Scandalous Innocent (9 page)

‘But I hated you too much for it ever to settle anything,’ she whispered.

‘Yes. And now? Will you give me another chance? Will you let me show you what a good choice I am, if I tread very carefully, wee lass?’

Her lips struggled not to laugh at his turn of phrase, but there was something in what he said that took her by surprise. ‘Never been a moment?’ she said.

‘Never. I swear it. I want you. Forget the worshipping the ground remark. I was angry and fired up. I’ll settle for affection, if that’s all I’m worth.’

‘No,’ she said, touching the wave of hair that swept his brow.

‘No?’

‘No. I think I can probably do more than affection, Sir Leo, if I try.’

Chapter Five

I
n a village the size of Richmond that had just begun to expand after the demolition of the beautiful royal palace, it was never going to be possible to keep secret the irregularities of the few nobility who lived there. They and their activities were, after all, one of the main topics of gossip, along with marriage, birth, illness and death and, of course, the weather.

Sir Leo Hawkynne’s purchase of one of the larger houses built beside the River Thames overlooked the one and only ferry and was therefore known to everyone. As they stood on the ferry-boat, they had time to scrutinise the scaffolding and builders’ huts, and to comment on the daily progress of the alterations and extensions, and when at last the building was revealed with its garden sloping down to the river, its summerhouse and steps and all the details that came with wealth, there were plenty of envious mutterings about his bricks being reclaimed from the old palace itself. It was quite untrue, as it happened, but when tongues stopped wagging about that, they began to wag about the women he’d taken to live with him.

After a few days, however, the gossip abated, for Mistress Laker and her kindly companion were not at all like men’s usual mistresses, who’d taken to flaunting themselves at every opportunity. Some said she and Sir Leo had married, but that also was untrue, Mistress Laker having decided at the outset that she would take full advantage of her host’s hospitality to find out exactly what kind of a man he was who could abduct a woman on her own doorstep and get away with it. In broad daylight.

No longer doubting his sincerity in wanting to marry her, the sense of peace that came with this newfound knowledge was enough to calm all her doubts and fears. Now, there seemed to be no hurry to make something happen but to let it happen, naturally without the distressing rancour of the previous weeks. She began to laugh, to accept his teasing without retaliation, to allow him to impress her as he obviously wanted to do.

With Ferry House she was impressed from the start, with its views across the river and countryside, its white moulded ceilings reflecting the light, large airy rooms furnished with a distinct lack of tassle and fringe, decoration without fussiness and not a naked or gilded cherub to be seen anywhere. Polished oak and pine, antique rugs and stout Scottish-made cupboards might have been rather outdated, but the way the older heirlooms blended with newer pieces, pale curtains and cushions, was nothing short of inspired. Phoebe’s own beautiful room that overlooked the river and the road to Twickenham was conveniently placed next to one for Mrs Overshott, and a smaller dressing-room closet for Constance.

But after the first two days, Mrs Overshott declared that she would return to Mortlake to keep an eye on things during Phoebe’s absence. She promised to visit them regularly, to bring whatever was needed, to join them for dinner occasionally and to accompany Phoebe whenever propriety demanded. Otherwise she believed they would do well enough without her.

Until then, they had stayed within the confines of the house and gardens, having much to occupy them, especially outside. It was the kitchen garden, Phoebe discovered, that was still in a mess, the builders having trampled it down to construct a new kitchen, stillroom, dairy and laundry on that side of the house, stables and coach house on the other. Plans for a new garden were drawn, materials listed, plants ordered, and Phoebe’s nights were restful with the sleep of physical exhaustion. While Mrs Overshott had been with them, conversation had been kept to general and domestic matters, which Sir Leo thought rather too safe. There were things about his guest he wanted to know, yet it was with an extraordinary feeling of guilt mixed with relief that they waved Mrs Overshott off to Mortlake and wandered down to the river garden like children left without parental control.

‘So,’ Phoebe said, ‘one prisoner released and the other retained. Am I still your prisoner, Sir Leo?’

‘Indeed you are, mistress, although I hope you don’t feel like one. Do you?’

‘Deliciously so, I thank you, sir.’

He chuckled, opening the door of the little gazebo that perched like a pepper-pot on the very edge of the lawn where a wooden retaining wall shored up the bank. Round the hexagonal walls, cushions were set on benches below the leaded windows, and a small table in the centre had been laid with a silver coffee-pot and dainty mugs that seemed to complement the rustic setting and Phoebe’s faded blue cambric gown. ‘Then since you are mistress of the house, perhaps you would pour out the coffee. I seem to recall that the last time we were in a similar riverside location, you were not quite so relaxed.’

Frowning, she handed him one of the mugs. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I’d rather not think about that.’

‘Why, lass? Because of the two halfwits, or because I was there?’

Things had moved on since then, not so long ago in days, but certainly in relationships. She had been on edge, ready to leave Ham House, ready to fly off the handle, and tense with the premonitions of a showdown after Sir Leo’s first approach. In the viewing-platform at Ham, he had gallantly come to her rescue and his touch had remained with her for hours. She knew it could not be the first time he’d pinned a woman’s sleeve, but she would never ask him if it was true that women begged for his favours, as she’d been told. If they did, she could well understand it.

‘Neither,’ she replied. ‘It was because I didn’t want you, of all people, to see that kind of disrespect. You were sure to think I had once allowed it, but I had not. You believed I was promiscuous, and I was not. I simply had friends, men and women, with whom I had easy outspoken relationships, as we do at Court, with music and dancing and…yes…some flirting, too. There was nothing wrong. Noisy, perhaps, but not wrong, and there was no immorality, either. They all knew, even those two halfwits, that I needed a houseful of people to mask the emptiness I felt.’ All this she said to the passing wherries on the river. The people on the ferry might just have been able to see her lips moving.

‘Emptiness, sweet lass? The loss of your family, you mean?’

‘I was only twelve when the plague came to London, and Mrs Overshott would not allow Tim or me near our parents once they became infected. How she survived it I have no idea, but she nursed them until…until the end. As you said, plenty of others suffered in the same way, but not to be allowed to say goodbye is…and to have no place…’ Her voice trailed away, tightened by the memory of loss.

‘Hush, lass. Say no more.’ He came to sit beside her and took her in his arms, cradling her head upon his shoulder. ”Tis a terrible thing indeed. You were a close family?’

‘They were wonderful parents,’ she said, holding his hand over her cheek. ‘I didn’t realise it until I lost them. Then Tim in the following year. Our new home at Mortlake was to have been a safe haven, but when Tim went, it was like a reminder to me that I was supposed to make something of my life, and I had no idea what to do. Friends came to comfort me, and Mrs Overshott was always there for me to turn to, and as I grew older the house became a meeting place, rather like a glorified coffee house, for women as well as men.’

‘And then I opened my big mouth, just to help things along.’

Phoebe sat up, demurely, brushing back her mop of curls and hitching a finger into the neckline that had slipped further than it ought. ‘You were not the only one to comment on my range of friends, Sir Leo, but you can claim to be the first to hurt me. Don’t ask me why.’

‘I don’t need to ask you why,’ he said, softly. ‘I had seen you and I knew you’d seen me at Court, yet I could never get near you and you did your best to make sure I didn’t, fencing yourself in with your parasites.’

‘They were good friends. They were loyal.’

‘Yes, as long as you fed and watered them for nothing.’

‘I needed them.’

‘You needed a man, lass. And you were scared of me.’

‘You had a reputation too, you know. I expect you still do.’

‘Yes, for speaking plainly and truthfully. For treading on toes, like my master. Few Scots are born courtiers. You may blame the King’s grandfather for flooding England with them, but we’re here to stay. You’ll be marrying one.’

‘I don’t think I ever totally agreed to that, did I?’

‘No matter. I shall get an agreement from you before long, mistress.’ His face had moved closer as they quibbled, making her push back against the leaded panes until she could evade him no longer. His mouth brushed over hers, sending ripples of pleasure down to her knees, nudging and lapping at her lips until they parted under his as she closed her eyes.

‘You said,’ she whispered, ‘that you’d not lay a finger on me.’

‘I’m not doing that, wee lass. Am I?’ he murmured.

That time, it was to go no further, though a part of her wished it had. But she had begun to talk to him about herself and her lost family, which in itself was an unusual event. And because Phoebe had mentioned to Mrs Overshott that she might learn to play the lute, and because her brother’s instrument was still at home, it had been brought to Richmond along with her gowns and writing desk. So that evening, in the private garden, Sir Leo gave her a first rudimentary lesson on it, although it took him over an hour to tune its sixteen strings.

She was already proficient on the harpsicord and spinet, but the lute was not an easy instrument to play; after a time, he took it from her and began to accompany himself in a haunting song by Dowland. When he looked up, he saw that she was stifling sobs with her hand over her face.

Putting the lute aside, he drew her again into his embrace, rocking her gently. ‘What is it?’ he whispered. ‘Your brother?’

Mutely, she nodded, making a strangely forlorn sound in her throat.

‘I should have known. Every young lad sings that at some time.’

‘“Come again. Sweet love doth now invite,”’ she whispered. Had he chosen the song on purpose to offer her the chance he was waiting for?

He was close. Close enough to repeat those intimate caresses taken with her consent but without permission. And now, when the barriers had begun to fall, he waited for the signal she didn’t know how to give. Practised in the art of flirtation, she had never gone beyond that, and now in her inexperience she yearned to find out more from the only man she had ever wanted to show her. Her brother’s lute, her brother’s song, the man whose arms were around her, and the memories that had begun to hurt less, becoming sweet and beautiful in one peaceful summer evening soothed her anger. What reason was there to hold back now except how to find the way forwards? Lifting his hand, she closed his fingers into a fist and brought it to her mouth, kissing his knuckles with the lightest touch of her lips. ‘Was my fencing as bad as my lute-playing, Sir Leo?’ she said, coyly.

The question took him by surprise. ‘Och, lass! D’ye want the truth?’

‘No,’ she said, smiling. ‘Not if it’s as bad as that.’

‘I could have been put off easy enough by the lad’s clothes, you know. That was unfair. Affects a man’s concentration.’

‘Serves you right. It was the only advantage I had.’

‘Well,’ he deliberated, ‘your three years’ practice didn’t exactly give you the stamina of a grown man, did it, sweet lass? You’re still as soft as butter. And you don’t think like a fencer either, do you?’ The last words were spoken into her hair as his hand escaped from hers to pull carefully at the laces of her bodice, loosening it as if the mysteries of a woman’s dress were well understood.

It was the blue cambric gown without stays, and she felt the luxurious easing of her breasts as they were freed from constraint beneath her chemise, though never before with this kind of excitement. It was, she thought, as if he were urging her to permit this freedom by doing nothing to stop him, but by the time his hand had slipped through the unlaced bodice on to the soft warm linen, the very idea of stopping him was already far away, taking her reservations with it.

Burying her face into his shoulder, she trembled as his hand found her breast and held it as though, after all, he needed no permission. She heard his deep voice speaking into her hair, almost harsh with pent-up desire. ‘This is what I wanted to do, lass,’ he said, gently moving his palm across the nipple. ‘This…and this…taking a hand to ye, not a sword. It was the look of ye that made me sae mad. I wanted to tire ye with loving, not with sword-play. I could see your lovely body, and I wanted ye, there and then.’

‘But you cut my button off.’

‘Aye, lass. It was all I could do not to cut your shirt off. I
could
have.’

‘Brute.’

‘I could be a brute, too. It would be easy, with you. I could have thrown you down on that bed up there and taken what you were offering me.’

‘I was
not
offering—’

‘No, and you were not saying nay either, were you?’

‘Don’t, Leo.’

‘Don’t what? This…or this?’ Tender and beguiling, his words accompanied the deftness of his fingers as he drew the chemise away to join the wide-open bodice, revealing her nakedness to the fading light and the new stars. ‘Ah, Phoebe! You came within an inch of losing everything except your anger, that time. But I didn’t want you like that, I wanted you like this. Soft in my arms. Trembling for me, not half-dead with fighting, and not afraid of me, as you were.’

With half-closed eyes, she turned her head to watch his hand move over her skin, capturing first one breast and then the other, teasing the buds with his lips, sending hot waves of desire through her body. It was true, she had feared him, the Duke’s man, his scathing tongue, his authority, his experience of women older and more worldly than her. In love with him even then, she had kept him on the edge of her dreams, only reluctantly allowing him in, wanting yet hating, hurt by his dismissal of her as being hardly worth the chase. She had wept, having no means of redress except to show him how wrong he was.

‘Have you kept me waiting long enough now?’ he said, raising his head to look at her. ‘Shall I show you what you’ve been missing?’

‘I wanted to be sure, Leo. I had to be sure. I have too much to lose.’