In the Widow's Bed

“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