by Eloisa James
A sob rose in her chest. Her life, her sweet life with her darling children . . . That man did not fit in here. Whatever would her friends think? Her neighbors? Even if they didn’t discover that he had been a privateer, he was marked under the eye like a New World savage.
Common sense told her that someone would inform him that she had adopted the children, so infidelity would never work as a reason to dissolve the marriage.
Tears caused by pure frustration fell onto her hands and slipped between her fingers.
In a way, it was worse that he was so handsome, with such a male appeal. Even his tattoo wasn’t entirely uninviting. And there was something sensual and possessive in the way he looked at her. An unwilling flicker of heat lit in her stomach, followed by a churn of nausea.
The door burst open. “Shark says he will take us to the sea,” Colin cried, running into the room. “The sea, the sea, the sea!”
Phoebe surged to her feet, her maternal instinct sweeping all her other feelings to the side. How dare Mr. Sharkton say something of that nature to her child? Lure him into a dangerous, bloody career—indeed, if it could even be dignified with that title?
“Colin Barry,” she said in a voice that he had rarely heard, “return to the nursery.”
Colin gaped up at her.
“Now!”
He turned around and trotted away as fast as his legs would carry him.
She had instructed Mrs. Hastie, her housekeeper, to put Griffin in the largest bedchamber. Luckily, she had never occupied it herself, but had taken the airy bedchamber closest to the nursery.
Now she marched straight toward Griffin’s room, her tears dried by pure rage.
She would fall dead before she allowed her son to be lured by a couple of felons to death at sea. She threw open the door without knocking. “I must speak with you.”
Her husband was at the window, staring down at the lake and the fields beyond. He turned around slowly, leaning on his cane.
For a second she just stared, as if seeing him for the first time. Griffin was so much bigger, so much more manly than she could have imagined. Paradoxically, the fact that he was wounded didn’t diminish his ferocity; instead she had the feeling that she was looking at a wounded lion nursing his paw, but ready to spring at any moment.
As dangerous as he ever was.
Even his dark blond hair lent itself to that vision. Although it was cut short, it sprang from his scalp like a shorn mane. She was stricken by an edgy awareness that sent a flush of heat to her face, but she straightened her backbone.
She had to protect her children.
“Hello, Phoebe,” Griffin said, as if she barged into his bedchamber every day. “May I offer you a seat?” He took two steps toward the fireplace, leading with his stick, and pulled forward one of the armchairs.
Phoebe sat, since it would be impolite not to. “I came to inform you that my son will never go to sea, and it is reprehensible and irresponsible of Mr. Sharkton to discuss the possibility with him.”
Griffin leaned against the back of the chair opposite her and raised an eyebrow. “Mothers make rules, but children don’t always agree.”
“Colin may be entranced by the idea of piracy now—and I regret to say that your arrival will only exacerbate that—but in time he will outgrow it.”
“What would you like him to do with his life?”
“Something safe,” she flashed. “Something in England, perhaps in Bath.”
“So you see him as a merchant?”
Of course she saw Colin as a member of her own class, rather than one of the gentry or above, whom she privately considered to be ne’er-do-wells. “Yes,” she said, keeping her gaze steady. “I would much prefer that Colin earn an honest wage, whether he owns a business or works in one.”
To her surprise, Griffin nodded. He must have seen a flicker of disbelief on her face, because he added, quite reasonably, “You may not like the way I have earned a living, Phoebe, but I assure you that I worked very hard for it. I know the value of money.”
She didn’t want to think of him in a positive light. “We must discuss how we will dissolve this marriage,” she said, setting aside the topic of childrearing for the larger one. “I think it will be a relatively simple matter, since it was never consummated. I know there are provisions for that sort of thing.”
His eyes darkened, and Phoebe instinctively straightened. Griffin’s blue eyes were like a summer sky: they told her a storm was coming. “You truly want to dissolve our marriage?” Not a trace of anger colored his voice, and his expression hadn’t changed. But . . .
“You needn’t be angry about it,” she said, meeting his eyes squarely.
“I am not angry.”
“You are lying to me, and I most dislike falsehoods. I would judge you furious, and without merit, I might add. I am not the one who absented myself from the country for years.”
“I apologize. You are correct. I do not wish to dissolve our marriage, and I find the idea . . . annoying.”
If that look in his eye was annoyance, she’d hate to be in the vicinity if he lost his temper.
Griffin was also thinking that he might have understated his reaction to her suggestion. “We could not dissolve the marriage on the grounds of non-consummation,” he said, keeping his voice even only with effort.
“Why not?”
“Because it would label the children as bastards.” Really, he felt he was behaving in a remarkably enlightened fashion. It was all very well for Shark to talk about a woman’s right to dally with other men, but Griffin himself was finding the whole concept quite difficult to come to terms with.
“Further, annulling the marriage would mean that I swore to being impotent,” he added. “And I’ve been impotent only once in my life.”
The moment Phoebe had lifted her veil in the church and he had seen her for the first time, panic struck. At twenty years old, she had been wildly sensual and far beyond a boy’s ken. Her hair was golden and her lips were rose, and she looked like the princess every man dreamed about. Worse, she was older than he. Unquestionably older.
He had felt a paralyzing wave of embarrassment. Naturally, that had been the beginning of the end.
“You’re even more beautiful than when we married,” he said abruptly.
She frowned. “What has that to do with anything? We are in an untenable situation. Mr. Sharkton just promised to take Colin to sea. I would rather die than see my children follow in the footsteps of a bloodthirsty pirate.”
He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. She was adorable. Formidable, but adorable.
“Why are you smiling?” she asked in a threatening tone. “Do you find the idea of injury to my children amusing?”
“No!” he said quickly. “Not at all. Never.”
“Right.” She paused, but he was happy to let her carry the conversation. “Why haven’t you seated yourself, Sir Griffin?”
“You called me Griffin earlier.” With a silent groan, he dropped himself into a chair. He missed the young body he’d had when they last saw each other, for all he had been skinny as a finger bone.
Sunshine was pouring through the window behind her. It slid over her hair like warm honey, making every strand glow as if lit from within. Still, the bright light also revealed small lines at the corners of her eyes.
Phoebe had changed as well. There was something a bit sad about her now. Subdued. She hadn’t been subdued at their wedding; he would have remembered that.
“Griffin it is, then,” she said, nodding sharply. “Let’s return to the question of our marriage.”
“I shall not be arrested,” he said, “so that won’t work as an excuse for divorce. I’ve received a full pardon from the Crown.”
She snorted. “My father used to say that everything has its price.”
“It
is true that a ruby may have helped.” She was so delicate, perched on the edge of the chair. Her features were delicate, and her bones were delicate. . . . She looked like the ideal of English womanhood.
She also looked skeptical, so he added, “The stone was approximately the size of the Prince Regent’s big toe.”
“I suppose it was stolen from someone?”
“We had it off a pirate’s ship, so it likely was stolen from somewhere, yes. But not by us.”
Her back became even more rigid. “While I am relieved to learn that my husband is not in imminent danger of imprisonment, it doesn’t solve our current problem.”
“Right.” Griffin sprawled out in his chair, trying to make it look as if he were comfortable, whereas in fact his leg was in flames.
“If you’re in that much pain,” she said, “perhaps you should stand up again.”
“Standing doesn’t help.” How the devil had she known when he was angry, and known again when he was in pain?
He pounded his thigh to get the muscles to relax. “I don’t see what makes our marriage so problematic. If we dissolve the union on the grounds of non-consummation, it would label your children bastards.”
The word fell sharply from his lips, although he didn’t mean it so. Somehow in the last few minutes he had made up his mind. It had been her right to have children, given his long absence. Which meant they were now his children. It didn’t hurt that Colin was just the sort of plucky, brave boy he liked.
Phoebe seemed frozen in her chair. Naturally, it would be difficult for her to discuss her infidelity.
“I won’t say that I wouldn’t have preferred that you waited to have children until I returned,” he continued. “But you had no idea that I might ever come back, and frankly, had I not received this injury, I might have continued aboard ship until I lost my life at sea. If I remember correctly, you are now thirty-four.”
“Yes. Rather old to have children,” she said, her voice wooden.
“Given your age, I suppose that you and I might never have children. Therefore, I should thank you for taking the precaution to provide me with heirs.”
“Does it not bother you?” The words came out like something of a croak.
“Yes,” he said frankly. “Of course it bothers me that my wife slept with another man during my absence.” Even saying the words made a feeling of near madness rise up his spine. “But how can I blame you? We were married for less than a day. I didn’t even remember your name correctly. I named my ship after you, you know: the Flying Poppy.”
“It’s unfortunate that was not my name,” she said dryly. “Or perhaps fortunate; the Flying Phoebe sounds absurd.”
Exhibiting a remarkable stubbornness, she added, “But surely you want children of your own, Griffin. My advanced age precludes that, and combined with non-consummation, I am certain that the courts will agree to an annulment.”
“Do you see me telling a court that I am impotent?”
Her eyes drifted uneasily over his body. There was a powerful surge of attraction between them, whether she wanted to acknowledge it or not. For whatever reason—probably some long-delayed response to their disastrous wedding night—the only thing he wanted to do was sweep her off to bed.
He wanted to kiss her until those pink lips were dark rose, leave bites all over her creamy skin, tease and stroke and lick her until she was writhing under him, gasping his name.
The way she was blushing, he might as well have spoken aloud every lusty idea that had run through his mind the moment he saw her.
“May I assume that you came straight here from London?” she asked.
Griffin nodded. He was trying to decide how Phoebe would react if he simply picked her up and took her to bed. Enough conversation. She was no virgin, after all. That made it easier.
“I think we will all be more comfortable if you removed to your father’s manor while we work out this mess.”
“No.” The word came out like a bullet.
He wanted this wife of his. In fact, it came to him with an incandescent clarity that he wanted Phoebe more than he’d ever wanted any other woman. She was his, from the top of her buttery hair to the bottom of her no doubt dainty toes. “I see no grounds to dissolve the marriage.”
“Because—”
He interrupted her. “You have supplied the children that we lack. We will simply pick up where we left off.”
She stared at him, apparently dumbfounded.
Once again the feeling of rightness swept over him in a flood. Phoebe was his wife, and she would stay that way.
“I don’t care who you slept with. I will accept Colin and the other children as my own and treat them with the same love as if they had been. We bought this house about eight years ago, am I right?”
She nodded.
“It’s not entailed, and I have several fortunes—none entailed, for obvious reasons. Money will not be a problem. We can establish all three children in the world.” He narrowed his eyes. “Acceptance into the gentry might be more difficult. What has your experience been?”
“What experience?” she asked, knitting her brow.
“In polite society,” he clarified.
Her mouth curled in something like disdain. “I never bothered with that. I have friends. Family.”
“You never bothered with society,” he echoed, stunned. “But that’s—that’s what you married me for.”
“You are mistaken,” she replied, chin held high. “That’s what my father bought you for. I disappointed him in that respect. I would never fit into that world, and I wouldn’t want to.”
“Phoebe,” he said, schooling his voice to gentleness, “you are Lady Barry, for all you wish to deny it.”
She shrugged. “No one I care about is interested in that sort of thing. And please, don’t address me by the title. I don’t consider myself your wife, not after a fourteen-year separation.”
Griffin shifted his weight to the other hip. He’d stopped trying to disguise the pain.
“What happened to you?” she asked. “Was part of your leg eaten by a shark? Or did you lose it in a battle? I can see that it gives you quite a bit of pain. Will that improve, over time?”
“I still have the whole leg, though it took a slash from a rapier and the wound became infected. But it’s getting stronger every day.”
She shifted too, as if in sympathetic pain. “I am grateful for your forbearance in the matter of my children. But I do not wish to be married to you.”
She said it quietly, but emphatically. As if the outcome of their marital debacle were her decision, and her decision alone.
“You did not buy this house,” she added. “I did. My father left me a great deal of property. You will find that I have never touched the money that Mr. Pettigrew deposited for my allowance.”
For at least the third time that day, he was struck by the poverty of his vocabulary. What was a man to say upon learning that his wife had taken nothing from him over the years? That she had not only rejected his support but indeed hadn’t needed him at all? Whatever the feeling was, it ran through him like molten steel, taking his breath away. “Why?” he managed.
She met his eyes with no apology. “I refuse to live on the spoils of piracy.”
“Then you will be happy to know that the spoils of piracy, such as they were, are long gone. The fortune I bring home with me derives partly from privateering—which is not piracy—but primarily from the proceeds of imports and exports.”
“I do not wish to be married to a pirate.”
He started up from his chair. “It’s too late for that, Poppy.”
“My name is Phoebe!” she hissed.
He loomed over her. “I forgot.” Her head tipped back, yet there wasn’t a trace of fear in her eyes. For the past decade, grown men had trembled in his presence. They had caught a
glimpse of his tattoo and pissed in their breeches.
Not Phoebe.
Not his wife.
“Move aside,” she said. “You cannot bully me!”
“I see that.” Joy was sweeping up through his veins. With one swift movement he picked her up and dropped her on the bed before the sound of her gasp had left the air.
She put her hands against his chest and shoved. “Stop it!”
She smelled like rose blossoms after a rain, an quintessentially British smell that he hadn’t even remembered until now. He braced his arms on either side of her head, gazed down at her furious face, and declared, “I want to stay married.”
“Not even a pirate gets everything he wants!”
“Why not?” He bent down and nuzzled her neck. He felt the shock of his touch reverberate down her body. “I like you. And you’re damn beautiful. Why not stay married?”
“Because I don’t want to!” she said in a near shriek.
“How can you know until you try it?”
“I don’t want to try it. You don’t understand. I have a life here. I have children; I have friends. There’s no place for—for you.”
Her words punctured the sensual haze that had his hands hovering just below her breasts. No place for him?
There was a faint, hollow ring within his chest every time he heard the word home. He didn’t belong in the world of his father, that of titles, and noblesse oblige.
Nor did he belong on board ship, not anymore. That life was over.
Poppy—no, Phoebe—was his home, his new home. Even if she didn’t want to acknowledge that.
He straightened. Tousled hair spread around her face. She looked vulnerable and unbearably desirable. His fingers trembled to pet and caress her until she was as aroused as he was.
So much for the impotence of their wedding night. He’d had an erection from the moment she entered the room.
“Very well,” he said, falling back a step.
She sat up, stark relief on her face. “You’ll be happier in London, Griffin. People there are more sophisticated than they are here. Why, they probably won’t turn a hair at that mark on your cheek.”