The Accidental Bride Read online

  A door burst open to the right of the hall and a thin young woman with a shock of orange hair, a mass of freckles, and bright green eyes seemed to leap into the hall. She was wearing leather riding britches, boots, a white linen shirt, and doublet. Cato found nothing surprising in this attire. Portia Worth had been married in britches on a battlefield with a sword at her hip.

  “Oh, Lord Granville, I do beg your pardon. If I’d known you were coming, I wouldn’t have let them loose like this. You must have wondered if you’d come to the right house.” She came towards him, holding out her hand.

  Cato took it and leaned over to kiss his niece. “It had crossed my mind.”

  “It’s been raining, you see, and they haven’t been able to go out.” Portia offered the explanation with a cheerful smile.

  “They were about to launch this little one hurtling to perdition down the banisters.” He regarded her quizzically, reflecting that marriage to the earl of Roth bury had wrought no obvious changes in his half brother’s illegitimate daughter. She looked no different now from the scrawny, undernourished creature who’d turned his house upside down that memorable first winter of the war.

  “Oh, they’re very careful of her,” she said blithely, taking Eve from him. “But she really doesn’t like to be left out.”

  “Mmm. Her mother’s daughter,” Cato repeated, half to himself.

  Portia’s responding grin was complacent. “She’s Rufus Decatur’s daughter too, sir.”

  “Is your husband here with you?” A note of gravity entered his quiet voice.

  “No,” Portia answered in much the same tone. “He left us at the gates. He had business in London. A meeting with Lord Manchester about pressing men for the army. Rufus is not in favor,” she added.

  “Neither am I, but I see little choice,” Cato responded. War talk with Portia was so natural he didn’t even realize how unusual it was for him to share such thoughts with a woman.

  “He said he’ll come back for us at the end of the week.”

  Cato nodded. He and Rufus Decatur had buried the blood feud that had torn their lives and their families asunder for two generations. They had buried it on the battlefield when Portia Worth, Cato’s brother’s child, had married Rufus Decatur at a drumhead wedding. Now they would be courteous to each other in company, had worked together in amity in the interests of negotiating a peace between the king and his parliament and would do so again, but they would not seek each other out in private, and Rufus would no more accept Granville hospitality than Cato would accept his. But Rufus did not prevent his wife and his children from accepting that hospitality, and that was enough. The old vendetta would not touch the new generation.

  “My lord, you’re back. I wasn’t expecting you.” It had taken Phoebe a minute to compose herself at the unexpected sound of Cato’s rich, tawny voice. Now she hurried into the hall aware that her cheeks were warm and that the pulse in the base of her belly was beating a drumbeat of anticipation and delight.

  “I didn’t expect to be . . . careful!” Cato saw the danger in the nick of time and stepped forward just as Phoebe’s foot caught in the fringe of a tapestry rug. She tripped, arms flailing, and he grabbed for her before she tumbled in an ignominious heap.

  Instinctively Phoebe hung on to him, her arms tightly encircling his waist, and for a minute neither of them moved. She inhaled his scent, heard the beat of his heart beneath his jerkin, reveled in the firm hands planted squarely at her back. He had never held her before. Maybe clumsiness had its advantages, she thought wryly. At present it seemed the only way to achieve her heart’s desire.

  Then Cato righted her, his hands fell from her, and she was obliged to step back on her own two feet.

  “Your pardon, sir,” Phoebe said breathlessly. She managed a curtsy and tried to think of some appropriate greeting for a returning husband. “Did your business fare well, my lord?”

  Cato did not immediately answer. He surveyed her with a little frown. Something was wrong with her face. He peered at her a little more closely. Her mouth was blue with ink.

  “Is something wrong?” Phoebe asked a mite anxiously.

  “Have you been drinking ink?”

  “Oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I was writing my pageant.” She scrubbed at the stain, succeeding only in spreading blue across her chin. “I must have been sucking the wrong end of my quill.” She gave a little shrug as she examined her now blue palm. “It often happens when I’m concentrating.”

  Cato supposed it sufficient explanation. Phoebe certainly seemed to think so. He noticed absently how his wife was dwarfed by Portia’s height and, he thought, overshadowed by her vibrancy. Phoebe’s pale coloring and light hair were lost against Portia’s orange halo and bright green eyes. Not that one would ever consider Portia to be beautiful, and she certainly wasn’t pretty. But there was something striking about her.

  However, it occurred to Cato, rather to his surprise, that Phoebe didn’t lose on the comparison. Her style was altogether gentler, but it had its own appeal. Odd that he should have noticed it now for the first time despite the ink and her unprepossessing stuff gown that looked, like so many of her clothes, as if it had been made for her when she was an altogether different shape. Another example of Lord Carlton’s economy presumably.

  “As I was saying, I didn’t expect to be back so soon. But we stormed Basing House three days ago.” A shadow crossed Cato’s countenance. It had been a grim business. The house had held out and Cromwell had showed them no mercy once he’d forced their surrender. They’d put most of the garrison to the sword, taken the household prisoner, marching them away in chains. It would set an example for the other royalist houses holding out against their besiegers throughout the country. The war was now mostly one of sieges—a tiresome and long, drawn-out business that wasted manpower and resources. Cato understood the strategic importance of the lesson of Basing House, but he deplored it nevertheless.

  There was a thud behind him. The two boys had tired of adult conversation and had resumed their banister sliding. A gleeful shriek from the head of the stairs was joined suddenly by the insistent wail of a baby from somewhere above.

  “Oh, it’s Alex. He’s woken up.” Portia set Eve on the floor and hurried to the bottom of the stairs. “Luke, Toby, that’s enough now,” she instructed, to Cato’s relief. “You can go outside. It’s almost stopped raining.”

  With whoops of joy the boys raced for the front door, Juno plunging ahead of them. A manservant moved with alacrity to let them out.

  A nursemaid was coming down the stairs, a baby in her arms. Portia took the infant, who had stopped wailing and was regarding the occupants of the hall with grave blue eyes. His hair was as red as his father’s.

  “This is Viscount Decatur, sir.” Portia introduced her infant with maternal pride.

  So Rufus Decatur had a legitimate heir. Cato felt the sharp stab of envy. He glanced at Phoebe, whose speedwell blue eyes returned his look without so much as a flash of self-consciousness.

  “A handsome child,” he said with as much warmth as he could muster. “I’m glad you’ve had company in my absence, Phoebe. Is there anything else I should know about?”

  “Ah, well, yes . . .” Phoebe began with enthusiasm. “Gypsies. You should know about the gypsies, sir.”

  “And what should I know about them?”

  “I found two of their orphaned children in a ditch.”

  “A ditch?”

  “Yes, it’s a little complicated.” Phoebe pushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “But I know you’ll agree that I did the only thing I could do.”

  Cato remembered the cabbages. “Were you perhaps digging in this ditch when you found these orphans?”

  “No, of course not,” Phoebe said with some heat. “It was a ditch on the home farm and it was full of mud and water.”

  “Ditches do tend to be,” Cato murmured.

  “You are not being serious, sir,” Phoebe accused with that militant gleam
in her eye again. “It’s a very serious matter.”

  Cato ran his hand through his hair, ruffling the crisp dark thatch from the widow’s peak to his nape with the familiar gesture that as always made Phoebe’s belly lurch with desire.

  “I stand corrected,” he said dryly. “Perhaps we should continue this in my study.”

  He moved away from her across the hall to the door to his sanctum. Phoebe followed with impetuous step, her words preceding her.

  “You see, as I understand it, there had been a fight for leadership in the tribe, and the children’s father, who had been the chief, was overthrown in a knife battle and he died of his wounds. So his children were left in the ditch, because the new chief took his enemy’s wife for his own and he didn’t want the other children to be a threat . . . in case one of the other families in the tribe decided to challenge his leadership. Like Romulus and Remus exposed outside Rome.”

  Cato closed the door. “Why is my wife concerning herself with internecine strife among the Romanies?”

  “I could hardly leave the poor little things to die in the ditch,” Phoebe pointed out. “They were on your land, my lord, apart from any humanitarian considerations. You wouldn’t wish it said that—”

  “Now, justa minute, Phoebe. These are gypsies. They are not my tenants and they have no claims on my charity.”

  “Well, what’s that got to do with it?” Phoebe demanded. “They’re little children. Of course I had to help them.”

  “And just how did you help them?” Cato went to the sideboard to pour himself wine.

  “I fostered them in the village, but I had to promise that we would pay for their keep. No one has enough to spare for two more mouths. But you do.” She regarded him with the air of one who has delivered the coup de grace.

  “I don’t care for your tone, Phoebe, I’ve told you that before,” Cato said coldly.

  “Then I ask pardon, my lord. But when you seem not to understand the importance, how else can I make you see what has to be done?” Phoebe met his frigid gaze steadily.

  “And you are to be a judge of my actions, of course,” Cato said. “I think you have said all you can possibly have to say.” He bestowed a curt nod upon her and very deliberately picked up some papers on his desk.

  Phoebe hesitated, then she accepted her dismissal and left the study, closing the door with exaggerated care behind her.

  Cato let the papers fall to the desk. He felt as if he’d been run over by a juggernaut. Pathetic, starving, homeless orphans in a ditch! For God’s sake!

  He reached for the bellpull and paced the study until the summons was answered.

  “Send for the bailiff at once,” he ordered curtly. Presumably Phoebe would have informed the bailiff of her actions. The man would know where the children were housed and what outlay was necessary to keep them clothed and fed.

  Phoebe stood in the hall for a minute, wondering if she’d made any impact on Cato. But he’d dismissed her so firmly there wasn’t much else she could do at present. Where were Olivia and Portia?

  Portia was probably feeding the hungry Alex in the parlor. She ran up the stairs to the bedchamber, where she scrubbed the ink from her mouth with ferocious vigor. Then she made her way to the square parlor at the back of the house.

  Portia was ensconced on the deep window seat, Alex contentedly nuzzling her breast. Eve was sucking her thumb dreamily, leaning against her mother’s drawn-up knees.

  “This would be the very picture of a maternal idyll if you didn’t look so unlikely,” Phoebe observed. “Do you never wear dresses anymore?”

  “Only if Rufus expresses a preference,” Portia said with a wicked little grin. She moved Alex to her other breast.

  “Where’s Olivia?”

  “In her chamber reading Pliny, I believe.” Portia cast Phoebe a shrewd look as the other woman paced restlessly from the fireplace to the door and back again.

  “So, what do you think of the state of matrimony, then, duckie?” Portia inquired. “As I recall, you were as much agin it as I was.”

  “I still am,” Phoebe stated. “It’s damnable not to be your own person anymore, Portia. To belong to a husband.”

  Portia nodded her understanding. “Laws made by men are going to favor men,” she observed with a cynical smile. “But we aren’t helpless, you know. Even husbands can be cut to fit.”

  “Maybe . . . if they notice you exist,” Phoebe said tightly, coming to a halt by a worktable. She flipped open the lacquered lid of the workbox and began to trawl through embroidery silks with her fingers, not looking at Portia.

  “What do you mean?” Portia lifted the satiated baby and held him against her shoulder, patting his back.

  Phoebe’s color was high, but there was no one but Portia in whom she could confide.

  “Do people always make love in the dark, with the curtains closed, and they don’t say anything, and it’s all over so quickly, you barely realize it’s happened, and . . .?”

  “Wait! Wait a minute!” Portia interrupted the flow. “Is that what happens?”

  “Every night,” Phoebe said dismally. “And it’ll happen every night just like that until I conceive. He doesn’t find me appealing, don’t you see. How could he after Diana?”

  “Diana was a bitch . . . hard as nails,” Portia stated. “I expect she preferred the dark. She probably would have preferred it if it could have happened in her sleep when she didn’t know anything about it.” Her lip curled with scorn.

  This struck Phoebe as remarkably shrewd. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “Maybe Cato thinks I’m the same.”

  “But you’re not?” It was clearly a question.

  “No!” Phoebe cried. “No, I’m not. I ache, Portia. I’m so hungry for him to touch me. I want to see him naked, I want to touch him, every inch of him. I could eat him,” she added with another wail. “It’s such torment.”

  Portia’s jaw dropped slightly. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand the need, it just surprised her coming from Phoebe. “Are you saying you love Cato?”

  “Love, lust, I don’t know!” Phoebe dropped the lid of the workbox with a clatter. “All I know is that when I hear his footstep, my stomach drops. When he pushes his hair back with his hand in the way he does, my thighs go all quivery, and when he touches me, even accidentally, I start to thrum like a plucked lute. I turn into a jelly. I want him . . . all of him.”

  “Lord, that’s a powerful lust.” Portia cradled the now sleeping baby to her bosom, and reached with her free hand to stroke Evie’s pink curls. She was frowning, thinking of what torment it must be to feel what Phoebe had so graphically described and be unable to satisfy the hunger.

  “But what am I to do?” Phoebe demanded. “There must be some way I can get his attention . . . some way I can show him how I feel without disgusting him.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he’d be disgusted,” Phoebe said. “Flattered more like.”

  “But women of my . . . our . . . breeding aren’t supposed to feel desire like that.”

  “Your breeding, not mine,” Portia reminded her dryly. “I’m the bastard, remember. And anyway, breeding doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  “No,” Portia stated definitely. She regarded Phoebe thoughtfully for a minute. Then she said, “I think you have to do something dramatic.”

  “Yes, but like what?” Phoebe perched on the end of the table. She had the feeling Portia was about to unlock the key to Pandora’s box. Would it let loose a plague or a swarm of heavenly secrets?

  “Games,” Portia said. “Play.”

  This was not making sense. Phoebe stared at her.

  “Well, what I was saying earlier about Rufus’s preferences. Sometimes he likes me to dress in certain ways . . . or pretend to be some other kind of person . . . we play games. Sometimes I’ll surprise him by devising a play, a scene . . . oh, it’s hard to describe. But that’s what I think you have to do if you really want to get
Cato’s attention. You have to surprise him. Show him another side of yourself.”

  Phoebe’s eyes were very wide. She began to have an inkling of the possibilities. But supposing it didn’t work. Supposing Cato was horrified, disgusted. Supposing he found her so unappealing in any guise that . . .

  “It might be a bit risky,” Portia said, reading her mind. “I don’t know how straitlaced Cato is. Anyone who’d marry Diana has to be pretty rigid, I would have thought.”

  “He married Diana for the alliance with my father,” Phoebe pointed out. “Just as he married me. For that and an heir,” she added.

  “Mmmm.” Portia nibbled her bottom lip, thinking. “I have an idea,” she said, swinging her legs off the window seat. “We’ll try something first, just to see how he reacts.”

  “What?”

  “Clothes,” Portia declared, heading for the door, carrying Alex.”Bring Evie, will you? It’s time for her nap. And then I’ll show you what I mean.”

  Phoebe scooped up Eve and followed Portia, agog to discover exactly what Portia had in mind. But Portia said nothing until both children had been handed over to the nursemaid and Phoebe and Portia were in Portia’s chamber with the door firmly closed.

  “Now, do you have money?”

  “Money?” Phoebe frowned. “What do I need money for?”

  “To buy things with, of course. Rufus left me with some, but I don’t think it’s enough for what I have in mind.” Portia opened a small leather pouch and shook the contents onto the bedcover as she spoke. A shower of gold coins scattered over the green taffeta quilt.

  “Five guineas. It might do.”

  “I can’t use your money.” Phoebe was bewildered and growing impatient. “Even if I knew what it was for.”

  Portia hitched herself onto the end of the bed. “New clothes,” she said distinctly. “What you’re wearing now must have been made for you when you had no bosom or something.”

  “It was,” Phoebe agreed, unperturbed by this brutal truth. “My father didn’t believe in wasting money on my wardrobe. Diana’s was a different matter,” she added acidly. “But I’ve never really cared about such things. There’s too much else to think about.”