Chapter Eight

W here the hell have you been?" Chris asked as Brooks entered his study at last. "I've been calling." "Yes; I know. The whole of the household heard you bellowing." Brooks set down a silver tea service laden with several small dishes and removed a stack of papers from where they had been tucked beneath his arm to slap them down upon Chris' desk. "Then what kept you?" "I was buttling , you arrogant arse. For your in-laws." Oh. He'd forgotten that Phoebe meant to invite them to breakfast. But certainly that had passed hours ago. What the devil had they been doing in the meantime? "And how did it go?" "Well enough, for a while. They were dissatisfied with the quality of their meal, but that was to be expected, I suppose. I think they were pleased enough to find their daughter in good spirits and unharmed—at least until you started bellowing your fool head off. There is a bell pull, you know. Just to your left." Brooks made a show of straightening the cuffs of his sleeves, his features arranged into a scowl. Chris glanced to his left, to the bell pull that hung some distance away. "That would require me to get off—how did you put it?—my arrogant arse . Which I am disinclined to do." Leaning forward to grab at the edge of the silver tray, he dragged it across the desk toward him, ignoring Brooks' wince as the china upon it clattered. "Did her family overstay their welcome?" he asked as he poured himself a cup of tea. "Not as such," Brooks said. "Your wife gave them a tour. Inasmuch as she was able, when one considers she's not yet entirely familiar with the house. They made a great number of lists." "Lists?" Chris inquired as he took a drink. "Damn," he said in mild surprise. "Tea's good today." "I believe your wife had something to do with that." Had she? Well, it seemed she had gotten a good start on wifely things, however a woman was meant to do it. "Your in-laws were not impressed with the décor. I assume they've begun preliminary lists on corrections that must be made to it. As it is, they greeted several callers in the drawing room, which is the only room they deemed acceptably furnished—" "Callers?" "That's what I said." Chris felt his brows pinch into a frown. "I don't have callers." "That's correct. You don't. Your wife does, it seems." Brooks slapped his hand over the stack of papers. "Or had you forgotten you posted a wedding announcement?" He hadn't, of course. It was just that he hadn't expected much of anyone to care. At least not to the extent that would result in callers . "How many?" "Too damned many," Brooks said. "Your sister, for one. The Beaumonts, all. Several of your wife's relations. And perhaps a dozen curious members of the aristocracy." With one hand, Brooks dug into his pocket and withdrew a handful of calling cards. A damned overflowing handful. "Give ‘em here," Chris said, extending his hand to receive them. Ah, hell— Statham had come to call—among too damned many others. "This one," he said, handing Statham's card back to Brooks. "You don't admit him in the future." "May I ask why?" "Because I don't fucking like him." Chris grabbed for the papers, thumbing through them to find that the few well-chosen threats he'd issued had done the trick. His marriage might be prime news, but the circumstances that had precipitated it had been tactfully left out. A scandal that would soon leave the public memory…if the public knew what was good for it. "Send Phoebe up, would you?" He'd like to hear her version of what had transpired in the last several hours. "Not possible, I'm afraid. She's gone out." "Out? Where?" "Said something about the bookstore, I believe," Brooks said. "For future reference, servants are not generally in the habit of questioning the comings and goings of their employers." Meaning, Chris supposed, that he ought not to expect Brooks to inform upon his wife. "Ah, well." She'd be back sooner or later. "Tell her I want to see her when she returns, then." "Tell her yourself," Brooks said. "She's requested your company for dinner, if you can spare the time." "Oh? Might as well, then." Chris shook out his paper. "Sounds pleasant enough." But the light laugh Brooks gave as he left the room suggested otherwise. Foreboding, in a sense. As if the damned butler knew something he didn't.

∞∞∞

Phoebe cleared her throat. Again. She'd done it rather a lot in the twenty minutes they'd occupied the table, and even the very first one had grated upon Chris' nerves. This one had clearly scraped clean across his last one until the simmering fury erupted at last. He slammed his fist upon the table, and the silverware setting laid out before him jumped and clattered. "What is it this time?" "That's your fish fork." Delicately, Phoebe touched the very corner of her napkin to her lips in a dry, dainty pat. "What's the damned problem with it, then?" "We're eating salad." "Then what is the damned fish fork doing here?" With a sour grumble, he clenched the fork in his hand in a sort of mulish rebellion she might have expected from a very young child—or a very ill-behaved and surly man. "Either serve me fish or take the fucking fork away." Patiently, Phoebe made a steeple of her fingers, eyeing him with speculation. "It's a simple matter to give commands within your own home," she said. "But you will find it a difficult task to give them in someone else's." "Not so difficult as you might think," he said, as if he had taken the words for a challenge instead of the rebuke they had been meant to be. "You wanted my help," she said. "So here. I am helping. This is part of it." "This is damned ridiculous. It's only silverware. Too bloody much of it." "Be that as it may," she drawled, stretching the syllables out in an effort to convey her own thinning patience, "a child in the nursery is capable of learning this much. We've a dinner party to attend a week from today—" "What? I've seen no such invitation." "It was tendered in person. I accepted on both our behalves." And as relieved as she had been that she had not suddenly become a social pariah, she did not flatter herself that the invitation had been offered with the intention to confer any sort of approval. Rather, it was a trial; a throwing down of a gauntlet. She had, in the eyes of society, married beneath her, and now those who had once been her social equals were keen to find out for themselves exactly how far beneath her. "This is what you wanted, is it not?" she inquired as she selected the salad fork and poked the tines through the crisp watercress upon her plate. "I suppose," he said gruffly, reaching for one of his utensils. Phoebe cleared her throat and pursed her lips. "What is it this time?" Glacial blue eyes speared her from across the table, practically daring her to find fault with his choice. She lifted her chin, unintimidated. "That is your dinner fork. You want the salad fork, the one at the outermost edge. When in doubt, work your way from the outside in." Finally he selected the proper fork and stabbed at the salad upon his plate with something akin to misdirected fury. "They will be expecting you to fail," she said amiably. "Our hosts, I mean to say. They will assume you will fall short of expectations, to give them some gossip to chew upon and bandy about. You may find these things—the correct fork; the proper forms of address; the placement of your napkin—to be beneath your consideration. But to these people, these things matter. You cannot beg, borrow, steal, or threaten to obtain social acceptance. You must achieve it in the proper fashion, which means your manners must be above reproach." "Nothing about me is above reproach," he said irritably. "Your sort resents the very blood in my veins." "Yes, well, I don't find certain prejudices particularly fair either," she said, with a roll of her wrist which prompted a footman into action to remove the salad and another to bring the next course. "Perhaps it will comfort you that you are hardly the only one in this household to undergo rigorous training." "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" He cast a sour glance at the footman who whisked his plate away. "And who the hell are you?" "I've borrowed a few of my parents' servants for the time being," Phoebe said. "Regrettably, Brooks is the only employee at present who seems to know the workings of his vocation." "I've got enough servants," Chris grumbled. "You would have," she acknowledged, " if they knew their duties. But as they do not, there are countless tasks going undone or underdone. As it is, I shall have to find a few new employees regardless. A gardener, a lady's maid, a valet—" "I don't want a damned valet!" The shout reverberated throughout the dining room, bouncing off of walls, splintering through the hanging crystal drops of the chandelier above the table, and echoing within Phoebe's ears. She planted her palms upon the surface of the table, rising to her feet in a smooth surge. "What you want ," she said, in crisp, precise, frosty tones, "is immaterial. What you need is what is at issue. Your hair is too long; your clothes out of fashion and you do not wear them comfortably besides. You look like you haven't shaved in at least a day, and I would not be in the least surprised if you were to tell me you'd last bathed in winter." Blond brows gained increasing height as she spoke, rising over blue eyes that had gone from furious to nearly awed in the space of a few seconds. Probably, she thought, no one had ever spoken to him in quite such a manner before now. Probably no one had dared. "Do you know," he said slowly. "I'm not certain whether you are very brave or very stupid." "If you had wanted a docile wife, you should have married elsewhere," Phoebe said. "I'm not afraid of you, and I won't be snarled at simply because you haven't the wherewithal to leash your foul temper. Is that clear?" Frigid blue eyes narrowed. "I will not be commanded in my own home," he returned, and she thought the sharp slash of the words had been meant to put the fear of God into her—or perhaps just the fear of him . She took a deep breath and reminded herself from whence he had come; a world anathema to her own. One where weakness was reviled, where even the slightest display of it might mean baring one's neck to a blade. He wielded his power with ruthless efficiency because it was his greatest asset, the first currency to which he had laid claim. To surrender it—even a fraction of it—must be unthinkable. "This is why you married me," she said, gritting her teeth. "Somewhere within that abominably thick skull of yours, you must understand that certain changes will be required of you." "Not these changes." A raw laugh eked from her throat. "Did you imagine me to be some sort of fairy godmother? That I could wave a wand and weave a spell that would see you settled within the bosom of polite society without effort?" Her hand fisted in her discarded napkin, pressing pleats into the fabric. "That will not happen." "I've no intention of wasting my damned time upon such inconsequential things as—as fashionable clothing!" "That's what the damned valet is for, you miserable arse." With a flick of her wrist, Phoebe tossed her napkin straight into his startled face, relishing the jerk of his shoulders as it connected and the smothered oath that he bit off into the fabric. "You may embarrass yourself in public with my blessing. I'm not inclined to waste my efforts on an ungrateful boor." She turned on her heel and stomped out of the dining room with a queer sense of satisfaction. From the odd, strained spluttering sounds that followed her out the door, she surmised that her husband was unaccustomed to not having the last word.

∞∞∞

"Charity!" Chris barked as he slammed the door of his flat shut behind him. "Where the hell are you?" "Here, darling. No need to shout." Charity appeared at the top of the stairs, her dark hair a wild tumble streaming over one shoulder as she belted her dressing gown at her waist, looking for all the world as if she had just slipped out of bed. Probably she had, he conceded—in all the years of their acquaintance, he had rarely known her to rise before early afternoon. A creature of the night, she'd said. Much like himself. She batted her lashes, producing a sweet smile. "You didn't send word round that you were coming," she said. "What have you brought me?" A short laugh rumbled in his throat as he set aside his cane and dug in his pocket to withdraw a jewelry box. Baubles, she called them, though the word could hardly be applied to the precious gems a woman of her rare beauty could command. In reality it was the closest thing to a pension that a woman of her profession was likely to receive. Courtesan , she called herself, because it sounded more refined than mistress—or worse, whore. He'd never cared what she called herself, provided she made herself available when he called upon her. "Oh, Chris. It's lovely," she sighed, her delicate fingers running across the large, rectangular cut gems of the necklace he'd gifted her with. "Rubies?" she inquired lightly, as if it were nothing more than an idle curiosity. "Of course. Would you have accepted garnets?" Charity, he had long learned, hadn't a charitable bone in the whole of her body. He rather liked it that way. Made her perhaps the most honest woman of his acquaintance; one who pretended to be nothing other than what she was. "Don't be daft. You wouldn't so insult me, besides," she said, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Come, sit. I'll pour you a brandy." "Whisky," he grunted, shrugging out of his coat; the very one that Phoebe had said was unfashionable. He yanked at the knot of his cravat as he draped the coat over the back of some godawful chair, with spindly legs and gilding all over it. "What the hell have you done with the place? Looks like a damned brothel." "Well, I had to have something to occupy me while you've been absent," Charity said with a flip of her wrist as she poured from a crystal decanter. "And, really, darling—it was so appallingly spartan. I don't know how you could bear it." He'd borne it because he hadn't cared. He'd bought this place years and years ago, but it had only been a place to lay his head of an evening, convenient because it had been directly above his office. But it had never been a home—leastwise, not the sort that he had wanted for himself. He'd given its use over to Charity when he'd purchased his house in Mayfair, since he hadn't much need for it any longer. But he hadn't visited in months. And she'd changed much in the meantime, it seemed. "I suppose I can expect the bills to be sent round?" he asked as she handed him a glass. His cravat sailed atop the coat as he settled onto a couch that seemed of more use as an art piece than furniture. It was damned uncomfortable. "Naturally," she said as she sat beside him. She sipped her liquor as she splayed her free hand across his thigh. "I confess, I did not expect to see you for some time," she said, dragging her nails along the wool of his trousers. "New marriages have a way of interfering in other relationships." "It's not that sort of marriage." The whisky turned sour on his tongue. He swallowed back the remainder in a long gulp, the burn settling in his stomach with the rest of the churning anger that had yet to abate. "How did you hear of it?" "It's in all the papers," she said, her voice faintly chiding. "You might have told me." "Bit of a rush job," he said. "Don't concern yourself with her. She won't with you." "Oh? How unusual. Tell me about her, then, your wife." You may embarrass yourself in public with my blessing . "She's a damned menace, is what she is," he said on a scathing snarl. "One day in my house, and she's turned it up on end. Went about hiring all sorts of servants. Told me I needed a damned valet." Charity's nails stopped mid-scratch, her lips pursing. "Well…" "Good God, not you, too!" Chris thrust his gloved fingers through his hair, wrenching at the wind-ruffled locks. "Damned disloyal females. Can't trust a one of you." "Darling, you do tend to dig in your heels," she said soothingly. "And you are such a solitary creature. I wonder why you married at all, honestly." "Had to," he said. "Borrowing her respectability, as it were. I didn't want a wife, and she didn't want a husband. Thought we'd rub along well enough together. One damned day, and we're already at one another's throats." He cast his head back, rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Delicately, Charity inquired, "Are you? Or have you simply let your temper get the better of you?" Above his fingertips, Chris produced a glare and accompanied it with a scowl. "What the hell are you trying to imply?" "That you've always had a quick-fire temper, darling. And perhaps that you might've been too hasty with the use of it." She gave his leg a gentle pat. "A viscount's daughter, is that not correct? She's doing exactly as she's meant to do. Precisely what a well-born woman would, once she is a wife." "She's a judgmental harpy," he complained, sliding his shoulders down into a sulk. "Kept picking at me over dinner. Shouted at me. Stormed off in a snit." Although in retrospect, he'd hardly behaved better. Probably worse, even. "Did she? Jolly good for her. I should hate to see you paired off with some spiritless little thing. You'd have crushed her down to nothing in the space of a week." With a sly smile, Charity set her empty glass aside. "Come, now," she said. "You must have liked her enough to marry her." He'd liked her well enough from the other side of the wall. He'd liked her well enough last evening as they had sat upon the stone bench and talked. He'd liked watching her watch Hieronymus, first warily, and then with a reluctant interest. He'd liked her well enough in Emma's garden. Fuck . "I didn't come here to discuss Phoebe with you," he said. He'd come here to forget about her for an hour or so, to relieve the anger that clawed at his gut the best way he knew how. To sate the lust he could not alleviate with his damned wife . Which was just fucking fine and dandy with him. For such needs, he had Charity—and she was a woman who enjoyed sex, reveled in pleasure and sensuality. She sighed into his mouth as he fisted one hand in her hair and kissed her, and her breath was warm and sweet, her tongue tasting of the brandy she'd imbibed. With a little wiggle, her dressing gown slid off her shoulders, baring her ample breasts. Her nimble fingers pinched at the material of his shirt, drawing it free from where it had been tucked into his trousers, and he— He'd forgotten his waistcoat. Hell . He was meant to have worn one. But he'd turned up at the dinner table without one. Damn it all, he was not going to think of that now. Not when Charity had straddled his lap, when she traced the line of his jaw in a series of featherlight kisses, though the stubble he'd failed to shave off when he'd risen this afternoon had to have abraded her lips— Bloody damned hell. He wrapped his arms around Charity's narrow waist, slid his palms down the small of her back to cup her bottom in his hands, and she felt— Wrong. Perfectly proportioned, as ever. And still fucking wrong. He'd been served salad this evening. For the first time in memory, he'd had a meal that had not consisted of a single course, which was inevitably some sort of meat baked into some sort of crust. There had been five forks set out, and he'd gone through all of them after Phoebe had stormed out. How long had it taken for her to construct the menu? To have the staff procure the ingredients, and make the preparations? "Chris," Charity murmured against his lips. "Your heart's not in this." "Hm." Never had been, but then he thought they'd both preferred it that way. Pleasure without any of the tedious bits that emotion might have tainted it. "Neither is your cock." She rubbed her palm over the placket of his trousers, where he had failed to rise to the occasion. Christ . He should have been embarrassed, but instead he was just…tired. And angry. And mildly ashamed. "It's not you," he said. And to save face, he added, "It's my fucking knee. Aches like the devil." With a plaintive sigh, Charity extracted herself from his lap and folded her arms over her breasts. "You've never disappointed me before," she said. "I shall forgive you just this once. So long as you bring me sapphires next time." Chris managed a rough chuckle. "You're a treasure," he said as he climbed to his feet and reached for his coat. "I'll bring the sapphires when next I see you." In the meantime, there was one other way to work off his frustrations—and his fists hadn't failed him yet.