The Wrong Way to Catch a Rake, page 12
She wished she’d swung it. But that would lead to consequences. Another reminder that wishes were all well and good in one’s mind; they were not to be indulged in the real world. Such as wishing Dominic would do rather more when he returned to her room than guard her door. Oswald had been right—the dangerous moment had arrived and the real test was whether she could separate these two parts of her and protect both. She would have to try.
She went about her nightly preparation by rote, only pausing as she pulled a pin from her hair and watched it unroll over her shoulder. Her hair was one of her few vanities, but it made no odds. She was still, as that worm Clapton had said, nothing more than a plain Meg.
An ache, sudden and foreign, thumped inside her chest. Not her heart—something deeper—as if she’d long ago swallowed a box and whatever had lain dormant inside it had just given a sharp kick.
She pulled another pin and another thick tress slipped over her shoulder. What had Dominic said? Fox colours? He was being generous to her brown hair but she supposed in the sun it did have glints of fire.
Like her. She just needed some light shone on her.
She pulled out more pins, placing them on the small dressing table with its cracked paint. Then she raised her hands to braid it as she did every night, but stopped. No, not tonight. Instead she merely tucked one side behind her ear and went to change.
Her simple gown did not require a helping hand like Milly’s, and she soon slipped it off and laid it out.
Ten minutes.
She went to the ewer and pitcher of water and readied herself for bed, with a little more attention than usual.
She wished she understood Dominic. He was such a mass of contradictions. Was he being nice merely because he presumed she was upset and unsettled by what had occurred? Or was the memory of that kiss still there despite the way he’d ignored her earlier?
She took one last look at herself in the mirror. The ten minutes were almost up. She touched the little pearl pendant that hung from a plain silver necklace to nestle between her breasts and turned away from the mirror just as a soft knock sounded, followed by a hushed whisper.
‘May I enter?’
She opened the door before she could reconsider. He was still dressed, though he’d slipped off his coat, crushed cravat, and boots, and he carried a blanket and pillow and chair. The corridor, which led only to her and Milly’s room, was empty and dark and for a moment it felt as though he was being formed from the very essence of the night. She moved back to let him enter, too confused to even realise for a moment that he hadn’t moved.
‘Your... Do you sleep with your hair like that?’
She touched her hair again.
‘I haven’t had time to braid it,’ she lied.
He drew a deep breath and entered, arranging his chair and hers to face one another in front of the door and placing his pillow at one end. She inspected the arrangement.
‘You shall never fall asleep on that.’
‘I’ve slept under bridges, over bridges, in gondolas... You name it, I’ve probably slept there.’
‘That is different. I dare say you were drunk. You aren’t very drunk any more.’
‘True. I’m trying to be on my best behaviour and not make a fool of myself any more than I have. I’ll manage. I really have slept on worse.’
‘During the war?’
He glanced back at her and away. ‘Yes. If there is one thing a soldier’s march teaches you it is to snatch sleep when you can, regardless of comfort. Shouldn’t you braid your hair?’
‘Why are you so worried about my hair?’
‘Worried isn’t quite the right word.’
‘Oh, very well. I’ll braid it.’ What had she expected? For him to be overcome with lust at the sight of her hair? Ridiculous.
She sat on the side of her bed and set to work, fuming silently at herself. It took a moment for the quality of the silence behind her to penetrate her maudlin thoughts. He was still standing by the chairs, his hands unnaturally rigid by his side, his eyes half veiled by his long lashes. He was so still he looked like a statue, except for the expression in his eyes. She froze as well. Or rather, she went as still as he, but inside her a great furnace opened, the heat scalding and scorching its way along her veins.
For the briefest moment sane and sensible Phoebe tried to grab the reins, but was shoved mercilessly off the driver’s seat by Rosie. She let her half-formed braid slip from her hands onto her chest, watching him as she teased one of the tresses free. Then another. His lashes flickered, lowered. He shook his head very slightly.
‘Phoebe...’
Phoebe. Not Rosie. Her little flash of bravado flickered and died and she turned her back on him again, cursing herself and him even more roundly than before. She’d thought she’d seen the same burning heat as last night in the deep blue of his eyes, but it was dark and she was an idiot...
A hand settled on her shoulder, warm and firm. She met his eyes in the mirror.
‘I’m here to protect you, Phoebe.’
She shrugged his hand off. ‘You’re here to soothe your conscience. I thought you might as well make yourself useful at the same time.’
He laughed faintly, but colour slashed across his cheekbones at the contempt in her voice.
‘You are truly unique, Rosie Prim. If I did... I would be no better than Clapton.’
‘There is no comparison. He forced his attentions on me. You are not forcing me. I am offering. If you don’t wish to, all you have to do is say so. Yes or no.’
She hadn’t meant to taunt him with his own phrase from last night, but when his eyes met hers again, narrowing, there it was—that heat. She hadn’t been wrong. She swallowed, her thighs pressing harder together.
‘Oh, I want to, Rosie.’
‘Then why not?’ she demanded, her voice far more uncertain than she would like. She dropped her gaze to the pile of pins on the dressing table and picked up her braid, wishing she was beautiful and seductive like Milly. Just for one night she wanted to know what it felt like to let go...to feel passion. Abandon. It was not right to go through life hiding from that side of herself, was it? Even agents of the Crown had a right to pleasure. Why must she deny herself something so essential to humans that it stood at the centre of literature and music and...and everything?
Just for tonight. Then she would be herself again. Sensible Phoebe. Oswald’s agent. The insubstantial Zephyr.
* * *
Why not?
If Dominic could summon his wits he was quite certain he could provide a thousand and one reasons why not. All he had to do was remember them. Even one would do. The problem was he hadn’t encountered this situation before. He’d never had to contend with someone who could make drums beat through his body with her laughter and then make those same drums fall into total chaos with a wistful look. It was like waking up in someone else’s body—unfamiliar, disorienting...
And there was his reason why not...
‘I told you. I don’t take lovers. I’m not a...a warm person.’
It worked. He watched her face in the mirror and saw the two serious lines appear between her brows. Good, he needed serious Phoebe here to counter Rosie and his own fraying sanity.
‘So you said when we were at Montillio’s, but I don’t even know what that means.’ Her voice was sulky and he very much wanted to lean down and kiss the curve of her shoulder where her plain nightgown was slipping a little. Instead he focused on the truth once more.
‘It means I can do without...this. Physical relations. I’ve never found it as compelling as most men. I don’t mind the game and I’ve learned to play it well, but mostly it isn’t worth the bother. I was always cold.’
She looped a long strand of hair around her finger, frowning at him in concentration. She looked...adorable. His stomach gave that strange inward twist again that seemed to be a reaction it had developed solely for her. In truth he didn’t feel cold right now. He didn’t feel like himself at all. He felt about to combust like a ball of crushed, dry paper tossed onto a fire of his own making.
‘I don’t quite understand,’ she said, her voice both prim and uncertain, but her eyes flickered to his and then stayed. ‘I thought you said... But... Do you mean to say...you...uh...cannot...?’
She floundered and he couldn’t help it, he laughed. ‘I can, that isn’t the issue.’
‘Then is...is it that you prefer men? I have seen the way they watch you, just as much as the women do. You needn’t be afraid to tell me. I know I am not experienced like Milly, but that does not mean I am ignorant or...or a prude or anything.’
He felt a little prudish himself right now, which was ridiculous. He owed her the truth, which was strange, because he didn’t owe her anything. Right now, with her big golden eyes branding him he felt compelled to answer. Both her and himself.
‘I don’t... Usually I’m... God, this is hard.’ He took a deep breath and plunged in. ‘I don’t prefer anyone, Phoebe. I won’t say I haven’t used the fact that both men and women appear to be attracted to me, but the truth is that I am mostly...indifferent. I can take it or leave it. Mostly I leave it. I know what people say about me, but I’m not a passionate person. I do my damnedest to ensure I give pleasure when I do, well, have, uh, relations, but usually I prefer to do it myself. It’s less of a bother, and even then I can do without it for long periods. In any case, I think it boils down to the fact that I don’t like people very much. Most people at least.’
He was sinking deeper and deeper into embarrassment, but he had to be clear that his reluctance had nothing to do with her.
‘But kissing is different?’
‘Different from what?’ he asked, confusion joining his embarrassment.
‘Well, you said you wanted to kiss me...on the balcony...at Montillio’s. Is that different for you from—’ she cleared her throat ‘from copulation?’
He ought to lie. It would be so much simpler. He opened his mouth, fully intending to try. But the words stuck and he gave up.
‘I have no idea. I don’t usually enjoy kissing either. There are exceptions. Apparently you’re one. A substantial one. The truth is I’m so damn hard right now I don’t think I’ll be able to sit down. But that doesn’t change the fact that...’
She turned towards him, her hair fanning out over her shoulder and chest, catching what little light the candle on the mantelpiece bestowed on the room. ‘That what?’
That what, indeed? What on earth was wrong with him? For the first time in so damn long he was aching to bed someone. Aching. It was utterly foreign... Frightening.
‘You don’t want to bed a drunkard.’
She huffed and stood abruptly, stalking past him to pick up a dressing gown that hung from a peg by the wardrobe.
‘Pray do not tell me what I want or do not want.’ She shoved her arms in. ‘Have the courage to tell me what you want or not. Now it has been a long, long, long day and I’m exhausted. Good night.’
She blew out the candle and slipped under the covers, her back to him, her hair dark against the pillow.
Dominic stared at her. How the devil did she always manage to put him at a disadvantage? He ought to go to his makeshift bed and prove that he was indeed capable of sleeping anywhere, even with a raging erection.
He made it to the chairs only to turn back to the bed, where he sat down carefully on the edge. She said nothing. He placed his hand lightly on the pillow, close enough so that the tips of her hair brushed the side of his little finger. The tingle shot up his arm and he grimaced. He was as sensitive as a babe.
He closed his eyes, hoping for some answer from within, but the only things inside him were thumping heat and need and an almost sick feeling of impending loss.
A hundred voices ganged up on the one voice that was begging him to raise the cover, slide in, gather her warmth against him. He was bound to ruin this. It was beyond his experience. It was wrong. Let her sleep...
‘Phoebe.’
She turned in the darkness, her eyes luminous and dark.
‘I’m not much for courage in these matters, but the truth is that I do want you. But not like this. Not while I can still hear that bastard’s voice in my head and see you clutching the candlestick with fury in your beautiful eyes. I want you to want me because you do want me, not because part of you wants to erase what happened tonight. Do you understand?’
She breathed deeply and sat up against the headboard, her mouth a downward bow as if she was about to cry. She rubbed her eyes.
‘I’m too tired to argue with you, Dominic. Perhaps you are partially right. I do want to erase it. But I find it a little insulting you think I would...well, offer myself to you simply for that reason.’
‘Not simply, and not only for that reason. But that is the reason why my conscience won’t let me do anything about it tonight.’
Her mouth quirked. ‘Any other night but this?’
Excitement bubbled up inside him, the childish, vivid kind he’d forgotten was possible.
It would be more comfortable to remain where he was, safe in the limited confines of his limited sexuality. Where he knew what to expect and what not to expect. And then there was always the risk he would discover that all this heat and excitement amounted to nothing different at all when it came to the act of sex. Just more of the same lukewarm pleasantness he could easily do without.
He had no idea which outcome he preferred. But he did know that once Pandora’s box had been opened, it would be hard to close it without at least peeking inside.
He nodded, slowly. ‘Any other night but this.’
She stared at him, her lips parted. ‘Are you jesting?’
He ought to be, but he couldn’t. Didn’t want to. He shook his head. ‘I know I jest about many things, but not this. But I don’t think we should discuss this now. As you said—it’s been a long day.’
He rose and she sighed and twitched her blanket aside.
‘Very well. Lie down. You’ll be more comfortable than on those chairs.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I won’t.’
She took one of her pillows and plumped it in the middle of the bed.
‘There. Imagine this is the Grand Canal. You on one side, me on the other. I promise I won’t ravish you in your sleep. Though if you snore, I might kick you. Now lie down and go to sleep. I’m tired.’
She turned her back on him again and snuggled under her cover. For a long moment he merely sat there. Then he lay down very carefully on his side of the bed, staring into the darkness. She was very quiet and he wondered if she had indeed fallen asleep. If so, he envied her. She shifted a little and he froze. If she argued her case further he wasn’t at all certain he would have the strength...
‘Thank you for worrying, Dominic,’ she said softly, her voice muffled by the cover.
He closed his eyes and breathed out. Being noble was overrated.
Chapter Fifteen
Dominic had not considered that he would misbehave while asleep, but clearly his unconscious mind had taken advantage to toss out all his conscience’s good intentions. When he opened his eyes he was wrapped around Phoebe, the Grand Canal pillow crushed between their bodies. Their fully clothed bodies, he noted with a mix of relief and regret. For a moment he stayed right there, his arm holding her against him, his face buried in her silky hair. His body was already ahead of him, throbbing with anticipation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so at peace and so in agony at the same time.
This was new, too. Waking to the sense of rightness and yet feeling utterly unfulfilled. More colours for his growing palette.
The rattling of the doorknob knocked over his mental easel, especially when it was followed by Lady Grafton’s voice.
‘Phoebe? Are you awake? What is wrong with your door?’
He froze even as he realised that the reason for the doorknob rattling was that someone had placed the chair under the knob. And it hadn’t been him.
Clever Phoebe.
Clever Phoebe was wide awake and off the bed like a shot, dragging her cover with her.
‘Nothing is wrong with it. I locked it,’ she called out, her voice hoarse and her cheeks blazing. ‘I shall come to your room in a moment.’
They listened to her aunt’s departing footsteps. Then she pointed a peremptory finger towards the curtain by the wardrobe that served as a dressing and bathing corner.
‘Wait there until I am certain there is no one in the corridor.’
‘No need for that.’ He rose, holding his pillow strategically to shield the evidence of his discomfiture, and headed for the window.
‘Where are you going?’ she whispered as he placed one foot on the ledge.
‘To my room to change and then to San Polo. If I don’t come to calcio practice ahead of the game, Donatello will have my head.’
* * *
Milly was waiting for Phoebe, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
‘Why did you lock your door?’
Phoebe took a deep breath and gave a very abbreviated version of George Clapton’s amorous overtures and Dominic’s appearance. She hated lying to Milly, even by omission, but she wasn’t quite ready to tell Milly that Dominic had shared her bed, however innocently, or that she had woken cocooned in the warmth of his arms. And she was certainly not ready to tell her she had somehow found the daring to proposition him. Where on earth had that Phoebe come from? Perhaps Dominic had been right that George Clapton’s attempted attack had knocked her off balance.
Except that she’d wanted Dominic before that and she still did. Her skin lit and her insides crackled like gunpowder every time she thought of what might have been, what might yet be...
