In the Widow's Bed

Warminster’s jaw clenched tight. After a very long moment he turned his head to stare at his friend. “No.”

Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t get your hackles up. It’s quite common. But I do remember the painting from the morning room where we used to meet so often. He was about your age in that if I remember correctly.”

Warminster let out a deep sigh. “Should have known you’d notice. But will you treat my stepmother any better than he did if she doesn’t reproduce?”

Annoyed that Warminster thought him so shallow, Jonathan crossed his arms over his chest. “I have accepted the possibility, but I love her enough that it simply doesn’t matter. Your own mother, through design or accident, found a way to produce the needed heir, but not a second son. Phoebe had more morals than to cuckold her husband to do it. I admire her highly for resisting the temptation to please the bastard.”

“Lady Warminster is unusually high minded.”

Jonathan let his arms drop. “Was that a compliment?”

Warminster picked at some grass seeds stuck to his sleeve. “I’ve never said I hated the woman. Just didn’t care for her snooping about.” Warminster sighed. “Besides, it’s better that the world at large thinks us at odds. Far safer for her given my line of occupation.”

“She’ll be safe with me.”

“Well, one less to worry over.” Warminster glanced up at the cloudy sky. “She fooled me. The Clifford chit fooled me. Damn it, I’m slipping.”

For a man in the spy trade that could be a very bad thing to believe. Warminster relied upon his instincts to survive. Cautiously, so as not to startle, Jonathan set his hand t

o Warminster’s shoulder and squeezed. “Perhaps you should consider a change of career, my friend?”

Another sigh rattled out of Warminster’s chest and Jonathan dropped his arm. “I must admit, the thrill of the chase has lost its allure somewhat of late. The most fun I’ve had this last year is when you joined me in Paris.”

Unlike Warminster, Jonathan remembered those few days with horror. They’d been hiding from their pursuers in every low place imaginable. Desperate, hungry beyond words, and without a single credential to prove them English should they be intercepted by either French or English forces. After that nightmare assignment, Jonathan had declined further involvement. “You need a partner.”

“A partner?” Warminster’s frown deepened as he gazed off into the distance. He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and turned to meet Jonathan’s gaze. “Perhaps. I’ll consider it. The trouble will be convincing the right one.”

“I’m sure you can be persuasive. I take it you have someone in mind?”

“Yes, perhaps I do.” A sudden grin broke over Warminster’s face, a smile reminiscent of simpler times. “Come. We should return to the hall and clean up. We have guests to entertain.”

Since all was settled between them for Jonathan to propose to Phoebe, the trek to Moreton Hall was conducted in friendly silence. Once Warminster had disappeared from sight, Jonathan wandered to his bedchamber door, opened it, and slipped inside. Empty.

Thank god.

Wearily, Jonathan rang the bell. After trekking through the woods all day he was ripe enough to repel even himself. But he wanted everything to be perfect for tonight when he proposed. Fantasies and fears for the future brought alternate smiles and frowns to his face over the course of his bath.

They would be happy together. He was determined to put her first before all other concerns, yet there was still a very real fear in him that Phoebe would reject him in favor of maintaining her respectability. He hoped he’d done a good enough job of making her last rule inconvenient to her.

Dressed and refreshed to face the evening gathering, Jonathan strolled down the main staircase and along to the billiard room. He received some odd looks from the few gentlemen in the chamber, but they kept to themselves and their game.

Jonathan turned away to pour himself a drink.

“I’ll have one too, Selwood,” Warminster requested as he swept into the room. Jonathan poured it and then turned. The glass slipped through his fingers a bit. He tightened his grip and crossed to his friend.

Warminster had outdone himself on this last day. Pearl encrusted waistcoat, buckles on his shoes. The brilliant white satin blinded. No one could possibly take him seriously after this. While the man entertained his guests, jovially dragging Jonathan into the group and proving that the morning’s gossip wholly unsubstantiated. He laughed along with the jokes. But his mind stayed fixed on Phoebe until they were summoned for dinner.

Unfortunately tonight, Warminster had placed him further along the table than he’d like, but he only occasionally caught Phoebe’s eye. He sat between Lady Weston and Lady Beecham, two of the elder guests in attendance who gossiped around his head as if he wasn’t there. When the dinner ended, they all trooped toward the ballroom to await the local guests.

Jonathan seized the moment to pull Phoebe from the room, and out into the moonlit garden. “I thought that meal would never end,” he whispered as he curled his arm around her waist to draw her deeper into the shadows of a large tree.

“Warminster must entertain lavishly.” Phoebe wriggled against him provocatively, encouraging his hands to travel her back and then swoop low.

“I missed you today.”

Instead of answering, his lover turned, captured his face between the palms of her hands and drew his head down. The first touch of their lips pulled a contented sigh from her, so Jonathan set about pleasuring her mouth. As usual, Phoebe clung to his arms, and then wound hers tight about his neck, pressing against the thickening length of his erection.

Jonathan broke the kiss and buried his face in the crook of her neck. They swayed like that for quite some time, and then he moved Phoebe so her back was to the tree and captured her fingers. She never wore rings. The smooth skin was unmarked by any man’s gift.