engagement to choose Marbrook. The scandal alone would—”
Phoebe ducked her head. “Oh, heavens. I cannot think on it.” The vicar would never speak to her again. The look he would have in his eyes … she felt the ashes of old pain curl and blacken with new heat. The quivers in her gut became tremors. She looked up at Sophie helplessly.
Fortunately, Sophie seemed to have experience with helplessness. She stood and strode to a chest and removed a brandy decanter. “I found it in the library. Actually, I took it away from the vicar. He isn’t spending all his time reading, you know.” She poured a hefty portion into a glass. Returning to Phoebe, she pressed it into her shaking hands.
Phoebe took a gulp, shutting her eyes against the medicinal fumes of the liquor. It burned all the way down, but after only a few moments she felt the tension in her shoulders ease. “That was repulsive,” she said, with a small breathless laugh.
“Good.” Sophie took the glass away. “Then you’re not likely to take it up as a habit.”
The brandy eased a bit of the panic, but it did nothing to remove the reasons—either of them. Both tall, broad-shouldered reasons continued to loom over Phoebe, stealing the air from any room she was in.
“Lady Lilah Christie.”
“Who?”
“That’s her name. I asked … afterward. She is—or perhaps was—Marbrook’s lover.” She sniffed. “Lilah. It suits her … all sleek elegance and catlike mystique. The memory of Marbrook’s hands on that silver silk gown …”
“Oh, my,” Sophie breathed. “You have had a night.”
Phoebe shook her head defiantly. “I’m not jealous—not precisely. I knew immediately that Marbrook was only trying to prove a point.”
The brandy was making her head swim. “But … that moment in the hall, when I saw another woman in Marbrook’s arms, I realized that it would never be me.”
“Because you’re marrying Lord Brookhaven,” Sophie reminded her gently.
Phoebe waved that off. “Yes … but that it would someday be someone. I’m going to marry Brookhaven and fulfill the vicar’s dream and Marbrook is going to go on without me, having lover after lover and possibly even someday a wife …”
Her face began to crumple. “And it will never be me!” She grabbed the bed’s dust ruffle and blew her nose mightily.
“Milksop.” Sophie gave her a wry smile. “No more brandy for you.”
Phoebe flopped back onto the bed and gazed at the design worked in plaster around the ceiling.
“Be careful, Phoebe. You have given your word to Lord Brookhaven. The scandal—”
Phoebe covered her eyes. “I know. I cannot—I will not—fall again. I will not go through that again—the pain, the recrimination, the constant constraint for fear of exposure! Always wondering, do they know? Are they whispering about me? Has the end come at last? Am I ruined?”
She rolled over on the bed. “The worst is the secret, shameful hope that it will come out,” she whispered. “That it will be public knowledge, that I would be ruine
d in truth and would never have to live masked again.”
Sophie put a hand on her shoulder. Phoebe started, for she’d nearly forgotten Sophie’s presence.
“Phoebe, I don’t really know what you’re speaking of … and perhaps you ought not to say. If you truly, honestly want to avoid scandal, perhaps it might be wise to avoid Lord Marbrook until the wedding is done … and perhaps a bit after.”
Phoebe sat up and brushed at her cheeks. “Avoid him. Yes. That is precisely what I will do. It will be easy.”
She desperately hoped.
Chapter Twenty-eight
When Rafe returned to Brook House, too late to encounter anyone but the yawning groom who took the reins of his happily exhausted horse, he welcomed the dark and silent emptiness of the halls and rooms. His own valet had long since gone to bed, knowing that after a certain hour, Rafe would likely not come home at all.
In his room he threw off his jacket and waistcoat, yanked his cravat knot free and tossed the linen on the pile. He sat in the large chair before his fire and pulled off his boots, tossing the fine leather aside with all the care he’d give tattered rags. What did it matter? Fine things were only things after all. They would not make his life without Phoebe any easier to bear.
He’d stayed out late to avoid her—for how could he face her after that hideous scene outside the concert!—but there was no escaping her presence. She was so damned everywhere in this house. Her scent lingered in the halls, her name was on everyone’s lips, her damned cousins underfoot with their lighter and darker versions of the same blue eyes …
And although Rafe’s body ached, his stomach growled a protest. Off to the kitchens to slake at least one appetite.
His feet bare on the chill floors, he padded silently through the house in search of something more substantial than lovelorn frustration to put in his stomach.
He’d grown up in this house, at least for half of every year, so there was no need for a candle. The dark was an old friend to Rafe. Most of his finest moments—or worst ones, depending on one’s moral perspective—had been spent in the dark.
The kitchens were in the cellar, as in most large houses in town. There was the large pantry, the carving room with its vaguely alarming rack of cutting implements, the main kitchen where the stoves were, the scullery with its deep stone sinks and Rafe’s personal favorite, the larder.
It was a long narrow chamber, lined with marble shelves for the things that needed chilling, and cool stone floors that stung his bare feet. Since he was in the mood for savory, he easily avoided the sturdy worktable in the middle of the room and bent to feel along the lowest shelves for something of a ham or roast nature.
He found meat pasties, probably made for the lower servants, since the fastidious master would curl his lip at such common fare—although Rafe had never met a meat pasty he didn’t like. In spite of the call of the rich potato and meat filling he moved on, feeling his way carefully. He was really more in the mood for big, juicy slices of—
Thigh. Smooth … rounded … warm … lush …
“Eek.” It was a small protest, hardly more than a whisper.
“Ah!” He snatched his hand back and straightened—and smacked the back of his head into the stone shelf above with great force. “Ow!” He staggered backward with one hand to his skull.
“Oh!”
Something moved on the shelf, there was a rustle of fabric and a metallic clank—and then light seared his expanded pupils.
“Bloody hell!” He slapped his other palm over his eyes. “Sweet Charlotte’s Ass! Are you trying to kill me?”
“I didn’t—I—who is Charlotte?”
“Phoebe?” He partially unshielded his eyes and blinked. Blurred afterimages still floated in the way, but he could see her before him, clad in nightdress and half-open wrapper, fishing her lighted candlestick out of a flour tin.
She scowled at him in the glow, trying to undo the knot in the belt of her wrapper in order to pull it tighter. “Goodness, my lord! You frightened the life out of me!”
“I? I think I just lost ten years! I was planning to put those to good use, you know.”
Her mood turning in a flash, she dimpled at him. “How? Doing good works?”
He grunted. “Absolutely. There are any number of charities working for the betterment of beguiling mistresses. I’m a regular contributor.”
Reminded, her humor vanished. She raised a brow. “I’ll wager you are. Men like you simply don’t know when to stop giving.”
She wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. “What do you know of men like me?”
“I know enough.” She attempted to look arch, but with her tousled hair and rebellious wrapper, she merely managed to look adorable. “Rakes and scoundrels aren’t exclusive to London, I’ll have you know.”
He grinned, absurdly happy simply to be with her. “Oh, you breed your own up there in Bump-arse-shire?”
She gave up on the knot and folded her arms over her exposed bodice. “I believe they are primarily imported, my lord,” she said sourly.
His smile faded. “You aren’t teasing, are you? What happened to you in Thornton? When did you encounter rakes and scoundrels?”
Something flashed across her expression for an instant and he thought she was going to speak. Then it was gone and she merely gazed at him evenly. “Did you come searching for something to eat?”
“Ham. Or roast. Or—” Thigh. But just as they were not talking about Lilah, they were carefully not talking about how he’d found her curled up on the shelf, hiding from the intruder with her nightdress rucked up over her knees, were they?
He could respect a good evasion, but he thought he ought to do his part somehow. “You shouldn’t wander the house alone. You don’t know it well.”
She lifted her chin. “It is my house—or it will be in a fortnight. I think I am entitled to raid the larder if I please.”
Her house … his brother’s wife-to-be. “Yes, thanks so much for reminding me. Soon there’ll be lots of merry little Calder-shaped brats to keep us all up at night.”
She lifted a tray of roast slices to the table which stood in the center of the room. “Cheese?”
He absently reached down a round from a higher shelf for her. “Did you hear what I said?”
She was humming slightly as she pulled half a loaf of bread from the shelf where she’d been hiding. Baked items weren’t kept here, so she’d brought it with her. She really was making herself at home at Brook House.
“I heard you,” she said. “You’re protesting my breeding capabilities.” She slanted a disgruntled look at him. “Some of the brats might be Phoebe-shaped, you know.”
Little Phoebes, cherub-cheeked and tousle-haired, pattering about the house, perpetually in trouble, charming their way out with dimples and long-lashed blue eyes …
For a moment, he was utterly captivated by the image in his mind. Then he remembered that it would not be he who fathered those blue-eyed darlings.
Uncle Rafe. Welcomed for holiday dinners and not much else.
She went on calmly preparing the food with competent movements. If she’d been affected by this evening’s moment at the concert, she didn’t seem to be upset by it.
I want you to be upset. No, I want you to be devastated. I want you to fight for me, to throw everything away to please me, to cost yourself your family’s esteem and the life of a duchess so I won’t feel like my brother wins …
So what kind of man does that make me?
It makes you Uncle Rafe, because she’s smart enough to send you packing, even though she fancies you.
Which was precisely what he deserved.
If he had known what all his rebellious amusements would someday cost him, would he have done it differently ? Would he have fallen in with Calder’s plans, would he have studied harder, been more prudent, avoided cards and women and drink?
Why can’t you be more like your brother?
Had a day of his youth gone by w
ithout hearing that hated phrase from his father, or tutor, or even a local cleric? Every utterance had been like a brick in the wall between the brothers, shutting Rafe out—
Shutting Calder in?
No. Rafe shook off that preposterous idea. Calder had everything.
He gazed at Phoebe, who was carefully not looking his way at all. Yes, she fancied him, but she would never choose him over Calder. She was too intelligent to do that.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Rafe.” Her voice was low, but he could detect the pain in it.
“And I don’t want to be hurt,” he said, forcing a smile. “And see? We can spend time together without difficulty. We’re the only ones awake in the entire house, just the two of us, alone and isolated where no one knows we—”
He stopped, for the vastness of their solitude only made the night feel safer and more secret. Dangerous.
Across the table from him, she visibly shivered. “This floor is icy.”
“Then get off it.” He rounded the table in a swift movement.
“What—”
Wrapping both hands about her little waist, he lifted her to sit on the table before she could form a protest. Her gasp feathered against his cheek, mingling with her scent. He wanted to tighten his grip, pull her closer and make her forget everything but him—
He backed a step away and bowed deeply to hide his expression. “My queen’s royal barge is ready to depart. If Your Majesty will lounge appropriately?”
She laughed. “You’re mad.”
He straightened. “Lounge,” he ordered. “The floor is too bloody cold.”
She snickered again, but pulled her chilled feet up to tuck them beside her, then leaned on one hand. “There. I’m lounging. Can you hand me the tray? I cannot reach it from here.”
He snatched up the tray and held it out of her reach. “Your Majesty’s royal hands must not handle trays!”
“A girl could become accustomed to such a thing,” she murmured thoughtfully.
A poor vicar’s daughter had likely toted many trays in her life. “Then do so, my queen,” he intoned, in his best impression of Fortescue.
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