Chapter Five

S he was shorter than Chris had expected. Not small, exactly, but just…smaller. She'd had a rather more commanding presence from the other side of the wall, and it was damned difficult to judge height when staring down from a balcony. She hadn't noticed him yet. Instead, she was running her gloved fingers across the frilled edge of a rose that had cast itself away from its brethren and across the stonework path that wound across the lawn. She'd meandered away from the windows, thank God, but not so deeply into the garden itself that she had been difficult to find. What was he meant to say to a lady? He'd so seldom been in the company of one, he hadn't the slightest idea. And Em hardly counted. She'd always known better than to expect gentility of him. He settled for, "Is every garden absolutely rotten with roses?" She jumped, squeaked—turned. Not beautiful, but then he'd known that already. A man tended to note a beautiful woman, and he knew she'd been present at Em's wedding and he had paid no particular attention to her then, even if he had been half out of his mind on a liberal dose of laudanum owing to his shattered knee. Still, he'd have noticed. But pretty enough, he supposed. In that pale, pampered woman sort of way. Chris had always thought her sort looked as if they were suffering from consumption. A hairsbreadth from wasting away. They all took great precautions to appear as if they'd never felt the touch of the sun in the entirety of their lives, allowing not so much as a single freckle to blemish their skin. Sometimes applying bleaching lotions and creams to achieve that end. Though if gossip were to be believed, Phoebe was not quite so diligent with the wearing of a bonnet as might be expected. "Nearly all, I expect," she said. "Have you not got roses in your garden?" "No," he said. "Just a pond. What, you've never looked down into my garden?" "Regrettably, the only balcony we've got is attached to my parents' bedchamber," she said. "And none of the windows can quite manage the angle necessary. I have tried." Eyes somewhere between blue and grey; a shade that was difficult to pin down. Fair hair glowing in the moonlight, wrought into some contrived cluster of curls that didn't quite suit the delicacy of her face, held back with some sort of bandeau. The fashion , he thought Brooks would say. Fuck the damned fashion. She'd look better with it left down. "How long have we got?" she asked, her gaze straying toward the windows. Chris inclined his head, listening intently. "Em's still talking," he said. "Give her a minute, perhaps two, to finish up. And then another three to gather the audience." She went, if possible, a shade or two paler. "How much of an audience?" "I didn't ask. But Em seemed to think it important to gather a large one. To make certain the consequences are inescapable. There's a word for it. A French one, I think—" "A fait accompli ," she said in a queer monotone. "That's the one." "It's two words." "I don't speak French." Hell, if one were to believe those of her social sphere, he hardly spoke English. "That's all right. I do." "I don't know Greek or Latin," he said, because these were things expected of any well-educated gentleman…which he was not. "I didn't learn to read or write properly until I was already grown. And my penmanship is abysmal." Still, it was a great deal better than his earliest efforts, which had been rife with spelling errors. Em, being the sentimental woman she was, had no doubt saved a few of his letters. Probably they looked like the efforts of a child, full of malformed letters and phonetic interpretations of words. Her head canted to the right, and a loose curl drifted down the slope of her neck. "Are you trying to make me change my mind? Have you changed yours?" "No. Just a warning that you've got perhaps two minutes now to turn back. Em's finished her speech. She's likely collecting witnesses as we speak." "I don't want to turn back. It's only—well, no one likes to be thought of poorly, I suppose." "There will be a great deal of gossip. You're no stranger to that." He had more than a handful of scandal rags to prove it. "Gossip tends to follow me, besides. I don't pay it much mind. You ought not, either." He eased a few steps closer, and the soft fragrance of roses grew thick in the air. "How does one compromise a lady, usually?" "Being alone together is generally enough to do it," she said. "No gentleman would be in the company of an unmarried lady without a proper chaperone to safeguard her reputation." "I'm not a gentleman." "No," she said, and there was the slightest lift of her lips into something approximating a tentative smile. "I hadn't thought you were. You'll have to kiss me, then, if it's not too much trouble. Just to be absolutely certain it takes." A tentative step out of the clinging darkness that saturated the stone path, into the light emanating from the house. Another small step toward him, toward an uncertain future, and the breeze stirred the blue silk skirt of her dress. "No children?" she asked, in a low voice, as if to assure herself of it once more. "None. You don't even have to share my bed." Only a kiss. Just this once. "I'd prefer that," she said, and winced. "I didn't mean that as it sounded. I'm certain you're a pleasant enough fellow—" "I'm not." "—it's only that I really do not want children. I do know how they are…how they are created. I'd prefer to avoid it." Another step, this time with more determination, as if she had seized upon some goal. "It's common enough for men to have mistresses for that sort of thing." "I've got one." Not that he'd had much time to spare for her just lately, nor had he had much of an inclination to make use of her services while his knee had been in the earliest stages of healing. "You needn't concern yourself with her. We both understand the value of discretion." It was common for men of her station to have mistresses, but they were also hypocrites about it. He could not ruin one of their own and then humiliate her with the public spectacle of another woman. "We'll both have what we want. It'll be an honest marriage, which is more than I can say for some." Somewhere not too very far away, there was a fresh burst of sound, louder than it ought to have been. Em had brought her audience, then. Phoebe jerked at the intrusion, her eyes going wide. Seconds left, probably, before they were discovered. And she knew it. With all determination, she threw herself across the space that separated them, and Chris was forced to drop his cane and brace himself to catch her. "Make it convincing," she hissed—a second before she slammed her mouth over his. Christ. "Ease up," he managed to say, though the words came out more than a little muffled, since she'd mashed his lips against his teeth. "I'm meant to be seducing you, not the other way ‘round." If anyone happened upon them now, they'd think her a wanton—not that he'd pressed an advantage against a na?ve woman. "Hell," he muttered, and grabbed a fistful of her perfect curls to tug her away. "Hold still, you daft woman." " Hurry ," she snapped, and her teeth glinted in the darkness, with a sort of feral intensity that was strangely attractive. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, like claws even through the thick wool of his coat. Footsteps, now, a great number of them, and not too distant. Light, idle chatter. Chris wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her flush against him, and beneath the frills and flounces of her gown she was…soft. Lush. He'd not expected it. His fingers tightened in her hair, adjusting the tilt of her head. "Hold your head here," he said, "and for God's sake, relax a bit." Now or never. He kissed her. It wasn't real, but it had to look it. Convincing , she'd said. A ruinous kiss, then, one that could not be mistaken for anything but carnal intent. His hand, which he'd splayed over the small of her back, slid down to palm the curve of her bottom, and she squeaked out a gasp. Good . He plunged his tongue into her open mouth. For a moment, she was as stiff and tightly-wound as a spring. And then, with a queer little shiver, she went lax. Her nails extracted themselves from his shoulders. Her whole body listed against his. Her lips softened beneath the firm pressure of his own. Within moments, she was no longer rigid and unyielding. But, goddamn it all— he was . That was going to be a hell of a complication. He hadn't the time to ponder it, however, for a mere moment later, there was a flurry of horrified gasps, and a plaintive, warbling, "Oh, Phoebe." Fucking finally .

∞∞∞

So this was what it felt like to be the subject of a true scandal. Phoebe found that she didn't much care for it. There was a difference—quite a profound one—between being a lost cause and ruining one's reputation, and she could see it scrawled across the faces of the women that Emma had brought with her, shock and horror and derision etched into every line of every face. Chris, to his credit, had released her the moment it had become clear they had an audience, but it left her feeling bereft and alone, facing the judgment of her peers. The six worst gossips in all of London. And her mother . Emma had done her job well. Perhaps too well. For a long moment, there was only a thick, immutable silence. At last, Lady Cartwright said, in a voice dripping with offense, "Well! I suppose we won't need to search the garden for her after all." Mama drew a short, sharp breath, her shoulders setting with determination as she turned abruptly upon her heel to face the other women present. "Ladies, I thank you for your assistance," she said. "But there isn't the least need for you to remain. There is nothing to see here." "I'll say there is!" Phoebe didn't see the speaker, but the horrified delight in the voice was obvious. "There is nothing ," Mama hissed, her hands jerking through a series of flailing motions meant to secure all attention. "Nothing has happened! Certainly nothing worth mentioning in polite company. Or to anyone. At all. Ever ." It was a useless demand; Mama might be a viscountess, but she hadn't the social clout necessary for any of those present even to consider heeding it. There hadn't been such a delicious morsel of scandal in months; not since Emma had wed Lord Rafe with unseemly haste. Phoebe knew well enough that Mama was not ashamed of her, exactly—but Mama's instinctive defense made her just a little ashamed of herself. She had nothing at all to say in her own defense for it. She had, after all, contrived to be ruined. And what a marvelous job she had done of it. In the wake of Mama's fierce demand, the gaggle of gossips made nothing more than vague assurances that of course they could be counted upon to be circumspect about what they had witnessed, but Phoebe could tell by the whispers that slid between them as they turned to go that it would be all over the ballroom in mere moments, and all over London by morning at the very latest. Mama knew it, too. Her shoulders slumped, and she lifted one hand to her mouth as she heaved a sigh. Emma stooped to retrieve Chris' cane, which she handed back to him with a whispered, "You had better be on your way. That's more than enough drama for the evening." Chris fisted the handle of the cane in his hand, and a tiny bit of the tension fled from his face as he braced some of his weight upon it. Phoebe had known, in a way, that the cane was not quite ornamental , not an accessory, as some men were wont to carry. But she suspected he relied upon the cane a good deal more than he would have wanted anyone to know. "Lady Toogood," he said, "I'll call upon your family tomorrow. There's arrangements to be made." For a hasty wedding, she supposed. Her own. Mama reared back as if he'd struck her with his fist rather than just a few well-chosen words. "No," she said. " No . Not you ." "There really isn't much of a choice." The words were cold, flat and frosty with a sort of subtle threat to them. A certain subtext that Mama ought to be grateful that he'd elected to do the honorable thing, since no one could have compelled him to it despite the scandal that would surely follow. That a husband— any husband—was preferable to the ruined reputation which Phoebe would otherwise possess. Emma released a trill of nervous laughter. "Now, now," she said. "Let's put off this discussion for the moment. At least until cooler heads may prevail. Come, Phoebe, I'll escort you back inside." Good. That was good—a show of solidarity, and a shoulder to lean on amidst the flurry of gossip that was no doubt already making its way through the crowd. Phoebe slipped her arm through Emma's and kept her sigh of relief tucked within her cheek until they had made it nearly back to the ballroom. "Cheer up," Emma said. "This will be nothing more than a nine days wonder." Possibly. But, oh, those nine days promised to be unpleasant ones indeed. "It will be a scandal," Phoebe said. "I hope I have not caused trouble for you." She had, however unintentionally, commandeered a philanthropic event. Emma patted her hand. "Don't be ridiculous," she said. "The Ton loves nothing quite so much as a good scandal. I expect next year I'll be swimming in pleas for invitations."

∞∞∞

Chris had been waiting for at least half an hour when at last a heartfelt sigh drifted over the garden wall. "Difficult evening?" he asked. "You've no idea," Phoebe said. "Papa was furious." "I know. There was quite a lot of shouting." He'd been unable to make out the words, but the general feeling had been clear enough. "Has he got ready access to a pistol, by any chance?" "He does. It's a family heirloom." There was the cool rustle of silk. "He wouldn't shoot you, though." "It wouldn't be the first time." He'd been at the business end of rather too many weapons in his lifetime. One of them was bound to do the job eventually. "Probably he'll be wise enough to wait until after the wedding. Better a widowed daughter than a ruined one." She made a strange sound, like she had tried for a laugh and missed the mark. "He won't be…pleasant," she said. "I know better than to expect pleasantness from your sort, especially considering the circumstances." "But he's a good man at heart," she said. "He'll—" Come around , he thought she must have meant to say. But she didn't. Perhaps she couldn't. Perhaps it was only now dawning upon her that probably a good number of people she knew would not come around . Ever. "He'll accustom himself to it," she said, though her voice was notably duller than once it had been. Another rustle of fabric; he could imagine her smoothing at her skirts in nervous agitation. "Have you not changed out of your gown yet?" he asked. "Haven't had the time. Mama and Papa have only just gone to bed. It took a great deal of time to convince them that I could hardly get myself into any more trouble than I already have done." A brief hesitation. "I suppose you've changed already?" "God, yes. I felt like a sausage stuffed into a casing. I spend the better part of my leisure hours in my banyan these days." "You're in a banyan now? Out of doors?" There was a wealth of scandalized shock in her voice, as if she could hardly conceive of anything less appropriate. "In your garden ?" "It's my damned garden. Why shouldn't I be?" "Because it is not done." "There seems to be quite a lot that is not done for no good goddamned reason," he said. "I paid a princely sum for this house; I'll walk about the garden stark bloody naked if I've a mind." And then, just to offend her delicate sensibilities: "I have before." "You have not ." "I have. Twice while we've spoken." He didn't know if the sudden silence from her side of the wall was shock or doubt. Perhaps both in equal measure. A swift breath. "I don't believe you," she said finally. "You wouldn't—not really . What if someone saw you?" It sounded like a challenge; one she likely didn't even realize she had issued. And it was a balmy enough night, with just a light breeze. His hands went to the tie of his banyan. "Anyone foolish enough to spy upon me will either quickly learn better than to invade my privacy—or else enjoy the show." He wasn't particular about which it happened to be. "Probably you should have inquired about my bad habits before you agreed to marry me. I don't intend to change them, and it's a bit too late for regrets now. Incidentally, it's quite a nice night to be naked in the garden." "You're just poking fun at me," she declared, and the certainty in her voice was charming. There was a soft, strange sound, as of delicate silk threads being pulled at by the rough stone of the bench she sat upon there against her side of the wall. The slide of slipper soles on the ground. A grunt, a scrabble. A sound from above his head. He turned to see a pair of dainty hands grasp at the top of the wall, heard a strained sound of effort as she dug her blunt nails into the stone to secure her grip. A moment later, the top of a blond head appeared, followed by a pair of blue-grey eyes. A tiny, half-smothered screech. "You're naked!" There was flurry of odd sounds—a heavy landing, a thud, and a groan. He suspected she'd tried to hastily step away from the wall and had forgotten that she'd had to stand upon the stone bench to reach the top. Probably she'd bruised her backside in the fall, though he'd heard nothing to suggest she'd seriously injured herself. "You didn't have to look," he said. "You could have been lying!" "Why should it have mattered? You'd never have known if I hadn't told you." It wasn't even about her; it was about the freedom to do as he pleased. One never appreciated freedom quite so much as when it was denied, and her sort—her sort had a great deal of power, but allowed themselves remarkably little freedom. They lived in a world full of arbitrary rules, as if they defined themselves more by what they did not do than what they did . "You can put on as many layers of petticoats as you like," he said. "You can wear gloves and stockings and chemises. Your men can wear trousers and waistcoats and shirts and smallclothes. Beneath them, we're all naked." "Good Lord," she sighed. "What have I gotten myself into?" That, he thought, was yet another question she had asked just a bit too late.