The Duchess and the Highwayman (Hearts in Hiding 1)

Phoebe glanced up and saw Wentworth’s thin lips were pursed, observing fleetingly that he looked like a malevolent raven, his dark eyes glittering in the face she’d once thought so handsome. She tried not to show her fear.

“How long do you suppose it’ll take my brother to drink the lot once he inherits?” There it was. The bitterness he didn’t bother to hide.

“Hush, Wentworth. You’ll wake Ulrick.” Phoebe cast the sleeping invalid a nervous look.

“The doctor opines that our poorly Lord Cavanaugh will not last three months.” Wentworth didn’t trouble to lower his voice. “My guess is he’ll be gone long before Michaelmas.”

Phoebe could bear it no longer. She dropped her handiwork into her lap and sent her husband’s regular and increasingly unwelcome guest an imploring look. “Please, Wentworth. He’s not dead yet. Have the good grace to keep such thoughts to yourself. What if he hears you?”

Wentworth gave a short laugh. “What do I have to lose by my graveyard talk? It’s not as if Ulrick’s in any position to deny me what my imbecile brothers already have simply by virtue of them being alive.”

How many times had she heard the same complaints? Phoebe forced aside her weary frustration and rose. “I’m going to bed.”

Instantly Wentworth was behind her, his breath hot on the back of her neck as he gripped her hand.

“I thought you’d never say it, my sweet.” He sucked gently at the hollow at the nape of her neck, twisting a tendril of her hair around his forefinger while Phoebe’s insides clenched with revulsion. Once, though, Wentworth had thrilled her with his charm. She, who’d not known what it was to be wooed, had fallen for the oldest trick in the book.

“But Ulrick will need—”

“Ulrick looks comfortable to me.” Wentworth moved her in front of him and tipped her chin to look into her eyes, his voice as thick as treacle. “Come, my sweeting. Let us do Ulrick’s bidding.”

Another rattling cough from the armchair was cut short by her husband’s rasping, feeble voice. “Phoebe?”

Phoebe was for once glad of the chance to go to him. “Not tonight, Wentworth,” she whispered over her shoulder, kneeling at his lordship’s knee and arranging her shawl about him. “Ulrick needs me.”

“Ulrick ne’er needed oo.”

Phoebe’s stricken look was met by Wentworth’s satisfied grin. “Ulrick never needed you,” he interpreted. “That is, he only needed you to provide him with an heir who wasn’t an imbecile, which you failed to do.” He bent at the waist and put his mouth to his cousin’s ear. “My dear Ulrick, I was about to take your wife to bed; however, she appears to think you’d prefer her tonight.”

“Never wanted her. Go!” The old man flicked a trembling hand in the direction of the door, and with a chuckle, Wentworth gave Phoebe a push as she straightened. She stumbled a few steps, regaining her balance only because Wentworth swung her round to face him, one hand gripping the back of her neck, the other her chin. Over his shoulder, she could see Ulrick snoring again, his head at an odd angle upon the cushion; dribbling his bile upon the handiwork which was all she’d ever been good for.

Phoebe used her last bargaining chip as she shrugged herself out of Wentworth’s grip. They’d made it as far as the first guest bedchamber only to find the fire unlit, which was hardly surprising she tried to tell him. Still, Wentworth’s desire was greater than his fear of discomfort, and as he ran his clammy hands over her, she tried another. “I think I’m with child.”

He blinked owlishly and tilted his head as he pushed her against the bed.

“I’m late.” She put her hand to her head and closed her eyes. “Please Wentworth, I’m very tired tonight.”

“How late?” His voice was thick with hope.

Phoebe stared at the cherubs dancing above her on the plaster ceiling and tried to think quickly. She was not a natural liar. She’d been clutching at straws, but she felt no desire to play brood mare to yet another Cavanaugh stud. “A week. Oh, but see, there is no linen on the bed, Wentworth.”

“Too early to be conclusive then.” He ignored her reference to the unsuitability of their location, adding briskly, “No, my love. Both of us have a duty to Ulrick.” He snaked his arms around her waist as she tried to make for the door. “A duty to ensure my imbecile brother Bentink does not succeed your wreck of a husband and bankrupt the estate within the twelvemonth. If you’d only listened to sense a year ago and not let your precious scruples intrude, there might already be a lusty son in the nursery.” Pushing her backward, he flopped down next to her, the mattress dipping under his weight.

“Bentink will drink himself to death before he’s likely to find a wife,” Phoebe remarked wearily, trailing her hand over the velvet counterpane as Wentworth kicked off his boots from his supine position. She slanted a look across at him, lying beside her, wondering hopefully if he’d fall asleep before he got down to business.

Wentworth snorted. “And then there’ll be Oberon to worry about. Lord, but if ever there was a pair of brothers to bring shame to the family name. I’m not the first, of course, to believe succession should be based on merit, not birth order.” He looked at Phoebe as the second boot joined the other with a thud. “Come, Lady Cavanaugh. Surely I don’t have to do the seduction routine and remove your clothes for you?”

“I…I’m not sure we should do this.” Phoebe edged away from his seeking hand and slid from the bed. “What if Ulrick gets better?”

“Lord, Phoebe, of course he won’t, and even if he does, you know he can never get it up for you.” Not caring that his crudeness was offensive, not to mention wounding, Wentworth grunted as he removed his coat, adding on a pained note, “Never did know why he offered for you.”

“A fine thing to say if you’re planning to win me over.”

“That’s what Ulrick said.”

Phoebe closed her eyes as Wentworth drew her to him and wrapped her in his arms, his right hand dipping into her bodice to fondle her breast. He chuckled. “If one likes their women small and dainty with not a lot to squeeze, I think you’re rather a fetching little thing, though I’m sure if I’d been Ulrick, I’d have somehow risen above my aversion and managed the deed at least a few times in the faint hope of siring something to oust my brothers.”

“Oh, Ulrick did his best,” Phoebe muttered, trying to ignore Wentworth’s mauling and to block her mind to memories of Ulrick’s wandering hands, her husband panting and grunting and sweating above her, night after night in the early years. If the loss of Ulrick’s function hadn’t also meant the loss of Phoebe’s security, she might have been overjoyed.