In the Widow’s Bed Page 10

  Dressed and refreshed to face the evening gathering, Jonathan strolled down the main staircase and along to the billiard room. He received some odd looks from the few gentlemen in the chamber, but they kept to themselves and their game.

  Jonathan turned away to pour himself a drink.

  “I’ll have one too, Selwood,” Warminster requested as he swept into the room. Jonathan poured it and then turned. The glass slipped through his fingers a bit. He tightened his grip and crossed to his friend.

  Warminster had outdone himself on this last day. Pearl encrusted waistcoat, buckles on his shoes. The brilliant white satin blinded. No one could possibly take him seriously after this. While the man entertained his guests, jovially dragging Jonathan into the group and proving that the morning’s gossip wholly unsubstantiated. He laughed along with the jokes. But his mind stayed fixed on Phoebe until they were summoned for dinner.

  Unfortunately tonight, Warminster had placed him further along the table than he’d like, but he only occasionally caught Phoebe’s eye. He sat between Lady Weston and Lady Beecham, two of the elder guests in attendance who gossiped around his head as if he wasn’t there. When the dinner ended, they all trooped toward the ballroom to await the local guests.

  Jonathan seized the moment to pull Phoebe from the room, and out into the moonlit garden. “I thought that meal would never end,” he whispered as he curled his arm around her waist to draw her deeper into the shadows of a large tree.

  “Warminster must entertain lavishly.” Phoebe wriggled against him provocatively, encouraging his hands to travel her back and then swoop low.

  “I missed you today.”

  Instead of answering, his lover turned, captured his face between the palms of her hands and drew his head down. The first touch of their lips pulled a contented sigh from her, so Jonathan set about pleasuring her mouth. As usual, Phoebe clung to his arms, and then wound hers tight about his neck, pressing against the thickening length of his erection.

  Jonathan broke the kiss and buried his face in the crook of her neck. They swayed like that for quite some time, and then he moved Phoebe so her back was to the tree and captured her fingers. She never wore rings. The smooth skin was unmarked by any man’s gift.

  “I had a pretty speech prepared for this moment, but the long and somewhat flowery words seem to have frozen on my tongue. Marry me, Phoebe. Say yes and be my bride.”

  Phoebe tugged her fingers from his grip. “No!” She moved away from the tree and him before he could recapture her fingers. “Absolutely not!”

  No matter how hard he’d prepared himself, her outraged refusal cut. What was so wrong with the idea of marriage to him? She would be adored, included in his whole life, not pushed to the side with no consideration as she was now.

  As Phoebe backed further away, glancing left and right nervously, his temper rose. Good enough to fuck but not good enough to be seen with as an equal. Was she that embarrassed of what they’d shared? “This cannot come as too big a shock. I’m in love with you. Can you not see that?”

  Phoebe shook her head violently. “It’s just lust. Nothing more. A man your age shouldn’t tie himself to an old woman.”

  Jonathan cut off her words with a sharp hand movement. “Enough about your age. You are a beautiful intelligent woman. Can you not see that the numbers are meaningless where there is love?”

  “I never said I loved you,” she whispered.

  Jonathan’s heart stopped. She didn’t love him? Not at all?

  As he watched her fidget, his unease grew. He had poured all his love into those stolen moments, determined to show her how much he cared. She hadn’t allowed anything else. He should have realized that his affection wasn’t returned by the furtive way she had kept their burgeoning relationship. Jonathan looked away, insides curling in knots.

  “I am sorry Jonathan. I never meant to mislead you about the future, but you belong with someone much younger.”

  Pain tightened his chest unbearably. He forced air into his lungs, blinking rapidly to clear his vision.

  Phoebe stepped closer. “Jonathan?”

  “Do you imagine I’ll be happy with someone like the Clifford chit? They’re all like that. Never a care for the man, only after a title to elevate them in society.” Jonathan’s hands curled into fists as he fought to contain his emotions. “Madam, I suggest you return to the house. Someone might wonder where you are. We simply can’t have that can we, Lady Warminster?”

  At that, Jonathan’s composure threatened to break. He strode away, around the house and off into the night without a backward glance for his fractured future.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A dull ache had spread to every part of Phoebe’s body, draining the last of her composure away. Her gloomy chamber mocked her with its emptiness and tantalizing memories of delicious pleasure.

  Daybreak was lightening the horizon, but at a snail’s pace to ensure she suffered enough. Phoebe welcomed the discomfort because she deserved every bit of pain for what she’d done to Jonathan Oliver. He’d wanted far more than possible. He’d wanted everything and more. Yet in time he would learn that a young man deserved better than a barren old woman to wed.

  He deserved someone unafraid to love him in return.

  Phoebe turned her gaze to the gardens, not really appreciating the view. The maze was wreathed in clinging shadows, making it seem sinister and evil to her eye. At least the maze held no memories of Jonathan. Perhaps she’d be able to go there to forget the memories of his determined seduction—a seduction that had claimed her heart.

  She’d lied to him, of course.

  In truth, that was the only choice she had. Although the pain of denying her love for him had twisted her insides in knots, a clean break would set him free and in time he’d forget all about her. But she wouldn’t forget him.

  The sound of movement carried from the next room.

  Phoebe’s breath caught at the creaks and bumps from the adjoining bedchamber. Her spine stiffened. Last night she hadn’t dared crawl into bed to sleep the night alone. The pristine bedding mocked her as she sat where she’d rested since she’d stumbled into the room last night, wounded by her own decision to refuse Jonathan’s astonishing offer of marriage.

  But there was no rest possible on this horrible morning because in a few short hours, minutes perhaps, Jonathan would leave his bedchamber and she would quite likely never see him again.

  During the night she’d made the decision to leave Moreton Hall.

  Although her plan was more cowardly than kind, he would be spared any further discomfort of meeting with her again. Perhaps he would appreciate that she took herself away, yet her relocation would spare her pain too.

  In the next room Jonathan moved about restlessly, and the ache of longing pricked her conscience. She’d wounded them both last night in order to save herself later. Any woman he married needed to supply him with an heir. And for a brief moment yesterday she’d dreamed conceiving might be possible.

  Yet she’d never birthed or even come close to carrying a child in the six years of her marriage. And it was not as if her husband hadn’t attended her enough either. Five years of such constant attention should have been ample to make her belly swell. But in the sixth year, when the nursery finery had been returned to the attic, Warminster had shunned her bed, resigned to her barren state. The memories of those horrid last months, when he’d turned elsewhere for his pleasure had returned to haunt her last night. How cruel men could be when thwarted.

  The walls rattled with the slamming of a door and then the chamber next door fell silent. Panicked that Jonathan moved further away, Phoebe stood on shaky legs. But movement within the maze caught her eye and she turned to see two figures running for the house. Curious, she pressed her hand to the hazy glass to determine which furtive lovers they might be.

  Yet her mind could not believe the sight at all. It stuck fast on the absurdity and drove away her pain. The gentleman in white silk glowed bright aga
inst the dark garden, the woman blended in with her dark green gown. But there was no mistaking her coltish tendencies as she kept pace with Warminster. No misunderstanding of the young woman’s clinging regard as they disappeared from sight beneath her window.

  Lizzy and Warminster!

  Phoebe pressed her hand to her mouth to cover a moan.

  She squeezed her eyes and saw those smiling faces once more in her mind, turned to each other with joy. Pain sliced through her chest. Jealousy beat at her composure. So Lizzy would get a husband after all. But Warminster’s gaudy manners and form at her side for all to see was not what Lizzy had originally planned. She was brave to take on Warminster, much braver than Phoebe had ever been. She pushed the envy aside, embarrassed that she could be jealous of her friend’s happiness. She’d chosen her path herself, a life of her own choosing. She’d make her own rules.

  Determined to cease her wallowing, Phoebe snatched open a draw, hunting for fresh clothes for the day. But instead she found Jonathan’s cravat where she’d hidden it just yesterday, before the mischief Lady Jocelyn had tried to create.

  Hands shaking, breath churning erratically, she lifted the linen to hold it to her face. That scent, clean, warm and distinctly Jonathan brought her pain rushing back. She fell to her knees in agony just as footsteps rumbled beyond her doors. Servants, by the sound, coming for Jonathan’s things to speed his return to Dalemain Court. Phoebe held the cravat tight to her chest, rocking on her knees as his trunks were collected and taken away.

  After the silence of long minutes, a tear trailed down her cheek. Determined not to appear any more foolish for weeping on her knees, Phoebe clambered to her feet before her maid found her sitting in this dramatic, foolhardy way.

  So she’d had rules for taking a lover? Jonathan had met all with ease. Clean, experienced, discreet and not adverse to a clandestine tryst. Yet that last one niggled because she’d been proud to be on his arm. Was it really so bad to be adored by a younger man? Was it unforgivable to find what might be true love after all this time?

  ~ * ~

  “So this is quite a surprise,” Jonathan replied, trying his best to appear happy. Before him stood his sister and his best friend, Warminster, each slightly rumpled with small twigs and leaves stuck to their hair.

  “With your permission, we’d like to marry. I’ve convinced Elizabeth that it must be St. George’s Church and no where else.” Warminster lifted Lizzy’s knuckles to his lips and pressed a lingering kiss there. “I want the whole world to see who captured me and encouraged me into more sober habits. By the way, I’m retiring.”

  Warminster’s infatuated smile and declaration turned the knife in Jonathan’s heart. He wanted so much to be happy for them, yet his own disappointment dampened his reactions. His face ached with the strain to smile. “Congratulations again.”

  Lizzy peered at him, probably wondering at his awkward flat tone. To conceal his pain, he gathered her in his arms and hugged her tight, hiding his face and hopefully conveying without words his consent for the match.

  “Je vous remercie beaucoup, frère.”

  “Juste être heureux, enfant,” he whispered in return.

  When he let her go, Warminster quickly recaptured her attention, carefully plucking out the small leaf matter from her hair and pressing them into Lizzy’s palm with a laugh. Jonathan turned his back on their obvious affection, breathless with the need to scream out his agony.

  A door creaked behind him, but he didn’t need to turn to see who entered. Lizzy’s delighted shriek to Phoebe stilled his heart. He willed himself to turn, to join the merriment and ignore the pain of Phoebe’s refusal to love him in return. Yet his feet wouldn’t move. He took steadying breaths as yet more voices joined in congratulating the happy couple, the noise of the conversations rising steadily. Phoebe sounded happy over the engagement. Far happier than he. A knot of cold dread swept over his skin. Would she laugh off his declaration of love now as if it mattered little? He couldn’t bear that and, knowing he must, he spun on the spot to face the room. And her.

  But Phoebe was already watching him, standing between him and the house guests crammed into Warminster’s study to gawk at the newly betrothed couple. His fingers curled into tight fists as she approached and despite his best intentions, he drank in her presence.

  The dark demure gown and severe coiffure didn’t dampen her affect on his senses. When she drew close, he inhaled sharply to imprint her scent on his soul, noticing as he did the dark circles beneath her eyes. Her hands lifted to his chest, and then slid slowly upwards toward his shoulders. She rose to her toes, lifting so their faces were closer, and his hands automatically curled over her hips to steady her.

  The small gasp she uttered skimmed across his lips and he swallowed at the tension between them, the tightening of every pore as desire licked up his spine.

  “I lied,” she whispered, and then pressed her lips tight together.

  Jonathan’s heart clattered in his chest as he brushed his thumbs over her waist. Hope, that foolish emotion, gripped him. “Why?”

  “Afraid,” Phoebe whispered as her gaze dropped. “You’ll cast me aside one day for someone more youthful. My husband flaunted his mistress before me when I failed to conceive. It hurt.”

  Surprised by that bit of information, by the cruelty her husband had inflicted by not loving Phoebe as she deserved, Jonathan drew her closer, forcing her to take one more step into his arms.

  Slowly, he spread his fingers over her back, cradling her tight against him. “Perhaps I should be afraid that someday you might replace me with a younger man, one with more stamina than a bull. I’ll get old too. And the men in my family have a sad tendency to lose their hair.”

  As he’d hoped, a small laugh escaped her over his last confession, breaking the tension altogether. A mischievous smile lifted her lips. “Well then, I’d better enjoy my hold while I can—seeing as how it’s merely temporary.”

  Like the sun rising on the horizon, Phoebe rose again to capture his lips, hands sliding through his hair, nails scratching across his skull to hold his head close for her kisses. His heart that just moments before had felt battered and bruised relaxed as Phoebe claimed him before witnesses, pronouncing an end to their discreet liaison.

  “Should I plan for a double wedding, Selwood?” Warminster asked cheekily.

  Wild applause drowned out Jonathan’s less than friendly response.

  THE END

  Thank you so much for reading In the Widow’s Bed. I hope you enjoyed it! Please consider leaving a review—either positive or negative. Reviews help other readers find a book that’s right for them.

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  About the Author

  Bestselling historical author Heather Boyd believes every character she creates deserves their own happily-ever-after, no matter how much trouble she puts them through. With that goal in mind, she weaves sizzling English set love stories that push the boundaries of regency era propriety to keep readers enthralled until the wee hours of the morning. Brimming with new ideas, she frequently wishes she could type as fast as she conjures new storylines. While writing full time north of Sydney, Australia, Heather collects dust bunnies in all corners of the house and does her best to wrangle her testosterone-fuelled family into submission.

  For more information visit

  www.heather-boyd.com

  Also by Heather Boyd

  The Distinguished Rogues Series:

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  Broken

  Charity

  An Accidental Affair

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  Engaging the Enemy

  Forsaking the Prize

  Guarding the Spoils

  Hunting the Hero

  Miss Mayhem Series:

  Miss Watson’s First Scandal

  Miss George’s Second Chance

  The Hunt Club Chronicles:

 
Almost an Equal

  Barely a Master

  Hardly a Stranger

  Novella/Short stories:

  One Wicked Night

  Wicked Mourning

  In the Widow’s Bed

  Love Me Tender

  Love Me True

  The Almack’s Alternative